Spencer Moseley

A wolf vaulted stone pillars jutting from the eastern side of a mountain. He perched at the highest point and studied his surroundings. His keen eyes glimpsed fish netted and tied off by oceanside docks, and his nose caught the scent of tripe simmering on charcoal flames that dotted the shoreline. The laughter and songs of the fishermen made him cock his head. His stomach rumbled fiercely, and he released a muted howl. His worn body showed clear signs he had deserted his pack for a while. He had scratched his itchy hide nearly to the bone where starved ribs peeked out under patchy fur. His tongue dangled loosely from his mouth, and his heavy breathing croaked as he staggered down the mountain towards the sea.  Staying close to the ocean, he avoided detection until he got close to the torch-lit docks. What was left of the wolf's grey fur, illumined by the torches, did not fail to draw the attention of the fishermen. He saw the glint of sharp steel take shape in their hands as he app...

My friend parallel parked at a park with no name in his white, 2004 Mustang. It was Sunday, it was sunny, and we had ordered authentic Honduran food nearby. Cute girls in sundresses passed by, and we felt like kings at a picnic, sprawled out on the grass, soaking in sunlight. "I'm sorry I called you a pussy last night," he said.  "And I'm sorry I was so hard on you," I replied. We both smiled as we chowed into our baleadas.  We'd had a bit too much to drink the night before and had been a bit too honest with each other. But there's nothing worse than a friendship without honesty. I've had too many of those—the ones where I have to walk on eggshells with every word I say, hoping not to trigger an alarm.  But as with everything, even honesty, moderation is key. I tend to go big or go home and see honesty as some absolute necessity. Lots of movies reflect on this and help question the assumption that honesty is always good. I don't remember the ...

It was a cold Saturday morning. I woke up at 3:15am. Boots. Hat. Coat. Gloves. Shotgun. I was ready to hunt some Sandhill Crane.  My friends and I loaded up two F-250s and drove to Wharton, a small city an hour southwest of Houston, TX. The cloudless night revealed a crescent moon and an array of stars—normally invisible from my hazy, polluted city. From the trucks, we transferred our gear to the outfitter's ATV and drove over uneven ground through sloshy mud and tall grass. The outfitter set up narrow blinds and applied his chainsaw to surrounding brush, which we placed in front of the blinds for additional camouflage. He also set up decoys which looked alarmingly similar to the birds we would be hunting.  I thanked Poseidon for my rain boots as I trudged through the mud, trying not to trip, and took my spot next to the outfitter. The sun was just peeking over the horizon, and the outfitter told us to duck, as low as we could. "Sandhill Cranes have amazing eyesight," he ...

I spent last Sunday Church hunting. I used to despise folks who did that growing up. Catholicism is the truth, and its truth is within any Catholic Church, so why shop around?  I thought. I now see that no spirituality or philosophy is perfect, and deciding which communities to be a part of takes some searching, much like dating.  I'm quite done with Catholicism (see many previous posts, lol), so I tried a Unitarian Zoom chat. It was gloomy. An older woman, I believe a Reverend, was talking slowly about the role God plays in life. I did not stay in the chat long. She spoke with the same level of condescension that I grew up with, and it was less than ideal.  I tried another Unitarian chat. It was 11:15am on Sunday. It was a Zoom chat for a Church near Galveston bay, and it showed. Thick country accents and a hodgepodge of Reverends speaking over each other was very unappealing. They were praying for their parishioners and talking about how good God is. I left that chat as...

"If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing." -St. Paul to the Corinthians When I look at myself, I don't see much. I'm an overweight, anxiety-ridden fellow. I don't follow through on my dreams, and my work ethic leaves much to be desired. I don't have one thing that makes me stand out from the pack. Some of my friends are excellent musicians, engineers, actors, comedians, or writers. I'm decent at a lot of different things, but I'm not child-prodigy-level at anything.  But when I consider why I want to be special, I realize it's because I want to be loved. I think that if I get enough attention, make enough money, get in great shape, that I will be loved. It's a lie I reinforce far too often.  But it seems love is found in more boring places, like face to face conversations with friends. I believe this is true because when I consi...

I was kicking a soccer ball outside a house I was renting with four roommates. I had gone through 5 preliminary interviews to re-enter seminary, and I had one last interview with the Bishop left. It was more of a formality, really. Entering Seminary to become a Catholic priest was nothing new to me; I'd done it twice before. My acceptance was basically guaranteed unless I spit on a crucifix in front of the Bishop or something.  I'd been a Youth Minister for the past three years. I loved working with the middle and high school students and teaching them Catholicism. But it wasn't enough. Perhaps I could become a married deacon, I told myself. It was starting to feel like a pathetic substitute for the deeper fulfillment I craved. I wanted to hold Jesus in my own hands as I consecrated the Eucharist. I wanted to baptize new Catholics. I wanted to preach homilies, hear confessions.  I stopped kicking the soccer ball and just stood there. That's when it all hit me all at on...

The myth of the cherry tree is probably the only myth I know about America's founding (or was Paul Bunyan in there somewhere too? #lumberjacklife). America's bootlicking of George Washington gave Mason Locke Weems the occasion to cash in a fat check with the ole cherry tree myth.  Weems tells us that George's dad surprised George with a hatchet one day (I guess this was an acceptable gift for a 6-year-old back then). George took the hatchet to his father's favorite cherry tree, damaging it so badly it would never recover. George's father asked everyone who did it, and George, holding the hatchet at the time he's asked (reducing the value of his admission in my opinion), confessed in his famous line , "I can’t tell a lie, Pa; you know I can’t tell a lie. I did cut it with my hatchet.”  This story shows a great response when children act according to personal values. George's dad, after the confession, has a whole prodigal son moment, welcomes his son in ...