I’m passing by car the miles of Ireland and Scotland, and a million dewy green grass blades and pink sea flowers blur with speed. But strangely, the narrow roads, lined with old stony fences, magnify as we pass. I’m lost in the thoughts of tomorrow’s transition, contemplating if the banks of the river, that held…
The Slice That Cuts
The Slice that Cuts Once you grasp the fleetingness of life — and it dawns on you in tiny increments as you grow — you are always savoring the sweetness of living and vitality of those living around you, family and friends who join your journey and increase its treasure. Yet on some indefinable level…
Threes, Fours, and Thousands
Threes, Fours, and Thousands If eternity is discovered in multiples of threes and the perishing in multiples of fours, then some things will remain and others will burn. The triune God revealed in the one form of Jesus is the foundation of all that is unchangeable and built upon a seven-branched candelabra, the 12 tribes,…
Resisting Ceremony
Resisting Ceremony There is something in the conceit of youthfulness that resists ceremony. Maybe I am a middle-aged woman who still dresses up for church, remembers the Pilgrims on Thanksgiving Day, recites the pledge of allegiance to my country with joy and pride and thinks that formal observance transcends post-modern culture. I am a one who…
Skull Hill
Skull Hill In heaven, Skull Hill will never be a faint memory, rather a mountain we climb daily. The practice of devotion will continue, learned from our earthly courses and lessons in overcoming in victory. In Paradise, we can stop the climb, but we won’t desire that. The journey to the cross is too familiar…
Creative Synapases
Creative Synapses My creative synapses will make sense to me someday. They will not sputter in chaotic release, release, yes, but that utterance of halting expression which I must tame and strengthen to the core will one day flow in order. Ideas that I must now systematize and pull and push into place, stuffing into…
Shaking Fists at You
Shaking Fists They’re shaking fists at you when the least little thing goes wrong. Prancing with chipped shoulders of entitlement, rising, gathering, hoarding and calling it their own. Fastly falling, they blame you for that too. Never pausing to consider or thank the source of strength or power or wealth or life itself. Yet you…
Hip Struck
Hip Struck I crave silence but not just any, rather the kind that slathers the soul like a soothing salve and leaves a blanket of protection, soft luxury upon the skin. The kind that penetrates the crusty rim and reaches the brittle reed within. Layers and layers of lanolin, silence swathes a path of healing,…
Bonnie Saul Wilks 