Every other pew was roped off, complete with red ribbon. My daughters looked back at me, a little confused. Were we allowed to be close to our friends and neighbors?
With each new day, the weight of the world seems to rest on our shoulders. There is new hope, but with it comes fresh exhaustion.
My breath quickens when I hear “do less” each Advent. As my heart starts to race, I think, “There’s no way that’s what they really mean!”
As we survey the world around us, where is Jesus? Where is our Savior in the midst of rising pandemic deaths and ruthless injustice for our neighbors?
For the past eight weeks, my home base has been designated the Special Pathogens Unit of the hospital, which delivers vital care for hospitalized patients infected with COVID-19.
Growing up, I remember the season of Lent as one of reflection and contemplation. Somewhere in young adulthood, the season lost its peacefulness for me.
A few weeks ago, I sat in a parent-teacher conference with my fifth grader.
I grew up in a home where Southern hospitality was a way of life. We had a sitting room where my mother served tea to friends while catching up over conversation
I’m not quite sure when eating as a family of six turned into a contact sport, but I work to convince my daughters to drop the mob mentality each evening. Elbows are thrown, insults may be hurled, and by the end, someone is crying.Usually, it’s not me.
Despite my best attempts, we struggle committing to a formal Christian education time or daily devotion in our house of chaos. I couldn’t quite put my finger on exactly why, but it was likely the four busy, beautiful daughters I call my own.