It’s as easy as cutting a cord, to separate the mothers and children— the ones seeking asylum from gangs and violence, so desperate to flee

Written by Jeff William Acosta I. It's 9 am Sunday. Another day I am forced to wake up while I'm in the process of drowning my body in the waters inside my head when everyone is sleeping, along with half the verses I mutter every single night before Amen. About time to leave the sheets & the bed where I begged not to hear my parents singing: "God is great, and God is good and we thank you for the food". —it annoys the rebel residing, & I hope God forgets me that He'd write no

How quick we are to pity murderers. Not because we see ourselves in them, I don't think but because of course a white woman's perceived safety matters more than the life of the black human in his own home. Beautiful, you say. You exclaim, you advertise. How quick we are to jump at forgiveness stories How quick we are to meet the brutal with a sparkling golden paintbrush. I cannot deny the beauty of undeserved grace I cannot deny that I trace my own faith and being back to a b

She is sitting on the edge of a mountain in the Annapurna, her face, away from the camera, her gaze focused on the Lamjung peak,