poet // theologian // whiskey lover // loyal friend // northern beard in the southern heat.......................................Durham, NC




Nobody likes the over-ambitious and pretentious first post.
So I really don’t wish to bother with it.
I’d like to preserve an air of mystery.
And unravel it as I write.
Do keep reading.
And welcome.

Dear Tumblr, I give you the newest Lydia creation.


"a pastor i know, who gets a more privileged vista of human suffering than i do, told me she was sick of the phrase “first-world problems” — not just because it delegitimizes the perfectly real problems of those of us lucky enough to have enough to eat and internet access, but because it denies the same stupid trivial human worries to people who aren’t. are you not entitled to existential angst or tedium vitae if you live in chad — must you always nobly suffer traditional third-world problems like malaria and coups d’état? if we’re lucky, we graduate to increasingly complex and better problems, and once all our material needs are satisfied we get to confront the insoluble problem of being a person in the world."


tim krieder

the feast of pain" via the new york times + mr. c

(via nmattea)


In First, State Adopts Updated 'Handicapped' Symbol - Disability Scoop

Love this!


A Growing Movement To Spread Faith, Love — And Clean Laundry

Brilliant! So exciting to see folks understanding the creative invitation of the Gospel.


There are shadows of you left 


I miss the warmth

And blood

And cool skin

Flaking off in this summer 


There are traces of you left

In hairpins woven

In the carpet

And in my car

And under places hairpins

Shouldn’t have found themselves outside of your


There are glimpses of you left

In water whisked of my chest

In the steamy morning rinse

Where you pumiced my heels with your gentle


There are tinges of you left

In braids passing by

Begging me to reach out for a subtle elbow

Graze only to find that it is not you but another 


There are hints of you left

In ringless fingers

In future mothers cradling the child of another

In preparation of her own


In nails painted in some French guy’s name

In stripes and lace and denim

In dresses drawn to the floor

In wrists rolled in flour

Waving me to come


There are shadows of you left

Hiding here in my


-M. Case


You are the rain we weathered

And I the rooster

Rusting before his crow

Nested under the umbrella

To endure the scorches

Of the fire that may have been


The boards beneath us

Riddled with questions

And answers unsaid



These are the stumbles

We find ourselves in.

And this, the season of heat

Bent towards

A crawl.

-M. Case