When statistics become human, emotional stories. When we publically address our mistakes as a parent, or deliberately address where we spend our moralistic anger.

When a girl races her diagnosis, and is literally caught at the finish line. When we realise we all live in Babylon. When we answer this question.

When a love of pi and knitting come beautifully together. When there’s more to Temple Square at Christmas than expected. When generosity isn’t rewarded, but remembered decades later.

When you know which three pieces of advice you would give to YW/YM. When you wondered what would go perfectly on that wall over there…

When we read anyone’s first draft – this week’s First Draft Poetry is by Melissa Young, which ties in with the determined runner mentioned before:

“They don’t bloom the first year,”
the cashier warned,
ringing up the small red hibiscus.
but this morning
the first bud (of many)
unfolded
and though my mind whispers
that God performed no more
than a distant, law-bound creation,
the confluence of these blood blooms
feels to my dry soul
like intimate,
defiant grace