“He will take upon him their infirmities, that his bowels may be filled with mercy, according to the flesh, that he may know according to the flesh how to succor his people according to their infirmities.” (Alma 7:11-13) Christ loves me more than I can know and understands my circumstances perfectly. He knows every feeling, wish, worry, memory, hope and emotion I experience. He invites me to come unto him to receive compassion, healing, and help. My painting is titled That He May Know. A man has left a hectic city behind to seek Christ on a hill in a peaceful olive grove. He has sought the only one who has experienced the same pain and hurt, and the only one who knows how to perfectly comfort. The scene is intimate and personal. I intentionally made the figures almost mirror images of one another to show empathy. Both are hurting together, and they are sitting with the pain. The tree in the foreground also wraps over the figures. Trees are a symbol of the love of God, a reminder that our Heavenly Parents are always in our presence extending their love. Though the figures are full of heavy emotion, the colors are quite calm and soothing. My intention is for the viewer to feel hope, that they have a personal Savior to turn to in every circumstance. Jesus, the Son of God, descended beneath all so that I can rise above all and experience fullness of joy. I am so grateful for God’s infinite love that is both limitless in capacity and intimately personal.
That He May Know by Tyran Schouten Oil on Canvas
I’m a big proponent of “Big Tent” Mormonism. I want to make space for everyone within my faith. Diversity of thought, race, sexuality, gender, language, culture, etc. brings richness to my church. We need every perspective in order to come to know God. We can be and should be unified without being homogeneous. This is a portrait of my friend Aarthi. Her family is Hindu and after joining the LDS Church she’s continued to weave aspects of Hinduism into her faith. She’s also a proud member of the LGBTQ community, weaving her queerness into her faith as well. She’s an advocate, a teacher, a friend, a sister, and a daughter. She’s bold, funny, and compassionate. She doesn’t follow all of the social norms associated with Mormons. To me, she’s an example of the strength of diversity within the faith I practice. I am so grateful to have the opportunity to worship with her each Sunday. Aarthi by Claire Forste Watercolor and Gold Leaf
Christ’s Love for Others
Excerpt from talk by Ching Tong
One of my favorite characteristics of Christ is his ability to love and accept others. Throughout Christ’s ministry, he spent time with the sinners, adulterers, and people of every kind. He often helped and performed miracles to those that may not have felt like they deserved it and especially those individuals that the world would scorn and look down upon. So if Christ feels this way—that everyone, no matter where they come from, deserves grace and love—who are we to not offer that same love and acceptance of those around us?
New York Downtown by Noah Heaps Digital Photograph
Vaguely Religious City Marginalia by Kate Bennion Digital Photography
Oak Bridge, Central Park by Tyran Schouten Oil on Canvas
From Concord by Erin Kahn
Whispered by the wind to the river, the almost unfathomable secret of cre-
ation is this: nothing we think we lose is ever lost. Each treasure time steals from our doorless reliquary passes to the Gods, who keep an inventory of everything our heart claims as its own. Who knows but when we cross the last river, the Gods will hand us a book filled with the pressings of every flower we thought had withered, and as we stare, weak with remembered sorrow and giddy with the premonition of tenderness, our once beholding them again will blaze new life into the dry petals, and they will spring from the page and become a garden more beautiful and bright than any we have yet beheld?
Louisa looked at the violets that fingered the grave like delicate rain.
After fire, saplings sprouted. In war, beauty did not die. Young buds still
bloomed in spite of everything. Though we do, earth’s children never weary, and in their springing joy we hear an end to sorrow. Not today. Not tomorrow. But someday.
There is no death. Or rather, no death as we know it. For death is not the end
of a book, but the remaking of every story ever told.
The Carpenter by Jay Hulme
He knew his son would outshine him from the beginning, so taught this child the only thing he could: The skill of taking blades and wood, and turning death into something else entirely.
