It was the last day of sixth grade, one of the few grades when I actually liked my teacher.
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cultivating the beautiful ordinary by sharing our tales and our tables
It was the last day of sixth grade, one of the few grades when I actually liked my teacher.
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Dear Eighteen, Here you are. Yesterday’s child is today’s legal adult, and yet, nothing has really changed.
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There is a place near my home that I am drawn to on days when I am in need of respite. It is a place that feels sacred to me, hidden as it is in a sprawling neighborhood.
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My history does not lend itself to be very forgiving or much less welcoming of others into my kitchen.
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“Why wouldn’t you go for the M.Div?” McKenna asked.
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I roll over in bed and grope in the dark for my phone, resting on my nightstand.
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It has been 10 months since we last connected—10 months and a lifetime.
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I’m going through a time of personal growth.
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I sat on the kitchen floor, my leg in pain from a fall and wondered what to do next.
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“We know that we are adopted by God when we are embraced by our brothers and sisters.”
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