She curls her body into mine, as tightly pressed as she can get. She is all flannel nightie and coconut shampoo and girl. They fight for space with Mom in the middle, each flanking me and claiming a side. He wraps one tiny arm around my belly and grins. It’s his favorite spot, tucked into my squish. He rests his chin on my arm and looks up at me through thick brown lashes. The kind girls dream of having and this charmer has gotten used to batting at me for “just 5 more minutes, Mama.” I let the …
dreams
Hope Planted
My mother is a gardener. She grows dreams from tiny seeds. Plants hope in small furrows of soil as black as coffee grounds. Each time she drops one into the ground her hands wave the soil gently over them like she’s tucking them in for the night under the midnight earth. Sometimes her face gets dreamy when she looks out at the poppies’ dancing faces waving to her in the breeze, and I think this must be her lullaby. A place to rest. The ground has taught her patience during the times when …
The God of Found Things
I have some big news and for those who read my last newsletter (The God of Lost Things) you'll really get why. If you haven't and want to subscribe or read the last one in the archives you can do that here--> Enter your email addresspowered by TinyLetter I may have been a child, traipsing about with the Himalayas as my backdrop. I sang worship songs in a circle, my crisscrossed chicken legs splayed out in every direction. God was both nebulous and near. A common Holy thing. As …
