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
Painting by Julie Jilek
‘Twas your wrath, O Lord, your fiery rebuke
So I heard your voice and my net I forsook
When the dust settled, you spoke your verdict: Read More
It began as a trickle.
A revelation. Words were dripping.
My soul thawed and I knew God.
Beheld wondrous things of the law,
I knelt in awe. Read More
I drew a rose
took off my clothes
swam in a creek
went from wild to meek
and down in a cave
the dark taught me to behave
as holy chastisement
with subtle advertisement
and lost my imagination
in the wilderness of expectation
I thought I knew love
though wasn’t looking above Read More
In this season of festivals and fairs
Swollen creeks and answered prayers
Toast the sparkling wine and pass the cake
We are saved for his mercy’s sake
We are here as his love’s fed fountain
As the warming ices cascade down the mountain
Rejoicing over every pebble they pass
Listen, can you hear their gushing laughs? Read More
Deliverance. I was at a loss about what to write since it feels that these days the womb baby takes up all the space and pushes out anything he/she deems superfluous. But fortunately God squeezed in one word for us to digest like our trusty folic acid. Apt for us both, as my post from Pentecost Sunday, A Conversion, describes the pivotal hour of life in this body in which I was delivered from evil; and the baby will be, any day now, delivered into this world. Read More
Dark day in Hengyang, small city in the middle of China. Five million small. Mao Zedong from a nearby city. The dishwater sky blending right into the slate-gray outline of the industrial city. Dismal to view from the little metal balcony, and even more disgusting to go forth into the leaden din. Last time I was in the country I swore I’d never teach English and least of all to middle-schoolers. But that’s what I was doing in this city where I saw a homeless man masturbate in front of an elementary school. Right outside the gate through which passed hundreds of pigtails and oversized backpacks on tiny bodies. Read More
What I must learn about Colombia is that the journey was God-driven. My speech was taken from me in those intimidating streets except when I was supposed to (and needed to, at this point) speak about my Lord. I wrote that letter to Catalina, not knowing who on earth she was but a sister in heaven; but God gave me the words as well as the scripture from Deuteronomy chapter thirty, and she turned out to be a Medellín prostitute. It’s not easy. Humbling, to be writing to a lost soul who was both selling herself and who was myself: we are all sinners and our sins equal in the eyes of the Most High. How does God work the perfection?
Here is a short poem I wrote in Chinese and translated a few years ago:
原露谅点 Forgiven Read More
A young woman lost her lover to murder,
Dreamt she asked him about finding love again,
“When you find it I will be part of it.”
Ram Dass wept to this great love
And when you’re around saints you love everyone too. Read More