sermon

small mercies

I know. I haven't been here in a while. I've missed it. And I'm working to change that pattern for the days ahead. I'll start with my sermon for today. I am preaching in two places this morning: remotely at United Churches

poetry

trustable

I’m not sure whether this poem works, but it seemed worth a shot. trustable was the word I heard the syllabic rhythm sent my mind dancing into the past to find uncrustable a made up word for a prepackaged PB&J designed to say the artful care of

poetry

scattered

One of my Facebook friends here in Guilford posted this picture of the sunset blurred by the ash of the fires on the other side of the country. scattered the east coast sunset looks like the west african haze of the harmattan but our sun is not muted by the

poetry

all is not lost

all is not lost the art of losing isn’t hard to master bishop said and that got her anthologized and awarded but not listened to we have so much more to lose life is losing we all go out empty-handed just this year we lost hugs and handshakes happy

Uncategorized

my letter to you

my letter to you I woke up to an e-mail message informing me of a new Bruce Springsteen record--always good news. The introductory single gave me both the title for my post tonight and a lift in my spirits. ‘neath a crowd of mongrel trees I pulled that bothersome thread

recipes

uncle milty's mildly famous tomato-peach marinara

When I worked at the Roobar restaurant in Plymouth, Massachusetts, I learned how to make a marinara sauce from Tim Miller, the executive chef and one of the best people I ever worked for. I learned a lot of things from him. One summer Saturday after we moved to Durham,

poetry

distance learning

distance learning the word distance has its roots in discord and disagreement another way of saying something has come between us we stand apart before we masked and measured ourselves the strife simmered under our skins we want to blame the virus but our disease runs deeper long ago we

poetry

finally comes the poet

My friend Nathan Brown is a poet. For a living. And he’s good. At the beginning of the pandemic, he began something called the Fire Pit Sessions on his Facebook page, which grew out of his invitation for people to commission poems about life in these days. He then

poetry

the third of august

August 3 marks seven years since my father died—on the same day that Gracie, our little goofy Schnauzer, died as well. the third of august the thing I never really liked about august is the way the heat and humidity ride under my skin making it all but impossible

sermon

stuck in the middle with you

I preached this week for our church. The passage was Matthew 14:13-24—the story of the Feeding of the Five Thousand—which is one of my favorites. Since our sanctuary is not air conditioned, we filmed in Ginger’s office. One of the songs that was popular when I

poetry

opening day

opening day my baseball career consisted of afternoon tosses with my father and my brother in the backyard of several houses in several cities being a missionary kid meant I moved like a mediocre minor leaguer hoping for a big break those afternoons of overthrows and near misses taught me

recipes

a taste of family

When my parents married, they knew they were moving to Africa less than a year later. My father did not have much when it came to family. His mother died a month after he was born and his father was an itinerant minister and church planter, so his grandmother, Ma,