(I want to clarify that this is part of my faith story, even though it is rendered through a second-person pronoun. I did that deliberately. This device draws attention to the fact that every testimony is a way of talking to oneself, of dialoguing with the multiple voices that God has spoken to one over the years. I also wanted to hide myself, better put, to point beyond my self to others – my grandpa, my chemistry teacher, the fluorescent Dutch, and bearded Anabaptists – who have really shaped my self. And finally, this device has also allowed me to be even more self-aware while hopefully drawing the reader, you, into my faith journey.)
During Catholic mass in St. Xavier’s Church,
the priest places a wafer, a flake of skin,
on my tongue as coolly as smoke rings ejected
from a murderer’s mouth. Their sacrament,
Reshma tells me singing, drags them by the hair,
or binds each limb to the bedposts, laid bare
like the silvery bottom of a mango leaf drowned
underwater, or with malarial kisses, marries them. Continue reading “Unio Mystica–Megan Gieske (Asbury University)”
Fall has always been my favorite season. The bright colors of the leaves captivate us, the air gets colder, sweater weather begins, and bonfires become fellowship times that bring people together. Fall may be short-lived, but it makes me appreciate it all the more because I know that it’s only a matter of time that the colors will fade, and the more bitter cold is coming. I love fall for all that it represents and I enjoy nothing more than to capture the beauty of it through photographs. These pictures are now apart of my fall collection.
Finally, he died. Today, at lunch, he died.
“He’s dead,” I told him. And he didn’t believe me that he had died.
He had lived for so long. So incredibly long. Years. Decades. Maybe even a century. No one really knows, even the doctor didn’t know. Which doesn’t surprise me, but what does, was that the doctor couldn’t even kill him. I had tried for years and years and decades, maybe even a century, and no one could kill him. Read more…
You wake up in the morning, after snoozing the maximum amount of times, and your chest feels like August, warm and slow, you say that it’s because you slept so well, but you remember, you didn’t really sleep at all. Your night was spent staring at the ceiling dreaming that tomorrow would somehow be cancelled. You play the reruns of past mistakes and lonely Christmas Specials on the back of your eyelids. You would kill for just five more minutes… or months… you supposed minutes will just have to suffice. If your life were a movie, its soundtrack would be like the sound of a funeral. You’re realize that the warmth you feel isn’t a comfortable kind of warm, it’s really just what’s left of your heart melting away.