Encouraging Women to Live Rooted in the Sacred
Lord. Have. Mercy. Inhale annnnd exhale. Dirty dishes on every counter. Spilled tea on un-swept floors. A battlefield of empty food containers lifeless atop my formerly peace-loving island. Again. A paradoxical dance of familiar and foreign. Increasingly familiar in this house full of menfolk living on Teen-Time, but foreign to their mother living on ‘Aint-Nobody-Got-Time-For-This-Time. Many a night finds…
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I was forty-something. Plenty old enough to be beyond this, it seemed. Praise music hovering, they gathered in clusters around a lively room, laughing and nodding between sips of coffee and bites of chocolate – familiar ears catching their words, safe hearts cushioning their sentiments. I barely knew anyone, and the few who I did know(ish), they were busy filling…
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Rattling off a handful of names as if to recite the alphabet or a grocery list, she was clueless as to the weight of her words on my hungry ears. I doubt Mrs. Golightly ever gave it another thought. As for me—I’ll not forget. Never did I imagine my name sandwiched among the students our favored English teacher deemed gifted…
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They call to me from my windows, daring me to bear witness to their Maker. Spectators of the everyday places below, perched confidently on their sky-stretched bleachers. Seemingly overnight they appear—nature’s answer to the Christmas tree. Once barren limbs in waiting, now decorated garlands of brilliance—strands of tiny bulbs in shades of green that only spring could author. Swaddled…
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You’ve probably known this—I’m probably slow—Enough-O’clock: it doesn’t exist. Why am I so late to the of-course-not party? So often, I discount the sacred echoes enslaved within the deep of my spirit. All too faithfully, I set aside my passions – determining that I don’t have enough time to dive in and do them justice. Not so, says Jessica Turner,…
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That memo—the one that made sense out of nonsense—I was out of the office that day. I’m still at a loss. I’m certain I’m not alone when I say that one thing my spirit is wholly unable to absorb is the nonsense of racism. No part of my being is volunteering to comprehend the what-in-the-world’ness of it. The notion that…
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