cultivating the beautiful ordinary by sharing our tales and our tables
My mother hated my first book. Shortly after it was published, her sister asked to meet with me, and observed that the woman who wrote it was very angry. I believe my aunt was quite surprised when I agreed with her. I remember the morning well.
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God chuckled the day I articulated, “I can work from any kitchen table with Wi-Fi in the lower 48 states.” My time as a widow had been a dark 6 years—almost 7, years in which my heart and mind begged God to stop my breath. Then, as abruptly as my widowhood had begun, it ended.…
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I hadn’t met her before this cold January night when we were sitting in a terribly outdated conference room on the fourth floor of a downtown hospital. She kept fidgeting with her hands, and her eyes darted between her text messages and the clock on the wall. Her bright red sweatshirt was the loudest color…
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