On Friday, July 15 th, 2011
I watch you in the kitchen, slicing up a pie, July evening sloping gold across your face. How do you know the moment when you love someone the most? I used to think it was that wild moment of crazy grace when you asked for forever on Reesor’s sideroad and I laughed the wonder of yes. But then the babies came with the contractions and I really did think ...
On Tuesday, May 24 th, 2011
It’s true, you’re the first man I ever kissed, but beginnings aren’t ever really the most important part. The mattering always comes after the persevering, a life time later and at the end, when there’s that last leaning close, the last brushing of the stubble and the scent of your skin, that last lingering kiss. How much older, life-lined will you be then than now? ...
On Friday, April 15 th, 2011
They hadn’t slept tangled under the same cotton for years. She’d howled without a sound in the empty queen in the spare for years, door and soul locked hard. And when the ache had hollowed her all out, Mama filled the nights with piecing shorn threads together, thin, fragile stitches, needle piercing, and I watched when she laid the last of the patches out on...
On Friday, February 11 th, 2011
There’s three on the sill, all open to light, all open for filling, all for what comes just as He gives it, and me just wanting to find corks, even now. Mama said it to me the other night, us sitting in her front room in a ring of lamp light and me ringing the rim of my cup of hot chocolate again, again. Me wondering if I made a wrong turn somewhere and ...
On Wednesday, February 02 nd, 2011
He lays his hand on my bare shoulder. Water drips from the tips of strands tousled and tucked and a rivulet runs down the small of my back. He kisses me dry. :: “I have no idea what to wear.” I’m paying him no mind, standing before the closet with my towel, mumbling words. Hangers clatter. “What you’re wearing is pretty beautiful.” His stubbl...
On Wednesday, January 26 th, 2011
When my Grandma told me to marry a man who wasn’t much to look at so I wouldn’t worry of him wandering, I had nodded ‘cause I loved her. But I confess. I didn’t intend to pay her any mind. I did ask her if she had taken her own advice. She said yes — and my grandfather had slapped the worn knee of his jeans and roared with laughter and I saw it with my own eyes, ...
On Tuesday, December 21 st, 2010
Your words matter. Whether you write, speak, or simply want to connect with the hearts of those you love. My friend, Holley Gerth, and I have been talking and praying about words. How to serve with them. How to use them well. We’re writing our thoughts as a series of letters each Tuesday and we’d love for you to be part of the conversation too. Will you join us? :: ...
On Wednesday, November 24 th, 2010
When I get to her door, it’s after 6:30 and dawn’s breaking rays down rows of the cornfields and I’m already late. Mama’s got a note on her front door that reads in a black scrawl, “Welcome! Come on round. We’re out on the back deck!” Every other Saturday we meet when dawn breaks the day open. We bring Bibles. We are four, one Linda, who is my mama and her name me...
On Tuesday, August 10 th, 2010
Sometimes it takes a man to make a woman. That night he took my face in his hands and kissed me too long in the dark, I was seventeen and he was just a boy. No doubting, we were too young. And I wouldn’t recommend it, just saying how it was and how that smile could drop me, plunge of a rollercoaster, and the rush that flooded veins, torching cheeks. He cause...
On Saturday, June 26 th, 2010
For long walks and wandering words and love on a dime and trails only for two and it really only takes a moment to plan how to light a match and hold hands. I forget. He remembers. And plans can kindle flames hotter than wood split and stacked and dried all summer in sun. ...
On Thursday, June 24 th, 2010
He never reads in this place and he hasn’t read the letter. He does read me. I need to get brave and give him yesterday’s letter. Yesterday he gave me these. He grinned when he said that he had plans. I read him. And I wink.
On Wednesday, June 23 rd, 2010
When I opened the first letter you ever sent me, I was fifteen and the snow was chest high in that village up in the Quebec mountains where I tried to learn how to ski and speak French and make poutine, all of which I only mangled. I tore open into your envelope right there at the post office. I read your lines five times walking the snow piled streets back to the school, my ...