This place is flushed with a friendly lighton Sunday evenings when the days grow short,but not on this Lord’s Day morning. On thisday of the

I said I wouldn’t do it,so how does it happenon a Sunday we tookcommunion that I findmyself staring at aglowing, naked image?And I do not

(after Scott Erickson’s With Us – Face to Face) Did it feel different, I wonder,to hold the child? Could she hearthe hum of creation vibrating

St. Patrick stands at the shore:slithered impressions in the sea,smile smeared on his lips,staff slurred into a half circle. Angels soaring in the Irish skylisten

I. Late August humdrum heat hanging from brittle bushes by the nearly dried-up crick We smell them first — floral warmth and woody delicacy– astonished

for Wiebe Boer In green spaces, the young run drills—call their Cruyff turnsSwange; say the footballs they orbit are honeycomb worlds. The earth is sweeter,

Psalm 40.5 The sun feels warm upon my face – I mean,upon my eyelids, from behind which Iam looking through a wintry, cloudless sky,expecting not

I am remembering the day my olderbrother became a force to reckon with. Tall, clumsy, goofy, and a little slowin more than just one way,

Genesis 1-11 The breath of God sighs over the wild wastes;The wind of God blows over the dark deep;Creation! Spring fertile plains out of chasterocks;