lenten journal
under the alleluias I once heard a comedian say the only way to get to the jokes that mattered was to push through the easy stuff, the sophomoric double entendres, the terrible puns, and get past the low-hanging fruit of the obvious and only then can you begin to discover
lenten journal
Like most Americans, I suppose, I woke this morning to news of the attacks in Brussels. I’ve only seen a couple of pictures, but I could see it in my mind, as much as I can imagine such a thing. As the day went on, the public conversation went
lenten journal
Anger has never come easy for me. My father grew up in an angry household, for reasons that would take several posts to explain. His take away from those days was to decide the family he helped to create would not live that way. He didn’t yell or lose
lenten journal
I sang in church this morning. One of the folks I have met since moving to Guilford is a guy named Geoff and he and I sang “The Touch of the Master’s Hand” in worship. Most people know the song because of Wayne Watson, but I had the privilege
lenten journal
the road from here to resurrection is mapped in my mind (and my heart), from palms to parables, crowds to cross. I know the days, the steps, the words, the mileposts. my feet are covered with the dust from the feet of disciples who walked this way when the road
lenten journal
here in america we yell at each other as though anger were a pre-existing condition, and diatribe an anagram of democracy; but screaming doesn’t make it so: louder and truer are not synonyms— the same goes for rich and smart. the word becomes flesh the light shines in the
lenten journal
keepsake there are some nights when the sky turns the color of friendship and fades into the crisp darkness of gratitude friends old and new around our table shared food and stories love and laughter as though there was enough for all we’ve washed the dishes saved the leftovers
lenten journal
Here's what today looked like: It was a good day. A joyful day. A memory. I am grateful. Peace, Milton
lenten journal
Today marks two months since my mother died. This poem found me today. the old cast iron skillet has soaked up a cookbook of stories, handed down from Grandma to you and then to me. just salt—no soap— to clean it; i run my hand around the side and
lenten journal
I started a new Wendell Berry essay this morning, knowing I didn’t really have the energy to read the whole thing, and he still got me with his opening paragraphs: A sentence of my own, written thirteen years ago, has stayed in my mind. In it, I was speaking
lenten journal
The summer between my junior and senior years at Baylor, I lived in Waco, even though I didn’t need to go to summer school, because I had a weekend pastorate at Pecan Grove Baptist Church, which sat on FM 107 between Oglesby and Mound. The church paid me enough
lenten journal
Even before I read any of the reports of election-related happenings around the country, I felt depressed, so I am choosing to limit my intake as much as I can. Still, I am troubled. I can remember, after past elections that seemed contentious, but now pale by comparison, hearing people