April 06, 2014
We come readily enough to Your Sabbath rest.
We come with wearied hands, looking to Your ignition. We come with hungry souls, looking to Your body. We come with inclined lips, looking to Your Church to say
In this season of wantonness, in our weeks of longing, we gather ourselves here and press our ears to the lips of the saints. And from their tongues we hear the whispered chorus
When our hearts have forgotten, when our memories fail, we come to this meeting. Here, we are welcome. Here, we may stay and be reminded until the words sink in like ink to the skin, until the measure courses through our veins and raises off our own lips
Hi, friend. I'm Amy. Mostly, I’m just another twenty-something trying to figure out the stuff of life. I am a nerdy seminary student who loves the smell of old books and early mornings in the library. I am an artist wanabee, a liberal to the conservative and conservative to the liberal, guilty social justice groupie, and a recovering Bible know-it-all with the unreal ability to put my foot in my mouth an astonishing number of times each day. I am a sister to eight of the most hysterical creatures ever created. Good theology, used book stores, and autumn make me giddy. I preach passionately, think deeply, and ask too many questions. I write prayers, poetry and prose. I write about preaching bad and good, gender roles in the Church, the sacraments, stupid things we do on Sunday, politics, and almost everything else that you are not supposed to discuss in polite company. I also blog at oneyellowbird.blogspot.com. Welcome to the journey.
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