Talking about race is a bit like opening those school lunch milk cartons: No matter our approach, stuff spills out awkwardly. This is my experience, at least, as a member of a biracial family unit. Joining my Redbud writing sisters today in the February issue of the Redbud Post, as we tussle with the absolute … Continue reading Biracial Belonging
The holidays spilled into unexpected and unwanted territory for me this year. These first few steps into a new calendar feel less like a clean slate and more like a post-Christmas yard sale. I suspect I'm not alone. Click here for my story at the Mudroom this week.
You know that ache for more? I’ve got it, especially in this season. Thankful to shed some layers at the Mudroom this week . . .
"The sweetness of sugarcane stalks above, numbs me to their anguish below. Unlike my Father, I am slow to hear them, and quick to snap a selfie."
It was a bad hair day that lasted about 20 years . . .
"The knot cinches up tight in my stomach—so tight I can barely breathe." That’s the thing about knots: The harder you pull, the stronger they get. Me? I’ve spent a lifetime pulling.
Jesus . . . was homeless.
My recent run-in . . . left me grounded, under a pile of feathers and melted wax.
Leslie Verner cracks the door open to the connection we crave - at a time we need it the most.
This hamster wheel has left me soul-tired and gasping for breath. Just recently, though, I’ve crashed into something that’s stopped the spinning . . .
