Two years ago, we were barely surfacing from the deepest depths we have ever plumbed. It had been four years of nonstop trials, trials of the darkest sort. It was American Thanksgiving, just like today. My mental list of thankfulness went something like this: I’m aliveI have three kids still aliveWe haven’t been unrighteously excommunicated…
I stepped outside after washing dishes (that’s a lot of happy birthdays in soapy water) to the back porch. It had been a hot afternoon, the dry mountain air sucking us all into prunes. The cold night breeze was a welcome relief. Habitually and unconsciously, my eyes traveled to the rectangle of black sky beyond…
Towards the end of her fascinating autobiography An Ordinary Woman´s Extraordinary Faith, Patricia St. John mentions, “one cannot easily write about the present. Those involved are very much alive and close at hand….” In addition to sensitivity to privacy and the dignity of mankind, the present can seem cloudy. There are untied strings, buds are still…
penelope alves 