For a time I watched the moon. Rising, as is my practice, in the wee hours, I stood at the window on a succession of days when the night sky was clear, and grounded myself in its movement and crescent shape that was thinner every day. The cacophony of the world at large, silent. The rhythm of the changing night sky, a certainty.

Now I watch new green shoots of lavender in the Aerogarden. I brush my fingers across the leaves and pause for a moment of aromatherapy. That little corner on my kitchen counter where a fresh crop is just getting started looks an awful lot like hope.

As I do every January, pick up a small bunch of pink tulips at the grocery store one day and put them in a vase in the middle of the dining table. Their waxy petals, a promise in this first month of the year when it is cold and white outside (though not too cold, and not too white, this year).

I sit in the den with a tiny Yorkie curled up asleep on my lap and read scripture. I lean back, close my eyes, and whisper prayer. And the liturgy of ordinary days does its work. Little by little the cloud lifts. The voice of truth speaks clearer than that of despair.

So we don’t look at the troubles we can see now; rather, we fix our gaze on things that cannot be seen. For the things we see now will soon be gone, but the things we cannot see will last forever.

2 Corinthians 4:18 NLT


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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