Six years ago this week, my son Isaac, then three, came home from the hospital. He’d been there for weeks, battling a MRSA infection. We thought that with some antibiotics and rest, we’d put the whole scary experience behind us. But there were complications in our future, and even two or three years later, I wasn’t sure that Isaac would ever run, or that the places rubbed raw in my heart from that experience would ever heal.
This morning, he took off to school on his bike, ready to run the mile in PE. He has a gnarly scar that runs the whole length of his thigh, but unless he’s displaying it proudly for everyone at the swimming pool, you’d probably never know. This fall, for the first time, I didn’t pause on October 19th and think about the day we almost lost him. I guess that means we’re all healing. Continue reading The Scars We Bear
The moment you’ve been waiting for has arrived! The new and improved Segullah literary journal is here!
In the January issue, headed up by Prose Editor Holly Baker and Poetry Editor Lara Niedermeyer, we are delighted to feature thoughtful, funny essays and poems. While Joni Neal’s essay, “The Strength to Laugh at Flour,” resonated particularly with me, since I, too, have been known to fall asleep sitting up at the end of a long day with small children, but the feeling of being completely wrung out is a universal that we relate to regardless of circumstance.
Melonie Cannon’s new poem “Sacred Geometry” makes shapes and figures seem accessible and familiar to even the most stalwart math phobes. While Sharlee Glenns’ “Mimesis Upended: A Reluctant Nod to Mr. Wilde” and Karen McKnight Findlay’s “nervous (happily)” are greats from our archives.
We plan to update our content monthly, so click on over to the literary journal and find plently more of Segullah to love!
The basketball court lines on the church gymnasium floor encircled us, framing us in the wedding pictures. My new husband and I greeted well-wishers whose shoes clicked along glossy wood as they trod off to eat cheesecake. This was the man I had chosen to share my bed with, have children with, weather sickness and health, school and jobs with. It was to be marital bliss, timeless and eternal.
Some people dream of freedom and flings for life; others of finding the perfect person to spend life with until death breaks open the closed door of matrimony. Mormons dream of happily ever after for eternity, two souls bound in one, physically, emotionally and spiritually.
Amidst a world of casual hook-ups and laissez faire sex, there is something distinctly beautiful about being with only one person body and soul for life. We are certain forty, fifty, sixty or so years of happiness wed on earth will somehow help us make it as a couple in a celestial glory we can’t understand. It is no wonder that single members sometimes question the wisdom of being tossed together with someone unbeknownst to them in the hereafter in order to fulfill promised blessings. Yet even with the promises of heaven upon us, tragedy in marriage often strikes. Continue reading When Eternal Marriage Isn’t
I would hugely appreciate such a warning, as I am incredibly wary of poems. They are dangerous, wily creatures that lie in ambush, lurking stealthily beneath words in my personal scary wilderness. Seemingly restful and innocent, luring me in closer to the stunning flourishes, the polished simplicity, the sweetness of gentle phrases, incredibly lovely to SNAP/?crunch&%^!wallop – and suddenly I’m dazed, leaking blood or tears and left aching in the dust. Or I see something fluorescent green with a clunky gait, seventeen heads and galloping backwards and am told to my bafflement “Oh, that’s a poem.”
Poetry represents my first concrete, unpleasant realisation that language could be mean. My teacher opened my mind to the beauty of poetry, so readily created in six little lines of rhyme, in something called (so delightfully to a besotted seven year old) a “lim-er-ick”. The giddiness lasted 10 minutes, until Mrs Sumpton told the whole class to make up a limerick about someone – and all but two of my classmates wrote a limerick about me. Kellie. Jelly. Telly. Belly. Oh, the inhumanity. Continue reading Warning! Poetry!
Some things I hope are true:
1. That I will always have my sense of humor.
2. That when I visit America, my Australian accent will be happily accepted and understood.
3. That my divorce will help my sons have stronger marriages.
Divorce messes with your head. I have spent a depressing chunk of the past two years looking back on the past 13 years of my life, trying to work out just how this steaming mess of effluent ended up all over me. For most of the first six months after separation, I couldn’t even trust that I would make it through each day – I just prayed fervently that I would, because my sons needed me, because I was the only parent left, because I wanted to be able to function for them, but had no idea how I was going to do so. Continue reading A Catalog of Hopes and Sins