It is April. For me, it is a season heavily soaked with memory, like a towel submerged in water and then hung without being wrung out.

I wrestled with my cumbersome white trash bag out to the dumpsters, a taught paper bag of glass and plastic in my other hand. I felt aged, as if someone were to watch me from behind, they would think I was old and frail trying to wade through decades of memory. I have a new respect for the elderly.

I also finished a book recently that struck me deeper than I expected it to. It was The Bride Collector by Ted Dekker. Having read his stuff since I was a teenager and having taken a break from his writing for a few years, I circled back to it when…