As a young girl, I loved the rain. I loved dancing in the rain, running in the rain, just being in the rain.
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cultivating the beautiful ordinary by sharing our tales and our tables
As a young girl, I loved the rain. I loved dancing in the rain, running in the rain, just being in the rain.
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During fourth grade, my Mom signed me up for an entire year of jazz class.
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I have stuffed so much of me down into me; I sometimes choke on the regurgitation of me.
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I’m unsure of how to start the conversation about honor.
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Last Sunday I helped in the four-year-olds’ room at church. It has been years since I spent extended time with children this age.
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The IV pole moved slowly, propelled by a pale child with sunken eyes ringed with dark circles.
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In the aromatic twilight of fading spring, a child is born.
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I grew up in a war zone. My bunker was my bedroom where I dug deep into the recesses of my inner being searching for safety.
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When my son, Seth, was in fourth grade, he began attending a new school.
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Little girl… I see you Eyes open… shining blue
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