Twelve years passed, almost to the day, between my birth and the birth of my sister. When she was born I was a bony adolescent—what I call gawkward—who wore bifocals, DARE t-shirts, scrunchies, and fluorescent tracksuits. I left my sixth grade class early to go to the hospital to meet my new sister, who was round as a piece of gnocchi and as white, with a soft down of light red hair on her head like a smear of sauce.... Read more
Driving other day, down a busy city street, one which I drive once, twice, sometimes three times a day—scanning a block or two ahead for double-parkers, changing lanes to dodge left-hand-turners and get away from slow-pokes—I had an epiphany. A manifestation. A showing. It wasn’t pretty. An SUV rode on my tail. I called the SUV by name—that is, by a certain seven-letter anatomical term, even as I felt the pleasure of making it through the a signal turned yellow... Read more
Encore Guest Post by Ann Conway Here in central Maine, the world has come down to bone. The songbirds are gone and crows, which poet Mary Oliver terms “the deep muscle of the world,” have taken over my street. The landscape seems empty; the ground, a carpet of desiccated leaves. One longs for the blanketing stillness of snow. The world, dark at four, appears grim. I’ve started keeping a commonplace book in the hope of seeing better. Most wintry day... Read more
Years ago I was at a panel discussion featuring several Catholic authors when someone asked the question: “As artists, do you struggle with orthodoxy?” The panelists leaned forward in their seats, looked at one another, and began nervously laughing. When they regained their composure, the answers were not memorable. That’s not to say the writers were not thoughtful or up to the task—they were all at least a generation older than me, very well published and well respected—and it was... Read more
Shortly after the November presidential election, I was sent an e-mail on the assumption that given my zip code and presumed party affiliation I would celebrate its content and join the victory stomp. Seeing how peeved I was instead, perhaps it was a good thing that the matter coincided with the start of my recent brief hiatus from the blog. I knew I’d return to the topic my first post back, but not with such timing: Martin Luther King, Jr.... Read more
If you’re a Good Letters reader in the Seattle era, blogger emerita Kelly Foster, now Image’s 2012-2013 Milton Fellow in Creative Nonfiction, will be reading her work at the Seattle Pacific Art Center Gallery on Friday, February 8, 2013, at 7 pm. Find out more event details here, and go here to sign up for our local events list and receive occasional updates on arts and faith events in the Seattle area. An excerpt from “Blood Roses,” an essay by... Read more
This is Jeffrey Overstreet’s last post as a regular contributor to Good Letters. We thank him for the thoughtful words and reviews he has shared so faithfully and wish him well in his next pursuits. Matthew was a high school senior, two years ahead of me. He was a gifted musician, a generous friend, and not too cool to hang out with a sophomore like me. I learned a lot from him. His interests in books, music, and movies influenced... Read more
It’s January, but the weatherman says the temperatures will creep up near seventy for the next day or two. In fact, things have been warmer than usual for a spell now. Tiny buds are popping out on some of the trees, and croci (yes, a bunch of crocuses) are spackling the earth in little paintbrushes of yellow and purple. The birds, from black starling to blue jay, are wild about it all. This shouldn’t be happening, of course, because this... Read more
He was despised and rejected by men, a man of sorrows, and familiar with suffering. Like one from whom men hide their faces he was despised, and we esteemed him not. —Isaiah 53:3 Six or seven years ago, a coworker of mine played a drunken game of chicken with a semi-truck on his bike at ten o’clock at night. His funeral doubled as a memorial service and an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. My coworker, whom I will refer to as Flip,... Read more
It was there all along. Troubling me. It hurt me and aroused my sympathy for that boy, that young man, the Reb’s firstborn son being groomed to replace, one day, his father as head of a Hasidic dynasty. A father who tested this son, his future, his sect’s future, every Sabbath afternoon before an audience of devoted followers. They looked with awe on their rebbe and his son, their future leader, who never failed to catch the mistake his father... Read more
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