lenten journal
Last Sunday night, our church offered the last of a three week series called Forgetting but Not Forgotten: Alzheimer’s and Faith, the final gathering focusing on congregational responses to dementia. Lisa Gwyther the director of the Duke Alzheimer's Family Support Program began the session by reciting a
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
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
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
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
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
come . . . sit in the dark with me and tell the truth reach deep in the pockets of our souls for scraps of hope and wonder come . . . look up at the storms of firefly stars flinging their light our way lay back on the blanket of dead leaves and sleeping soil
advent journal
I saw Joy dressed as a postal worker tenaciously attempting to infect everyone in line up against Impatience in the form of a woman still in her workout clothes complete with jewelry and then I stood behind Clumsy or so she seemed -- dressed in faux fur and fumbling at
advent journal
I tried prose tonight but all I could do was drop a gravel load of anger in the middle of the page this is no time for stones I tried to be relevant but all I could do was take my best shot in the ranting wars in hopes of
advent journal
I love telling stories. I also love repeating them -- just ask Ginger. I do, however, come by it honestly: it’s a family trait. One of my favorite repeatables is one I have heard my brother tell many times and comes from his days living in Akron, Ohio. His
poetry
the rain has fallen all day like tears or whispers leaving outlines of parked cars and umbrellas the clouds cut the day short and darkness snuck in almost like an old friend who knows all the stories of promise and sadness and who knows how to sit next to you