Journeying Home Together
I had a dream last week in which I was driving a huge truck. It wasn’t just any truck, either, but one of those massive ones they use in the rock quarry down the road from my house. One of those dump trucks on steroids, that dwarf school buses and make semi-trucks look like toys. One of those whose gargantuan spare tires require a police escort down the interstate. One of those. I drive
My daughter and I were in a minor accident this past Sunday on our way home from church. It happened at an intersection we drive through several times a week, and as we passed it last night I took a deep breath and told her, “All right! We did it!” She was understandably confused. The thing is, I tend to get superstitious about things like that. I don’t necessarily think
Spring has come to Georgia, although we gave winter little more than a passing glance. Those of us who wait all year to snuggle up in hooded sweaters were sorely disappointed this year as we more often needed T-shirts and sandals. It has taken some work to come to terms with this. Grief is a process, y’all. Yesterday I sat in a sunny corner of the library, the floor-to-ceiling windows
These words have been simmering for almost three weeks now, and even as I sit ready to tell the story I’m not sure they’re ready. It’s a story that must be told, though, and because time has a way of smoothing out the edges of what cuts us deeply – in good or bad ways – I need to make sure to get these words down while I can. The
She has always been a collector. (We try not to use the word “hoarder,” but yeah….let’s call a spade a spade.) Even now, as a more mature eight-year-old, she has boxes and baggies fully of miscellaneous treasures stowed away: leaves, tiny sticks, interesting rocks, beads. If it’s tiny, you can bet she has it squirreled away somewhere. When she was very little, she treasured each little handful of odds and ends
Light streamed into her darkened bedroom from the hallway as she asked the question: “Mommy….how….how is God three people? I mean…He’s God…but He’s Jesus and the Holy Spirit, too. How does He even do that?” If you’re a mom, you’ve been there. It was after 9:00, she should have been sound asleep, and she was hurling deep unanswerable questions of theological truth at me. I don’t think I have to tell
I’m not a big wearer of jewelry. I like it a lot, but I have about a million pieces that sit neglected on my hanging necklace rack and in my jewelry box. A lot of the necklaces are fancier than I normally wear (because I’m not generally a fancy, sparkly kind of girl), and some of them aren’t my style but I keep them for sentimental reasons. The real reason I don’t wear those,
A few days ago, a series of pretty minor circumstances collided in my life to plunge me into a very bad, very sad afternoon. I could detail the situations that led me there, but I don’t want this to be about that. They really aren’t that big of a deal, anyway, and I don’t want to take attention away from where I’m headed. In any case, as the sun sank
For as long as I can remember, “friendship” meant “fitting in,” but not in the sense of having a place to belong. Friendship was like a crocheted afghan, with each strand and each loop perfectly aligning in the pattern to create uniformity. It was fitting in to the point of matching – conforming – sticking closely enough to the pattern that any variances were undetectable. Friendship, for me, was a kind of
I shared awhile back that prayer is a constant challenge to me. I struggle with it in so many ways, and even though I’m constantly working toward a deeper understanding of all that it can be, I often feel like I’m just doing it wrong somehow. Some of my struggle comes in the fact that I wonder, really, if my prayers actually accomplish anything. “Can I change the mind of
