MISSION: Find and eat the sugar cubes! As kids, we spent HOURS playing church hide and seek. We felt like finding sugar cubes was a simple extension of the game. Parish halls = coffee. Coffee = sugar. Simple math.
When we were really young, sugar cubes were still a thing and our dad was a visiting minister. We had many new territories to explore. We tested unlocked doors, snuck into nurseries and scoured cupboards. The entire campus was our playground.
Read More“It was 1997, and I was 23 and working in Boston in my first professional job as a sales service representative for an educational publisher. I answered the 1-800 hotline and spoke with customers all day. But my goal was to become an editor.
One unsuspecting day about six months into the job, my coworkers and I were gathered to learn that our department was being eliminated.”
Read MoreThe cop took a U-turn at the light, following me in my lane.
“There is a police car behind me,” I explained to my sister on the phone. I put my blinker on and turned. “Oh no, they turned too.”
Read MoreI met Trice at The Absinthe House on Pearl Street. The bar doesn’t exist anymore, but when it did they had weekly reggae nights. I spotted him immediately—that woven tam cap slouching over two kind eyes, those baggy jeans swaying gracefully to the music. He asked me to dance, and I asked him what he did—proving that first impressions aren’t everything. That sometimes, the soul’s story sounds like The Wailers when it sings.
Read MoreAll but the shattered glass was a blur. My morning’s promise of journaling and cozy coffee was replaced with a dangerous mess—a sharp awakening. Unavoidable. My elbow dinged the French press as I grabbed my vitamins. No matter how careful, these fragile coffee makers eventually break. Don’t they?
I pedaled backwards and slid on sandals. I remembered my parents in broken glass situations, their diligence to keep us safe. “We don’t want your little feet anywhere near this until it’s cleaned up.” As kids you are vanquished to the next room. Protected. As the only adult, I handled that morning’s mishap and experienced a mixed moment of remembering and realization.
Read More“Hey, I am going to steal your wallet now. See. I have my hands on it. Watch me take it.” —Said no robber ever.
It’s almost funny to think about, because it doesn’t happen. I thought about an announced robbery when I read these words, “Comparison is truly the thief of joy.” A student included them in a letter through Letters About Literature, a program where students write to authors about how their books made a personal impact.
With those words, I remembered our house being robbed...
If I’m honest—really honest—I’m afraid of cooking a turkey. It’s not about the worry of something tasting bad; that’s a whole other article of vulnerability. No, it’s that sack of guts that lives inside the turkey. Some turkeys don’t even have it in a sack. You have to be a pilgrim or pioneer and go in there blindly. I SHUDDER.
Something—no, everything—about this sack of guts grosses me out. I try not to think about it. But something in this “small” moment of fear seems relevant. Let’s dig into these past weeks.
Read MoreMISSION: Find and eat the sugar cubes! As kids, we spent HOURS playing church hide and seek. To be fair, we felt like finding sugar cubes was a simple extension of the game. Parish halls = coffee. Coffee = sugar. Simple math.
When were really young, sugar cubes were still a thing and our dad was a visiting minister. We had many new territories to explore.
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