There is a basic qualification to be a volunteer Storm Spotter for the National Weather Service, and it is blessedly simple: Look up. Were anything more technical asked of me, I would not have taken the class; but as it is, I already spend a lot of time watching the sky. It turns out that … Continue reading Look Up
A True Story from Home To me, Mrs. Olave Thurston was the lady in my grandpa’s stories---as if she was another Ma Ingalls or Miss Rumphius. When we ate chicken for dinner, Papa would tell how Mrs. Thurston raised, butchered, and boiled her own. When spring came and I cut fresh flowers for the table, … Continue reading Gravestone Flowers
I saw you all honey-haired in the golden light of the cattle stall, like motes of lit dust in the world--- little, but alive with the breath of God Himself and watching the cow heave and steam and give her milk between your fingers, as your own mama had given hers to you, and as … Continue reading Dust Motes
On Waiting, Hunting, & Courtship “Come back and see us,” she said. “We’ll be here.” And as we turned in our coats to go, she caught me once more: “And enjoy yourselves. Have fun.” This was just after she’d said she was bored of bingo, and couldn’t they offer more activities for the long, dark … Continue reading Late In Time
"Celebration is one of the most effective weapons we have against the darkness of our day. When we celebrate, we proclaim the fact there is still good in the world because God is still faithful." ~ Sally Clarkson And other things that made me happy in November: Two bowls of autumn squash soup Driving a … Continue reading Sunday Afternoons, Sweet Potatoes, & Rolls
I've learned he is not like the moon, thumb-printed by shadow one night, then full and yellow as a harvest, then gone altogether on the thirteenth of November. He himself cannot be tempted or tilted or touched by the shadows cast by something bigger, because he himself is that Sun, and we are the thing … Continue reading Equinox
"Time to get up." His voice cut into my sleep like soft butter, a corner of my mattress dipping beneath him, a hand on my ankle, frost in the corners of the window, crumbs in the corners of my eyes, a pink sun kissing the bare treeline, he in a white dress shirt saying, "Little … Continue reading Talitha Cumi
A True Story from Home There it was, lying in a black case on the quilt like a closed casket. “Well, open it,” she said quietly. I unhitched the clasps and cracked it open to see a dark violin lying in green velvet. It was coated in dust and rosin, its strings were frayed, and … Continue reading The Butcher’s Violin
"The Vinedresser uses pruning shears, not a chain saw. He's not going to work on everything all at once... He's not going to teach you everything about himself. But something about who he is and what he says to you can make a decisive difference in some challenge you are facing right now." ~ David … Continue reading Ozark Hills & the Grace of Octobers
In response to my Papa Larry's poem: "Just One More Time" Remember what Eliot wrote, that “What might have been and what has been Point to one end, which is always present” And so your “have-beens” of driftwood fires near the sea Are, dear Papa, my present. Might I remind you-- Time is like the … Continue reading Always Present
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