Happy Lazarus Saturday Eve!


Happy Lazarus Saturday Eve! It’s the Anniversary of my and my son Johan’s baptism in Christ. http://ow.ly/vHf2j

I remember the event five years ago like it was yesterday. It was pouring rain. I brought in my entire family, most of whom are not Orthodox, and had to fend off difficult questions and pretend that I didn’t hear unpleasant asides that I overheard.

Now, from the vantage point of history, the day seems so magical to me. Well, more mystical than magical, because my memory of it is tempered with heart-pain.

I sit here alone and estranged. I can only dream of the day I’ll see my family again, intact.

With God, all things are possible. But then, when we don’t walk with God and seek after our own worldly contentment, then how thin is that life!

As I recall our baptismal gifts, I think of the words of St. Barsanuphius of Egypt, who said, “Every gift is received through pain of heart.”


A Russian mayor went on record claiming


A Russian mayor went on record claiming that Spruce Island should be returned to the Russian Orthodox Church. Stayed tuned for a story on that…


Using public computers can be like music


Using public computers can be like musical chairs… depending on whether your neighbors are talking to themselves, grunting, or just plain stink.


Using public computers can be like music


Using public computers can be like musical chairs… depending on whether your neighbors are talking to themselves, grunting, or just plain stink.


Just a whim — St. Basil the Blessed


vasblazhJust a whim — St. Basil the Blessed

That famous cathedral in Moscow is named after St. Basil, a holy fool. Here’s an icon of him. In the U.S. the man would be scorned, ridiculed, and thrown in an asylum. Probably anywhere in the world today he would be treated likewise (even Russia).

Not so in his day.

Then they recognized him for what he was: holy.


Three Years Gone


Three years ago I

lost my way in the dark of

July, murmuring in sweaty steel

along Industry Way

 

Why ask O why did she git me again

the devil sparking fire down candied breath

buzzing my branded noodle

and wasting my sacred hearth

 

Now daring the dead I’ve become a

fleck’s fleck, a rising bent and tortured arrow

begun in the flesh, converted in thought,

of consequence, and import, not pickled nor bought

 

Three years gone and with that the soma and shame

With no senses left to bark at, and few worlds in the rough

I saw that in the end only He remains

Pulling fools and the Holy Ones up by the scruff


Herding Leaves


To think an evil thought

then try to banish it

like whispering on a leaf

to flip it on a side

in the air

then seeing it flip back

just before

it lands softly

on the dewed

and curling

morning turf

in a dying homespun grin

challenging its kin

to fall aloft

 


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