He raised a mortal to the skies; / She drew an angel down.

Christie just gave me a picture she drew. It is of an angel blowing a horn. The angel has a red cross on her gown. Marked with a red cross.

I remembered Robyn telling me the story of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, and how they'd survived: when the King chucked them in the furnace and an angel or someone went in with them. The furnace blazed all around them but they didn't burn.

And it did calm me. I don't know if it was Robyn or an angel or even God himself was in the boot, but I was starting to suspect that whenever I wanted God, he was there. Only not necessarily in the form I wanted, or doing what I wanted...In the pitch of the black boot I clung to the image of a fiery furnace, and it wasn't the furnace or Hell either.

Then felt I like some watcher of the skies When a new planet swims into his ken; Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes He star'd at the Pacific and all his men Look'd at each other with a wild surmise Silent, upon a peak in Darien

Women fall in love quicker than men. Easier and more often. But when guys fall? We go down harder. And when things go bad? When it's not us who ends it? We don't get to walk away.
We crawl.

I was raised Irish Catholic, but I don't consider myself Irish Catholic: I consider myself me, an American.