We’re too often blind to what God sees.
We gave our readers a one-word writing prompt: “Plate.”
Call their names. Tell their stories. Confess our role.
After the resurrection, the disciples’ words failed too.
What am I to make of your singular desire for milk?
I'm standing by Lake Michigan for the first time, but it already knows me.
We are urged into the desert of retreat, and we are afraid.
For more than a decade, Christians have worshiped together across the border wall.
I'm immunocompromised. My ability to attend worship has long been determined by the CDC.
We gathered in an ICE parking lot. Not to protest, but to show that we cared.
This year the Solemn Reproaches are speaking to me in a new way.
Loneliness is a public health crisis, too.
My spiritual practices have long been communal ones. I love people—and their presence.
It makes me uncomfortable. That’s by design.
They’re in a plastic bag in my closet.