We each have our own multifaceted relationship to the rhythms that have shaped us. Some we keep, sometimes improvising and re-creating it as our patterns of life change. Others we discard, knowing that they aren’t right for our souls right now.

When I turned the corner into the quad and saw the trees, my heart broke open in aching grief for my mother, who died two years ago. History incarnated this space and made it sacred, immersing me within this small piece of my mother’s life.

Lord, I stand here. Sit here. Kneel here. Exist in your presence. Lent is coming to a close, and here I am before you, as I am. Learning to worship, even after years of knowing you. I may not know much about you, but I do know you are a God of love.

three daysi searched for youheld my breathdreamt of youdeadyour crown brokenflesh torn open eatenby your friendsalways there was bloodall over my hands

HeyI thought I knew you sufficiently well enoughThen I thought I’d outgrown youAs the corset of the church got too constrictingSo I denied you altogetherBut that was also presumptuous of meFor how can I ever land on one side of a debate as old as history

“Let’s go worship at church.”

It’s funny how this phrase has two completely different meanings depending on which community I’m in. Uttered in my bible study group it refers to sitting in rows singing praise songs in a converted office building on a Sunday morning. Uttered in my gay dodgeball team (we’re called the Deep Throwers) it refers to dancing to pop and dance music Saturday night on the crowded dance floor at Saloon, a local gay bar downtown.

I would imagine at the Last Supper, it was more like a teddy bear.

Here, take this comfort item. There’s a scary scene coming up in the movie.

But I wasn’t at the Last Supper or the crucifixion, so the Eucharist is more like Maglalatik for me. For those who’ve never seen the Filipino coconut dance, it’s a fun one. Dancers strap coconut shells to their bodies and hold more coconut shells in their hands. They tap them together, click, click. They tap their own bodies, each other’s bodies. They bounce in different group formations and leap frog over each other. The music is light. Maglalatik is performed at big group gatherings, so picture yourself watching it while surrounded by your extended family and community.

I have a two-year-old son who is new to the ways of the world. He is a voracious eater and a passionate lover of “boo-booberries,” “stwawberries,” and “’nanas”. When he sits down to eat and we may be busy in the kitchen, he’ll demand, “Mommy, eat! Daddy, eat!” And when we sit down, he’ll hand us some of his treasured fruit. Much to the chagrin of my partner, I joked one day, “Son, don’t you know that if you give us some, it means less for yourself?” He had no idea what I meant, but unconcerned with the economy of selfishness, continued to place a blueberry in front of me.

One of the truest things I have come to know through my craft is that we parents, in the most mundane things, in the way we dress our children, and the way we make them food full of nutrition (or not, as is the case sometimes in our home), we are putting our love for our loved ones into tangible, physical objects.