clouds in turmoilMy heart has been in turmoil all weekend
Because I want to respond in anger and righteous indignation to a statement that is a clear affront to the loving will of God.

The trouble is, the very statement I want to respond to is a response in anger and righteous indignation to what that writer believes is a clear affront to the will of God.

And I am caught. Continue reading


schoolI come today to a schoolroom: wooden floors, old wrought-iron desks with wooden tops and inkwells, a slate black board, like a room from a museum. This room carries the echoes of an even older classroom with rows of benches, a pot of clay for tablets, and a stylus by each seat. They are quiet now, no students squirming in their seats, no teacher rapping on her desk or master tapping his foot on the floor. But there is an echo of the grand enterprise that inhabited such places – the task of wrapping minds around fact and turning it into knowledge. Continue reading


holding on to faithThe deep roots of faith
Support the suffering, grieving souls
Who are redeeming tragedy with forgiveness
That mirrors the unfathomable love of God.

Unbelievable belief
Faithful faith

Honoring the beloved ones who are now held close
In the very arms of the One who conquered death
… for them and for us all.

[photo by Hannah Swithinbank per cc 2.0]

Playing on the Beach

small girl on the beach

I am a young girl playing on the beach. I run from shell to shell and dreg to dreg, washed up upon the shore, picking up one thing and then another.

Bending low, squatting on my haunches, the wet sand makes shiny rings around my feet. The receding waves suck at my footprints and smooth their edges.

Continue reading

Twin Paths

campfire and sparksI am seated back a bit from the fire. Around me are other travelers, all weary from the walk of the day, glad for a rest, glad to be together. We are an odd lot, tossed together by happenstance (if there is such a thing) and by the juncture in the roads. Now, nestled among the trees just off the roads, we sit together.

Those around me who are talkers are telling their stories and I, a listener, am listening. The stories weave in and out among each other and there are common themes and nods of understanding. We have opened our packs and bread has been shared. We nibble at the last of the crusts, for we are full but the crusts are good. Continue reading

Cricket’s Song


Sometimes it’s not the thunderclap,
but the raindrop’s tap
that steals my heart.


To know that you are God enough to pay attention to the smallest detail:
The shiver of an aspen leaf,
the remembered smell of my grandmother’s perfume
the burst of a blueberry upon my tongue
the whispered beauty on a wrinkled face
my daughter’s sigh as she sleeps in my arms
These seal my soul in you.

Let me be the cricket,
singing praise upon your hearth.


[photo by Mark Robinson per cc 2.0]