The small country church where our family worships every Sunday turned 125 years old this summer. We celebrated with a pageant, picnics, and an old-fashioned “hymn sing” under a big white tent. We lingered long over tables, while our children ran unending circles around a church tucked into the crook of a farm field.…
A beautiful woman sat across the table from me every week throughout our study on the Book of James. I spied on her, sneaking glances over the top of my workbook as she tilted her head and flipped through the Scriptures with carefree ease. It was as if she could find Ezra as easily as Genesis. I noticied that she had one of those fancy…
Our nine-year-old has been practicing her smile for two days now. School pictures are this morning.
She set out her shirt last night, along with a matching hair-clip and cubic-zirconia earrings. These things, she could plan for. But that smile? She’s not sure what will happen when the photographer snaps the shutter.…
I was standing at the bathroom mirror, combing through wet locks, when the telephone rang.
Jan, a widow from town, had dialed my number. I could hear the sorrow in her quiet “hello.” The men had rung her church’s bell for the very last time, and they were lowering it from the tower. It would never ring here…
It’s tough letting her grow big. But there she goes.
This mama is stuck here, all spectator-like on life’s bleachers, begging God to make the sun stand still. I’d like one more day of Little, please.
It’s not her first date, for crying-out-loud. So what’s with me?
It’s just a tooth. Her first tooth fell out. That’s all. I repeat:…
I open my eyes to see digital numbers cutting through the dark, a steady red in the blackness. The bedroom clock reports that it’s 5:50 a.m., an hour earlier than I usually rise on a dark winter morning.
My husband still slumbers. Our blankets rise and fall with each breath. Outside, these farm fields hibernate under a white…
I ask the world’s most obvious question: “All right, who did this?”
I jab a finger at the letters carved into the back of the wooden kitchen chair:
A N N A.
Anna’s older sister chimes in first, rolling her eyes for dramatic effect. “I recognize those backwards Ns anywhere,” she says.
Anna’s fork falls with a guilty clink…