Showing posts from April, 2016


For nearly the whole congregation, or for all of them, and especially the men and the children, there was a disconnection between the little white clapboard church with its steeple and bell, it observances and forms of worship, and the world's daily life and work. It was as though the building itself, its emptiness between services, contained along with its smells of old paper and stale perfume a solemnity that the people entered into and departed from, quickening it for a few hours a week with the stirrings and smells of living flesh, but could neither inflect with the tone of their daily preoccupations nor transpose into their actual lives. This was a disconnection perhaps exactly coextensive with the disconnection they felt between Heaven and Sycamore, eternity and time. Laura recognized these disconnections in the people because she felt them, and labored over them, in herself. - Wendell Berry, "A Desirable Woman"
The church of my youth wasn't built of white cla…

taking flight

Every year a mama bird builds her nest atop one of our porch pillars. Newborns tweet the morning alarm, perched high above the reach of the stray cats that inevitably come. Stealthily they prowl about, hoping one of the babies will test its wings too soon and breakfast will be served. Mama returns with food and a soothing lullaby. She nurtures and strengthens her young, preparing them for the future. Meanwhile, the enemy lurks below.

Most of the babies stay put, nestled away in a fortress of twigs and leaves. But every once in a while, one will grow restless. Mama doesn't return before hunger overtakes sense. Shaky, immature wings are no match for gravity. The enemy pounces, struts away in victory.

I've watched the ritual each Spring. This year it moves me to tears.

It's nearly 18 years since I became a Mama. By God's grace, I've nurtured and protected. The enemy has come close, but my baby has been shielded atop the pillar of God's truth. Her dad and I have pr…

on a crisp spring morning

I grab the Word and pull the covers tight around my waist. I am soon lost in Paul's instructions to the church at Thessalonica.

Three exhortations leap off the page. My pencil draws them back there, nailing them down tight to my heart.

Encourage the fainthearted. These days I am so faint of heart. The sharp edges of this world have scraped my soul raw. Daggers pierce, wounds fester. How can I give from the shallows? Paul, too, must have been fainthearted. Years of ministry had left him spent. Beatings and chains, not to mention that mysterious thorn (2 Cor. 12:7-9). He had witnessed fighting among the brethren and the Gospel compromised. Surely Paul was weary, yet he encouraged.

Help the weak. To bare our weaknesses is a sign of...well, weakness. This photo-shopped, pixel-perfect world has no place for the broken. Am I the only one cowering behind the guise of an ideal life, afraid to lift the veil and let others peer into reality? Pride is a cruel taskmaster that keeps me from ad…

in this place...

How would you describe your blog?

My friend's question caught me a little off-guard.

Other than dormant, I had no idea. Instead, I described what I wanted this little spot to be. Behind my words, the question of my success began to haunt me.

A sanctuary of sorts. A place where visitors can stop in, worship the Lord and come away feeling at least a little refreshed. In fact, I want this place to feel exactly like my visit in my friend's home. I was met with a fluffy bathrobe and fancy towels. There was a bottle of water in the car when she picked me up, and a gift bag waiting on the bed for my arrival. Her family made me feel welcome, loved. Our conversations took many twists and turns, but the goodness of the Lord was the common thread that wove them all together.

I want to read less opinion, more beauty. That tweet pierced my heart. Yes! my soul whispered.

Opinions are loud, brash, invasive. Opinions demand attention.

Beauty is calming, assuring, inspiring. Bea…