In one of the premarital counseling sessions with my wife, the therapist asked us about gender roles in our relationship.
It’s been a month of loss in our house.
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).
It’s been fifty days since Easter Day. Fifty days. Seven Weeks. An entire liturgical season spent physically distancing from our church families.
I had it fully mapped out in my head what an excellent Sunday morning we were going to have, which was the first sign that it was definitely going to go in another direction.
I miss, no ache, for busyness. In busyness, we find temporary worth, and get an “importance-rush” that nails us to the hamster wheel of frenzy. […]
The idea came to me when I was gathering up the stubs of taper candles that we used for our Easter Vigil.
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.
When I was in high school, we moved to the Diocese of Southwestern Virginia, which had a long-term companion relationship with the Episcopal Church of Sudan.
As a Generation X woman, working mother, clergy spouse, and people pleaser, I’ve often felt the “damned if we do, damned if we don’t” pull inside myself.