A collection of artistic artifacts chronicling my anxiety, God, and the wilderness.
Today was Holy Saturday. As I sat on a park bench, preparing to write, an elderly woman wearing enormous white sunglasses and carrying a can of Del Monte Canned Spinach and a loaf of bread approached me and asked if she could sit next to me. I said sure. She sat there, eating her bread and spinach… Continue reading The in-between.
I had thought joy's flame needed protecting. All these years, these angers, these hardenings, this desire to control, I thought I had to snap the hand closed to shield joy's fragile flame from the blasts. In a storm of struggles, I had tried to control the elements, clasp the fist tight so as to protect… Continue reading “Joy’s flame.”
Greetings, Wanderers. It's been a while since I've written. Over this past Christmas season, I've been around the world and back, from my home in snowy Michigan to the red tile roofs of Prague, from the mountains of Salzburg to the small farm towns of East Texas, and back to my beloved windy city of… Continue reading Rest and see.
When we were very young, my parents bought me and my sisters each a storybook in the Little Miss series by Roger Hargreaves. The books are small, slim paperbacks that follow the lives of their titular cartoon characters: Emily got Little Miss Sunshine and Sarah got Little Miss Bossy. Mine was called Little Miss Helpful. It was one of my favorite stories. As you might guess, Little… Continue reading The confessions of a recovering Little Miss (Un)helpful.
Some lovely words from my friend Anna on this Jesus I follow and proclaiming what He truly stands for: grace, truth, and radical love.
I’ve always held off on speaking my mind, I think because I’m pretty sure no one cares. I don’t say that out of self-pity; no one should care. I’m a 22 year old white girl from Illinois. I have lots of privilege and very little life experience. I’m about as plain a human being as you could imagine. I know this. I’m not even offended by it. It’s just a fact. But I think right now, that’s the very reason I need to speak out.
Over the last few months, my heart has been broken again and again by my continual realization of how the average American experiences and perceives Christianity. I’ve heard friends tell me of the hurtful experiences of condemnation and judgment they’ve had with Christians, seen the damage done to the lives of LGBT individuals under the guise of Christianity, and, just yesterday, watched a man scream…
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It always amazes me when I meet someone my age who has lived, with the exception of college, in one place their entire lives. Growing up, I moved a lot. I lived in five different homes before I got to middle school, six different homes before I graduated high school. Admittedly, these moves were never more than… Continue reading Making moves.
Why are we reading, if not in hope of beauty laid bare, life heightened and its deepest mystery probed? Can the writer isolate and vivify all in experience that most deeply engages our intellects and our hearts? Can the writer renew our hope for literary forms? Why are we reading if not in hope that… Continue reading “Why are we reading…?”
[E]very creative person, and I think probably every other person, faces resistance when trying to create something good...[R]esistance, a kind of feeling that comes against you when you point toward a distant horizon, is a sure sign that you are supposed to do the thing in the first place. The harder the resistance, the more… Continue reading Charley horses.
Happy Mothers' Day, Wanderers. Today's blog post is an essay I wrote three years ago for one of my writing classes. It's called "Love," and it's about my mother. This one's for you, Momma. I love you. --Erin It’s in the way my mother does laundry. When we are home, and, more often, when we… Continue reading Love. (For my mom)