This morning in devotions, I saw myself in Peter. I didn’t reflect Pentecost evangelical Peter or stepping out of the boat Peter, but anxiety ridden at the cross Peter. Peter, how I wish I related to one of your more shining moments.
Philip: the Patron Saint of the Interrupted
While in college, one of the best parts about my summertime subway commute to work was the 50 minutes of uninterrupted reading it afforded me every day. To stave off any potential conversations, I always boarded the train with my book in hand, head down.
Saint Francis’ Reminder
Anyone who visits our house might guess at why we love Saint Francis of Assisi, known for his love of animals.
Let your children fly
Letting go of your children is tough. Miriam shares what happened when she let her daughter make her own way.
So, why not angelic messengers?
In America, we use angels to sell pretty good toilet paper and terrible lingerie. We’re not much for the six-winged terror holding a burning coal to the prophet’s lips (Isaiah 6:2-7). We prefer fat cherubs with harps to sentinels with spinning, flaming swords (Genesis 3:24). Our angels aren’t divine messengers, and they don’t start their sentences with, “Fear not!” They are boring and uncool.
I love you. Thank you.
They sit in their carseats, next to one another holding hands. The palest caucasion skin of anyone in the family, enfolding the brown hand of his Hispanic little brother. “Are they both yours?” The woman meeting us for the first time asks. “Yes,” I reply, but she wants more. “How did you get that black haired one?” “Same way I got the blond haired one.”