image by Steffi Ihrig, on Pixabay, modified My grandmother taught me how to pray right before sleep. She’d stand in the doorway— me in the bed with my cousin who had cerebral palsy, and the room’d be lightly painted with shadows, and she’d have us repeat the Lord’s Prayer out loud. Our stumbling. Giggles, how we’d be embarrassed at our mistakes. I’d think: who art in Heaven. How beautiful a phrase is that? I’d think of art in Heaven. Of course, there would be

image by Bianca Van Dijk, on Pixabay, slightly modified Merry Christmas! And I hope our Jewish friends had a Happy Hanukkah! As I prepare to introduce this issue of Spirit Fire Review, again I'm inspired by the words of our contributors as they tackle pain, sorrows, and tough questions of faith. When we cry out, “what doesn’t fall apart?” (Nicolas Reynolds) If we are like "a girl on the verge of not believing, in God or herself,” (Rebecca Watkins) or “when hope is far from u

drawing of Mother and Child, by Hannah Palmer, also known as Chicken Palmer " Children are a blessing and a gift from the Lord" (Psalm 127:3). self-portrait of Hannah Palmer, also known as Chicken Palmer Chicken Palmer is a mother and Christian artist who lives in regional Australia. She lives with her husband and their two young sons. When she is not busy taking care of her family, she is writing or sketching. Her written works can be found in Paulett Golden’s anthol

Laura Deschenes photo, "Fire and Ice" The embers     Bent over the manger, a nova fire smiles, Softly stoking the embers of one infant child— One cold night born to rebind us, reweave our lives In cosmic lines: Jesus our Brother, meek and mild.   Softly stoking the embers of one infant child, The Fire he wields sets the world on a new path. In cosmic lines, Jesus our Brother, meek and mild Speaks to all to revive, renew, and bear the wrath.   The Fire he wields sets the world

forsythia, image by Hans, on Pixabay into forever forsythias burn like wildfires in my thoughts of you… your warm smile radiates the sky — a million rising suns! your voice whispers my name in the gentle call of a waking wood thrush and blushing buds paint pastels of your kind eyes on tender branches soon savory yellows slip beneath sweet purples… to the music of a sleepy brook chantin