cultivating the beautiful ordinary by sharing our tales and our tables
At my dermatologist’s office, I focus on the smell of the Sharpie she is using to circle areas of concern. As a skin cancer doctor in the Sunshine State, she is trained with a meticulous eye to incise and biopsy anything that is not an A+ mole. While I’m thankful for her fastidious care, this…
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I was a twenty-something, mindlessly folding church bulletins with a group of young women. We talked to pass the time. One of the women said, “I can’t wait until I’m forty. Your life is settled by then. It gets easier.” The fact that none of us laughed is a testament to our naïveté. Many years…
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On days when I’m reminded that life is a gift and not a right, gratitude feels strong and interwoven, like burlap. It holds all my hopes; hopes that are indelibly entwined with my battle with a chronic illness. Gratitude’s texture is thick and coarse, its fabric worn and heavy, having survived years of sweaty, hot…
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I listened with the suspended premonition that accompanies “one of those moments.” A moment often accompanied by a niggling prod to pay attention—something pivotal is about to happen.
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Who is the woman in white? I found myself on a journey to understand more clearly how to respond to a theme where my mind went…blank.
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I grew up in a small town in Northern Wisconsin. My neighborhood was filled with tightly-spaced brick homes with mature trees flanking both sides of the street. These were the days when everyone knew everybody and children walked to and from school without care or risk. I loved the long summer days when everyone was…
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Several years ago, during a White Elephant gift exchange, my husband and I endowed a Messengers of Faith Action Figure talking Jesus doll. It was a last-minute acquisition after a sought-out Target giftcard was stolen from us in the final round. I suggested to my husband, Michael, that we save him only to package him…
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“I am not chewed up, spat out bubblegum” I am not fine china chipped by his touch now sitting on the thrift store shelf. I am not a porcelain tea cup filled with saliva from mouths of boys for whom I willingly opened my legs. I am not plucked petals of a rose trampled by…
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“How long, Lord? Will you forget me forever? How long will you hide your face from me? How long must I wrestle with my thoughts and day after day have sorrow in my heart? How long will my enemy triumph over me? (Psalm 131:1, 2) I have been more comfortable in not being seen. My…
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Dear Younger Self, I’m sitting in my living room with a deeply affectionate boy in my arms and another sweet boy growing safe inside my body. I can’t help but be curious about who you were so long ago. Were you anything like this stubborn, imaginative two-year old who is now leaping off the couch…
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