it’s the name I found when I went looking for what happened on Wednesday of the Week we’ve labeled Holy — using capital letters as though there were some sort of scripted suspense instead of a simple day of preparation for Passover, for supper together, and the selling of one friend by another. No cloaks….

the last one on the plane and he took the last seat between me and the young soldier on his way home the old man had white curls under a pork pie hat, thin black glasses, a white shirt under a tweed sportscoat his pants fastened where waists used to be he aimed his conversation…

for the chance to return to streets I once knew an opportunity to talk about things that matter to be on the receiving end of unsolicited encouragement for the chance to lose myself in the crust of a tomato tart to find myself serving at someone else’s communion rail and return home with the pockets…

I would love to tell you I had an epiphany in the middle of lent: an earth-shattering, horizon-bending, blaze of understanding and insight that changed everything for me. My day, however, spelled out in much smaller steps, turns of phrase, incremental graces: a call from a friend, homemade marinara, sunshine on my lunch hour. My…

there are nights we sit down to dinner because we need to eat. then there are nights — like this — where we sit down together because we need each other long before we even take a bite, feeling as crushed as garlic, hoping to find a taste of the patience that built the sauce,…

it’s has been grey all day as though dawn never came the early morning haze of mind and matter stayed the afternoon rain fell like a curtain the world played like an empty theater even though we could see each other today has been a series of solo acts or so it seems — don’t…

I spent today standing in kitchens then sitting around tables catering gig at lunch dinner with friends now I’m standing baking cookies like there is a tomorrow I love the flow from making to serving a tide of thankfulness going out and coming in offering and receiving listening and speaking trusting and risking like there…

on the road to the resurrection I will pass a marker tomorrow eight months since dad died they’ve planted grass now my mother goes to water it not so long after easter even with an empty tomb nine months will come and go soon we’ll be talking years for now I will find solace in…

It may be April Fools’ Day, but it is also the beginning of National Poetry Month. Tonight, I want to help kick it off with three of my favorites. How To Be a Poet by Wendell Berry (to remind myself) i Make a place to sit down. Sit down. Be quiet. You must depend upon…