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
One day a few years ago, I stood on the porch of a lady who'd just had surgery. I had both arms wrapped under a brown Aldi bag with jars of soup and a loaf of bread inside, and I was feeling rather small. As the lady's son took the paper bag and I warned … Continue reading Store Bought Hospitality
When I was six years old, my dad took me to visit a man in the hospital whose name was Kirk. Kirk was one of Dad’s closest friends. They had a Paul and Timothy kind of brotherhood, where Kirk had broken free from a stormy past and become one of Dad's greatest mentors in the … Continue reading Visiting Kirk
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
My pastor said last Sunday that it's no mistake where we meet Jesus. I met him at the kitchen table, when I was still small enough to fit on my dad's lap. He had unlatched and pulled the two halves of the table apart, so there was a gap where the leaves might go. On … Continue reading At the Kitchen Table
We read Miss Twiggley’s Tree so many times that both covers tore off, including the final page of the book, which offered the moral of the story. But the last page I had was enough. It pictured the inside of Miss Twiggley’s house, tucked deep in the boughs of a willow tree, where the entire … Continue reading A Set Table in a Safe Tree
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