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Something’s got to change.  I mean in my life and how I respond to the environmental crisis.  Because global warming threatens our political stability, our food system, and our health; it’s already eliminating the water source for thousands and will soon displace whole populations, particularly in poor countries.  Things are bad.  Out of love for […]

Gwyn’s sick, which means two nights of interrupted sleep.  This morning she arrives in our dark bedroom wanting to play.  I don’t.  She curls up at my feet, right where the cat sleeps, and lays still for five minutes. Snow has dusted the earth.  It falls all morning in trace amounts, miniscule white thoughts moving

“God lives in your dreams.” So says a line in one of Gwyn’s children’s books.  Our congregation is beginning to dream again, and I’m curious how this dreaming can invite God more fully into our midst. When I’ve dreamed dreams for my future, those dreams that tug me with longing are born of both me

Snowless?  45 degree days in January?  Sure, like everyone else I’m reveling in the sun’s warmth and I appreciate being able to bike through this winter, but every time fellow Minnesotans wax poetic about this lovely weather I feel an awful sense of doom.  The elm trees need long periods of icy temperatures to ward

About a year ago Gwyn went to the doctor for an annual check-up and received her two-year immunizations.  She screamed the entire visit.  Shortly afterward she began requesting the story—“Tell the story about going to the doctor”—three, four, even five times a day.  Almost twelve months later we still tell the story with countless variations;

My mother-in-law’s church has issued a spiritual challenge to its members:  Buy nothing new for a whole year.  In response, support groups have sprung up like weeds.  There are purists whose underwear will grow thin, there are realists who gather to weigh alternatives before making a purchase, and there are new communication networks to facilitate

After dropping Gwyn off for her first morning of preschool—she was too interested in the puzzles to say goodbye—I came home and cried.  I was proud that she was eager and ready; I was thrilled for some extra time in my week; I grieved the seven hours I now won’t see her; and I ached

9.15.11 Despite our determination to teach Gwyn to pick up her toys, our house is littered with things:  paperclips moved from the office to her toy kitchen, a nickel on the back of the toilet, Mardi Gras beads in the mixing bowl—you get the picture.  I spend a ridiculous amount of time putting things away.