When Every Day Seems Like Good Friday

I don’t know about you, but every day seems like Friday, lately. And I keep waking and hoping that at least Saturday rolls around; but no, it’s Friday again. It’s like living the movie Groundhog Day, only written and directed by Stephen King.

The Cracks in My Face

The lines in our hands may not reliably reveal our future, but the cracks in our face tell of our past. In this post I reflect on how wrinkles can be a good thing.

Breathe. Live. Let There be!

Think about that for a moment. The unconscious heaving of your chest right now had its beginning with the breath God. And when it was expelled from his throat a long time ago, life exploded into the universe. In other words, the simple act of breathing is powerful stuff. And it demands that we do something with it. Something extraordinary.

Finding God in the Thin Places (On my Pilgrimage to Ireland)

In Ireland, there is a place outside Dublin called Glendalaugh where I regularly experience a thin place. Tradition has it that Saint Kevin settled there in a cave in the sixth century. It overlooks a lake as black as a moonless and starless night. A forest surrounds it, with ancient trees covered in moss and dark green leaves. Early in the morning a mist hovers above ground, like out of a fairy tale. It’s no wonder that Kevin chose this place for his home.

In Praise of a Wasted Day

Our lives are directed by to-do lists and calendars and productivity apps. I don’t wake with the sun but with a clock. And the things invented in this world to serve me have become my masters. Sometimes, I fear that I have mistaken crossing something off my list for life. Because the point of life is not to be productive.