Not one person in my life would accuse me of being chronically organized.
When suffering and grief inevitably find them, I want my children to be able to access the rituals of Allhallowtide
The pandemic threw us all out of our routines. Try though we may, our family has struggled to re-establish the weekly patterns we held dear before masks, social distancing, and home antigen tests became part of our daily lives
Since the horrific day in Uvalde, Texas on May 24, life has seemed harder. I have had quite the struggle leaning into my faith — not to understand what took place, but to gain a hold of the hope that typically defines my heart.
There are seasons of parenting which also feel long and green, when the days and moments blend together in one continuous stream. During one such season for me, when I was a stay-at-home parent, I found help in a prayer practice made for ordinary days: the Ignatian Examen.
It’s 9 pm on a Tuesday evening, and my 9 and 11 year old boys have just finished their second full day of Camp Mama.
Florence both challenges and inspires me. This week I’m reflecting specifically on what her life means for me when it comes to raising my own children.
Our food is a constant reminder of both the goodness and the brokenness of God’s creation.
The simplest way I can describe Wild Goose is a progressive Christian festival, an ecumenical experience that can house exvangelicals on deconstruction journeys alongside various mainstream protestants, Catholics, Quakers, and the unaffiliated.
In the early months of the pandemic, locked down with my young children in a too small city row house with no real backyard to speak of, I found myself losing my patience, something already in short supply, much like milk, diapers, and grocery delivery slots.