raspberry beret

a funny thing kept happening as we walked alone in rows of raspberries.  every spot we stopped to pick there would be a better one directly across the way. each time the very next row would hold larger berries, branches with fruit threatening to drop from the weight. how can it be, i wondered each

stout-hearted

i’m going through the motions.  laundry.  dishes.  downstairs in the basement i hear change in my son’s jeans as i go to put them in the washing machine.  i dig around in the pocket and bring out three coins.  they feel like quarters in my hand, but when i look at them, i see three

unanswered prayers

my dad was back in the stacks and the snow wasn’t stopping outside.  big, fat snowflakes falling themselves down on the lucky streets of ann arbor, michigan.  i looked over and saw my husband considering yet another collection of words to stick into his brain. what a beautiful night. my mother was watching the kids.

dwelling places

“do not let your hearts be troubled.  believe in god, believe also in me.” a few weeks back i took a risk. i have a precious friend.  maybe you have one.  i say precious because you feel the luck when you’re with them.  they are a kind of marvel across the table from you and

writing about the vineyard

i went to a wedding last month.  the church was in the middle of nowhere.  mazzy and i drove miles and miles through fields of corn and vineyards.  the western side of michigan has vineyards.  rows and rows of grapes waiting to be turned into something else. or maybe not.  maybe they’ll stay grapes.  maybe

when staying at home is lame

the grocery store is its own particular type of torture. i must be thankful for the resources to be there, the choices, the strength in my legs to walk the aisles, to push the cart.  i know.  i must be. but when you’ve done something a few hundred times it loses that certain something and

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when the gospel goes missing

in a drawer, tucked away like a shirt, is the gospel. black and white beads on a thin string.  my daughter made it in a sunday school class.  its simplicity stole my heart. i put it away. reaching for a swimming suit i would see it sometimes.  i liked to. it reminded me of seeds

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the stories we tell

i ended up outside. sometimes early january is friendly to outside morning dwellers.  this happens very rarely in michigan.  i still almost don’t believe it. the water was still and the city was so quiet.  i had to take a picture. i haven’t done this so much anymore. take pictures, write down my thoughts. i

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it’s right before you

it is as though leaves on trees are saying, ‘i love you.’ that the sunlight on your path says, ‘you are cared for.’ this world has been made for living in; a place formed in love for those who see the sun these few years. it is right before you, do you not see it? this

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