Passing On, Holiday
April 3, 2018It’s Christmas
and our mothers, weary in their memories,
in their good for others (those holiday chores)
keep their feet under them like birds.
It’s Christmas
and our mothers, weary in their memories,
in their good for others (those holiday chores)
keep their feet under them like birds.
In a spiritual crisis of the individual, the truth and authenticity of the person’s spiritual identity are called into question. He is placed in confrontation with reality and judged by his ability to bring himself…
Jesus said, “An evil and adulterous generation seeketh after a sign.” In fact, that statement shows up in the New Testament three times: in Mat thew 12:39, in Matthew 16:4, and again in Luke 11:29.…
As religions often do, Mormonism promises salvation to its faithful participants. It also speaks of those who are not its participants, who are in some way outside the religion. Under this second heading, there are…
You poor sad, dead little girls
Tonight I am crying for you.
I have walked gingerly in your blue shoes,
Your small shoes, your worn shoes,
My grandma died three years ago. What I have of her now is a collection of odds and ends of memories. I have a few physical reminders: her senior class ring from Jordan High School, an old can full of buttons, and a photo of the two of us at my college graduation. The memories are gradually turning into anecdotes that I tell myself over and over.
In a monthly cycle,
women gather to play cards,
to not talk of the children
they have or don’t.
Legend has it that in the year 988 A.D., Prince Vladimir, ruler of ancient Kievan Rus’, brought Christianity to the Slavs. The apparent catalyst for his own conversion was a plea from Emperor Basil II of Constantinople. A renegade general had gathered an army to march on the Christian capital, and the emperor begged Prince Vladimir for an army to buttress the defense of his throne.
I sit at the wheel as I did
when I was young.
My hands pull the
warm plastic sediment
Late morning heat shimmers off the hood of my battered Honda. Nothing in sight ahead but more parched fields stretching under an opal sky. A box of cassette tapes in the back seat rattles a…