cultivating the beautiful ordinary by sharing our tales and our tables
I was never a bandwagon football fan. I grew up on Sunday afternoons, as young as five years old, listening to my father tell me about the details of football plays and how it all worked. My favorite NFL team was the Chicago Bears, with its quarterback Jim McMahon. Their defense was incredible. Later, my…
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The last time I said to Dan, “I am just telling you the truth,” I was fed up with what he was doing. There is, of course, a place for anger, but in this case, I was not concerned about him. I wanted him to stop his annoying remarks. The problem with “telling the truth”…
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It was Certification Day, our first of several. I had been planning a distinct route for a smooth and predictable path. As far as I was concerned, there would be no detours. I was eager to get on our Zoom call later that afternoon. A month earlier, I had begun training to be a guide…
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I parked on the neighbor’s grass. I was bringing lunch to my daughter and son-in-law, and I wanted to park close to their house. Their car was in the one-car driveway off an alley—the alley that needed to have room left for cars to go through. Their baby was not yet a month old. They…
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I have a soft spot for bluegrass. I played in an Appalachian ensemble in college, and ever since then have found comfort in the music’s brash harmonies and communal energy. As I stroll down the main street of a small town in North Carolina with a good friend, I feel my heart stir at the…
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Believing the lies today. Know the truth. Doesn’t matter. Believing the lies anyway. They are swirling all around me in a feeding frenzy. Feeding on each other and growing stronger and darker and louder. Yet they aren’t shouting. That would be wasted energy. They whisper. Inept. Incapable. Inadequate. Incompetent. Inferior. And the whispers echo everywhere.…
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The first time I heard a woman preach I was 17. Until then, I’d heard the “sharing of testimonies” by women in my church, but I’d never heard the proclamation of divine word uttered in a female voice.
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Everything about the place said “welcome”: the rich red bricks of the exterior, the scent and sounds of the waterfront only a block away, the warm light falling on worn hardwood floors inside, and couches and chairs beckoning me to make myself at home.
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Until recently, I had no understanding of what forgiveness is and is not.
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Truth. It’s a deceivingly simple word—one we’re tempted to believe comes flat like a pancake instead of layered like a wine.
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