11Dec 9, 2016
In like a breeze after school they come, swift and rattling the edges of things, scattering papers and shoes and the crumpled wrappers from their lunches. Riley’s cheeks bloom pink with the exhilaration of arrival, as though they’ve been far away and flying and have only just landed home, in from some place now only […]
12Nov 18, 2016
I remember the year that opening gifts made my daughter weep. She stood in front of me, just there, tight blond curls falling haphazardly around her ears, belly pudging out the shirt of her Christmas pajamas, holding a silvery gift. At 3, she still didn’t understand our expectant faces, or even what made toys fun, […]
13Jul 22, 2016
When Loggerhead turtles hatch, they are the same color as the sand. We have to lean down to see, after a friendly woman—a stranger wearing a pink baseball cap and salt-smeared eyeglasses—beckons to us, backlit by the sunrise. Initially blind, we wonder what she could possibly have to show us in the middle of that broad stretch […]
14Jan 15, 2016
Some days just feel bruised—suddenly all purple-black and sore, tender. Putting the towels away, the still-warm stacks soft in my hands, I lean into the linen closet and allow the tears I’ve been swallowing to come, quietly. At the moment, I am sick with seems and nevers, near-drowning in shadows and struggling hard just to breathe. I can […]
15Nov 20, 2015
Dinner time–almost, and already the crisp darkness makes our window panes cold beneath my fingers. I switch on lamps to fill the room with light, light I hope will glow well beyond the house, slipping out around the edges of the panels of the curtains, beaming boldly through the glass. And with the light, I pray […]
16Oct 16, 2015
The hour turns, and my friend waves me over, patting the chair beside. All evening, we have all only wanted to surround her, this iron-strong friend strong enough yet to admit that she needs us to lift her. It takes a brave woman to allow the veil to fall—whisper-light—from her face, to sit uncovered and honest, to […]
17Sep 25, 2015
Hello there! Good morning to you, he calls. He has a brightness I can feel before I see him, even though I realize as I look up that his gear—suit, helmet, even the bike—is all black, like the deepest part of the night. I’m suddenly aware that I’ve been staring at the pavement, while he […]
18Jan 30, 2015
Afternoon, and I give thanks that I am sitting alone in the waiting room at the pediatric dental office, because this gratitude always comes fresh. I never forget the difference between now and then, those days when I held my tears because of his, when it took three people just to clean his teeth. They used […]
19Apr 26, 2013
Thirteen years ago, God wrote it loud, carved it deep in the walls of our hearts: It doesn’t matter what makes sense. And because He knows I need things repeated, not quite two years later He traced over the words again, and the letters were block-shaped and quick. He added this: And it doesn’t matter […]
20Sep 28, 2012
Something about the way he broke that day reminded me that living is cross-shaped. “Adam has been crying for the last few hours,” she says to me, the aide instead of the teacher, walking carefully to my window as I park the car. “The last few hours?” Oh, how the living hurts, how it drives […]