“You,” my Mom looks at me with a blend of certainty and empathy in her face, “are so much like me.” “Moooom,” I whine as I roll my eyes, “I knooooow.” I couldn’t possibly have kept track of how many times I’ve heard my Mom tell me this in my 30+ years. Typically, it wasn’t a welcomed comment on my end, probably because my Mom usually tells me about our similarities when I’m being stubborn; in the depths of my stubbornness is not the time for me to ponder generational resemblances, . . .
Merry Christmas a little late! Happy New Year a little early! It's that somewhat awkward week between holidays, when the days seem to run together; some of us continue our vacation and others of us go to work in body while still vacationing in mind. I'm doing a little bit of work, a little bit of rest, and a little bit of dreaming & scheming for this next year. I am feeling the anticipation of a fresh new year while consciously trying not to overload myself with grand plans and to-do's . . .
Today marks one year since my husband and I arrived in Dayton, Ohio, with the ink still drying on our marriage license and everything we owned thoughtfully stuffed into a U-Haul truck. We’d traveled through 12 states in one month; although we were happy to finally be in one place for a while, those feelings were countered with a dim reality: This isn’t home. Even though we would be unpacking our belongings and settling in to this new town, it really wasn’t home—not immediately, anyway. That . . .
Greetings from Seattle! My husband and I are traveling in western Washington this week, visiting our friends and family. Already, the time here has been so sweet. I can't wait to share more when I'm home. And I will! But enough about me—let's meet Katie! So here's something that makes me so excited about life. If you haven't heard (seen) me say (write) it before, one of the primary reasons I tell my stories is to connect with other people in their experiences of grace, grief, hope, delight, . . .
This week, I have been reminiscing on the significance of places. I dug up these few paragraphs I had written in January, and have added to them as my husband and I prepare to travel back to a familiar place in a few days. I have been in this room countless—literally, countless—times in my life. I was probably only days old the first time I ever entered this room. Almost 32 years later, this room is still one I sit in from time to time. It is the sanctuary of the small church in the . . .
When I woke up on the same Saturday that Darren speaks to here (but two hours later than he did), I shuffled out into the living room, my eyes still opening and my bedhead reaching new heights, to see him writing. He acknowledged me but kept on typing, as if he could not get the words out fast enough. (As a writer, few things make me more envious than that.) I love that he writes to process big feelings. I appreciate that he wants to be a part of what I am doing here, and that he is willing to . . .