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January 15 - January 17, 2025
Pain is evidence of growth. The ache means we’re changing.
If you talked to anyone else the way you talk to yourself, Moose said, it’d be abuse.
Sleuthing and stubbornness were my gifts from God, tools They knew I could use.
Moose used to say people like us start smoking so we can have excuses to take deep breaths. He was right about that too.
“You sing too? Sister Mary Clarence style. Classic.”
Occam was a friar—points for that—but Occam’s razor was a joke. Answers nested in contradictions.
The reassurance of the Word was what all of us wanted in church. Defibrillate us. Shock our hearts. Tell us that pain is okay. That life is fucked but still worth it.
Unstable grace is wobbly, but it’s still a miracle.
“Being tough is easy. Compassion is hard.”
New Orleans jazz curves and swerves. A map so twisty it can only be real.
the narcotic-like high of being someone else for a night.
Flying heart-first through the world. A bit lonely, a misfit. Walking around holding a key, waiting for it to click. Like all of us.
“Religion is like art, we all get to make our own interpretations.”
To me, Judith was the quintessential riot grrrl.
No break is clean, I thought. Every fracture buries a ghost
inside.
I’m supposed to believe that God is a powerful white man with a white beard residing on a marshmallow-white cloud, but I don’t. God isn’t a person. God is
everything, everywhere, in all of this, the details I remember and everything I’ve forgotten. The stubbornness of fire. In clues so obvious they blind you. Blood that cleanses and blood that kills. God is perfection, even in devastation.
