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 …
Faith
When You Water a Garden
Sometimes I need the pause that comes from having to water the garden. We have no fancy drip system or sprinklers since we're just renting. Soon we'll move and dig up these plants and take them with us. Maybe in our new home we'll have a more efficient way of keeping them alive but for today I'm slave to the long snaking hose, hot from the sun. My mom usually waters. But she's on vacation and has entrusted me to keep her plants alive. We're co-owners of this garden. But she's the boss, the one …
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 …
