I'm not good at endings. Someone please tell me I'm not alone in this. When I've left jobs, I've always preferred the quiet transfer to the . . .
You'll want to cut the biggest branch right to the ground, my mother told me matter-of-factly. We had just moved into our new home last spring and . . .
I come through the back door from an evening walk to find the kids noshing on shrimp alfredo. We wake early and preheat the oven for homemade bread. . . .
Yesterday, my ten-year-old son and I finished reading the book Where the Red Fern Grows. Obviously there were tears. Side note that the book serves as . . .
I write a lot over here on simple rhythms and spacious margins, but it wasn't the original intent of this space, nor was it a practice that came . . .
I've been quiet on the blog the last few weeks. None of us has lived through a pandemic before and to be honest, I didn't know what to say. This . . .
When I was in sixth grade, my family moved from a house in our small Kentucky town into the county. My grandfather owned a farm on the northeastern . . .
Last weekend I got the first glimpse of our new normal. All the things have begun. Back-to-school nights have come and gone, fall soccer is in full . . .
Graham came home one night a few weeks ago and I was done. "I'm going out," I said. "Where?" he asked. "Anywhere but here," I responded. Y'all. There . . .
Last weekend, I spent the night with a dozen girlfriends in a 170-year-old farmhouse over a few glasses of wine and a roaring fire. I was in my happy . . .