So much rubble everywhere, dust and debris illustrating utter ruin and depravity at a scale my mind cannot comprehend. At first this is all I can see. Then I look again, my eye catching something else.

This year while placing broken Jesus in his manger, I thought about all of the years I have repeated this ritual. Some years it has been easy and joyful. In other years, the brokenness of my own life has tinged the ritual with sorrow; even anger. Broken Jesus has become more precious to me because of the years and the miles we have traveled – and survived – together…

In many of the blogs I’ve read this week, there’s been no room for mercy or mending. If Jesus bodily walked the earth today, he would be a white, male, American heterosexual, flag-carrying, gun-packing, abortion-clinic picketing, card-carrying member of the NRA and Republican party… When we define our collective conversations by these few talking points, we miss the point altogether.

Like many American women, I’m having trouble feeling star-spangled awesome this Independence Day. Thanks to the Supreme Court’s recent decision, my now muzzled voice is a bit off-key when singing about the land of the free. But that changed last night…

My husband called me today, asking for a copy of this blog, originally written in 2011. A man with a life in shambles was crying, stating he wished someone would tell him he is kind. Smart. Beautiful. Important. I’m reminded we all need to hear this message continually, because our lives become undone and rebuilt more than once as we walk this earth. Read it with your heart. And believe it, because it’s true.

I am convinced life should come with an instruction app, complete with the people and places in which to find shelter in the midst of the inevitable storms. When times of danger, darkness, or confusion overtake and overwhelm us, we should be able to turn to our app and locate a safe person or safe place where we can ride it out.

“Daddy Goyer” as I call him, is a second father to me. He is also a father, of sorts, to us all. This father of freedom fought in World War II as a member of the 10th Mountain Calvary division. His mind slips now and then; except when you ask him to tell you about his war experiences…

She followed me into my neighborhood last night and pulled her car in behind me in the driveway. Rolling down her window, she called to me. I could see her steeling her courage; prepared for me to brush her off. But I couldn’t ignore the quiet command of her voice; couldn’t bear the all-too-familiar look of desperation that only means one thing: a child is in trouble.

As COVID-19 has ravaged our world, I’ve found myself praying for signs of comfort to guide the ill, as well as their families and caregivers. But in October 2020, I found myself desperately praying for some kind of sign of my own as Lorenzo battled COVID-19. It is a sobering, surreal feeling to take your husband to an emergency room at a hospital 3,000 miles away from home and hope he is not as ill with COVID-19 as he seems to be…

I am a strong, competent woman. These days, however, I am also afraid.

Fall is my favorite season. And the bright blue sky and crisp fall breeze calls to me. But I am like a bird in a gilded cage, unable to leave my comfortable quarters. Like millions of people worldwide, I have contracted COVID-19. But in a strange kind of way, I am grateful for this unplanned, unwelcomed interruption.

Today, I finish my last treatment for breast cancer. Almost nine months to the day after my Stage IIIB diagnosis, I will walk out of the hospital cancer-free. Bloodied. Bruised. Burnt. Battered. And very weary from the battle. But cancer free.

Cancer treatment left me with large gaps in my 2016 memory. The scraps I do have are mostly filled with pain and loss. But this past year also holds other bits and pieces of remembrances, memories worth noting and keeping.

Setting goals means a step-by-step process… Establishing a vision for my life, however, is a very different thing. It makes space for the unexpected twists and turns in life. It makes a place for God to interject His purpose for a particular season of life, even one that is unforeseen. Uninvited.

Most of the wisdom I need in life is found in my garden. I’m pretty good at knowing what to do when the seasons are clearly defined. It’s the seasons of in between that are the real test – times when the breeze changes direction, the sun’s pattern shifts, and what was once lush begins to wither and die.

Patience is definitely not my virtue. In my personal and professional life, five minutes after I’ve had an idea, I must resist the urge to become puzzled at why it hasn’t already been put into action. I find myself tempted to wash my hands of the issue and re-engage when people are “ready to get down to business.”

In the midst of a global pandemic, I’ve been struck by lives cut short, voices cut off in mid-thought, by this virus. I’ve wondered what they would have said or shared if they had known it would be their last words. And I’ve been thinking about my own “last writes” and what I want to say.

I choose to be the sun. I choose to find a way to dry up the rain – and the tears – of Valerie and her mom. I choose to set aside my calendar, instead reading stories and singing songs to a little girl who needs sunlight, Belle, bubbles and macaroni and cheese. I choose to warm the shoulders of a weary mom by lightening her load and using what resources I have to connect her to those she needs.

Why does a salesperson in modern-day America believe a woman needs her husband to be present when making major purchases for or decisions about a home? More precisely, why does a salesperson insist that they will set an appointment to come out to discuss the home renovation work being considered only when both the husband and wife are available?

The nighttime soliloquy of this winged friend has robbed me of my sleep, but has given me considerable food for thought. In its voice, I am reminded of the power a single voice has to create beauty. Inspire. Challenge. Sooth. Calm. Renew. Reclaim. Reimagine.