The readings for Lent start in a place of confession and death, of acknowledging our…
We buried my father on a Sunday afternoon.
The days in between my father’s death and his burial were measured in moments of silence.
My father spent two weeks in an inpatient hospice facility, around two miles from the land he farmed. His physician had told him that…
We did not talk much on the trips back and forth to the bathroom.
Wallace Shawn writes, “The perfectly decent person who follows a certain chain of…
This is a strange Sunday. It is a strange Sunday because we begin with a parade of a sort…