gender roles in my own backyard

we’re eating lunch at a plastic picnic table.  my knees barely fit underneath.  we’re mere feet away from the trampoline and the swing set. this is how young it starts. my son.  my beautiful boy.  this kind-hearted, contagious, leader of a boy.  he is a song.  he looks up from his paper plate and asks

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thoughts about faith and writing

i may regret this later, but i’ve never been so grateful. god is generous. i have work to do.  real work.  real service.  a way to love my neighbor as myself. and it doesn’t have to be a church building that you can walk into on sunday, it doesn’t have to be sandwiches made for

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when lent gets in the way

lent is a little tough for me. it can seem like a further cementing of the basic misunderstanding of god’s heart for relationship. that misunderstanding goes like this: if you give up the things you really like and settle for a life where you’re always wishing you were doing other things, denying yourself and being bored

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inside out, bones to skin

i have a yoga practice these days. i’m learning about living with my shoulders back. maybe you know what i mean? because i’ve collapsed onto myself these 38 years of life. my shoulders can wrap around the front of my body like a shawl.  the bones in my back coming forward like a second ribcage

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tell a better story

we barely dragged ourselves to church. everyone was tired and both girls were blowing their noses into tissues. “mom!  i can’t go to church!  i have a cold!”  said mazzy. i was crying from the first worship song on. “there’s no place i would rather be, then here in your love, then here in your

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the cross is enough

there was demolition work at my kitchen table. i thought that it equaled the christian life. renovation; faith’s highest priority, it seemed to me. the work headed up by a foreman with hard hat on and drawn plans rolled up under his arm.  and coffee.  always coffee.  his eyes had seen this job a million

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your life on the scale

The Lord hates dishonest scales,     but he is pleased with honest weights. ~ Proverbs 11:1 i remember when i got that this verse wasn’t about weights and scales.  i was sitting in my parent’s backyard at their picnic table.  my mother’s garden is the literal well-watered garden.  but that’s just another metaphor for the good life, too.

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nice to meet you

they told us to wake up and take our bibles out into the woods. they’d tell you which verses to read and the only requirement was that you had to be by yourself. i’d never done this, but each morning i went. i looked around and one by one my friends disappeared in between the

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