This is the cover of the most recent Imprint published by Grace Centre for the Arts, a ministry of Grace Toronto Church. After we began attending Grace Toronto in 2011, they released an issue of Imprint, and I remember being incredibly impressed. It was legit: the content, the photography, the design. I didn’t know that churches could produce real magazines. In my experience of church publishing, they were only good at lightweight evangelistic tracts, and even these were ordered by the case, not produced in-house. But I was to learn something about this new church we were attending, something that would prove invaluable to my own writing life. They valued art of all kinds. They even believed God valued it.
That God loves Harvey Weinstein will seem an obvious truth to people of faith. What is equally obvious is the righteous contempt for Weinstein to which we might now feel entitled. Harvey Weinstein’s alleged behavior is not simply repugnant; it’s criminal. My stomach has turned to read of—and now listen to—his sexual aggression against women. “I’m a famous guy,” he says on the audio recording captured during a sting operation in 2015. He is heard pleading with Filipina-Italian model Ambra Battilana Gutierrez to stay in his hotel room. She resists. “Why yesterday you touch my breast?” she asks, her voice plaintive and persistent. “Just come on in, I’m used to that,” Weinstein answers. “Five minutes. Don’t ruin your friendship with me for five minutes.”
Kentish Green, 20 Oxford Road
We arrived at the apartment we had rented, sight unseen, that our new co-workers had acquired for us. It was located on the 2nd floor of a 6 story condo in Singapore, a short distance from our ministry’s office.
We slept that first night on mattresses borrowed from our new friends. The next morning, sitting on the cold tile floor of the dining room, we wondered if our belongings had arrived from our last international location. We prayed, “God, please bring our stuff today!”
“Home is where your family and your stuff is.”
My friend—with her long black hair, olive skin, and eyes so dark that the pupil and iris merge—she would know. She’d moved enough: the Middle East, the United States, Canada. She offered it as a comfort, a way to reassure me that my own constant moving couldn’t keep me from being at home. Because when you move eight times in eleven years, you begin to worry. Will we ever be settled? Will we ever be “home”?Continue Reading