fragments, two.

Again I bring you a fragment found, this time, in the back of a book. I remembered it because of a tweet, actually. I remember now everything about writing it– low belly orange sun, whitewashed campus lawn furniture printing the back of my thighs. A few hours later, I would be sitting almost right in a fire, wine glass tilted in unsure hand, spectacular friendships kindling prophetic. That memory alone is a forgotten snapshot worth mentioning.


I wouldn’t say we are a “broken family.”

“Cracked” is more like it–like we are that section [of wall] above a door in a house with a poor, dry, Texas foundation, fissure stretching from frame to ceiling, widening on days when the air is thick enough to cut, but so small and delicate on others that you can barely see it at all.

It’s just another piece of wall.



I think I got the humidity thing reversed. Wouldn’t the crack get bigger the drier it was? Science, guys.


fragment, one.

Here is something about myself: I will write little bits of thoughts on bits of paper, in backs of books, receipts, boarding passes. I find them long after I forget them, what they were for, or why. I’m sure I’m not the only one. Anyway, I’m thinking of sharing them as I find them, starting tonight. It’s like finding a photograph.


I want to tell you that there is another way.

the way of grace.

I want to read that Corinthians passage slowly, like a prayer–

to remind you it’s not really just about weddings, or even just about

the way He loves.

I would show you the rebuke between the lines.

I would tell you there is something to sharing scars—

here I was cut, here I cut.

but you know what else?

here I was stitched together.

here the bits of skin reconciled,

here they found each other again.

and here, this bit, just on my ribcage.

that is the one still bleeding. 

the one I’m not sure will ever heal.

here is the truth, honest-to-goodness:

I called my mother for the 5th time to ask how to cook the fish.





yeah, I don’t get the fish thing either.

After posting, I realized that this could read along the lines of self-injury– that is not my story, but it could be yours, or a friend’s. Read this post by Tamára Lunardo, and check out the organization To Write Love on Her Arms.