Back when I was small And the black suits were tall, There were services that went on too long, First one man would preach And another would teach Then the people sang melancholy songs, While black suits would bear With quiet, solemn care Bread and juice up aisle and down.
In the bottom of a small-town inn, Between the heaving sides of cattle beasts, The stench of moldy straw, wet wool, And pungent waste ladens the muggy air. The babble of babies, The snores of strangers, The hissing argument of friends falling out Cannot quite cover the desperate groans Of a tired young woman below … Continue reading Holy Light
I could join the many mourning the loss of relatives, friends, and neighbours today, OR I can choose to remember my relatives who served as COs in the last great war. I could choose to join the parade behind the veterans OR I could ask you. "Is it braver to face the enemy with a … Continue reading Lest We Forget
The third part of the "Toronto Trilogy" She Worships ...raising her hands above her creamy coffee-toned skin and tight, dark curls. ...closing her eyes and singing along with the praise song. ...leaning against the sprightly, accountant-type, balding husband of hers. He Worships ...joining our motley choir, grabbing a song folder. ...thanking us and the God … Continue reading She Worships
In which brainwashing is revealed, a control freak acknowledges that her best friend is too sick for her to heal, the Spirit drowns out the preacher, and eyes leak salt water. I had almost forgotten that it was council meeting morning. As a rule, I try to live my life in such a way that … Continue reading A Sunday Morning Council
When the surface of the water is broken, it reflects more sun. When I am humble and broken, more of the Son can show.
White, As winter’s snow, Soft, As rose petals, Smooth , As silk, Slim and long. These are pretty hands. Brown, From the hot sun, Rough, From days of toil, Scarred, By nails, Large and calloused. These are beautiful hands, The hands of Jesus.