Christian Thought, Christian Literature
I hug with my head. This is a thing that happens. And I feel like I can’t keep it to myself any longer. Mostly because I’m an inexperienced writer, and this is content, and young writers can’t be too picky with the little content that they come across. So I’m writing about how I hug Read More …
The viscous air of childhood slowed our every move. We filled our tired, pumping lungs what we know not of. — Perhaps nostalgia premature haunting unaware or dreams to be and memories traced fingers through our hair. — The atmosphere of time long past, the essence of those days, brushed up against our consciousness in Read More …
Frank was born in the valley. It’s like an inheritance. Well, birthright is a better word. It’s his. It’s all he’s ever known. Not that he doesn’t know that there is more out there. The world is wide, so we’re told. The family isn’t far, just over the ridge, or that one over there, or Read More …
An end brought the rain, and the rain broke the heat. Those with AC wouldn’t know it, but fall has arrived, its coming authority spoken through the harbinger of a cool morning. Houses always at 68° have forgotten. The memories seep through my flannel stale with a mothball tang of last winter’s wardrobe. The Read More …
Were your soles wet or tickled by the flat reflection of that mountain lake? Are you here to save me? Miles and miles around the shore become only a mile straight. Twenty minutes of step over step become a flash unreal: action as a memory, the tedium compressed into a single instance of impatience and Read More …
This has to be written. And no one else will write it. So he is writing. No one else would be shedding tears. No one else is shedding tears. At least not about what he is writing. Why should they? No one will read what he is writing. No one reads what anyone is writing. Read More …
I cannot help reading with curious, wandering eyes. I would be more efficient at home, but I do not pick up a book just to have it done. Reading is an experience, each book, something better shared with others, though they probably have little knowledge of the interaction. Do I? Yes. I know what I Read More …
A time for somber reflection and corporate lament at North Way’s Oakland Campus. Years. Years now. It has been so long since he has reached out his hand around my shoulder, as he used to. Always less certain is the time that passed since I have felt that old sensation. There is a Read More …
He used to have a desk. Well, a drafting table. Well, he still has it. Month over month for about a year he kept adjusting it down and down until finally it was horizontal. There it stays. It’s not a desk anymore. It’s just an open-faced junk drawer. You can’t paint anything on it, unless Read More …
Spring. Before. — Rain. Not snow. But almost. Drench down leaves. Sleeping wood. Soak ice rocks. Thaw ice dirt. Drown ice mud. Green grass still green. Yellow grass might be green again. Green trees ever green. Brown branches might bear green again. Bulbs hibernating. Seeds waiting. Patient, already itching inside. Up, out soon. Warm not Read More …