It’s ok if we don’t have the words. It’s okay if we feel numb, shocked out of all emotions except anxiety in times such as these. God meets us there.
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My hope and prayer is that we can be a world that can still love across closed borders, across oceans, across different nationalities, that we not let our fears keep us from seeing the eyes of our brothers and sisters behind the mask.
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The “now” of today often feels so immediate, so urgent, so important. But there’s something comforting about an old church. Weathered, but delicate. Beauty and function entwined.
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A paper mache masterpiece of canary-colored leaves decorates the concrete, whose almost-squares are dampened darker from last night’s rain. If I walk slowly enough, I can perceive green stains leaking through, too: moss, erupting in the moisture.
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In the middle of a thunderstorm, I lay on the bottom bunk, letting my weight sink into the paper-thin mattress that I paid $8 to sleep on.
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I’m not the most humble person in the world. Being raised in a competitive family, I learned at a very young age to make my talents and presence known.
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