Steven Peterson

Sunday morning, 1965. I’m ten, Tom’s eight. Comics are in color in the Sunday Chicago Tribune. Church is starting soon but Tom says he won’t go....

No, Matthew’s gospel doesn’t mention mewhen I was in that boat, wrestling that sail.But someone had to do it—I could seethe waves were high, the wind a roaring gale....

Altar bare. No one’s there. It’s unused. Where the Word once was heard: empty pews. It lies dark and was marked unessential....

Walking through Hoofddorp in the evening dusk I pass a row of houses, brick and square, each with a large plate-glass window exposing a neat and tidy living room inside....

Mark 8:22–26...

Sometimes we were surprised   or not but always we felt bad to hear there’ll be no funeral no kind of memorial service no way...