We know very little about her story. All we really know is that she sinned. She was caught and she was about to die. Not really an experience any of us strive for. Not a legacy that we hope to leave. But this piece of her story—this is all we know of her. The scene is set: Jesus has spent some time away at the Mount of Olives. Early in the morning, He comes down to the temple and the Bible says, “All the people came to him, and he sat down and taught them.” As he is teaching, the scribes and . . .
The blinking cursor on my blank document seems particularly demanding this morning. I had a piece written last week that was set to go out today, but every time I think to click “Publish,” I know in my spirit that it’s the wrong move. So I return to the blank document with the boldly blinking cursor that asks: WHAT. WILL. YOU. SAY. I cannot publish a post this week that doesn’t speak to what has happened in Charlottesville. Silence is loud in events like this one. As I wrote on my social . . .
Last Wednesday, I shared a piece that felt particularly vulnerable and scary. Shortly after I hit "Publish" was when I got scared, flipped out, cried, and decided never to write another word again. Sometimes writing brings out the irrational in me. What unfolded, however, was this really beautiful sense of community. It was the kind of thing I write for. I was so encouraged by your own stories, your messages, and the many of you offering a brave and gracious, "me too." You've reminded me why . . .
I recently listened to Anne Lamott’s TED Talk about the 12 things she’s learned from life and writing. Anne says, “Go outside a lot and look up. My pastor said you can trap bees on the bottom of mason jars without lids because they don't look up, so they just walk around bitterly bumping into the glass walls. Go outside. Look up. Secret of life.” Last weekend, my husband and I went for a walk through a beautiful wooded area near our home. Twenty four hours earlier, I had learned that I am . . .
I hate peas. There, I said it. I cannot stand peas. I think they are disgusting, both on their own and mixed with other ingredients in a dish. A few weeks ago, I made a recipe that called for peas. Being the rule follower that I am, I bought a bag of peas and included them in the dish. That evening, while having dinner with my husband, I was complaining incessantly about how much the peas were ruining my entire culinary experience. “Why did you include them in the recipe?” My logical . . .
I arrived at the restaurant first and sat down at a table that gave me a view of the door, hoping I would recognize him when he walked in. It was our first date—a blind one. We had seen photos of each other and emailed back and forth, but this was the first time I would see him in the flesh. My nerves were frayed. When he walked in, I stood up, suddenly realizing that I hadn’t planned how I would greet him. Without much thought, I opened my arms wide as I stepped towards him. I imagine I . . .