Have you ever had one of those palm-to-forehead moments?
How are we to respond when we’ve been wronged?
I saw it again the other day: she took a wide berth, or perhaps I should say, she gave me a wide berth.
This year, Ash Wednesday looked like parking in a 12-minute spot on the corner of Bay and Montecito and walking up to the front step of our church building.
Usually, by the time December rolls around, I am ready for the Advent season to come around as well.
“The sun must be sad today, Mama,” my younger son said to me.
Fifty-four years ago, my father-in-law set out to walk 220 miles from Memphis, Tennessee to Jackson, Mississippi. Even though the Voting Rights Act of 1965 had passed less than a year earlier, a stronghold of fear still gripped African American voters, especially in the South.
Just after 7:30 this morning my younger son and I trekked out to the driveway in our slippers and pajamas, a box of sidewalk paint, a roll of masking paint, and my cup of coffee our only companions.
I threw the best spiral of my life yesterday afternoon.
A couple of Saturdays ago, my oldest son and I trekked into the heart of San Francisco for a visit to one of the most iconic Episcopal churches, Grace Cathedral.