Author: Alyssa Santos

What I Tell My Boys About Girls, Sex and Vaginas

Sex can be both reproductive and miraculous. It can also be safe and fun and wonderful. But never outside of it’s place. And long before sex, a guy needs to understand he never, ever can rightly claim ownership of a functioning vagina or the woman it belongs to. Therefore he cannot ever understand the depth of pain and debilitating shame that comes when a guy claims a vagina for his own like some historical European explorer shoving a flag into the soil of a far flung island and saying, “Mine.”

A Letter to New Parents: Make Fear Your Ally

I can tell you this: being brave enough to recognize fear as it manifests itself in your own temperament and day-to-day living will give you the stepping stones that you need to bravely, confidently, lovingly, even with your internal organs gathering up in your throat, give those fledglings the push they need to fall from the nest and stick their God-given wings out onto the air of adulthood.

Grow In Grace: Understanding the Parable of the New Wineskin

Jesus plopped a little duo of parabolic gems about patches and wineskins as response. This is one of those passages in the gospel of Matthew that have most of us scratching our heads and wondering, “What exactly did Jesus mean by that?”
I think, and this is pure supposition, I admit, that when Jesus said these words, he may have given a little wink to Matthew, his host and new disciple. Because Matthew understood exactly what Jesus meant by this:

“No one sews a patch of unshrunk cloth on an old garment, for the patch will pull away from the garment, making the tear worse. Neither do people pour new wine into old wineskins. If they do, the skins will burst; the wine will run out and the wine wineskins will be ruined. No, they pour new wine into new wineskins, and both are preserved.” (Matthew 9:16-17)

When You Don’t Know God Is

My insides are rustling in breezes making the scratching music of dry leaves on dead twigs.

It is a lonely, little song. Not much of a song at all. Just the skittering whispers of my spirit. The wind blowing through the holes, my experiences and knowledge and beliefs all scattered like garden detritus at my feet.

Barren. Bare twig. Dead leaf.
And I make a decision.
I’d rather the wind howl in my soul full of holes. At least the hollow moan is real. Undressed, unfilled, naked, waiting.