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  • Connecting: How to Bond

    On Friday, August 29 th, 2008
    It’s the end of summer. Kids gather to ring the last of ice cream carts and campfires, laze at the end of pond docks. And mothers, like breaking up through the surface of it all, breathe deeply, expanding lungs again with the stuff of living. Emerging from the murky depths, we tread water for a
  • What a Mother Must Sacrifice…

    On Thursday, August 21 st, 2008
    Houses may be bought, built, or borrowed. But homes can only be made, and that with bits of ourselves. Or so the ducks told me. They told me without a sound, just simply as they preened and nestled, a painting, oil on canvas. The children press in close too, for a better look at Alexander
  • Borrowed Words

    On Friday, August 15 th, 2008
    I’m at back door, bag over shoulder, mirror just checked and strand tucked behind ear, and I call to them who mingle here, “I love you! I won’t be gone long…” And a voice comes from the kitchen, high and young, heavy with stack of bowls from crumbed table. “Goodbye, Mom….” Dishes clatter. “God goes
  • Love Touch

    On Thursday, August 14 th, 2008
    The lights were all turned out tonight except the dim glow from the hall, when I tiptoed into peek on sleeping Shalom for the last time. And there he was. I could see his hunched over shape silhouetted by the light. There, in the night’s quiet, crouched Caleb, my boy-man, bare-chested and ready for bed,
  • How to Parent: Just Guide Gently

    On Monday, August 11 th, 2008
    Thoughts I am thinking on as we gear up for a new school year….I am by the stove cutting warm loaves of dark bread, and my mother is at the window, gentle drops pattering the panes, sewing new and vintage fabric pieces together. I listen to the hum of the machine, thread lacing down, through,
  • Breathe Deep…

    On Friday, August 08 th, 2008
    There are days we need sky and space and some time to breathe deeply. And in You, Infinite, Uncontainable, Unending God, we always can. Photo: our boy, dog and bike running out under big sky….
  • How a Family Breaks Bad Habits, Makes Good Habits

    On Saturday, August 02 nd, 2008
    Parenting is the composing, the performing, of music, song upon song. Musicians play one right note after the next right note after the next right note. It’s not an erratic splattering of sound, a fickle, helter-skelter banging of random notes. Music has order. It is composed. Notes are intentional, considered, deliberate. “Forty-five percent of what
  • Sing

    On Wednesday, July 23 rd, 2008
    Gathering around Mom V.’s grave on Monday, it was repeatedly mentioned how Mom sang hymns while she worked. A way of choosing her view. From Laddie, by Gene Stratton Porter: “I don’t remember that I have ever passed that house without someone singing,” he said. “Does it go on all the time?” “Yes, unless Mother
  • How to Write a Life Story

    On Thursday, July 03 rd, 2008
    “Not much time left, really.” My father’s voice on the other end of the line reminds me of my grandfather’s, determined, sure. It’s been nearly ten years since I heard that voice, but here it is again on a Sunday morning, me making beds before church, Dad making his customary Sunday morning call. “At best,
  • Living in His Heart

    On Wednesday, June 25 th, 2008
    I have meandered through the city for nearly a week, but I haven’t figured out why I’ve come really, what I am doing here. This pervasive, quiet ache awakens me to what I hadn’t fully known: I am lost. True, I know the street I am staying on, the way down the cobblestone streets of
  • Third Birthday

    On Monday, June 16 th, 2008
    (Notes from this weekend…) She slides close in the coming light and I bury my head in her tendrils, damp and tangled, this night halo she wears through dreamworlds. And then I remember. Today (I can hardly breathe) is the last day. Tenderly sweeping back these gold strands from around her face, I watch her
  • Common Stones

    On Friday, June 06 th, 2008
    Our shadows stretch us long across this field, us bent low, rock pickers combing earth. This is spring’s song. Always has been, as long as I can remember. It’s what I know and what those before knew, what those now coming are coming to know. The ground moans after winter’s weight, working stones to the
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