From The Backwater Sermons shared by Amanda Jacobsmeyer
Without Christmas by Erin Kahn
I couldn’t live in a world without Christmas Empty of lighted carousels And children clinging to their grandfathers With stubby peach fuzz fingers Mirrors in which the city sparkles Canned music piped to crowded corners Carefully organized decadence And hushed crushed crystal snow I don’t want to face the dark without This jumble of sputtering flames Everything aches with beauty Everything widens my heart I can’t do without the lighted windows Strung on the night like a prophecy Like we were birthed by spinning stars And we will hold back the night forever I can’t exist without these scenes Of a city lulled to wonder Of children who are too old to ride carousels Laughing with embarrassed love
Vintage Jesus Added by Hayden Davis Found Print Material
From Realms of Glory by Jeff Wilcox Graphite Drawing
There Are Angels in the Fields by Elizabeth Whatcott
A loose translation of the French carol “Les anges dans nos campagnes” (“Angels We Have Heard on High”)
There are angels in the fields, There are angels in the mountains. Everywhere you go, the air bursts With this song of heaven: Glory to the Most High God! Shepherds, what’s this about? Why are you cheering? What victory merits this joy? Why the triumph, why these words: Glory to the Most High God? These words announce the birth Of the Redeemer, the King of Israel! In its gratitude, the earth unites with heaven And all together sing: Glory to the Most High God! Shepherds, you can’t rest now! Join the angel choir! With whatever instrument you have, Make this song fill the air: Glory to the Most High God! Let’s all go! Let’s go to the village Where a God was born! Let’s give Him our praise, Let’s give Him our hearts, let’s give Him our song: Glory to the Most High God!
Good News
by Kate Bennion
The christ-child was poor, we like to say humble / mean and lowly / no crib for his bed etc etc and not that we shouldn’t say it, or sing it our god who “knows broke” one all the bereft, down-and-out and without, anyone who has ever been wanting (i.e., everyone) may claim but– methinks we dwell on that lack a bit too much, hung up on what men have and withold keen to lament his lack of titles / wealth / renown considering lucifer later offered that same lucre in the wilderness and was flat-out rejected, banished drop-kicked to the cosmic curb. What is given instead is impossibly simple, and better, and more difficult and blessed: a body and a brain and a heart, and hands to receive him already known / held / wanted the chance to learn and live and choose and struggle and yield, to think and touch and breathe all the splendor and terror that it is to Be yet here he is, delivery. safe passage en caul we too born and borne. (‘silent night’ gets it right. a lullaby!) death defied, new life crowning God Dwells In All Realms. When I sing gloria this is what I mean nothing more whole or holy than this to give and be given a shape, a name, a way richness we still fail to grasp: love so great all that whole godexalted host of angels could do was gossip about it –though maybe they sang, too I kind of like to think that they did.
For Meadow by Allie Walker-Gaughan Monotype & Oil Pastel
A piece about baby Meadow’s miracle birth this summer, born against all odds, on an island in the sea, after her mother beat cancer. Thinking about long awaited, miracle births.
A Poem of Appropriative Questions by Tristan Quist
Who has the right to celebrate a holiday? Is celebrating a holiday associated with another identity group wrongful appropriation? What harm is caused in appropriating a holiday? Is it okay for a ______ to celebrate_______? non-Jewish person—Hannukah non-Christian—Christmas person not of African descent—Kwanza non-Black American—Black History Month Are some holidays intended to be appropriated? Are there benefits to this form of appropriation? Is it only unacceptable to appropriate religious holidays? Is it okay for a ______ to celebrate_______? cisgender straight person—Pride non-Muslim—Ramadan non-Catholic—Lent non-Irish person—St. Patrick’s Day If a holiday is rooted in an identity but transitioned into mainstream culture, is it appropriation? What if the identity group was not responsible for its adoption by broader society? Is there a way to permit holiday appropriation but mitigate the harm? Is it okay for a ______ to celebrate_______? non-Mexican—Day of the Dead person without enslaved ancestry—Juneteenth person without Chinese ancestry—Chinese New Year Marxist—Black Friday ;) Do these questions belong only to an ivory tower? Do they have a real impact? In short—is this poem a waste?
