Years ago, on my way home from a hike on the Mountain Loop Highway, I discovered a tiny abandoned chapel on the side of the road. It was made mostly of plywood and painted white with blue trim. Decades of highway dust had turned it grey. Inside, red pews with ragged, hand cut edges lined the walls. There were eight seats, one altar – enough space for nine people to share each other’s breath. At the front was a large cross made of two by fours, stained a deep chestnut brown. It was crowned with a half-circle of yellow roses.
In a room full of forgotten things, ordinary things – bottle caps, hair ties, books, a single mitten – these roses should have blended in. Should have disappeared against the wall. Their petals were wilted, filled with spots of brown that broadened with each passing minute. Their smell was faint. The air seemed sweetened more by chance. C.S. Lewis once said, “We meet no ordinary people in our lives.” I think he was right. Likewise, I believe we meet no ordinary spaces either. Even things that seem ordinary – a diner on a lightly trafficked highway, a long-forgotten lookout point, a small dusty chapel on the side of the road – are often filled with surprise. With remnants and artifacts. With a stillness that feels sacred.
The extraordinary people and places in this issue are palpable. They draw you in with beautifully wrought images that evolve. They grow in their stillness. They breathe. We hope you will take your time with this issue. That you will feel your way through orchards, oceans and darkness, hospital rooms where new mothers learn to laugh. We hope this issue reminds you of the way that mottled yellow roses, forgotten and wilting, can be astonishing. We hope it slows you down and reminds you of just how exceptional the everyday can be.
With warmth,
Jesse Ewing-Frable & Hannah Newman
Sweet Tree Review