My mom texted a picture to all seven of us kids at the end of August after Nathan, my youngest brother and twenty years my junior, left for his freshman year of college. “In the first week of empty nesting we found an empty nest!” she wrote.
It seems altar guilds have secret society tendencies. They keep to themselves for the most part, dutifully showing up when no one else is around to do tasks that only get noticed if they aren’t done or are done incorrectly.
Lolo had volleyball practice last night from 5-7 p.m. just like every other Tuesday and Thursday since March when this masked season hesitantly started.
This year the Ascension just hits different (as the kids like to say). Our pandemic experience right now has parallels to how the disciples must have felt after the resurrection
Last summer some church paperwork requested my baptismal anniversary. Having no idea of the date, I consulted my early years photo album.
Circle up you gorgeous pandemic caregivers. Look at your tired hands and feet. You are alive today. You’ve kept others alive this past year.
Later today I’ll call 600 Kitchen & Bar in downtown Kalamazoo and ask a question I’ve never asked before. “Yes, hello, are you taking reservations for shipping container tables for February 28?”
Instead of reaching for my phone to document or share the moment, I just stood there. I noticed everything I could about that particular horizon including the way the shaggy underbelly of clouds faded to a delicate pink, like short fuzzy tentacles of a jelly fish.
Imagine for a minute that the three main characters of the story—the servant, the centurion, and Jesus—are standing in front of you.
The kids have grown but the washing machine has not. Loads fill more quickly than in the days before hormone body odors kicked in.