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When the universe is stilled
The fields are heavy with golden light, imbuing nostalgia into every blade of prairie grass. I am searching the tree line for the outline of hawks, and catching my breath every time a white-breasted kestrel takes flight.
I’ve forgotten how golden this golden hour can be.
Greet the ashes
Here’s a Lent practice that might be in direct opposition to your ad algorithms: Look in the mirror each day. Greet the ashes.
Not the Final Supper
Lord teach me to live well in light of death. In the shadows, rather, of its reality. To build theology around this dark scaffolding.
God is enough (so I don’t have to be)
What happens when you come to the end of yourself? What happens when you’re forced to confront the limitations of your body, of your patience, of your ability to get up and to do the thing you want so very badly to do?
When Self-Pity Raids Fellowship
Woe is me. I don’t say it as I walk through the doors of our lovely church and greet our fellow saints every Sunday morning. But—if I got the kids out the door and the limping dog fed and the home group meal made while my husband was off at another drill weekend—it’s likely I’m thinking it…
Winter’s last sunrise
can’t peel myself away from the window over the kitchen sink. The vermillion sun is climbing over the horizon, just beyond the stand of trees that makes up our backyard, and I am mesmerized…