Circle up you gorgeous pandemic caregivers. Look at your tired hands and feet. You are alive today. You’ve kept others alive this past year.
Later today I’ll call 600 Kitchen & Bar in downtown Kalamazoo and ask a question I’ve never asked before. “Yes, hello, are you taking reservations for shipping container tables for February 28?”
Instead of reaching for my phone to document or share the moment, I just stood there. I noticed everything I could about that particular horizon including the way the shaggy underbelly of clouds faded to a delicate pink, like short fuzzy tentacles of a jelly fish.
Imagine for a minute that the three main characters of the story—the servant, the centurion, and Jesus—are standing in front of you.
The kids have grown but the washing machine has not. Loads fill more quickly than in the days before hormone body odors kicked in.
No, it isn’t just us in modern times—for siblings in the Bible, there’s usually drama.
I have my share of impulsive freak-outs when I glance at the couch from the kitchen and see my tween daughters in their favorite spots staring at their screens again.
I hope Clare of Assisi and her Poor Ladies embraced the gift of humor as much as they did poverty, charity and humility.
Autumn is a firstborn daughter, like me, and sixth months my senior. Unlike me, her dad—an artist, teacher and retired cross country coach—is Navajo (Diné).
In the Before Times I had an awkward relationship with my at-home Book of Common Prayer.