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 . . .
For most of my life, the word retreat has been synomynous with the church. I can't tell you how many youth group retreats I went on in high school or . . .
In January, our family visited the Blue Ridge Tunnel in Nelson County, Virginia. The old railroad tunnel, built by Irish immigrants and enslaved . . .
For the better part of a year, I've been walking past the same barn at the end of our road. It's pretty picturesque with a wide rolling hill, . . .
My word of the year is liminal. Yeah, I know. It's weird. Why couldn't I have chosen something like rhythm, contentment, peace, joy? I would have . . .
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 . . .
A few days ago, an acquaintance offhandedly asked how things were going. "Well, my brain feels like it's swimming in information overload," I replied. . . .
Yesterday, my nine-year-old twins went in for their well visit at the pediatrician. We ticked through all the health items first: what are they eating . . .