cultivating the beautiful ordinary by sharing our tales and our tables
I’ve become an old lady about church. As of lately, I’ve wanted to be a part of a body where the church doesn’t come with an app, the pastor doesn’t wear skinny jeans, and people bring actual Bibles with pages as opposed to iPads and smart phones.
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I walked into the tattoo shop, and everybody inside stopped what they were doing to look at me. The expressions on their faces read, “Um, are you lost, lady?”
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It happened at the odd house on Greenthumb Drive. That house had the ugliest fireplace in the middle of the living room with a large pipe that hung from the ceiling, suspended by chains.
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Jesus was first introduced to me on felt boards with cut-out paper characters. I remember my Sunday school teacher putting up pictures of Jesus, who always wore a white robe with a red or blue sash.
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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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It was summer and I was hoping. The night before I took a pregnancy test, I had a dream where I was standing in a bright nursery, sun streaming in, holding my swollen belly.
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It was a deep clean kind of Saturday. I scrubbed the boy’s bathtub and cleaned the toilet and wiped down the mirror and countertops.
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Christmastime is my favorite. The music, decorations, ugly sweater parties, cookies and candy canes – all of it ignites child-like excitement within me.
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I knocked on the door of my parent’s house, tears streaming down my face one dark February night.
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Our first year of marriage wasn’t what I’m assuming many newlyweds experience.
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