I actually wonder how much it matters what Phoebe’s ‘official’ role was.
In preparation for writing this post, I spent a quiet morning in “Harriet’s Writing Room” in the Stowe House here in Brunswick, Maine, where Harriet Beecher Stowe wrote Uncle Tom’s Cabin.
Looking back at the Grow Christians pandemic posts for Maundy Thursday about the creative ways families shared this night’s ritual, part of me wonders if our church services can ever approach the intimacy of the footwashing done by family members for one another.
Some years ago I took a retreat among the brothers at the Society of St. John the Evangelist that focused on icons.
Back in the early ‘80’s, when I was still living in Colorado, on Good Friday mornings a friend and I would take the 4 to 5 a.m. Night Watch shift at church, then we’d drive out to Warren Lake.
On Friday mornings, on the corner of Pleasant and Union Streets in the heart of Brunswick, Maine, Nancy stands next to a picnic table the children of our congregation painted in vibrant colors.
When I was a little girl, the closet in my bedroom had a back door. You pushed through clothes, unlatched a hook, and behind the door was a dark tunnel: a slanted crawl space that ran the length of the house.
Worship has been much on my mind recently, not necessarily the liturgy or the music or whether to be online or in person for Christmas services, but mostly I’ve been pondering the innate human need to worship, and its various manifestations.
The idea of being wrapped up, especially as the nights grow colder here in Maine, evokes a sense of coziness and warmth.
Back when my middle-aged sons were little boys, another young mom from church handed me a copy of Thomas Merton’s Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander, […]