Unexpected changes of events, delays, and spending time in town (worst of all at a big box store where the cacophony and confusion threaten to be my undoing), and feeling like we’re robbing ourselves of the gift of enjoying the fleeting days of summer. These things, one after the other, and I get testy.

Seeking an antidote, I look for delights. Tendernesses. I think of the wisdom I listened to on an On Being podcast with Ross Gay. Delights. Tendernesses. Pockets of joy. These are things that can change our world.

A not-young doctor’s conversation with my husband about hiking and the gift of good health in both active men.

The irony of a sign in a used bookstore requesting patrons ask for help with the leather-bound Franklin Mint books and—most important!—not open them.

The decor in a restroom at a restaurant where we have lunch. I had forgotten how this one delights me and reminds me of one somewhere else.

Later, we stand on a hill overlooking the city, just the two of us, arm in arm, and pray about something we’re committing to divine care and direction.

And all will be well. Exceedingly well. And delightful.


I’m a writer, reader, and creative. I thought by now I’d have things figured out, but I keep coming up with more questions. I think that’s okay. I’m here most mornings pondering ordinary things and the thin places where faith intersects.

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