Photography via Osttirol.com
In the little stone church, I did hear what Holy Spirit was saying to the Church and the power of grace shook the rocks and Rocky Mountains and leveled my understanding. It is the sadness of the world that there are people who look into the tomb and see a dead body. I was dead for so many years because that is what I saw. My own reflection, could it be? At the nuclear level there are two of us on earth: the one who sees death and the one who sees an empty tomb.
2013, Amaya Engleking
Here is my daughter singing that Good Friday plead from the cross,
“Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom…”
I drove up to the mountains sensing freedom, but drove past my intended destination of the hot springs. Something was moving me, I was not in control but I was enveloped in complete peace. The interstate turned into an off-ramp, the pavement turned into dirt, and the 4-wheel drive turned into 2-leg only. Where I could no longer drive up the snowy and muddy road, on the stereo Roberta Flack was singing “Killing Me Softly” and I, content with my own slow death. Read More
Drawing by Guy Denning
Beyond tired of getting strung along by God. And the destination, only God knows; could be Calvary freakin Hill for all I know. Blindly dragged, hoping we’re on our last leg to paradise. Ha. Though further and further we trudge, to an off-key rusted trombone dirge, slooooww, yet never Read More
These stratified ashes
Make the same flat earth lines
Year upon year
Without uplift from within,
Seismic vibrations long since
Silenced Read More
Art by Paul Gosch
Lord help to console hearts in this hour of grief on this day where hideous laughter comes too soon like junk to help us forget — not feel — pain. What is the word, this queer expression of thwarted happiness? Read More
She who needs saving
In my youth I was shown all the ways to you. So vast and intricate, and in this wonder I stood paralyzed, unable to move toward you in terrible awe of the all-seeing eye design, dynamic and changeless. In time I grew afraid Read More
Art by Luiza Vizoli
His name was Tyrone.
Or was it Tyrese? What I do know is that it is a grace of God that the memory of his name was stolen from me too. Stolen along with that Fourth of July night in Billings, the year I turned twenty-one, when he dropped a date-rape pill into my drink. There weren’t any fireworks that night.
Among the few moments of relative lucidity that night were these: Read More
Colorado River, Grand Canyon, November 2009
I sought the valley of Ritu, where prayers are written on the mountainsides and adorn the bridges in colorful tatters; I sought the coffee fields of Manizales and the religion of a violent city; I sought the deepest canyon where the walls were made of your ten thousand faces. Read More