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"Blessed are the timid hearts that evil hate, that quail in its shadow, and yet shut the gate..."
- Indexed issues, last 90 days
- 7
- Latest publication
- Sep 25, 2026
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- Earliest in this view
- Jul 17, 2026
Latest issues
Notes on a College Town (opens the original)
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I’ve come to this new coffee shop as a reward to myself for wrapping up another weekend of dog-sitting, a side gig that has, over the past couple of years, involved risks. More risks than I would’ve ever believed, actually. I have a scar on my right knee that’s still healing. The cost to stitch it up was three times more than what I made for watching the dog, so in some cases dog-sitting is also very expensive. A new coffee shop in a college town ten miles west of Jackson is my idea of hazard pa
Firelight Live: Conversations on Faith & Creativity (Special Guest: Sara Bannerman) (opens the original)
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Get more from Sara Bannerman in the Substack appAvailable for iOS and Android<a class="install-substack-app-embed-link" href="https://substack.com/app/app-store-redirect?utm_ca
The Right to Be Forgotten (opens the original)
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“I signed up for Second Life about a year ago,” says Dwight. “In my Second Life I was also a paper salesman and I was also named Dwight. Absolutely everything was the same. Except I could fly.” There on Dwight’s screen is his avatar, in yellow button-up shirt and glasses and hair parted down the middle, soaring above the city. Every time I did laundry or vacuumed in my own massive simulation game, I thought of Dwight Schrute. I thought of him when I dropped $40 for an expansion to the game that
Tomorrow and Tomorrow (opens the original)
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Jimmy Morrow was the best poker player Dad knew. John Bell was good, too, but the more interesting thing about him was the way in which he played poker one-handed. He’d pin the cards to his chest with the stump of his left arm. Dad said that in John Bell Williams’ one hand was the gift of exquisite penmanship. He wrote Dad an IOU that could’ve rivaled a signature on the Declaration of Independence, and Dad regretted he couldn’t keep the note.“But I guess I wanted the money more,” Dad said. When
A Mess of Songbirds (opens the original)
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For the past week I’ve been at my parents’ house helping my dad as best I can. My mother is in the hospital, but I have a poor bedside manner, and so “my best” has looked like me sitting a few feet from her quietly reading Lonesome Dove. Occasionally I wonder if I’m wasting precious time. Leaving things unsaid. She asks me now and then to read to her, but it seems that every page is loss or suffering or death. I give her a brief synopsis with all the sad stuff omitted, which results in a mere sk
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