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A Quarterly Journal
Jeffrey Woodward, Founder & General Editor
Volume 6, Number 2, June 2012


Chen-ou Liu
Ajax, Ontario, Canada

The Sign

I watched her
getting smaller and smaller
all winter . . .
spring comes early, she walks
into the Garden alone

A thread of moonlight through the window. My dog-eared Bible on the coffee-stained desk.

Another sleepless night. Did Jesus die with a cry in despair, "My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?" Or did he expire with a look on his face that shows his serene confidence, "Father, into your hands I commend my spirit?"

I remember the first time she walked into my attic room, seeing the walls lined with bookcases for biblical reference books. She turned to me and said, "My little Thomas, faith is the substance of things hoped for and the evidence of things not seen." At every word, her cheek dimpled into a smile.

her bony hand
grasped helplessly at the air . . .
the wooden cross
she gave me for my birthday
casts a long shadow



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