Sometimes, usually when I’m in the kitchen, I find myself thinking about my great-grandma Minerva, Papa Jay’s mom, who had a tight, little face, wore her black hair in a bun, and made him biscuits and gravy from scratch every morning. Papa is getting to an age when he can’t remember things well or often, … Continue reading A Long Line of Quiet Women
I used to go to church with a lady who got teary-eyed on September 11th, remembering how her husband could have easily flown as a pilot for United that day in 2001. As the Lord would have it, her husband wasn't working that morning, but Flight 93 that crashed in Shanksville, Pennsylvania was a plane … Continue reading Where Were You?
We saved pickling for the hottest afternoons in July, letting the big round thermometer beneath Papa Jay’s sunroom swing well over 90, the humidity souping up like the moss on his pond. It was a big job, with loads of cucumbers to harvest between our garden and Papa’s. Over a few weeks, Mom would save … Continue reading Pickling Day
They showed a map on TV the other night that over her lifetime, U.S. swimmer Katie Ledecky has nearly swum the circumference of the earth. She may as well have swum to Paris for the Olympics, I thought. But I wondered if all her training had felt that way---if, with each stroke, she felt herself … Continue reading Two Good Legs
On Dangerous Hospitality One of the first chapter books I owned was a little paperback my dad bought for me, called The Watchmaker’s Daughter. It must have been a child’s adaptation of Corrie ten Boom’s story in The Hiding Place, which I wouldn’t read until I was old enough to brave it. I loved Corrie. … Continue reading Hiding Place
For Joel & NatalieA Blessing for Their House May you live like you’re young in this house that’s older than you,old as the trees,old like the bell steeple on Main Street,and the railroad that runs with the river west to the town where Dad was born. May you not erase the aging lines of this place, which … Continue reading Remember
In the days that trudged between long marches and grueling battles, it’s said that George Washington would write home to Mount Vernon about the way he wished things to look there. I think he found a reprieve from the war in thinking about his home and directing how his servants should situate things, like the … Continue reading A Good Man
The cicadas have come, like a thousand sirens in the trees. I was ten last time they emerged from the ground en masse, littering the grass and molting on every tree. I was still wearing my brothers’ basketball shorts and running around sticking the bug shells on peoples’ shirts after church. I remember how we … Continue reading Year of the Locust
A True Story from Home April is young, and I’m in my garden as often as I can be. Today, I have company. My nephew, Bennett, is kneeling in the zucchini patch beside a Red Ryder wheelbarrow. He asked if he could help, so he’s weeding the clover that crept up in early March, tossing … Continue reading A Garden in Babylon
A True Story from Home Last February was gray and long, as the lean months before spring tend to be when winter feels old. But in my mailbox on Edgewood Road, there was something new: letters from Jared about what he hoped to plant in his garden that spring. He wrote of marigolds and tomatoes. … Continue reading When You Come Marchin’ Home
bethanyjlincks.com 