Harlem Photography by Meg Colton Digital Photography
Why A House of Order? by William Hagee
As the Prophet Joseph Smith once said, “One of the grand fundamental principles of Mormonism is to receive truth, let it come from where it may.” The first and most resounding thought that came to my mind as I read these various sections on church organizations and endeavors, was Doctrine and Covenants section 88. In verses 117-120 we read: 117 Therefore, verily I say unto you, my friends, call your solemn assembly, as I have commanded you. 118 And as all have not faith, seek ye diligently and teach one another words of wisdom; yea, seek ye out of the best books words of wisdom; seek learning, even by study and also by faith. 119 Organize yourselves; prepare every needful thing; and establish a house, even a house of prayer, a house of fasting, a house of faith, a house of learning, a house of glory, a house of order, a house of God; 120 That your incomings may be in the name of the Lord; that your outgoings may be in the name of the Lord; that all your salutations may be in the name of the Lord, with uplifted hands unto the Most High. The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints from its origin was never intended to be a simple meetinghouse where people gathered once a week to sing songs and hear sermons. It was meant to be a safe haven, a thriving community, and a vessel by which people could receive all necessary instructions and ordinances to achieve eternal salvation. This meant the church has always been charged with the responsibility of creating and distributing scriptures and manuals, directing and supporting missionary work, building and sustaining meetinghouses and temples, providing relief to members who face poverty, and going out into the community to serve and uplift. And more specifically, in these sections of Come Follow Me this week, early church leadership had to establish decision-making councils, attempt to figure out how to tackle the ever-mounting debt they were facing, and organize a militia to send to help their fellow saints who were suffering. In order for the church to accomplish any and all of these things there must be some type of order, structure, and organization. And why do we do it this way in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, with committees, councils, structure, and order? Why not just be a building where we get together once a week to
worship sans hierarchical leadership and group endeavors? Because that’s how we saw Christ do it. In his earthly ministry, Christ called 12 apostles to go forth and preach the Gospel and establish His church. In Luke chapter 10 we read how Christ called 70 disciples and sent them forth “two by two” into cities to prepare the way for Christ’s arrival. And then in 3rd Nephi, starting in chapter 11, after His earthly ministry, we read how Christ organized and established His “house of order” among the multitudes on the American continent by calling 12 disciples there and providing them the authority to baptize and distribute the sacrament during gatherings of worship. The apostle Paul highlighted these actions of Christ in Ephesians chapter 4:10-13 In short, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, or really any other organized religious group, simply would not be able to function and therefore exist, without a specific order and structure. But for the duration of this talk I want to focus on the question: why do WE as individual children of God NEED this “house of order” for our spiritual betterment? Is it really required for us to be here in the midst of committees, hierarchy, dogma, tradition, and ordinances in order to achieve our full potential or return to live with God? Are we not able to simply embrace and live the gospel on our own free from church bureaucracy? Never have I felt the presence of Christ so strongly in my life as when I am engaged in fullyfocused worship while surrounded by other beautiful children of God who are simply doing their best. While I know that each of us have gained crucial and beautiful parts of our testimonies in solitude, I feel confident in saying that I know that these testimonies have only been fortified as we have brought them into our meetinghouses and shared them in worship with our siblings in Christ. And in this process not only have we strengthened our own testimonies, but likely we have been able to help strengthen the testimony of another. As the LDS author Patrick Q. Mason in his book Planted said, “The holy can be encountered by a fourteen-year-old boy alone in a grove of trees, but religion only happens when he gets together with his friends and family.” This idea of strengthening and uplifting one another, leads into perhaps the meatiest and most convincing factor for me about the necessity of needing to be part of this “house of order” church, which is that community worship is required for us
