lenten journal
I once heard a comedian say the only way to get to the good jokes was to push past the easy ones: go ahead and say all the double entendres, the terrible puns, and the sex -- the obvious stuff -- and then . . . only then -- can you write great
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Last Saturday night, we went to dinner with friends. The dinner was good and the decor was cool enough, but it felt like the owners were working on a concept they hoped would become the next Cheesecake Factory. I don’t want sound as though all I’m doing is
poetry
Sunday was a busy day. I began with a birthday breakfast for Rachel, my mother-in-law, moved on to church (a Communion Sunday), to our congregational annual meeting, to celebratory frozen yogurt (for Rachel), to grocery shopping, then food preparation for our series on Faith and Alzheimer’s, and then home
poetry
a baby smiled at me in our coffee shop a kind, happy woman handed me a hot dog sample at costco and I made chicken corn and black bean soup for friends who gathered to talk about what would make a difference in our town: street lights, sidewalks in an
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I love winter. I love the cold and the snow and the bundling up. And I miss it. Durham does not know much of winter, other than the passing glances -- wintry mixes -- that leave us reeling from time to time because they are less than familiar. This weekend,
poetry
cynic critic thoughtful friend wide-eyed worn-out on the mend wondering wishing just the facts prophet listener off the tracks hungry angry coffee spoons lover laugher set to tunes true believer last to know all together miles to go Peace, Milton
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I know. It’s been days since I’ve written. Both my mind and my Moleskin are filled with fragments waiting to become poems and posts. Instead, my days and nights have been filled with food and friends, with laughter and tears, with new faces and familiar smiles. Yesterday, I
poetry
“the chairs no one sits in”:* as soon as I saw the lines, I thought, “I was going to write that poem” -- once again, I’m reminded what’s new to me is not new most of my thoughts are about as original as sin perhaps it’s not
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I’ve loved the Magi since I was a kid. I don’t know if it was their exotic nature, or that they were chasing stars across the desert, or that they were a sort of odd addition to the whole manger scene, but they have continued to keep my
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One of the books I read and reread as a youth minister was David Elkind’s The Hurried Child , which was his take on adolescence in the 1980s. My guess is it still holds up pretty well. One of the things I took away from that book (or at least
poetry
no matter what page we turn what ball drops or what calendar we follow when tomorrow dawns on us we will still hold the sorrow that slept here last night the hopes and fears of all last year might sit silently for a few hours while we dance and remember
advent journal
Our Christmas Eve service, like many around the country, is a service of Lessons and Carols. It is also a family service, so there is the rumble of restless little ones underneath all the singing and silence. It’s awesome. This year, Ginger made a point of asking a number