On my days off and evenings, I’ve been adding on to our tool shed. There’s not much room between it and the fence at the back of our lot. But a four-foot extension provided storage for bicycles and a few of my clunkier carpentry tools that I’d rather not lug up from the
One of the regulars at our Community Breakfast on Sunday mornings is an older man who goes by the street names of “Hippie” or “Shine.” He’s called Shine because that’s what he does – he shines shoes. This past Sunday morning, he gave my black shoes a long overdue shine and we visited as he
Last night, a discussion of Mary Magdelene reminded me of a poem about her by Jane Kenyon. You can find the text of “Woman, Why Are You Weeping?” here, but be warned: if this is a cheery day for you and you’d like to keep it that way, read no further.
To my mind, Pharaohs and Egyptians, who have been showing up with Moses & Co. in our Sunday readings recently, were the Old Testament equivalents of Darth Vader and the stormtroopers, the sort of folks whose drowning gets celebrated in poems and happy camp songs.
Last Wednesday morning, we were running late. It had taken longer than we expected to pick up my mother’s birthday cake at LaBaguette Bakery, so we tried to find the quickest route possible to Jackson, Mississippi, where we were to meet my mother and family for lunch to celebrate her 84th birthday. Along Union Avenue,
There’s a scene in Harry Potter where the bookish and brilliant Hermione Granger abuses her copy of Hogwarts, A History, a tome that Hermione heretofore had held in highest esteem and quoted at length. The reader (and Harry) look on with confusion as she furiously exclaims, “A Revised History of Hogwarts would be a more
On Sunday afternoon, Ardelle and I packed up the Subaru and headed west for a few days away. Our itinerary is to read, write, fish, eat, walk, rinse, and repeat through Thursday. So, after a few hours of reading Monday morning, I headed down to the Little Red River with my favorite fly rod.
‘As Jesus walked by the Sea of Galilee, he saw two brothers, Simon, who is called Peter, and Andrew his brother, casting a net into the sea – for they were fishermen.’ – Matthew 4:18
My Dad was a fisherman. Fishing was not just a hobby for him, it was his pathway to solace, fulfillment, and
It was a 10-hour car ride to reach our vacation destination, and I was going through some habitual motion of my pre-pandemic self: searching for the local Episcopal church to attend. I reached the website on my phone, and here was the notice about online Sunday services, yes, the various ways I could spend more time at these accursed
Sometimes, in our reflective hours, Missy says, “Just think. When we get through this pandemic, we’ll have stories to tell about living through such times.” I’m guessing she plays in her head the stories from our grandparents about the olden days, the amazing tales of grasshopper plagues and bathtub gin, of the first circus to ever arrive at Quenemo,