The Mega-Burrito Late Night Jog
Muncie Noir
(I started with the idea of a moody noir story of a guy who runs at night, but I ended with this. So--well--apologies in advance, I guess.)
Steve’s grandpa used to say, on days like this, that the air hangs on you like a fart in a hot elevator. Steve laughs, hearing his grandpa’s voice in his head, but he couldn’t help but think of a . . .
Chalk Drawings
In March or April, if you tried to buy toilet paper, yeast, and sanitizer you probably found an empty shelf in the store. The COVID-19 quarantine sent people into a panic over these things, and they disappeared from stores. There’s another hard-to-find quarantine item that you wouldn’t guess: sidewalk chalk. If you tried to buy sidewalk chalk . . .
In Praise of Nacho Libre
I’m 48 years old, knocking on the door of 49, and I regularly reflect, throughout each day, on the story of Nacho Libre. Ancient cultures had myths and legends, stories of epic adventures and divine guidance to give their lives meaning, and I find direction from a 14-year-old movie of a monastic brother who moonlights as a luchador. I get it; . . .
Mr. Rogers for President
For Elaine, who prayed for me to keep writing
(I started writing this a couple weeks ago, before the COVID-19 news really ramped up. We're thinking about different things right now, but I thought I'd still share it)
When I saw the video of a child teaching Mr. Rogers the wave, a basic breakdancing move from the ’80s and Fred Rogers does the move with the fluidity of . . .
The Dark River
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It was already dark. We were out on an autumn evening, maybe seven or eight o’clock. I was maybe fourteen, and my church youth group was on a scavenger hunt, a few of us packed into a car to compete against another team from the church to get the most on the list. On the list of items to find, along with things like a french fry from . . .
A Little Higher
When he was three weeks old, my wife and I brought home a baby boy. He was and still is a foster child, a child needing a home, and we chose to give it. Driving home that evening, the little guy buckled into the newly installed car seat, I thought, “What the heck are we doing?” I’d never changed a diaper or given a baby a bottle before . . .
Max, the Wild Thing
When Max was a little kitten, a handful of fluffy little gray fur brought into my house at just a few weeks old, I had the priviledge of naming him. I thought of my love for the children's book Where the Wild Things Are and its main character, Max. I showed my little kitten the book, and he bit the book (I can still see the teeth . . .