cultivating the beautiful ordinary by sharing our tales and our tables
“How was your son’s wedding?” someone asks, and Tim and I exchange glances, hoping the other can supply adequate words. We try to describe the beauty, the goodness, and the joy of the celebration, but our words fall short for all of what our hearts are holding.
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This is not a eulogy. This is a wild ce-le-bra-tion. Lived out in staccato, fast breaths and clapped hands. This is a reverie of light that actively stomped the darkness. She was a determined, defiant dance. This is ce-le-bra-tion. She was coffee and cocoa-bean, sugar cane and deep earth. Caribbean and cradle of civilization. She was…
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It was way past my bedtime as I drove to pick up my husband from the airport, and I was surprised to find nerves gnawing away in the pit of my stomach. My mind was racing as I drove the familiar route, wondering aloud what reuniting would look like after seven months apart.
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December beckons me with a fair amount of sentimentality and ambivalence. I’ve had difficulty embracing all that this month holds for my life especially now as I anticipate turning 70 years old.
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The ache to belong rests in such a young part of our hearts. It is a tender thing, holding so many other questions like “Can I come?” “Am I welcome?” “Am I ok?” “Am I wanted?” “Do you love me?”.
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I was in fourth grade when I first experienced the beauty of community.
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The date had been on the calendar for months. My oldest nephew and his soon-to-be-bride were celebrating with an engagement party at my sister’s house.
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“Can you believe he will be getting married in one week?”
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A celebration was necessary, or so I thought.
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It is here…it is finished! This inspirational book on gratitude took me one year to write.
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