This Evening

My hands are dirty from smearing ashes on people’s foreheads. My eyes sting from wiping them with ashen fingers. My nose tickles from the ash I’ve breathed in. From dust you have come. To dust you shall return. In the meantime there is grace. Grace that looks a lot like a smudged cross. Like sooty…

A Bird in the Bush

Here in northeastern Kansas fall has begun in all of its glory. The sun is shining. The air is crisp. It’s the kind of weather that makes me say, “Hey, let’s go for a walk to the ice cream place.” (O.K. It was the weather and the fact that we had coupons for free ice…