Home is a Flow


Part of me is grounded, another part soars – sacred dwelling places invite me in, invite me to stay. I want to accept all these invitations, to be welcomed into spiritual places where I can abide in stillness. Yes, yes, I whisper to the holy spaces that I long to inhabit, but I pass on by. I fuel my forward momentum, and in the motion I find a holy progression. This is home for now.



I hear that God is looking for storytellers. Truth tellers. Brave ones. Courageous sharers of life stories. I am stepping up; I believe this is me. This is everyone, really, if you think about it; everyone has a story. And our stories are gloriously intertwined, weaving an endless tapestry of life, a beautifully textured fabric that begins and ends with—you guessed it—God. He is the Ultimate Storyteller, the One who can speak words and stories and life. I’m trying to follow suit, being careful with my words, both spoken and written, promoting the inhale and exhale of life whenever possible. It’s hard work, truth telling, story sharing; it is challenging (i.e.-uncomfortable) to examine myself and my life stories in a public way. But through the storytelling there is healing and love and growth. Through stories, the world feels a little less lonely; the tapestry of life swaddles me in God’s embrace.

Climb Out of the Big Box and Take Flight


There is a box with sides and flaps and perhaps it is a big box and once-upon-a-time contained a refrigerator and a child makes a playhouse out of it, a fort, a space to hide away from the world of adults and please and thank you and vegetables and wash-your-hands; and perhaps it is a tiny box with a bow and inside is a little girl’s Cinderella dream, a lavish surprise, a ring of gold or silver or both and it holds a precious gem, a pearl, a diamond and is given with a sterling promise and is accepted with a swoon and gasp; and perhaps it is a wooden box of slats and holds watermelons, apples, peaches, a bounty of the soil and gift from hard-working souls who tend to the earth, the earth that graciously provides trees to make boxes.

Reading feeds my winged soul; I climb out of the big box and take flight.

Watch me fly.


Telling It, Strong and True



Errors made. Errors made and printed. Errors made, printed, and then recognized as inaccurate. Errors made, printed, recognized, and corrected. Corrections captured and communicated via an insert or addendum. An unspoken apology. Or not. An unspoken regret. More likely.


Apology accepted. Grace bestowed. Because no one is perfect. No one. The author writes and the publisher publishes and it is all scrutinized; every detail, fact, statistic, quote, recollection is devoured and digested and then assimilated or spit out. The author writes and the publisher serves the words. Take two bites. Try it. Just a taste. Of the words. Strong and true.

Haste makes waste.

Someone didn’t do her homework. It was an honest mistake. It was a long night at the computer. It was an insane deadline. It was human. Human error. A booboo. A blooper. An oops. Measure twice, cut once. It happens.


And the author writes; words are herded into line, into phrase, into submission. The imperfect author writes towards perfection of memory, of cadence, of recall. The words are written, the words are spoken aloud, the words are released to do their job of healing or educating or challenging. Telling it strong and true. The author writes and tells the story, strong and true.


After years and many tries, the author writes a book. After years and many tries, the book is published. And there is validation. And there is celebration. And, perhaps, errors. Like a birth defect, undetected, until the moment of unveiling or soon after when the scrutinizing occurs. The creation is inaccurate, distorted. Errors made and printed and recognized subdue the book launch, coulda-shoulda-woulda, and crash the launch party, too-bad-so-sad. Now an olive branch is extended between author and reader. Correction and communication mend the anomalies. There is grace for the author who writes, who endeavors to tell it strong and true, to reveal humanity, to move towards perfection but never arrive. The author tries. Errata reside in the trying. Just try.


A memory floats. Out there. In a misty wispy vaporous gray place. It wears a dress. A fact stands. Solid and stoic, it stands and perseveres. It wears a mustache. A memory is recalled, it is massaged, it is unreliable but artistic. Dress meets mustache. A truth is conceived. Truth = Perspective. A fact is checked. Incorrect? Bastard. An unspoken regret. Shotgun wedding = Errata.

Expunction of errata.

Erasure. It is possible. A reprint. A second chance. A pardon and reprieve from mistakes made, printed, recognized, corrected, and communicated. It’s possible, but not guaranteed. There are no guarantees. In life. In getting published. In publishing perfection. No; there is author, writing, telling it strong and true. There is trying. There is failing. There is more trying. And, hopefully, eventually, a book. With errata. Or not. Just write and move towards perfection; wear a dress, kiss a mustache, birth a bastard, try and fail and occupy the story, telling it strong and true. Just write. Just try.