Author: Will Schmit

What we learned can be forgot, what we know dismissed. Who we are is debatable, why we’re here the cosmic question. Whom we love, and who loves us, is the suring thing, the truth we

I’m a heretic. Might as well get it out in the open. I don’t believe we’re in the End Times. I think God’s just getting started. If a day is like one thousand years to

Water and worry leak to the lowest level, a fool’s pool spiraling the spirit to depths beneath the necessary steps. It takes hydro-logic to lift water higher than clouded despair. To rise as steam, we

Angels hitchhike on the truck side of lonely. Lovely weeds bend in the flying dust of wheels stopping to start again. The driver might chatter football, the radio Gospel, or tripe. This part of the

Thirty inmates walk into a chapel. Sounds like the beginning of a joke. The new prison chaplain had combined service lists and I now faced a room of twice as many strangers than normal. The

You know that time of morning when the fog begins to lift, you see your breath trail streaming and you know that it’s a gift. Once constant pains and worries are loose paddles in the

What I read, hand shading the gold glint of the ocean, is my scribbled pocket book of hope.   A smooth cold rock turns in my hand, like the chorus of a secret sacred song.