About Rosalind C Hughes
Rosalind C Hughes is an Episcopal priest, poet, and author living near the shores of Lake Erie. After growing up in England and Wales, and living briefly in Singapore, she is now settled in Ohio. Rosalind is the author of A Family Like Mine: Biblical Stories of Love, Loss, and Longing , and Whom Shall I Fear? Urgent Questions for Christians in an Age of Violence, both from Upper Room Books. She loves the lake, misses the ocean, and is finally coming to terms with snow.
New fire and living water. Extremes of existence, held together by the cross and the resurrection, like life and death. Water. Soothing, refreshing, life-giving. We play in it, luxuriate in it. Our bodies are more than half made of it. … Continue reading →
My parents met in singing class, so when they grew up, naturally, they joined the local amateur operatic society. I was too young to go to the shows, but I do remember once being allowed to (or maybe the babysitter … Continue reading →
Last week, I installed a sequence of interactive Stations of the Cross at St Andrew’s. This afternoon, it came time to take them down, and I realized (not for the first time in my life) that I had not thought … Continue reading →
If your music can’t describe the agony without the temptation to temper it with sweetness, let it crash to the floor. If your canvas cannot portray the infinite end, the sightless abyss, the void, let it be empty. If your … Continue reading →
Waiting for a sign from a sky bolted shut – the falling dove, Elijah and the Prophet shining – a sign that all is not lost or forgotten but still beloved; the child’s cry – “Why?” – to a stubborn … Continue reading →
This gallery contains 1 photo.
You are invited to a holy meal.
This is a meditation delivered at a service of the Seven Last Words at Trinity Cathedral, Cleveland, Good Friday 2009, revisited today in honour of Holy Week and in memory of Joyce. – Woman, behold your son: behold your mother … Continue reading →
At the foot of the cross, women nailed to the ground by grief. A short way off, more women with their knitting sticks, brows furrowed, lips pursed, though whether against death or thieves or Romans or a dropped stitch noone … Continue reading →
The children are playing “parade.” They cut branches and leaves and grass to wave like flags. They throw their coats on the earth to make a colourful parade ground. They ride on their neighbour’s baby donkey and their friend’s large … Continue reading →
over the water 