The other day a dear writer I’ve come to admire shared a brief Twitter post suffixed with the hashtag of #AndThatsHowIGotThisScar. She recounts through a series of essays how she got her scar one Sunday in the City. It’s haunting and harrowing. But it is a beautiful description of transformation.
We need to stop living in a bubble. When I hear commentators ask how to stop the carnage like the one that happened in Florida on Valentine’s Day, I shudder because to every believer, the answer is very clear. Sin is the culprit. Not guns, not laws, not circumstance, but sin.
On bilingualism, language, and writing with abandon
It is a fight to write. The time it takes to settle my thoughts in front of a blank page when the urge is there and ready but my mind is exhausted from the busy-ness of the homeschool. I live the unconventional modality of the stay-at-home mom, or the work-from-home mom—my children are not shuttled to schools for long hours in the day. Nevertheless, I force myself to start new projects or continue existing ones, measuring all waking hours, making allowances for domestic tasks to go to perdition for just a little while.
When isolation from those we love draws us closer to God
We don’t always agree with those in our immediate sphere of influence, do we? As the world becomes too loud and boisterous, too polarized, I’m finding myself needing to mend my vexed spirit. How can I keep my planted feet from fighting the urge to mobilize, to keep my mouth from speaking clumsily, to keep my heart from going astray? I don’t agree with a lot of what Christianity today looks like; it’s become unrecognizable to me. I don’t know what Christianity looks like anymore.
In isolation, God sees us, and there we begin to know Him more deeply
I recently left my town to travel about 300 miles north to pick up my eldest son from my in-laws’ house. He was there for an extended visit—about a month—and my mom and I journeyed to pick him up and bring him home. Suffice to say, the trip did me well.