Posts tagged "authenticity at the table"

The Joy of Remaining and Watermelon

This summer has been marked by rhythms which are a bit off beat. Perhaps they are syncopated, mostly beautiful, but different. As women we establish routines and traditions, often following the seasons and the calendar as we make our life within our family and home. Our old normal, the paradigm we grew accustomed to when our children were young was one of embracing summer, racing headlong into the three month...

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Recovering From Busy

Since cracking open Shelly Miller's book, Rhythms of Rest, I've been captivated by learning about the gift of Sabbath that I've been missing out on all my life. I've also been confronting my busyness. Why do I stay so busy? And why do I fake being busy when I'm not? Why do I resist rest? If I'm being honest, I'm so busy because a lot of times it's just easier that...

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The Table Of Suffering

She lost her baby that fall. It was early in the pregnancy, but there had already been celebrations and joy at the positive test. Then there was blood and aching and sorrows that sliced them open. Our baby came two months later, the little girl we were planning to adopt. And it was too early. Way too early. I sat in a NICU holding her impossibly small hand and praying...

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On Rest And Resistance

We sit on the deck overlooking the mountains, my girls blowing bubbles around me in a swirl of iridescent colors. The air is damp, a breeze shifts the bubbles this direction, then that way. The evening is as close to perfect as I could have imagined, watching the sun slip behind a veil of thick clouds, then beneath the horizon, Still, the knot wedged between my shoulder blades refuses to...

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The Power of a Friend Who Helps You Find Rest

I recently finished studying the book of Ruth with some women from my church.  We talked about all of those beautiful themes of salvation woven throughout Ruth. But as I studied these two lines from Naomi struck me: But Naomi said to her two daughters-in-law, “Go, return each of you to her mother's house. May the LORD deal kindly with you, as you have dealt with the dead and with...

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On Rest And Going Slow

“ Mom, what’s for dinner? Will dad be home? Is there going to be garlic? You know I don’t like garlic!” Questions pinged one after the other from the backseat of our suburban as I shuffled my girls home from ballet class. I ran through the evening’s logistics in my head, unsure of how to answer. Would Josh’s meeting run late or would he join us for dinner tonight? How...

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Always a Baker, Never a Bride

I’ve named 2017 ‘the year of weddings.’ I’m told that everyone has seasons like this, but it’s a first for me. Over the span of six weeks, four of the most influential women in my life are getting married, each in a different state from New England across to Southern California. I’m maid of honor, cake baker, chalice bearer, and candy maker. But as a single woman who has never...

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Learning to Live the Interruptions

In the last few weeks my heart has taken to skipping beats again. The lub dub lub dub that pounds faithfully hour after hour now has a new rhythm. Like a jump start, a thick thud lands in my chest, sometimes making me cough like someone has thumped their first against my sternum. I had tests done a couple years ago when this first started happening. Blood work, EKG’s and...

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The Art We Make at the Table

This is a story of two tables. The first is round. The wood is dark, and the square pedestal is cracked. We bought the table as newlyweds. We spent weeks hunting for chairs to match. The six chairs we found were always a little wobbly, but the warm, wood color was just right. It needed sixteen years, but we did, eventually, grow to fill those chairs. Jonathan and myself. Two...

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The Crooked Path Towards Faith

In December 2006, I jumped into the River Cherwell, a river in Oxford, England, that crosses University Parks on the north side of town. It was the end of our study abroad semester and a few friends and I had the wild idea to jump off a low bridge into the water on one of our last days of class. We were twenty years old and had survived a semester...

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