Poetry defies the rational mind. Like religion, it scratches at the surface of mystery, and leaves us open.
Our faith begins with this:
That each human life is sacred
…Industrious hens are interested in bugs. They are motivated by uncertainty…
Have you ever noticed that the days that we celebrate… always seem to contain a rather distinct ironical quality?
Can we know God, without knowing, most fully our own pain?
This is the question of Gethsemane…
Am I troubled? Yes. I am troubled today. And in this I am not alone.
God’s son, now mortal, was all the more precious. All the more loved.
Being part of the club is nice. Having the door shut in your face? That is not nice. That feels bad!
The driver’s side window slid down a half inch…
Quite naturally, that beautiful thing happened, in which our front door was no longer something closed, but something open.
Our hearts too, were open.