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 . . .
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 . . .