I dream a lot of dreams. For my life and for the world, yes, but like actual in-my-sleep dreams. I have them often—vivid ones, that stay with me throughout the following day(s), sometimes months. I've said a lot of goodbyes. Some I anticipated, like the death of my Grandma, and I was able to speak a final parting word. Others came unexpectedly, such as in faded or fractured friendships, and the spoken goodbye was not necessarily an option or a success. Instead, it has come through years of . . .
A house down the street from where I live has two campaign signs in their yard. One supports Donald Trump, the other supports Hillary Clinton. This is not some sort of riddle; this is an actual, seemingly confused yard in southwestern Ohio. I cannot tell you how mesmerized I have been by this home. I do not know the people who live there, but my husband and I talk hypotheticals about what scenarios could lead them to have both a Trump and Clinton sign—two different candidates from different . . .
Six weeks after my first nephew, Jude, was born, he took his first airplane ride. It is an event he, of course, does not even remember; his mother, on the other hand, vividly recalls the prayer on her (and so many young mother's) lips as she boarded the plane with her baby: Dear God, please help my child sleep through this flight to protect us both from the glares and hatred of our fellow passengers. My sister, Cori, and I sat with Jude on the plane, willing him to sleep, as we took off for . . .
It has been a little while since I've shared new content here. I've been devoting a lot of my time to other projects (as well as to a "minor" addiction to The Blacklist on Netflix), and not leaving enough hours in the day for my work here. It is hard, too, to know what to say during days when the world is in such crisis. The crisis, I suppose, never disappears, but there are times when it feels particularly heavy to me. The shootings, the bombings, the racial and religious discrimination—it . . .
Shortly before publishing a post I had written several days ago, I decided to put it to the side and write something different. Last week, a man gunned down Rev. Clementa Pinckney, Rev. Daniel Simmons Sr., Cynthia Hurd, Sharonda Singleton, Myra Thompson, Tywanza Sanders, Rev. DePayne Middleton-Doctor, Susie Jackson, and Ethel Lance. They were at church, in their Bible study, communing with the man who would soon violently end their lives. I saw the news late Wednesday night, shortly before . . .
This is Holy Week—a week marked by death, grief, and hope in the Flesh (to put it simply). Many church communities observe Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, Holy Saturday, and Easter Sunday, each service taking us through the emotional happenings of Christ's crucifixion and resurrection. Growing up, I loved Easter Sunday the most. Easter baskets would greet us in the morning, our church's sanctuary was nearly bursting with beautiful arrangements of lilies, and the spirit of celebration was deeply . . .