Poetry For weeks, the soil translated into dust, Then lint, then ash, and at last Into smoke. The creek compressed Itself to an unwilling path
We sat down at the table, which smelled of chicken pot pie and sported a Santa with a tub of butter. Sarah (a pseudonym) stared across the table at us, her former foster-to-adopt parents. We had come to her new adoptive home for Sunday lunch a week before Christmas …
“I want to wash your feet,” he said to me as he gazed intently into my eyes, “and I will tell you why.” I was attending a foot washing service at the Fraternidad Cristiana Mennonite Church in Mexico City. The man who wanted to wash my feet was the pastor and a long-time leader in the Mennonite church in Mexico. I hadn’t seen him for more than 20 years …
