8:18
 It’s 8:18 on the back roads of Pennsylvania and I’m hunting for a tower.
In the alley, the clock glows like a cat’s-eye moon.

Rubble

February 4, 2019
The familiar pile of debris is quite dramatic in the snow.
There is nothing more isolating than darkness.
I am finding it hard to keep up with the young, black pastor’s flow of words.
“Isn’t this landscape beautiful?” the woman asks.
At 8:18 tonight, the view from the plane window is stunning.
The clouds above us are twisted, as if the sun has wrestled them to break through.
It’s hard not to notice the mustachioed man with his shaggy shirt.
This blog started a year ago with two questions from Jesus.
The long, garden shrouds are the perfect ending my glum rule-of-three walk.
Wrapping, I realize, is just the final touch of anticipation.
I wonder how the magi made it home.
How will I ever find Jesus in this press of people?
Everyone in the concert hall, including the orchestra, waits for my daughter to play a single note.

Today's ReVision

God Our Salvation

How great is our salvation? This great.

Join the Ailbe Community

The Fellowship of Ailbe Newsletters