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).
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. […]
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.
I will always remember the first time I met my husband’s brother.
Jesus’ family makes me uncomfortable. In fact, I wouldn’t allow such seedy characters into my living room or sanctuary.
Saint Martin’s Day, held each year on November 11th, is not one that makes many calendars outside Europe, but it’s one of our absolute favorites.
There’s going to be a brother in our house. The two big sisters, upon learning we are expecting a boy, spent nearly five minutes in anguish before returning to delightful anticipation of Baby.
This year I have two parental goals during Eastertide: Remember to teach the story of Easter and remember to celebrate Easter for its full fifty days.
Last week, I was in the doctor’s office with a sick kid. My son had a HIGH fever, so he was not acting like himself. I knew he was sick because he was cuddled up in my lap as opposed to exploring everything around us. With his fever-flushed head on my chest, I found myself singing to him.