On February 20, 1883, the New York Times ran a quirky, little page 3 story about a Mrs. Mary McMullen, residing at 2nd Avenue and 34th Street, who complained to the Board of Health about “an intolerable stench” in her neighborhood. Having grown up on a farm, I know a thing or two about intolerable…
It was a warm November day, the leaves had only recently begun to turn, and the maples along our street were blazing in deep reds and oranges. The air smelled earthy, pungent, and I could hear the crackle of the fall leaves beneath my feet even over the podcast on my AirPods. All of this…
For most of the summer, I said no to opportunities that came my way. No to the article assignment for a magazine I regularly write for. No to a friend who invited me to speak at an event she hosts. No to camping trips and vacations and even a funeral. No because I had said…
“The Lord Almighty grant us a peaceful night and a perfect end. Amen.” I begin again through the Compline liturgy, trying to integrate this ancient practice into my bedtime routine. Praying through these lines each night is new to me, a nod toward the start of a new year and a hope to ward off…
I paused and looked out over the small crowd of children sitting cross-legged on the floor of the Sunday school room, waiting for their response. I played the role of narrator in a short play about the book of Esther, and as I’d just said the name “Haman,” I was waiting for the hisses and…
We were headed to our first week of drive-thru church during the COVID-19 pandemic. Our pastor preached online that Sunday morning, and during the afternoon the congregation was invited to drive through the parking lot to take communion from their cars and drop off any tithes and food pantry items. The tithe checks were already…
“He liked BINGO,” Mom told me between bites of lemon oregano chicken. “What’s that?” I asked. Mom’s dysarthria, an unwelcome leftover from her stroke four years ago, sometimes makes it hard for me to understand her. “Can you say it again?” “He liked BINGO,” Mom repeated. “George.” “Oh yeah, I saw him playing BINGO with…
I plant seeds on a cold February day, imagining a garden some months in the future. I pinch the tiny seeds out of their packets, some no bigger than a flake of black pepper, carefully pushing them beneath the soil in the miniature peat pots. I water them “generously,” as the Farmers Almanac suggests, then…