Sanctified imagination isn’t just for artists. It’s needed in the public square.
my dad, he calls me his little morning dove
Simon of Cyrene went home that Friday evening with blood, not his own, on his shirt.
The Serpent lived in the Garden in the days before men. It marveled at the newness, the vastness, the shared breath of all who dwelled within.
Last February, I had breakfast with my friend Don, who is in his 70s, a life-long Bristolian and a like-minded soul. Don said he had always wanted to start a movie club. So we began dreaming.
From underground, a worm hears a voice.
