 Many of my friends are dead. I don’t mean that I lost them over the span of my life—we were never alive at the same time. Many of them lived on different continents before flight technology was available, while others couldn’t speak a lick of English. But none of this matters; we share a deep bond. I’m not sure it’s even accurate to call them dead. Their blood courses in ink throughout pages encased between two covers. Every time the book is opened, a heart begins to beat and a soul is animated back to life…..
read more at fathom. https://www.fathommag.com/stories/the-communion-of-all-the-saints
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 A student sat in front of me and shared that she was unable to believe in anything that she could not immediately perceive. “It’s obvious that your cup exists, but God is questionable. And I’m not sure that I can say that I’ve had an experience of God. Most experiences of God have some kind of rationale.” In other words, we live in a world where naturalistic explanations abound and overshadow belief in the transcendent. Read more here: https://firebrandmag.com/articles/responsible-experience-following-the-spirit The heat broke down the sugar molecules of the onions and they sat in a pool of hot oil. The air was filled with a sweet aroma. Science makes life smell so good. My memories of the kitchen are idyllic—Norman Rockwell—mundane and beautiful. Tyson chicken strips and homemade marinara sauce. This is the place where mom and dad lingered over the last drop of coffee from the pot in the morning. We held hands and said, “God is great. God is good” and put dishes into the washer. We gathered at the counter for late night discussions, always about the high school teacher who should’ve been fired. Do you remember that time he let that girl bring her horse to school?
None of this can possibly be completely accurate. Memories are deceptive, after all. Our kitchen was also a broken place; there was a crack down the center of the table. Or, it was a square instead of a circle, with sharp edges. It was too small and short-sighted. It was a sphere thatexacerbated our culture’s hierarchies and power structures—a place where dads cook with fire, but not flour. Moms, meanwhile, are supposed to do everything else and also clean, while settling for a chicken wing and the occasional compliment, “this tastes better than last time.” Resentment and exhaustion were palpable in the kitchen as we all consumed the dead so that we could live another day read more here https://agapereview.com/2021/12/20/politicsofthetable/  I picked up my three-day-old daughter from her bassinet, but I couldn’t make her stop screeching. I bounced, rocked, and swayed. Twenty squats later, I began to question my competency as a parent. One of our visitors noticed my panic, disguised by confidence, and asked me to hand her over. In an attempt to reassure me, she observed, “Maybe you’re not soft enough.” Wait, was that supposed to be a compliment? For a time, I assumed that I was biologically ill-equipped for gentleness. My daughter latched on to her mother’s body for sustenance, rendering me glorified waitstaff. I’m also prone to anger; I lose my temper and find it when it’s too late. I can play too rough and throw the kids too high in the air. But the first time my beard stubble gave my daughter goosebumps, I knew that gentleness and strength could be complementary. Read more at Coracle |
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