The incense wafts in thick coils, creating ghost-like apparitions that drift in the penumbra of this makeshift tabernacle that once served as a barn in southeast
Christmas tree of chrismons and Garfield and Kermit, kid cut-outs and pictures of Christmases past, mechanical wonder ornaments and antique hand-made-hand-me-downs. Animals, angels and paper.
The heat has been stubborn this year. Already by October, the sticky Texas summer was sticking around like an unwanted house guest. Instead of cooling
In my youth, it wasn’t uncommon to see people collapse. Whole groups of them might go at once in an invisible sea swell that washed
“I meant I was ready to shore up what little purity I had left, ready to not have sex again until I was married. That I would save what I could. My two pennies. What little I could yet claim as my own. I was happy, beginning again. I felt self-possessed and determined and maybe maybe maybe okay. Possibly good enough, once again.” ~ Susan Woodring
“I grew up in the doctrinal Wesleyan tradition of discipleship and lemonade on the lawn, harmonized hymns and church camp in the mountains, singing beneath the wooden rafters of a chapel surrounded by hardwoods with the rushing waters of a goldminer’s creek not far behind. But I rejected these comforts because in my waxing adolescence I divined that my hungry sexuality was not welcome, and my outspoken questions unwanted.” ~ Laura Jean Moore