We’re almost a third of the way through this year. I’ve slogged my way through most of it, lifting one heavy, mud-caked foot after the other, in a fugue-like state. I can’t say why. This is life. It’s not always mountain top and it’s not always valley, sometimes it’s mile after mile of flat nothing-to-see
The sun rises in the eastern sky on this morning that anchors my faith. I remember the terrible things—and there are many. I hold them up to the light and they are washed in Love. Love and light; my risen Lord. Indeed. Indeed.
April is an in-between month tucked in the middle of anticipatory March when the first blush of spring sparks a fever, and May when gardens centres are awash with colour and promise. April is a gray and wet month. It’s a month of fits and starts, of disappointment and melancholy. Now we’re past the halfway
I’m road tripping. My phone is loaded with podcasts and I’m listening to wise words and thinking deep thoughts in the sanctuary of my Ford Escape. Sometimes I turn the audio off, listen to the silence and let wisdom saturate. I’m free. Constrained by the vehicle, and gravity, and other natural laws that keep me
I watch a man in church. He stands with his wife, a young boy between them. The boy looks to be about the same age as our granddaughter. I think that they’re his grandparents, but I don’t know. The man’s hand rests gently on the boy’s shoulder. I catch a glimpse of the boy’s red-rimmed
Another gray day with wind and rain. I stay inside, dry and warm, and listen to silence. I brew tea, and read books; wash floors and dust furniture. And talk to the Yorkie now and then. Peace.
We finish a healthy vegan supper and Gerry moves toward the kitchen to clean up (house rule: she cooks, he cleans). I’m thinking of a photo of a soft serve ice cream cone that came up in my social media memories this morning. After spring break, when our granddaughter was here, we decided to forego