to reach our fullest potential. Continuing in Mason’s book Planted: “Significantly, religion is a communal exercise. One of the Lation roots for the English word religion is religare, which means ‘to bind together.’ This should resonate for Latter-Day Saints, as our scriptures describe heaven’s eternal glory with words like sealing and sociality…” “The organization of the church into strictly enforced geographic units compels us to love our neighbors as we find them, not to choose the congregation that we feel best fits our personal tastes. The church thus caters to our needs far more than our wants. We are subjected to other people who don’t always think like we do and who sometimes publicly offer misinformed and prejudicial notions as authoritative fact. We are asked to follow leaders who are untrained amateurs, who occasionally make bad decisions and say or do things that are harmful and possibly even constitute unrighteous dominion…. We are asked to visit people whose opinions, grooming habits, childrearing techniques, or wall decor are odious to our tastes. In turn we are visited by other people, often at inappropriate times, who endlessly recount their latest in a string of unpleasant medical maladies or their judgment about the state of our souls--or in a really efficient visit, both. All of this unpleasantness is precisely the stuff of discipleship. Church involvement teaches us compassion and patience as well as courage and discipline. It makes us responsible for the personal and marital, physical, and spiritual welfare of people we may not already love (or may even heartily dislike), and thus we learn to love them. It stretches and challenges us, though disappointed and exasperated, in ways we would not otherwise choose to be -- and thus gives us a chance to be made better than we might choose to be, but ultimately need and want to be.” Individuality, personal freedom, and creativity are things that I believe to be vitally important for each and every one of us on our journeys to becoming exactly who we are but also in becoming more like Christ. Without the ability to make our own choices, build our individual testimonies, or value and love our own selves as unique children of God, I don’t believe it would be possible for any of us to fulfill exaltation and entrance into the celestial kingdom. Individual spirituality matters. But, consider the idea that the individual spiritual experience is not enough. There is great benefit and fulfillment in playing a part, no matter how insignificant, in an organization that is working toward something
greater than any of us could achieve on our own. The prophet Brigham Young often referred to the restored church as “the old ship Zion”, and only this ship is able to carry God’s children back to Him. This ship is large. It’s huge. There is plenty of space on it for each of us to experience our own personal, sacred, and individual spiritual path. But it also provides the other side of what we need: the opportunity to serve and uplift our fellow children of God in an orderly and constructive way. By so doing, we are fulfilling ALL that we are capable of and, ultimately, what God has asked of us. As for what to do in order to overcome this dilemma of pain and confusion when struggling with our “house of order,” I’m afraid I don’t have a perfect formula. No one does. Because each of our experiences are so different. But I do just want to remind you what else this house is as taught in D&C 88, “a house of prayer, a house of fasting, a house of faith, a house of learning, a house of glory, a house of God.” This house that we are in today is a place for us to pray, fast, and learn together while being reminded of the glory of God. If pain, anguish, doubts, or fear are what you are experiencing, I implore you to bring it here to us. This house, of all the houses you can go to, should be the place that you can. We are here to worship as a community. We are here to “come in the unity of the faith”, “worship the Lord [our] God”, “speak about the welfare of [our] souls”, and we are to never “forbid any man from coming unto [us] when [we] shall meet together.” I pray that we will all be true disciples of Christ and be “willing to mourn with those that mourn; yea, and comfort those that stand in need of comfort” in this house of glory, house of order, house of God.
Vaguely Religious City Snapshots by Hayden Davis Digital Photography
Salt
by Ted Bushman
You slow yourself to the pace of a living thing and walk along the coastline. The cycle of sunrises and sunsets, moments ago thrumming in a blur, aches to a crawl. The last sliver of the pink sun freezes, its rosy liquid trail spreading upwards. You are letting a handful of sand sift through your almost-fingers when the Craftsman appears. If you focus your almost-eyes on the grains, you can sense the origin of each. This one broke off a meteor. This one is a shell of a long-dead creature. And this last white crystal, rolling in your palm, is… “Salt,” says the Craftsman. You look up at him, at his imperfect, time-hewn features, his true face. “May I see it?” You nod. His fingers are less efficient, more complex — he takes the single crystal. “What is your question?” he asks. He always knows. “This same mineral is a part of blood,” you begin, tentatively. “It will be integrated into the bodies of the creatures who will inhabit this planet.” “Yes.” “And each flake is a shattered part of a crystal that formed in the churning at the beginning.” “Yes.” “Living souls do not come from you — they are assembled of constituent parts here. Compounds thrown together, structures build themselves, with all of the mistakes to which such construction is prone. Emerging rough and wild, in ways you ask us not to control. “These temporary forms you made for us — ” (you gesture to your own almost-limbs) “ — are more effective. Less prone to dissolution and decay. Why do you keep the form you carried when you were like them? Why do you want us — want me — ” The Craftsman’s analytical expression evaporates. “Are you afraid?” Your almost-eyes cannot produce tears. But the Craftsman’s do. He crouches, a finger trailing in the sand.
“You and your siblings have done better than I imagined. You have shaped so much, more beautifully
than I would have.
“But making something and being part of it are not the same. If you are going to save this world, my
child, you must be one with it. If you are going to break the law of decay, you must be willing to endure it.
“Do you still want that?”
The salt-soaked tide, moving at the crawl of life, listens.
“Here am I,” you say, with an almost-smile. “Send me.”
