Not one person in my life would accuse me of being chronically organized.
It’s possible that I’m turning into my mom.
I was sitting on the dock of our diocesan camp, the Barbara C Harris Center, when I began feeling uncomfortable.
Our son’s first tooth fell out this past week.
I think it all happened because the eighteen-year-old boy behind the counter called me ma’am.
As if on cue, every second Sunday of Advent my husband and I get into an argument about the correct type of lights to hang in order to welcome baby Jesus, the incarnate God, into the world.
Is there such a thing as the liturgical season of the snipe? The side-eye? The passive aggressive glare, or the directly aggressive loading or unloading of the dishwasher?
No? Well, there should be.
It’s late to be writing a post about Lent, but I’m of the modest opinion that the practices you take on in Lent aren’t just seasonal.
Bishop Barbara C. Harris died on March 13th, 2020, where I’m sure God welcomed her with the same words and emotion she shared with a friend upon her entrance into the convention center filled with 8,000 people at her consecration: “What a hell of a welcome!”
“Pizza is my favorite food, too.”