At the utility sink
Photo by Chris Bair on Unsplash Last night I came downstairs after the kids' bedtimes to hear my husband sighing heavily on the couch. "What's wrong?" I asked, concerned. "Oh nothing," he said in the tone that means it's very much something. "Just fascism. It's everywhere." I nodded once, more brusque than I intended, and headed straight down another flight of stairs to our basement, where I proceeded to bend over the utility sink and hand-scrub fecal matter from my children's poop-encrusted underwear and shorts, with the grim satisfaction that here, at least, was a pile of shit I could resolve. A few weeks ago, I finished Richard Rohr's book The Tears of Things: Prophetic Wisdom for an Age of Outrage , in which he examines how the Hebrew prophets "reflect the full spectrum of human maturity" as they move from anger to lament to compassion and invites us to contemplate where (and how) "holy disorder" and ...
