the rose of kiev

Leaving a church you love is difficult. What a small word, "difficult".  Nine letters, three syllables, a small vague word full of heartbreak. It is October now.  And in October of last year, I left a church I loved. It was the right decision.  But it was "difficult". Dave and I left at the end of October.  At this time last year, we were in the final throes, and I was thrashing, in agony, miserable.  The church I loved and the people I loved were hurting me.  And worse, the wounds were inflicted with imperfect judgement and the best intentions. Some mornings, I still wake up angry thinking about it.  Misguided love is a dangerous thing. For some reason, it helps to know that it hurts so much because I loved them, that church, so much.  My heart was there, had grown vessels and nerves, was pumping blood, deep-set in the chest of that church.  And then when we left, I had to cut it out. I sometimes wonder if my heart wi...

A few weeks ago, I sat up late with my landlady talking and drinking cheap moscato wine. Our two-hour conversation strayed all over, from stories about her Chilean upbringing to the story of how I met Dave. Halfway into our second glass, God and Evil wandered into the conversation. She gestured with her wine glass toward the windowed walls, admitting that because of Nature's beauty she believes in God, but she has a problem with all the evil happenings in this world. She reached up with both hands and repositioned her glasses, and looking at me over the rims she told me story after story of the things she has seen: a single mother dying of cancer and living alone with her mentally handicapped son, friends' daughters raped, people shot. "How can I believe in a good God?" she asked, words slanted with her Chilean accent. Every time this kind of question comes up in conversation I have the same answer. I swallowed a sweet mouthful and replied, "It's the cost of ...

One of my favorite weekly traditions - if not my absolute favorite - happens every Monday night, after Xenos homechurch (which is basically a college-age bible study I highly recommend) when my boyfriend drops me off back home. We get back to the house a little bit early, and sit and talk in the driveway. Finally, a few minutes after I'm technically supposed to be inside, we stumble out of his abused Ford Taurus and make our way inside. Right on cue, Jay Leno's monologue is ending and he gets ready to do Headlines - a late night show tradition that has no equal, no, not even Letterman's Top Ten can hold a candle to it. As always, my little bro and sis are asleep upstairs and dad is either conked out on the couch or deep in his wine-red armchair fiddling on his laptop. And then the three of us watch Headlines together, laughing and crying from laughing and falling out of armchairs or couches from said laughter. Since Dave and I park ourselves on the floor, I just roll around...