Theme Essay by Rebecca Steinitz
I called my children by each other’s names, missed appointments, left my keys in the running car.
I called my children by each other’s names, missed appointments, left my keys in the running car.
To live in the unknown, in the uncomfortable, is a challenge for Christians and writers alike.
Climb until every pixel of the sky’s bloom falls directly into your view.
I don’t delude myself that writing an essay can somehow undo an act of violence.
If there's a thread that binds us, I believe it’s hope, reasonable or not, for a kind of saving grace.
I've made most of this up, the apples, the stupidity, the bourbon bought in St. Paul.
It felt like being on a ledge, with vast emptiness below my feet. I wasn't writing—but I wasn't not writing.
If I do things just right, the terror of the empty page won’t rise up and engulf me.
Words have the power to bless or curse, whether they’re spoken, written, or thought.
As a child, whenever I walked to school in the rain, the earthworms frightened me.