I got to spend two beautiful evenings with my Grandma in the week before she died in October. While I held her hand and listened to her stories, and then to her breathing when she couldn’t speak anymore, I was flooded with memories. 

For more than 800 days, the Earth has been spinning its way around the sun, shining in spite of my sister’s death, but I struggled to see it. The sun and moon came and went, and I struggled to feel anything other than the sting of injustice at a world without her. 

“Overdrawn,” I thought, as I drove out of the city. “I feel like my whole life is overdrawn.” 

Weather was at the front of my minds as I headed out to the lake this summer with four kids in tow while my husband was away working. 

Being here is so much harder than it seems. 

Curiosity is not my first response. The little voice is so imploring: “Is there just one more packet of seeds in this drawer, Mommy? I just need to plant one more packet of seeds.” I am making dinner, on a timeline, and the combination of little hands in the junk drawer and the garden boxes raises my blood pressure. I just want to finish cooking. Who has time for curiosity?

Joy is an Easter feeling and a virtue in my faith tradition. For reasons fairly obvious to me, it is not the leading line in any description anyone would ever write about me. 

Healing was not the invitation I was expecting when I showed up at church several weeks ago. 

Softening is a curious thing. We soften water, counteracting metals and minerals that stain and damage our clothing. We soften edges, to prevent slivers and injuries. We soften butter, to stop it from tearing through bread. 

Fluffy snow covered the sidewalk when I opened the garage door to leave for work.