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December in Review

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 When I quit social media a few weeks ago, I made the pithy hope of blogging more. In a time of finishing up grad school and figuring out the future, the idea of doing *more* writing became less appealing. However, some of the things that I did love about Facebook and Instagram were that I got to share snipets of my life (and catch up with others) as well as keep a little digital memorial to my days, weeks, and years. So for now, I won't try to blog about mental health, or theology, or art (all things I do care about), but I will simply try to be faithful in giving a monthly update on what's going on in my world.  December started with a bang as the fall semester came to a close. The first two weeks of the month were full of finishing up classes--both the ones I was taking and the ones I was teaching--grading, and submitting a paper. The semester was a fruitful, but busy, one. I had a break from directing, but was focused on prepping for my thesis show,  Men on Boats, ...
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Good Gifts

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    (artwork by my amazing friend Ash)   It may seem strange that on the day when we commemorate Jesus' resurrection, I always reflect on my struggle with suicidal ideation. But each Easter I celebrate is a testament not only of God's eternal faithfulness to me, but also the temporal, day by day, moment by moment faithfulness.       I've walked through most of my life with Death's hand on my shoulder, demanding my attention. I've told him to go away. I've tried to run from him. I've begged God to make Death leave me alone.      And repeatedly, God has said, No .      I read a passage like Matthew 7:9-11 and it's hard not to get angry:      9 “Which of you, if your son asks for bread, will give him a stone? 10 Or if he asks for a fish, will give him a snake? 11 If you, then, though you are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give good gifts to those ...
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Smokes and Mirrors

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                     So, I live right behind a pizza shop, right? In a cute, little apartment that’s really old and kind of falling apart, but in an adorable sort of way. There are some other apartment buildings adjacent to mine, probably just as dulcetly decaying. I’m guessing, as I’ve only gotten glimpses of the spaces my neighbors inhabit. I see my neighbors, but I don’t really see them, if you know what I mean.      Well, attached to my apartment is a little brown deck with wide, steep steps. The paint is peeling everywhere and one of the stairs just gave up on me last summer. Stepped on it, and it decided it would be fun to detach and do a little surfing. I found out quickly, I am not good at surfing. This deck is where I am most likely to observe my neighbors. I’ll hang out on the little chairs that barely fit, drinking coffee, pretending to read, most likely on my phone. I’m kind of perched up high...
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Touch

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                                                                 Graphic designed by Elizabeth Christie Gossamer is a production that Players of the Stage, the Youth Theatre of which I am the Artistic Director, had to put on hold due to COVID-19. As we live and move through this difficult time, a time where touch has decreased and become associated with risk, I have been thinking of this note I wrote on the significance of touch and memory.  Memories of 2020 may be difficult. But touch is still precious. Let us value it where we can. And let us hope that we will be able to freely hold each-other once again. ________________________________________________________________________________ Touch is one of the most powerful gifts bestowed on humans. Through touch, we communicate care, concern...
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The Wolf

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                                The sky was black. The night was windless, starless, and Jazeera had to light a candle to ward off the darkness that gnawed at her heart. Night had come quickly, but sleep refused to. She sat on her bed in her dressing gown, black hair falling loose over her shoulders, and a voice—oh, that voice—meandering through every thought in her mind.             Come to me.             Jazeera clutched at her head in agony. The voice, menacing and deep, had haunted her at every setting of the sun. The young woman had spent many nights standing at her bedroom window, staring down the ball of sun until it sank into the earth. At the last wisp of light, the voice would bite into her head.             Come to me....
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Holy Ground

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"Why are you in your feet?" I was sitting in the very back row of church- not the back row, the VERY back row. The one pushed against the wall. The row for those of us who only wish to be seen by God that day. I was hunched over, picking up my purse, Bible, and empty plastic communion cup when I was seen. I looked up, and my pastor's young son was before me, staring quizzically at my "naked" feet.  I smiled. I don't mind being seen by children. Reaching for my shoes which were far under my seat, I answered his curiosity. "I feel closer to God when I'm in my feet." The child accepted this, as if it made perfect sense, and scampered off to play with his friends. Shoes have always been distasteful to me. Shoes are a barrier, and barriers are an abomination. While I acknowledge that some barriers, both physical and intangible, exist for protection, I recoil from barriers that separate me from that for which I am reaching.  I am always reach...
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