. . . he won’t scatter Hot Wheels like breadcrumbs near the baseboards, in the bookshelves or across the coffee table.
The truth is, I’ve always ached to love and be loved, but I wrestle with loving myself. Hearing my own melody helped me see my innate holiness — made in God’s image, blessed and broken, sinner and saint.
Here we are in Advent, the four weeks leading up to Christmas. It’s a season when Christians anticipate celebrating Jesus’ birth and the promise he will come again. It’s also a time when people of varied beliefs practice waiting. But what does it mean to wait?
You have permission…
To find hope in the holidays. To relish each merry moment you can muster — the sacredness of lit candles, the comfort of reunions with friends and relatives, the bliss of giving and receiving.
I love it when the clouds are painted cotton candy pink . . .
Something miraculous and mysterious happens when we voice our stories — we give others permission to claim theirs too.
Standing across from you in our college chapel, I feel more than luck. I feel fluttering in my chest — not fear or nerves, rather, an awakening.
I’ve been Alice, cradling close the lifelong pain of a childhood accident…
Sunlight slices through the night, washing the world in color.
Why do cicadas hum? / Why do chickadees whistle? / Why do coyotes cock their heads and howl
/ in the vast darkness?