Resurrection Poem by Kristin Perkins
this is a funeral for the faithful body my soul once lived in this is the only hymn I can remember how to sing “This feels like a mourning,” I said a morning the third day the Easter I cracked my knee open, running in my leather clogs down the hill at church, my child shoe fit the length of a hand, and I cried myself to ragged and gasping. that day I became worried of all things cracking open. tonguing my way round peach pits, I began to move more slowly. but you are always a cracking open. Knees. Tombs. Rib-caged hearts. the path to most miracles is through bone-shuddering grief. not understanding this, scared I would startle you from behind the eucalyptus, I began to mute my pain. I’m cracking up now, god singing my own elegies ready for the mourning the morning the third day
Pathways by Noah Heaps Digital Photography
Banner for C Things #2 - W (in process) by Kristin Per Embroidery C
God is Change by Hayden Davis
‘God is change’ wrote Octavia Butler And she was right about that With time the change has become familiar That unruly shift becoming a constant I guess it is only fitting my feelings for God seem to be as changing as God is. To understand something always with fresh eyes To love someone who is never the same
Cracked Open Walnut Shell
rkins Collage
Let People Visit by Jane Wright Digital Illustration
Philip the Under-Shepherd by Elizabeth Whatcott
PART I Philip the under-shepherd was in big trouble. The Head Shepherd was coming today to inspect the flocks, and Philip’s first flock of his own was a complete and utter disaster. The ram Bartholomew was so ill he could hardly move, lying on his side and bleating balefully. Nothing Philip did to help seemed to make any difference. The ewes Belinda and Bellona always fought. Philip didn’t know what was wrong, but whenever the two caught sight of each other, they would bite and kick like young rams. Beatrice, Blanche and Bonnie tended to wander away. Blanche was the worst offender; time and again, Philip had to leave the others behind with his sheepdog to run after her. As he surveyed his flock, Philip’s heart deflated. The Head Shepherd would see what a failure he was and strip him of his shepherd’s crook. He just knew it. “Well, we tried, Michael,” he said to his sheepdog. Michael looked up at Philip, his mouth wide in a doggy grin. “We’ll have to get a job doing something else. We’re not good shepherds.” Michael’s ears perked up, and his tail wagged. Philip scrambled to his feet. The Head Shepherd was cresting over the next hill. The Shepherd waved, and Philip waved back. The Shepherd was a good man, and despite the impending doom, Philip was almost happy to see him. When the Shepherd arrived, he clapped Philip on the shoulder. Michael jumped around the Shepherd, his tail waving wildly. The Head Shepherd was not handsome. He had a weatherworn look to him that testified of weeks spent out in the pastures, looking after sheep and checking on under-shepherds. His twinkling dark eyes, piercing yet kind, were nestled in a crinkly face. “Tell me, Philip,” the Shepherd said, “what news of the flock?” Philip swallowed. “Well, sir, the flock is— um—in trouble.” “Indeed.” Philip couldn’t read the Shepherd’s eyes. “Tell me more of this, Philip.” “Um—well—” His hands on his shepherd’s crook got sweaty. But what choice did he have? So Philip told the Shepherd everything about his depressing flock. When he finished, Philip said, “A
better shepherd than me would be able to fix all of this, sir. I’m so sorry. I’ve—I’ve failed.” Philip wiped his eyes, feeling like a fool. A strong arm wrapped around his shoulders, and Philip looked up. “Come here, Philip,” the Shepherd said. Philip’s lip trembled and he leaned forward, letting the Shepherd wrap him in an embrace. “You haven’t failed,” the Shepherd said. “This is a flock with many struggles, and you are a very young under-shepherd. I am glad that you accepted the assignment to come here.” “Even after all of this?” Philip sniffed. “Especially after all of this. Come. Let’s have a look at these sheep.” PART II They came to Bartholomew first. The Head Shepherd patted the ram on the side. “This isn’t going to be fun, Bartholomew,” he murmured. “What’s wrong with him?” Philip said. “He has eaten some bad grass,” the Shepherd said. “It’s creating a dangerous gas in his stomach.” The Shepherd opened his satchel and pulled out a sharp metal spike. “I have to get the gas out, but it’s not going to be pleasant for Bartholomew. Can you comfort him as I work?” “I’ll try, sir.” “Kneel there by his head and talk with him. He will listen to you.” The Shepherd positioned himself beside the ram’s stomach, and Philip knelt down to take Bartholomew’s head in his lap. The ram bleated mournfully. “I’m sorry, Bart,” Philip said. “I think this is going to hurt.” The Shepherd parted Bartholomew’s wool to reveal the ram’s stomach. The Shepherd aimed the spike at the spot, and Philip averted his eyes. “It’s going to be okay, Bart,” Philip whispered. The Shepherd drove the spike into the ram’s stomach, and the sheep cried out. “Shh, shh,” said Philip. “Bad gas. That’s all it is. When it’s out, you’ll be okay. Don’t go eating any more bad grass, okay?” Philip could hear the gas hissing from the ram’s bloated stomach. The Shepherd quickly got out bandages from his satchel. When enough gas had escaped, the Shepherd bound up the hole with expert, gentle hands. When it was over, poor Bartholomew looked more restful than he had in days. Philip smiled and patted the ram on his nose. He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up at the Shepherd. “Let’s go see to Belinda and Bellona.”
