Lord, I’ve been in 100% cotton pajama
Pants and shoddy emotions for three days.
My temperature sky-rocketed. My bed-sheets
Soaked salty around my lower-back andRead More
We’re still excited at the success of Echo Hill, our latest venture, and we thought we’d take the time to look into what we’re doing here at Foundling House in the first place, and why we would put together a dinner and concert in which people look each other in the eye, taste delectable food, and drink in well-crafted, truth-bearing art. Also, here’s a great chance for those of you who missed our evening to get a glimpse of what transpired:Read More
“Show me your muscles!” I say.
My boys shrivel up their faces with a scowl, strike a pose, and conjure up their pre-hormone physiques. The experience is similar to that of a Jedi warrior invoking the force.
“Look at those strong boys!” I say as I examine their arms.
Every time, my young men smile back. They usually bounce away with their chests a little higher and hearts fuller. I am too proud for words—with or without notable muscles. They are mine. My sons.
I turned thirty-six last year, and I can subtly sense the creeping shadow of a mid-life crisis looming over me. It’s probably much more about longing to see Jesus face to face than sports cars and cheap thrills. Those things never satisfy middle-aged people anyway, and I’m not interested in that kind of emptiness. Whatever the shadow is, it won’t find me waiting on a couch of discontent. I’m after something deeper.
I’m still asking the question: is the Lord really proud of me?Read More
February was warmer than normal in Mt. Pleasant. Less snow than rain fell, and the days were temperate enough that if you closed your eyes, you might think it was April, even May. So much so that Annie Folger’s forsythias bloomed. As they do each year, the mounds of white erupted and blocked the view of the house from one side, dusting the ground around the porch and covering Rex’s red Opel GT with shed blossoms, like a beautiful pox.
He had bought the Opel when he returned from Vietnam, weeks before marrying Annie, and it loyally followed them through three moves, three children, and forty years. He drove it to work on Fridays at the airport, when the weather was warm. It was a snap judgment, the sports car, a splurge. It reminded him of Ferraris he had seen when he was younger, and the wanton virility that he had felt in those days. The whine of its engine and the smooth lines of its body had been wild and reckless. The round taillights had alluded to speed.
Anymore though, they smacked of denial.Read More
Back at the beginning of December, our editor John Palmer Gregg introduced the world to his first novel, Some Glow Brightly, from Thistle Bound Press. It’s a young adult narrative surrounding the misadventures of Red Snyder, a fourteen-year-old baseball lover from fictional Laurel Hollows, Tennessee. Red finds himself, along with his father, at the painful end of a dangerous car accident, as a result of which he discovers that he is among a number of people who can separate consciousness from body, shifting into the spirit world. While exploring his new-found talents, he not only meets others like himself, but slowly uncovers an evil plot to open rifts between the worlds and unleash a reign of terror.Read More
Last Friday night, we held our first Foundling House brick-and-mortar event—a dinner and concert called Echo Hill, featuring the talents of Eric Peters, Janna Barber, Palmer Gregg, Ben Bannister, Bill Wolf, and Lorraine Furtner, plus an excellent feast by Sullivan’s.
This project had been more than six months in the making. The idea always seemed to be floating around in the back of my mind that we shouldn’t limit ourselves to virtual reception of art, to interaction by proxy. That kind of distance relationship, at least where art is concerned, suffers from a fan-based mentality. Good poems, stories, and songs drift into the territory of hagiography—that glowing writing full of miracles and merit that surrounds the saints of old. If we add the personal context of presence, our work takes on different and perhaps more holistic meaning*. I had mentioned the possibility of an event to our writers’ group multiple times, trying to gauge interest and, on a more subliminal level, hoping that if I talked about it enough, I would figure out how to pull it off.Read More
Like a river rushing furiously forth
Chasing the scarlet leaf that has just turned loose from its love
I chase you, my love.