Author: April Pickle

When I was about seven, my daddy told me to stop biting my nails. So I did. But as is often the case with a human trying to

If Mama got to cooking and found herself in want of a cup a flour or a cup of sugar, she would place a measuring cup in my

“Damn dam,” Mom would say every time someone mentioned the Whitney Dam. Mom was my grandmother. Back in the 1950s, the dam had flooded her homeland, an area

When the rug called Ritual and Routine got ripped from underneath my feet, I flew into the air, I fell on my rear, and when I got up,

The shocks on the church bus were so worn that when the wheels went round and round into a pothole, our rumps jumped half a foot into the

On Saturday, I watched a video posted by a friend who lives on the Mississippi Coast. Her priest and some parishioners were giving instructions about how to proceed

Over 2,500 years ago, a young Jewish singer songwriter was brave enough to write about the stuff that most churchie folks would keep to themselves or to their

When the rugs of ritual and routine get pulled and ripped from under our feet, when what we thought we could depend on isn’t reliable, when what was

Our little church on the Mississippi coast didn’t have a baptistry. Sometimes folks got baptized in the swimming pool at the apartment complex down the street. Other times

When I was in the eleventh grade, the KKK held a parade, and I watched as it went by. This was 1987, and the town was Texarkana. There