A new series on doubt...


It feels like an unforgivable sin. A bad taste in my mouth. A disappointment. 

But it's real. I feel it, and maybe you do, too. Things that once seemed so real and convincing now feel impossible to swallow. 


Today marks one year since I moved to New Haven. It is just as rainy as it was the day we arrived, and so humid my skin is crawling. Maybe it is the weather, or the anxiety of the end of the year, but I am overwhelmed with melancholy. And despite one last paper to finish before I can officially deem the semester complete, I can’t stop thinking about the day we spent in Falls City, Nebraska when we drove out here last summer. 

Doubt on Good Friday

A strange, unexpected grief has washed over me this week, and I've had a hard time putting a finger on it's origin or cause. But then I was accosted by a giant Easter Bunny the other day at a grocery store (true story, and it was straight out of my Donnie Darko nightmares), and I realized: it's Holy Week. And I am a skeptic. A doubter. At the very least, a recovering evangelical with some open wounds, and a deep distrust for the Christian church.

In Feast or Fallow

I used to write all the time. There was a variety to my method, my tone, my chosen style. My voice was strong. The blur of early adulthood might have left me dissociated from my body and skeptical of my mind, but my voice was clear and supple and strong. In those early years, growing up in Colorado, I wrote with abandon...