in the love of Christ

Late-night social media scrolling left me staring at a family photo that looked slightly like my own. Striking East African features blended with a hazel eye and fair complexion on the countenance of a sweet toddler just loving his ethnically diverse parents full-heartedly.  I looked down at my own nursing baby. What will she know of her mother’s mother’s homeland? Will she be asked the same questions I have faced in my life? Will she know that most blonde-haired babies don’t swallow mouthfuls of injera with delight?  This little corner of the internet looked a lot like me with commenters that looked just like me sharing culturally ambiguous names. So, I wondered, Is this where I belong?  When we moved abroad to Ireland, I was questioned by a colleague about my intercultural experience.  It was assumed that, because I came from the United States of America and spoke with a twinge of a southern accent, I must not be “cultured” and would need help navigating intercultural conversations. 

The dormant things are coming to life, waking up in the warmth of our days. The sour smell of the Bradford pears and the chorus of birds coming in through the back door remind me this morning that Spring is not only coming but blossoming here. Getting the yard and garden ready for all that spring, summer, and fall will hold is our main task for today. It’s one thing to know that you have a job to do and it’s another thing to put on your shoes and go do it. I stepped into the backyard to answer my husband’s questions about where each garden bed should go and re-starting our compost when I looked up at the fence line. We both stood there, hands on our hips, contemplating what will stay and what has to be pruned back or uprooted. The warmth and the water have started something that is not easy to stop. The vines cover everything and new, infantile trees are reaching for the sun. They are all so beautiful when well placed and tended. But, this morning, they are a mess. And so am I. Weeks o

Last night was a tragedy. I’m sure that the presidential debate sparked many feelings across the board for every person in this country. Even people watching internationally had to feel some kind of guttural response to what they were seeing. The behavior from both sides was, at the most, un-presidential. I get a little nauseous thinking of how many people actually thought it went well or there was a “winner” at all.   But, as I sat there watching and considering turning the TV off, the moderator asked a question point blank of the president of this country. He point-blank asked him to denounce white supremacy. Each second after that question that the president of the United States of America did not give a clear answer was like an eon for me. I waited and waited and then both his opponent and the moderator re-asked the question to put it plainly. His response sounded more like the commands of a general to stand back and stand by for some future interaction than a man who was condemnin

We all change. I just folded another load of laundry and realized that, at some point, the way I fold towels has changed. There used to be one - and only one - way to fold a towel in my life. You hold it up, fold in one third onto the middle third then the last third onto that to make one long panel that you would fold twice on top of itself. That...sounds ridiculous when I write it out but that is the way it was! I looked down at my stack of towels today and realized these towels look nothing like my pristinely folded towels of early marriage. Why did I change my pattern? Have I gotten lazy and this is less intensive? Or did my circumstances change? Have we bought towels of different shapes recently? Yes! I see it now. My little window sill in our Irish bathroom with just enough ledge to hold our towels and no cabinet space to be found. I changed my technique to fit that window sill because no one wants to run down the hall to the hot press (hall closet...kindof) naked and

I have been looking to my left, through the wide windows of our bedroom turned in-home office, for three weeks now. I think it has been three weeks. Four weeks may have already passed uncounted by my occupied mind. So, I am sitting down to take an inventory within. From the sounds of my conversations and the looks of our social media feeds, it is clear that none of us really know if we are doing this season of life correctly. There is certainly a sense some days that we made it through work at home, church from home, school at home, physical distancing and social connection where able with a sense of accomplishment and gratitude. But, there are other days that feel so unsettled, unaccomplished and uncertain that I can only cling to the command to take heart in Jesus. I have tried to be careful what I share publicly - there are so many feelings and opinions. Reluctantly, we shared that we are expecting another baby because at 20 weeks on the fourth pregnancy (I write fourth

I had spent time in the bible for the first time in years as a seventeen year old girl completely overwhelmed by how much good news there was to read in this leather bound book with my full name printed in the bottom right corner of the cover. This gift had always been precious to me but had collected dust for a while. It was becoming the lifeline I did not realize my soul needed. I quickly quipped a scripture from the book of Romans in the New Testament that I had been rolling around in my head to a leader from church. We were discussing some hard things happening and I said, “Oh but we know that God is working in all things for the good of those who love Him!” Papa Gary looked back at me and said, “and have been called according to His purpose. Don’t ever forget there’s more to that verse. You have to look at the whole promise.” For days - maybe years - that rolled and cycled in my head and my heart. The whole promise? What’s the difference? Wait, for whom will God work