I usually listen to a podcast episode or a few minutes of an audiobook at the start of my workouts to distract my brain from thinking about how much I do not want to be working out at that moment. Then, when I’m about halfway through exercising and my body loosens up, I switch to a playlist with a few bangers from my high school and college years. Nothing gets this almost 40-year-old mama’s feet moving a little faster than hits from the 90s and early aughts.

“Boys will be boys.” 

They use the phrase as a lazy defense 
of chaos, 
of tempers, 
of misogyny, 
of cruelty.

As if boys don’t have the ability to control themselves, 
as if that’s all we expect.

Last year, I worked through the Bible chronologically with The Bible Recap. If you’ve ever read through the Bible, you’ll know that at one point in the Old Testament, it seems like you’re doomed to an endless cycle of depressing narratives and prophecies about the disobedience of Israel and God’s subsequent judgment.  

These are hard passages to read. Taken on their own, these narratives usually don’t have happy endings. They’re filled with violence and gore and suffering.

My husband and I raced to the emergency room with our then two-year-old, my face covered in tears and my entire body shaking. Our son had just taken a horrible fall. He was responsive and seemed okay, but I was not. I thought there had to only be bad news to come.

The incident happened at the height of the pandemic, so only one parent was allowed to accompany him into the hospital room. While I wanted to be with our boy, I knew my own hysterics probably wouldn’t help anyone–especially him. I opted to wait in the car, my always-calm husband assuring me he’d text with updates as often as possible.

In a recent sermon, my pastor asked the question, “What do you expect when you pray?” 

It’s a good question to ask. Most of the time, if I’m honest, I don’t expect a whole lot–or I just don’t expect nearly as much as God ends up doing.

The sun presses gently on my back. It’s late spring, so the heat doesn’t feel too harsh, more like the reassuring weight of an arm resting on my shoulders. The weeds have crept their way toward the perennials in the garden bed. I stand there, hands on my hips, looking at the dirt, assessing what needs to be done and how much effort cleaning out this portion of my parents’ yard will require. I’m only in town for a couple of days, and I don’t want to leave my newly widowed dad* with a half-finished chore.

The other day, I came across an interview with Ye (Kanye West) where he talks about everything from the music industry to faith. (It's a fascinating listen, although please be mindful the language is terrible, and I obviously am not condoning his views.)

Ye said, “I have my issues with Jesus. There's a lot of stuff I went through that I prayed and I ain't see Jesus show up. So I had to put my experience…in my own hands.”

We could jump to criticize Ye–but maybe he's voiced something so many of us have felt at one time or another. Maybe you're feeling it now.

The needles on my Christmas tree are falling rapidly now. If someone runs too closely to it, a handful will come off. If you bump it, hundreds pour down. I’m dreading the vacuuming job required after we carry it out the door. I doubt there will be many needles left on the branches...just a bare trunk to be tossed to the curb.

J.R.R. Tolkien once wrote a short story called “Leaf by Niggle.” The main character, Niggle, is a painter. He envisions painting a grand tree set against a countryside and even a forest in the picture, along with mountains and birds and the tree's deep, strong roots.

But he keeps getting interrupted in his work by neighbors, the needs of others, and the responsibilities of everyday life. Those around him don't understand why he even bothers painting at all. There's far more important work to do. And so despite Niggle's best efforts at painting, he can't quite make the image on the canvas match the image in his mind. Parts of it are barely completed, “and only so so, at that.”

I walked into Costco earlier this week, and my eyes bugged out of my head when I saw Christmas trees on display. Their twinkling lights led the way toward aisles filled with toys and reindeer lawn ornaments and holiday gift wrap.

Every year, retailers do this. And every year, it catches me off guard.

A couple years ago, I sat in an Airbnb in Denver with three dear friends and fellow writers. We’d flown in from around the country to laugh, cry, and eat good food with each other. But most of all, we came together to write and make each other better writers.

Over the course of the weekend, each of us had a session where we could workshop our own project with the rest of the group. At that point in my own book writing process, I had about three chapters written, but I needed help putting flesh on the skeleton outlines I had for the others. Together, the four of us jotted down story ideas and relevant Scripture passages. They helped me eliminate redundancies and think through my theology.

Today is the Feast of the Holy Innocents. To be honest, before a few months ago, I’d never even heard of this particular feast day, but it’s one I haven’t been able to stop thinking about this Christmas season. 

The Feast of the Holy Innocents is a day to remember those–the young children, the babies–murdered by Herod the Great when he was trying to search out and kill baby Jesus.

I’ve always had a hard time with this story. Why did it have to shake out like this? Why did the coming of Jesus, our comfort and joy, our hope and light, have to involve such horrific darkness? Why couldn’t God have protected those children?