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Leaving Home

What we call the beginning is often the end And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from. ~ T.S. Eliot, "Little Gidding"   The men are laying new vinyl today. “Do you want the seam here… or there?” asks the one in charge. And I’m thinking,...

Desire And Longing

The story I want to tell you is not mine to write and yet, to write my story is to write hers. We're knit together, she and I, not by blood or by marriage but by Jesus who makes families from nothing but willing hearts. My family is stretching and all the stretching is painful....

The Strange Gift Of Not Yet

In a town called Liberty, we lived with our door wide open for years. Friends and neighbors in and out. Impromptu movie nights, babysitting swaps, birthdays, and BBQs. Our small house couldn’t hold them all at times, so our parties trailed out of doors. We belonged, and from that gift, we helped others belong. Then...

Offering

 I didn't used to like poetry. I wrote abominable verse as a teenager (what literary teenage girl doesn't?), but poetry was something we studied in school, something teachers asked you hard questions about, questions like, "What is the symbolism of the bird in this poem?", questions you didn't dare to answer because you might be...

This Place Is Home

The sky held its peace through spring this year. Crab apple blossoms fragranced the neighborhood then succumbed to gentle rain, petals fallen but still white. Summer, however, refuses to let the leftover thunder go to waste. From my desk by the window, I watch the sky fling torrents on the park-like expanse of my neighbors’...

Panzanella Salad

  When Kris announced that "Roots and Sky", written by Christie Purifoy, would be this year's book for our Summer Reading Book Club, I was thrilled. Having read the book, I can speak to the way Christie opens her heart and home to the reader, how you can picture Maplehurst, and see the rooms and...

Secondhand Homes

Every spring when the snowball bush and the poppies begin to bloom, I think of Mrs. Grimsic. I wonder how old was she when she planted these flowers. And did anyone help her in the flower garden, or was it time she spent by herself to sift through her thoughts?     When Mrs. Grimsic passed away,...

Leaving Home

What we call the beginning is often the end And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from. ~ T.S. Eliot, "Little Gidding"   The men are laying new vinyl today. “Do you want the seam here… or there?” asks the one in charge. And I’m thinking, I don’t care. I won’t be living with it. This will no longer my home....

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Desire And Longing

The story I want to tell you is not mine to write and yet, to write my story is to write hers. We're knit together, she and I, not by blood or by marriage but by Jesus who makes families from nothing but willing hearts. My family is stretching and all the stretching is painful. Placing one twin bed with one beloved quilt at the end of a noisy hall...

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When the Spacious Place Feels Claustrophobic

“Gardens are born in winter. Not only in fireside dreams, but also in the messy work of tending small pots on sunny windowsills. And in the harsh work of planting seeds in cold soil. On those still wintry days, the wind makes us regret we have traded our fleece mittens for gardening gloves. But if we wait for promising weather to sow our seeds, we will never taste the sweet...

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The Strange Gift Of Not Yet

In a town called Liberty, we lived with our door wide open for years. Friends and neighbors in and out. Impromptu movie nights, babysitting swaps, birthdays, and BBQs. Our small house couldn’t hold them all at times, so our parties trailed out of doors. We belonged, and from that gift, we helped others belong. Then one day we decided to move. Our new home was bigger and more suited for...

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Offering

 I didn't used to like poetry. I wrote abominable verse as a teenager (what literary teenage girl doesn't?), but poetry was something we studied in school, something teachers asked you hard questions about, questions like, "What is the symbolism of the bird in this poem?", questions you didn't dare to answer because you might be wrong. How were you supposed to know what the bird symbolized? You were only 15....

10 2
This Place Is Home

The sky held its peace through spring this year. Crab apple blossoms fragranced the neighborhood then succumbed to gentle rain, petals fallen but still white. Summer, however, refuses to let the leftover thunder go to waste. From my desk by the window, I watch the sky fling torrents on the park-like expanse of my neighbors’ backyards. For over eleven years, beginning before reality television made small houses a trend, I contentedly...

4 1
Panzanella Salad

  When Kris announced that "Roots and Sky", written by Christie Purifoy, would be this year's book for our Summer Reading Book Club, I was thrilled. Having read the book, I can speak to the way Christie opens her heart and home to the reader, how you can picture Maplehurst, and see the rooms and the grounds. It is a beautiful book, one that deserves to be savored. I asked...

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Secondhand Homes

Every spring when the snowball bush and the poppies begin to bloom, I think of Mrs. Grimsic. I wonder how old was she when she planted these flowers. And did anyone help her in the flower garden, or was it time she spent by herself to sift through her thoughts?     When Mrs. Grimsic passed away, her son was left to sell the family home. Built in 1950, new construction was...

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A Journey Home: Book Club Begins Now

Our lives are stories built of small moments. ~Christie Purifoy   Home. When we talk about home the word itself usually brings an image or feeling to mind almost immediately. As people who spend a lot of time talking about hospitality, this word carries a weight that connects us to our communities and how we share (or don't share) our home with others, by way of inviting, feeding, providing shelter, and even,...

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It’s That Simple And That Difficult

For the last few weeks, I've been attending a book study at my church. It's a small book we're reading, but the physical size of the book is deceptive, as the content is difficult and multilayered, and not nearly as black and white as one might hope it to be. The book in part, deals with how we love and accept (or don't) those who may be very different from...

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