He never had a proper name, although for some reason I think someone called him Pedro. He sang Jesus loves me with gusto and I can still see him briefly free and more than a little outmanned, a green feathery bundle on the avenida on Fort Amador when he had sprung his cage
I scooped him up and took him home
No matter what happened after, he was mine
Fairly unassuming manufactured house on the dog-leg routine to the store I didn’t even want to go to when…
Stone lions, like the ones I knew in China
Ushering in a succession of small wonders–Hello Kitty car curled behind a fence, two separate seahorse bird baths
All of these unassuming houses
Pocked with wonder
There is a story Luke tells about Joseph and Mary assuming somehow that Jesus was in their large family group as they returned from Jerusalem the year he was 12. It is the last chronological reference to Joseph. It raises legitimate questions about either their parenting or the point at which a boy was considered an independent in their culture. Both probably.
But more than that it was a handful of days where the Messiah was the Messiah in full public views. He said and did and was who he always was and always would be. Luke writes that the people he interacted with acknowledged his mastery of the subject at hand.
Why is this story here? Why aren’t there a million others? I want to know what Jesus ate for breakfast every day, not to mention what he said those days, years before his public ministry.
And I want to know more about his interlocutors. What did they gather from their
Brief encounter with the Philosopher King?
Biden will export abortion with our tax dollars. Including millions performed against the will and consent of the mothers in countries which perform forced abortions, often targeting Christians and oppressed minority populations.
Long before her son’s whirling and untimely demise, my paternal grandmother believed in her traction with elected officials. I remembered this belief upon my first campaign, which was, parenthetically, about the loss of a single child and an unjust judge.
Who save me
would draw a line between Mamaw and the rise and fall of Hasmonean kings?
Amidst all this talk of unjust judges and rising kings
I tell myself there must be
sycamores in Jerichos still
Awaiting His return
I believe that
Raccoons see you as the Mama Raccoon
Dogs see you as their alpha
But I see you at the head of the old stone table
A wry look on your face
As though I could ever be
More than your little girl, oh
God of the Universe
You spread out this invitation
To partake in your matchless
The old woman and the older woman sit down across a flimsy folding table. Between them there is a plexiglass barrier, the kind you might encounter now at a doctor’s office or the checkout line at the grocery store.
This time we all know we are contagious, right?
They type into complementary machines–one English to Korean and the other Korean to English
Do not forgive these Korean letters, forgive something else if you will.
The devastating depths men may plunge to
If the womenfolk fail to speak.
I told myself I would
Swim the coldest days
Knowing the river runs
Warmer than the air making it
Rise in Holy Ghost waves
I turn to watch the tide
Tell me you remember
Every day you stayed with me
When all the cool kids
Ephesians 5:13 NIV
 But everything exposed by the light becomes visible—and everything that is illuminated becomes a light.
Become light, old man,
Let us all become light