It’s a sweet sort of symphony listening as they cling less to my fingers and wonder that much louder the whys of the universe, mulling over discoveries of their own with minds made for greatness. Yes, it's the most treasured sort of reward to watch them, full of light and strength, with roots grown deep and thick, flourish out into the space of who they were created to be. And so here I’ll be through their song and blossom, in the background of their grace-rich story- ready to hold and comfort sometimes, ready to let go and let be sometimes but forever and always, trusting in, resting in the One who loves them most.Read More
I did my best growing up in fields polka dotted with hay bales, just off a beach of a gravel road my roots are tucked within rolling hills. Every now and again when I crack eggs in the skillet and the sizzle joins the music of a morning full with tumbling feet and eager laughter for the day, I am back in my grandparents home, my Grandma Bonnie and my Pop. Their farmhouse was one of fairytales. I knew it even then.
It was white and porched and the rickety swing overlooked Missouri hilltops, the same woods we would explore for hours because that's what you did there. Nights were spent under quilts on beds too small for the many growing bodies that piled in the one bathroom home, but that's where my sisters and I told our secrets and listened carefully because if we didn't let them hear us stir, we could make out the stories the grownups would stay up with long after the moon had risen.
The stories.Read More