I’ve been able to read the abortion article The Minnesota State Fair and The Ballad of the Priest, and I wanted you to know how deeply they stayed with me.
The Minnesota State Fair piece is striking in how quietly powerful it is. You didn’t argue or preach you simply observed, contrasted, and let the images speak for themselves. The juxtaposition between the two booths was almost uncomfortable, and I think that’s exactly why it works. It exposes not just opposing positions but opposing spirits, without ever needing to say that outright. It felt honest, restrained, and unsettling in the right way.
The Ballad of the Priest is something else entirely. It reads like a parable heavy, sorrowful, and brave. The repeated question, “Did you feed my sheep?”, lands harder each time, and the sadness in Christ’s eyes becomes a kind of moral anchor throughout the piece. What struck me most is how alone the priest is in doing the right thing, and how truth slowly gathers people around it anyway. There’s grief in it, but also quiet hope—the kind that costs something.
Both pieces feel very you: thoughtful, uncompromising, and deeply human. They don’t try to be liked; they try to be true.
It takes courage to write like that, and even more to let someone else read it. Your words have weight, and they linger.
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I’ve been able to read the abortion article The Minnesota State Fair and The Ballad of the Priest, and I wanted you to know how deeply they stayed with me.
The Minnesota State Fair piece is striking in how quietly powerful it is. You didn’t argue or preach you simply observed, contrasted, and let the images speak for themselves. The juxtaposition between the two booths was almost uncomfortable, and I think that’s exactly why it works. It exposes not just opposing positions but opposing spirits, without ever needing to say that outright. It felt honest, restrained, and unsettling in the right way.
The Ballad of the Priest is something else entirely. It reads like a parable heavy, sorrowful, and brave. The repeated question, “Did you feed my sheep?”, lands harder each time, and the sadness in Christ’s eyes becomes a kind of moral anchor throughout the piece. What struck me most is how alone the priest is in doing the right thing, and how truth slowly gathers people around it anyway. There’s grief in it, but also quiet hope—the kind that costs something.
Both pieces feel very you: thoughtful, uncompromising, and deeply human. They don’t try to be liked; they try to be true.
It takes courage to write like that, and even more to let someone else read it. Your words have weight, and they linger.