I am excited to be reading in Listen To Your Mother again this spring! It’s a wonderful show designed “to take the audience on a well-crafted journey that celebrates and validates mothering through giving voice to motherhood–in all of its complexity, diversity, and humor.”
After spending too much time putting together my piece for last year’s show, (more…)
He came home from work with a blue paper plate of chocolate chip cookies. The kids greeted Daddy with a hug and their eyes got big as they took in the dessert. We would save it in the cupboard until suppertime.
I returned to washing dishes and the kids returned to playing legos in their room. My belly kept bumping against the edge of the sink, thirty-nine and a half weeks pregnant as I was. Rinsing the dishes, my mind hearkened to the blue plate in the cabinet (more…)
It’s the end of a long day and I’m 36 weeks pregnant. The thought of cool sheets on my round belly sounds sublime.
But one last thing: flick the light on in the hallway, tiptoe over to bunk beds.
Heave myself gently over the side rail that keeps my two-year-old from rolling onto the floor. He is a little jelly bean in the center of a vast bed, (more…)
This week it’s Psalm 65 that I can’t shake: Happy are those I choose and bring near to live in my courts. They shall be satisfied with the goodness of my house, my holy temple.
I picture myself hauling sleeping bag and kids down the road to camp out at church and see them begging me to sleep in the baptistery. Don’t think that’s quite what the Psalmist had in mind, but the words keep bumping against me, boat rocking next to dock.
I’m reading Jen Hatmaker’s book, “7: An Experimental Mutiny Against Excess”, and she experiments for seven months with different areas of her life—eating only 7 food items one month, wearing only 7 articles of clothing the next, giving away 7 possessions a day. Sacrifice and fasting are not the first books I pull off the spiritual shelf, but since Hatmaker is a hilarious 36-year-old mom from Texas, I figure she’s probably not somebody naturally on the Franciscan path either. Maybe we have something in common.
Her words startle me: (more…)
No one would ever accuse me of having big hair.
Does that make it little? Grumpy people call it thin. Baby-fine is another good word; sounds sweet and wispy.
Of course I could wear a wig or have some extensions put in. But the actual hair, the protein sprouting out of holes in my scalp—no amount of homeopathic pill-popping or nightly brushing or schmancy-poo will change it.
My mum tells a story, “When I was a teenager this girl whispered to her friend behind me at church, loudly so I could hear, ‘Look at her hair! It’s so thin and full of split-ends.’” There is still emotion in her voice.
I look at photographs of my stunning mother and wonder why she even noticed her hair, everything about her being completely gorgeous. But she still got the tattoo with a red heart that read AWESOME HAIR. Since I was her biggest fan I ordered up a similar one, along with a few originals of my own. I used to say, When I get to heaven, I’ll have long, thick, gorgeous hair, and sweet shoe-advertisement-worthy toes, and skin that tans golden without burning.
I’m sure that’s what Jesus had in mind when he said that he was going to prepare a place for me. (more…)