As I was preparing my talk for the Brave On Conference, I was searching for clues as to why March 22, 1990, was the day that changed my life. It was a pivotal day that ended my 25 years struggle of an eating disorder addiction.
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cultivating the beautiful ordinary by sharing our tales and our tables
As I was preparing my talk for the Brave On Conference, I was searching for clues as to why March 22, 1990, was the day that changed my life. It was a pivotal day that ended my 25 years struggle of an eating disorder addiction.
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My body cracked and popped as I gently entered the lime green office in my parents house. A twin mattress and an air mattress lay on the floor one holding my son, the other left open for me.
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Recently a friend invited me to consider, “What would living into a season of grace be like for me?” I felt stymied as I began to wonder, “What if that were even possible?”
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“What are you going to do with an empty nest?” “Will you downsize?” “The house will be so quiet now!” “You are going to miss your kids…” The day was fast approaching when a new season would begin for my husband, our daughter, and me. Friends had shared their genuine concern. When I scheduled a…
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My hair was falling out. Anytime I washed or ran my fingers through it, numerous strands would float to the floor.
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To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven. —Ecclesiastes 3:1 The honeysuckles are lush along the roadside as I drive north from the house to the grocery store, the woods on either side reminding me of home—my old home.
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With the turn of the last calendar page of 2016, I find myself facing a birthday.
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As I decorated for Christmas this year, I cleaned and put up the lights, mason jars of holly and frosted tree branches thinking about the juxtaposition of all the places my heart could choose to land.
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I am not always great at asking for care. I think some of that lingers from childhood, growing up in a house where not making a mess or being a mess was considered a strength.
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The first time someone realizes that I’m not from this area, curiousity immediately interrupts the conversation. The initial question is always asking about where I am from, Texas.
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