51Oct 6, 2017
We rumble over bridges, wheels rolling across weathered slats, dappled shadows stretching. Zoe takes the lead, crouching low, blonde hair flying behind her in ribbons.  Kevin trails her gently, restraining his pace just enough to let her go. Somehow at first, I’m in the middle, sandwiched between these I love–two blazing, two simmering. The path […]
52Jun 9, 2017
They sit waiting–my children and this party of their best friends, a huddled, cross-legged, patchwork group in costumes as vibrant and varied as they. Â Even with the house lights dim, I see the startling glint of silver sequins, a neon vest, leotards and athletic jerseys. Â I slip into a chair and just smile, holding my […]
53May 12, 2017
We gather to pray, our chairs pulled together in hasty circles. Â The whole room echoes. Â We make knots–so many weak-kneed, hungry children–tangling together to sort out the kinks in our hearts. Â It strikes me sometimes, how our strongest posture can look from the outside like our weakest. Â But see, there’s nothing stronger than being with […]
54Mar 31, 2017
I can hear him beside me and his voice is reverently light, soft and piercing.  But the thing is:  Adam never just sings.  He worships. We sit beneath the trees when the sun is soft and dying.  A breeze blows through–a Spirit-wind, and I hear him quietly crooning, oh the grace reaching out for me.  We’re […]
55Jan 20, 2017
“I didn’t even realize he was wearing his sweatpants,” I say to my friend, gesturing with one finger toward my son, over to the back of the auditorium where Adam now paces, ankles showing blank below lanky black, just above those bruised-up tennis shoes he likes. Â I’m not even sure that the elastic on the […]
56Dec 23, 2016
I don’t know how we accomplish anything without each other. The day drifts away and we fall into order at the table, stamps and labels and letters in thick stacks in front of us, ropey veins like roots—more pronounced by the passing of years—rising from the backs of our moving hands. Â You’d know we belonged […]
57Aug 26, 2016
Buttonhooks, he says. Buttonhooks?  The zucchini in my hand drips. I run a thumb over a crack in its waxy green skin, listening. “Buttonhooks!  ButtonHOOKS!” He tries hard to annunciate; I can hear each letter’s effort, the work to shape it with his tongue.  Placing vegetable on cutting board, I turn toward him, leaning to see […]
58Apr 8, 2016
“When I struggled so much with anxiety, God taught me to pray,” Riley says, lifting her hand and turning it over, as though neatly wrapping the words, a gift.  And then, when later we reach for each other’s hands, she quietly asks God to help her brother talk to us.  Maybe she’s just following Zoe’s lead. […]
59Oct 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 […]
60Sep 12, 2014
Sometimes life strips us clean of words, and we sit together, quiet. Â And maybe it’s that way so we’ll stop to listen. We walk through the rain and into the funeral chapel, gathering damp hugs on our way through the door. Â We sit first, and then we stand, winding in long lines past photographs and […]