cultivating the beautiful ordinary by sharing our tales and our tables
What is a lifetime? If one averages a human life to 75 years, that is 27,375 days, or 657,000 hours, or 39,420,000 seconds. Those who served in the infantry during a war often say their time is 95% boredom punctuated by 5% terror. For most of us, our days are daily, ordinary, tick-tock time punctuated by occasional moments…
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It was a sunny winter day in the Pacific Northwest, and I had my Miele vacuum cleaner in hand. The endless days of gray hide the dust and scattered debris. But once the sun shines, I become a cleaning dervish! I hate dust. I hate clutter. I hate busy rooms with items not in their…
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As a military wife who moved frequently, I attended many churches. I am also a Pharisee and a people-pleaser, so I gravitated towards women like me—those who recognized and approved good works. Every church has those who give and those who take, and I found satisfaction in being someone who gave more than I took.
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I sometimes want to be a tree. I want to blow in the breeze, feel the rain on my branches, shelter birds and squirrels, and grow roots deep and wide so that I am strong and resilient to whatever might want to take me down. I want to bend and grow without to-do lists and…
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We were standing in the middle of her bedroom when a clap of thunder rumbled. The shades were drawn over the large windows, obscuring the view of the sprawling farm outside and the storm clouds overhead. When she lived here, Flannery O’Connor would have kept the shades wide open so she could watch her beloved…
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My first stop after checking in at the ticket counter was Starbucks. I stared at the travel mugs, not particularly thrilled with what I saw. Option 1: Plastic insulated tumbler in traditional holiday red and white. Initially, this cup grabbed my attention with its sparkling red letters and crisp white background. “Let’s Merry”. A closer…
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The images contained in the message brought tears to my eyes. The message was titled “Urgent Prayers for Damascus”.
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I walk past the bike rack and into the familiar place with different eyes today. I push through the first set of wide metal doors into the entryway, past the water fountain and the “park scooters here” sign.
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My phone is buzzing and I see it is school. Again. I receive the call and hear the school secretary saying that my 8t h grade daughter is in the office crying.
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Last week I was talking with our daughter, Katie, about my desires for Mother’s Day. I made a remark about planning to ask our son, Tim, if he could be here for at least part of the day as it was ‘the last Mother’s Day.’
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