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.
“It’s not a happily-ever-after story,” said my elder daughter Ida when asked what she thought of the new Little Women movie.
Last month I interviewed Water Protector Sierra Asamoa-Tutu and Episcopal priest John Floberg, both of whom served at Standing Rock. In their own words, here’s what they shared about where things stand with Standing Rock.
Three springs ago the Martin family moved in across the street. Later that summer Isra Hatel, who lives three doors down, called me. She told a story that wasn’t actually new, though I tried to listen as if it had been.
I’m a carpenter’s daughter. My father built the suburban Chicago house of my childhood with his own hands in the evenings after working his for-pay job. Suburban sprawl put food on my table and paid half my college tuition where in environmental science classes I was taught about its horrors.
The words “Martyrs” and “Memphis” at first glance might seem to be an odd pairing. We think of martyrs as biblical, ancient, and abroad, and Memphis as relatively young from a world history standpoint—a place for good BBQ and Blues.
It’s a Sunday after church and we’re stuffing Nutella-ed plates and oatmeal-ed bowls into the dishwasher while also fixing lunch. Except one of us is already done and inviting the neighbors over.
It’s been less than a year since our family’s returned to St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, so there are still surprises in the liturgical calendar. “Please wear red on Pentecost,” invited Father Randall. I owned nothing red except for a waffle-knit funnel-neck shirt that obviously screamed fall even though the weather was basically expected to be just that.