It’s not the obvious reason. The one where I’m actually a mother now. At 36 years old, I’m finally a mom, following many, many years of infertility. That would be a good enough reason to bring back Mother’s Day, I guess. But the real reason is more complicated.
Some people find it difficult to understand why the absence of children causes tangible grief for a woman who wants to be a mom, since there isn’t a physical person to miss. But it is a grief. And it will always be a part of me. Maybe I’ll write more about this some time.
Continue reading “Why I stopped boycotting Mother’s Day”
It was a hipster coffee shop called Thump. They roast their own coffee beans, of course. I bought a bottle of Kombucha because I wanted something cold and because I don’t drink coffee. Don’t ask me how to pronounce it. It promised me strawberry lemonade and delivered an earthy mixture of flavors unfamiliar to my Southern palate. Continue reading “Asking, part 1”
I have never been particularly good at prayer — diligence, faithfulness or even lament. “Prayer warrior” would never make my resume. I’ve known people who are amazing at this. The ones who use a journal or index cards with names for each day of the week. Or pray for an hour each day. Or have a particular place they always pray. I’ve known those people. And felt a sense of awe for them. I long for that kind of discipline. Continue reading “Asking, part 2”
I know I’m supposed to be a cynic. I’m an educated, thinking person. I’ve heard the stories about people who take advantage with their fake signs.
I know I’m not supposed to be moved by the guy standing at the interstate ramp with the sign saying that he and his wife lost everything and just need some help to get back on their feet.
Continue reading “A cynic and a guy with a sign”
A friend recently shared a quote from Paul Miller that I liked. It’s from a book on prayer. “Every minute spent in prayer is one less minute where you can be doing something productive. The act of praying means you have to rely more on God.”
To make space for prayer, we have to stop what we’re doing. But we don’t just stop what we’re doing. We have to stop thinking about all the things we think we need to do. We have to train our minds to be quiet and still before the Lord. It’s a submission. A humility.
Continue reading “Making space for prayer”
“Hey look, it’s our sub!” One student shouted back to the class from the open door. She held the door open for me.
It was surprisingly comforting to find the class in complete pandemonium. It took me a second to confirm that there wasn’t a teacher in sight to hand over the baton. I was on.
Which personality would the day require? Strict disciplinarian — or witty intellectual — or compassionate adult role model? Or all of the above, perhaps?
Continue reading “Taking attendance”
When I met a good friend for breakfast, we shared chai in steel cups. In India, you have to pour it in little bowls to make it cool enough to drink. Then, it gets cold. It’s one, or the other. Piping hot or nearly-refrigerator cold. I prefer a burned tongue.
I should be comfortable with cold tea. I am from the Deep South. My parents don’t know what happened to me. I think I’m the first person ever in the history of my family who doesn’t like sweet, iced tea.
I actually didn’t like even hot tea until I moved to India.
Continue reading “I love Chai”
About 10 women sat in a circle poised to pray. Needy women. With broken families. Broken bodies. Broken marriages. Longings. Pain. Women like me.
One by one, each woman sat in a chair and shared what hurt her heart. Open. Willing to receive. From her sisters. From her God.
I braced myself for the onslaught of needs. I knew I couldn’t meet them. That lesson was deeply entrenched because of God’s work in my heart. I knew I couldn’t meet them, but I was still prepared for them to be overwhelming. Continue reading “A new way to pray”
Here’s the post I deleted from Facebook:
Proofreading an academic paper on child soldiers in The Congo. Man. I need a hug. (I’ve already had an oversized molasses cookie.)
Ugh. I’m a little disgusted to even write it here.
My counselor would say it’s not my fault that children in The Congo are forced to join the army, that they are raped and beaten while I sit in a nice coffee shop uncomfortably cold in the A/C, consuming $5-worth of Peach Ginger tea and an oversized cookie someone else made for me. Continue reading “Being uncomfortable”
A year ago this March, I arrived in the US after spending two years abroad. In India. I spent two years in India. It doesn’t seem real some days, but there are scars you can’t see easily.
One is literally on my skin from the time I had a bump removed and biopsied from my finger. I didn’t think I was brave enough to have a medical procedure done in a foreign country. Would you believe the doctor’s name was Dr. Job — like the guy in the Bible that is known for his suffering? My finger gets tight now when it’s really hot outside. I can’t forget Dr. Job. Continue reading “Scars, Part 1”