By Measure of the Body

I’m not sure that I could come up with an even close-to-correct estimate for the number of hours, days, and weeks of my time I have spent obsessing about how I look. How often does “fearfully and wonderfully made” sound absolutely ridiculous? How often do the pounds, inches, and any other conglomerate of numbers provoke…

Grieving in the Now and Not Yet

I am struck by how grief feels. It is remarkably tense. It feels like suspense. I imagine it must be a lot like how it would be to be held between two tall buildings with elastic cloth. Waiting for something to happen. But then nothing does. You are just left with an overwhelming feeling of…