By David Pettit The problem with many poems, my instructor explained, is certainty. The poet tries too hard to say something; is too sure of what her poem is about. It kills the poem. The cardinal sin of certainty. It…
by David Pettit I tie flies in the spring. One can actually fish year round in Colorado. But I learned my rhythms on eastern streams. Late winter it starts. The anticipation. Tying flies. Watching reports of stream flows. Driving by…
by David Pettit The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures; he leads me beside still waters; he restores my soul. Psalm 23:1-3 I was always on my toes around Dody.…
by David Pettit On these summer Sundays, I invite you to think about lives and what they have meant. To think not with a pietistic paintbrush, but to read carefully, in between the lines, and to discern how God’s gracious…
by David Pettit On these summer Sundays, I invite you to think about lives and what they have meant. To think not with a pietistic paintbrush, but to read carefully, in between the lines, and to discern how God’s gracious…
by David Pettit On these summer Sundays, I invite you to think about lives and what they have meant. To think not with a pietistic paintbrush, but to read carefully, in between the lines, and to discern how God’s gracious…
by David Pettit On these summer Sundays, I invite you to think about lives and what they have meant. To think not with a pietistic paintbrush, but to read carefully, in between the lines, and to discern how God’s gracious…
by David Pettit On these summer Sundays, I invite you to think about lives and what they have meant. To think not with a pietistic paintbrush, but to read carefully, in between the lines, and to discern how God’s gracious…
by David Pettit On these summer Sundays, I invite you to think about lives and what they have meant. To think not with a pietistic paintbrush, but to read carefully, in between the lines, and to discern how God’s gracious…
by David Pettit He remembered that they were but flesh, a wind that passes and does not come again. Psalm 78:39 “I write eulogies,” he said. “I have a book of eulogies.” We were sitting at lunch for the first…
