The Children of God

“Are you not like the Children of Cush to me, Children o

Unraveling Snowballs and Stringing Pearls

It started at the end of April, making papier mâché volcanoes and an erupting birthday mountain for my Sweetpea.

How Change Happens: An Interview with Cynthia Bourgeault

This interview appeared in "Transgression," a recent edition of the journal Oneing, published by the Rohr Institute.

Joelle Chase: Perhaps we could begin by talking about some of the ways in which you have transgressed, Cynthia! For example, your book on Mary Magdalene delves deep into a topic that has been taboo in many Christian circles. What has it been like for you to break the silence, to transgress some religious norms?

Songs of God

Pan de vida, cuerpo del Señor,” our tiny choir sang, our third grade voices filling St. Basil’s Catholic Church. The congregation sang the next part: “Cup of Blessing, blood of Christ the Lord.” I could see my mother and sister standing side-by-side in the front row, singing along. To my left, Father Dan was beginning to rise. It was his turn to sing.

Mountain High

When I fail to think of You
(And, sad to say, times more than few)
Because of all I need to do
(Or think I do - that may be true)

I hie me to the clear, cold air
At heights where bird and tree are rare.
Bluer skies and brighter sun; where
One can abandon every care.

Prayers of a (Sometimes) Insomniac

Dear Lord, sometimes this job is too much for me. Listening to the pain and heartache of your children leaves me sobered and sad. And sometimes unable to sleep. As the stories play out in my head I ride the turbulent waves of their distress as in a small boat. The sea of emotions is wild and the winds of uncertainty strong. But then you are there, and you say: “Peace be still!” and the wind and waves subside and calm returns. And I sleep; my heavy head resting on your lap. Thank you, Lord.


Revolutionizing Camp Meeting

Camp meeting! Summer in my house begins with the annual trek to the Kentucky-Tennessee Conference camp meeting at Highland Academy. Tents, bugs, and this year, a snake, all add to the memory book of adventures.

Only 36, I often feel out of place amongst the rocking chairs piled high with pillows for the ever-aging set of devotees. Yet, even while multi-tasking on classwork, texting my husband, and reconnecting with friends, I gain spiritually from the lessons presented. 

Here: Poems on Place

For Father’s Day, a little poem about my dad who taught me much about how to be present in time and place. And another poem-sketch of a favorite “here,” the place where my soul feels most at home on earth.



“Are we there yet?”
I asked my dad on the 
long road between school days
and summer at Grandma’s house.

“We’re here!”
he always retorted,
regardless the location.

I am here now.
I am here.
I am now.
I am.



Charlotte's Web: What a Friend We Have

“I’m less than two months old and I’m tired of living.” How weary life can seem sometimes! Even for a young pig lying in a manure pile, with fresh slops to eat and a warm barn to call home, life seemed almost unbearable for Wilbur.

The Little Prince and the Silly Kingdoms of Grown-ups

“Why do you sell these pills?” asked the little prince.

The clerk said to save time. Experts had calculated that a pill to quench thirst would save you 53 minutes a week.

“If I had fifty-three minutes to spend as I liked,” the little prince said to himself, “I’d walk very slowly toward a water fountain….”

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