Photo by Rod Long on Unsplash There was a googly eye in my sock this morning. Not on it, in it. How does that happen? I have no idea. And there’s the mysterious (occasional) disappearance of hand soap from the soap bottles. I found out just yesterday that it
I pictured a house in the country. A place I called home. A home where I would raise my children. I pictured carving their names in a large old tree outside and notch their heights in the trim inside. I pictured them growing up, watching myself and my husband age.
“Jesus looked up and saw the rich putting their gifts into the offering box, and he saw a poor widow put in two small copper coins. And he said, ‘Truly, I tell you, this poor widow has put in more than all of them. For they all contributed out of
When I was little and the days grew short and cool, I had to come in when it got dark. I hated coming in early. Still gritty with dirt and sticky from pine sap in the woods, I would plop on the stairs and wriggle my tennis shoes off and
“Beloved, do not be surprised at the fiery trial when it comes upon you to test you, as though something strange were happening to you. But rejoice insofar as you share Christ’s sufferings, that you may also rejoice and be glad when his glory is revealed” (1 Peter 4: