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Church spaces are full of small talk. It’s often in narthexes and the backs of sanctuaries, during coffee hour or community meals, that our children
Book clubs are gentle training grounds for something we desperately need: the experience of disagreeing with people we care about, and surviving it.
In my Grandma and in these aging characters, is found a softening that comes with experience and making one’s own mistakes.
When I turn to look out that window, the squirrel and I seem to have a staring contest. “What’cha going to do about it?” he
I considered lots of words. I felt called to steer away from productivity, from the false illusion of self-control. What I might need is not
I crawled under the plastic branches to discover I had rotated the tree so enthusiastically that I’d pulled the light cord taut enough to rip
I spent a surprising amount of time in the principal’s office my senior year of high school.
I felt defensive because my 13-year-old son, who asks a million questions but also already has answers to every single one of them, said something
I often avoid driving the road that passes by the land that once was my grandpa’s orchard. The apple trees are gone now, the old
