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Seth Haines
I am here because I hate facebook. You?
I am here because I hate facebook. You?

Seth's posts

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On Saturday morning, Amber walked the rows and poked seeds into tiny mounds while I tended to other yard work. Without headphones, a smart-phone, or any other device tethering her to the world-wide-information-super-distraction, she was present in the moment. Dirtying the quick of her fingernails, this was her rhythm: stoop, pinch, drop, cover. Smiling. Humming. Laughing to herself. This is the human enterprise of joy.

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When you say "spiritual discipline," what comes to mind? Fasting? Prayer? Silence? These are all great, but what about writing?

"Writing," you ask?

 Yes. Writing.

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Today, I'm exploring the topic, "Why Writing is a Spiritual Discipline." Pick up a pen and come practice with me.…/why-writing-is-a-spiritual-discipl…/

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"I considered my mother, how she must have felt when the scales of boyish naivety fell from my eyes, when the days of my ignorance to embarrassment faded. One day she woke, and that was the day childhood wonder was defeated by the empire."

Today I'm writing about the fleeting nature of childhood. Children grow; you know?

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Today's poem, "America #2."


Dear America,

I am learning this new condition:
waiting in the flickering light
of television’s images of the dead;
the crying mother, daughter, or spouse
of another black man law-lynched.

(continue reading below.)

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Today, Amber and I are writing ‪#‎MarriageLetters‬. Come join us.

"As the wise book says, it’s a wife of noble character who 'sets about her work vigorously; her arms are strong for her tasks.' (Prov. 31:17) By all indications, I’ve married a noble woman."

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There are all sorts of churches for all sorts of people. Some enjoy the raucous, loud sort. Others prefer the house church gathering around the communal potluck. Some enjoy the organ-and-hymn Baptist service, while others prefer the metaphors of the liturgical service.

No matter your preference, though, I’d like to spend some time today discussing the church–specifically, your church. Would you join me?

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Yesterday was Palm Sunday. We began the service outside, crying “Hosanna!” and waiving palm branches in an empty parking lot. We continued the liturgy inside, engaged in a responsive reading that culminated with the people–with me–yelling “crucify him!”

That service gave birth to this poem.

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Today, I'm sharing a poem about the doulas of life and death. Stop on in?
"I’ve known doulas
 of new mothers,
 who’ve labored with;
 through whispered doubts
 and the burning spring
 of new life weeping
 into this world,
 they’ve served."

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I've been thinkingabout the innocence of childlike faith. I'm reaching back, trying to remember it, trying to grow young in the process.
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