summer’s parting sighs

it took me the first two months of summer to catch up. you were older this summer. you didn’t want to go to the zoo.  again. you didn’t want to go to greenfield village.  again. i kept getting frustrated that this summer wasn’t quite like the last one. i slowly figured it out. you’re growing

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brand new again

these summer days are being sewn together.  the thread of time pulling days side by side and making a patchwork quilt of life. i hope it covers you, child. i want light to leak from our pockets every minute. i want to look at your face and feel sweet freedom from responsibility.  i want to

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blueberries and the will of god

“let’s stay here for a few hours at least.” so much of what i’ve hoped for this summer is right in front of me. berries on a branch. sunshine. children close and concentrating. mazzy is crouching low and finding what others miss. “is there more at the bottom, maz?” i lift up heavy branches and

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good news for liars

“my idea of god is not a divine idea. it has to be shattered time after time. he shatters it himself. he is the great iconoclast. could we almost say that this shattering is one of the marks of his presence? the incarnation is the supreme example, it leaves all previous ideas of the messiah

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nine more years

summer is close. we can feel it pressing in whether the day is chilly or not.  the rhythms of our lives are winding down. september until now we begin for the next morning the night before. packing lunches.  grinding coffee.  straightening up.  backpacks ready.  go to sleep. waking up.  getting dressed.  breakfast and out the

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where community ends

“perfection is overrated.” she said this quick before another thought and kept talking. i sat next to her in my living room and didn’t hear anything else she said. this woman had begun to symbolize perfection to me and i didn’t really even know her.  we were not friends.  we went to the same church

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sincere and pretend

and then it was december 25th. as soon as we find out we are pregnant, we put the tv out on the curb.  wanting to have integrity about raising a child without one, we thought we should get rid of it before they even arrive. but that year christmas shows up like a thief.  we

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when god gets old

the day after christmas i held my newborn son in my arms.  he was perfect.  he screamed with fresh lungs and we breathed one another for days and days. that was eleven years ago. we’ll sing happy birthday to him and toasted his growing up to be a fine young man this month.  i’ll watch

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handmade holidays

we wrote down words on paper and planned. her curls were pulled back professional and she made a list because she breathes lists. who will bring what, who will sit where.  she sees it in her mind and the simplicity of planning is always as bright as the first snow for her. i’m sitting across

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