cultivating the beautiful ordinary by sharing our tales and our tables
My heart races as I descend the stones thrown recklessly at the edges of the earth. These coastal boulders are mighty as they break the waves, which threaten to wash away the trees and green shrubs, homes of bears and cougars. Whoever tossed them aside was very angry.
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The sun dances across my lap. The old Honda’s engine revs and releases around the curves of Lake Crescent. Turquoise waters on my right shimmer clearly against the evergreens next to its shore. I count the logs cast aside into the lake’s bottomless waters. Just past the upcoming campground we will take a hard right…
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Back from an elongated, dreamy time of rest, colleagues want the highlight reel and the curious want the story.Typically, I’m challenged to distill epic into bullet points, but not this time. There is a story to tell even as it still works out meaning in my heart.
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It was a beautiful Sunday afternoon. Our family had intentionally gone to church early that morning so we could head out into the beautiful Colorado Mountains and explore what God had for us. The sky had my favorite wispy clouds streaked through them.
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Clouds move in and the wind picks up. Sunny, blue skies turn gray and thunder ripples west. Another Saturday’s desperate attempt at play, thwarted.
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Once you dive beneath the generally held dangers: violent crime, cancer, accidents, fire, etc., you arrive in your own heart’s private experience of danger.
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The word, Moira, is a Greek word for fate.
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My husband walked along the rocky shore line with boy-like wonder.
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Kim and I both paused mid-crouch, the rock specimens we were excitedly gathering to take home temporarily set aside as we focused on the distinct popping of shotgun fire in the distance.
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