Be Still
Earlier this winter I started participating in our church’s weekly women’s group, which was finishing up The Gifts of Imperfection by Brené Brown.
Prayer
Scratching in the Cat Box of My Mind
Howard Thurman writes, “In the stillness of the quiet, if we listen, we can hear the whisper of the heart giving strength to weakness, courage to fear, hope to despair.”
Does this bag make me look holy?
We need to talk about getting out the door to church on Sunday morning.
Retreat before the Miracle
Growing up, I remember the season of Lent as one of reflection and contemplation. Somewhere in young adulthood, the season lost its peacefulness for me.
Hand Me Down Treasures
She is clothed with strength and dignity,and she laughs without fear of the future. —Proverbs 31:25, NLT
Morning Prayers and Giving Thanks, Courtesy of Harry Potter
A couple of Saturdays ago, my oldest son and I trekked into the heart of San Francisco for a visit to one of the most iconic Episcopal churches, Grace Cathedral.
Who do I count as my child?
The other day at work, I had a routine interaction with a coworker that left me feeling unsettled. The woman is new to my organization, and we had an orientation meeting so I could provide an overview of the projects I work on that will overlap with hers.
The Holiest Invitation of All
Last month, I gathered with a group of women communicators for a five-day retreat in northern Idaho. We’d been together over Zoom calls for several months by that point, but found ourselves itchy for a little face-to-face interaction.
Talking to God with Teresa of Avila
A priest friend once confessed to me that he had been years out of seminary before he realized that, throughout his life, he had spent all of his time talking about God rather than to God. He had been excited by the idea of God, by all the accoutrements around worship, and by the call to justice. In all his excitement, it took some time before he realized that he had missed the central piece.
I love you. Thank you.
They sit in their carseats, next to one another holding hands. The palest caucasion skin of anyone in the family, enfolding the brown hand of his Hispanic little brother. “Are they both yours?” The woman meeting us for the first time asks. “Yes,” I reply, but she wants more. “How did you get that black haired one?” “Same way I got the blond haired one.”
