For me, few things in life are as humbling as Ash Wednesday. From the time I was a kindergartner, I've found myself in the slowly moving line to receive a sloppy, thumbed cross. Each year, I reach the front of the line and stand still as the ashes are swept across my forehead. From the swift stroke, there always seems to be a few stray crumbles ( Read more... )

My ink color of choice has always been blue. Maybe it's because the jar of pens at my grandma's house was full of blue Bic pens. When I was little, I would sit by her old rotary phone, next to which was the jar of blue ink pens, and pretend I was a secretary. She would beam as if I were the best secretary there ever was, saving all my scribbled ( Read more... )