PART III Belinda and Bellona stood ten feet apart, bleating angrily at each other. Each was tied to a tree, far enough apart that they couldn’t hurt each other. The Shepherd sat on a rock, his dark eyes focusing on one ewe then the other. He and Philip had been sitting for a good half hour with no sign of progress. Philip wondered if this issue had stumped the Head Shepherd. As if he had read his mind, the Shepherd turned to him. “This is not a waste of time, Philip. I am seeing if they will notice me here.” As he spoke, Bellona pricked her ears. She bleated, and Belinda’s ears perked up too. Suddenly both of them strained towards the Shepherd. “There they go,” the Shepherd said. “They remember me.” He went to stand between the ewes. Neither of them could reach him, though Philip could see that they desperately wanted to. “Philip,” the Shepherd called, “Let their ropes out enough that they can both come to me.” Philip obeyed, loosening Bellona first. Bellona trotted up to the Shepherd and put her head under his hand. He stroked her as Philip untied Belinda, who watched the Shepherd and Bellona with longing in her oval pupils. When Philip loosened her rope, she bounded towards the Shepherd. At first, Bellona bleated in protest and shied away. But in time, she slowly returned and put her head once again under the Shepherd’s hand. “How are you doing this?” Philip asked. The Shepherd smiled. “They want to be with me,” the Shepherd said. “But they understand that they must be with each other in order to be with me.” Philip thought about that. “But—sir—I’m not you. What if my sheep start fighting again?” The Head Shepherd had one hand each on Bellona’s and Belinda’s heads. “It is true that you are not me,” he said. “But the more that you are like me, Philip, the more that you will remind them of me. Then you will be able to guide them.” Belinda and Bellona grazed peacefully side by side, even after the Shepherd got up and moved away. “Now,” he said, “you told me that you have three wandering sheep. Let’s see to them.” PART IV Philip took the Shepherd to the tree where he had tied up the wanderers Beatrice, Blanche, and Bonnie. Beatrice and Bonnie perked up when they saw the Head Shepherd, but Blanche only cast a sidelong glance.
“Untie them,” the Shepherd said. Philip obeyed. Bonnie bounced eagerly to the Shepherd, and Beatrice approached more cautiously. Blanche, however, turned away and continued grazing. Bonnie thrust her head under the Shepherd’s hand and he stroked her, smiling. “Hello, Bonnie. You were just waiting to know if I was here.” He looked at Beatrice. “It’s alright, Beatrice. Come. You’ll be happier here. You were happy with me before.” Reassured, Beatrice came to the Shepherd’s side and cuddled close to him. The Shepherd looked up at Blanche, who was still turned away. “Blanche,” he called. Her tail flicked, but that was all. “I know you can hear me. Come back.” Philip knew this was going to be the last great miracle—Blanche would turn around and … But wait—Blanche was … walking away? “Blanche!” Philip cried out, but Blanche broke into a run. Philip followed her a few paces, but stopped when the Shepherd called him back. “I don’t understand,” Philip said. “Why didn’t she stay?” “She doesn’t want to, Philip,” the Shepherd said. “It’s my fault.” Philip’s eyes welled up. “If I was just more like you, then—then they’d all want to stay.” “Philip. Look at me.” Philip turned and stared into those dark, twinkling eyes. “If she won’t listen to me, then she won’t listen to you. Blanche will wander for a time, but I’ll go looking, and I’ll find her. When it is time to bring her home, I will call to you.” Philip nodded. The Shepherd grasped Philip’s shoulder, and a smile made the craggy face radiant. “Goodbye, Philip. You have done well.” And off he went. Michael came beside Philip, whining inquisitively. “You’re right, Michael,” Philip said. “We’ve got work to do.” And set to work they did. For many days, Philip tended to the sheep the way he had seen the Head Shepherd do. Then, one day, Philip heard the Head Shepherd’s voice over the hills. Grabbing his crook and bag, Philip yelled to Michael as he sprinted off, “Watch over them for me, Michael! We’ll be back soon! I know it!”
Wild Geese by Hayden Davis Digital Illustration
Wild Geese
by Mary Oliver
You do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert repenting. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves. Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine. Meanwhile the world goes on. Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain are moving across the landscapes, over the prairies and the deep trees, the mountains and the rivers. Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air, are heading home again. Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, the world offers itself to your imagination, calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting over and over announcing your place in the family of things.
Mural Study 7 by Ty Davis Digital Illustration
2021 Harlem YSA Ward New York, NY