Our calendar commends us today to celebrate the life of Harriet Starr Cannon and her founding of the Community of St. Mary, the first officially […]
Lent is upon us, the forty days set aside to prepare to celebrate the death and resurrection of Jesus.
I’ve been attending yoga classes at my local studio for about a year. I’m into yoga for the stretching and centering, so when Zoe announced that the theme of the Wednesday class was going to be hard work, I immediately got nervous.
At the ripe ages of ten and seven-and-a-half, my kids now understand that their clergy parents will grant them unlimited screen time on Sunday afternoons in exchange for remaining quiet enough for us to nap.
I have a confession to make: We do not pray at home, as a family, with any regularity. There, I said it.
The season of Lent is less than a week away. Now is the time to talk with your family about what you will be giving up and/or what disciplines you will be taking on.
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.
A while ago I was looking for a gift to give at church for children’s baptisms or to new parents, when I stumbled upon these jumbo prayer beads, perfect for little hands. Wanting to connect the beads to a practice of prayer, I devised a little method of traveling the beads while praying The Lord’s Prayer, connecting each bead to a portion of the prayer, in the hopes that this tactile practice would help the children both memorize and internalize the prayer that Christ taught us all to pray.
During the summer between my second and third years of law school, I worked as an intern in the General Counsel’s Division of Children, Family, and Aging. Every morning, I made my way to the Hubert Humphrey building in the shadow of the nation’s capitol, not realizing until then how many federal government employees filled Washington, D.C. every day.
Not long ago, as I waited to use the restroom at Friendly Toast in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, I became intensely aware of the sign on the door