With things being uncertain due to recent events, I have been thinking and praying especially for my loved ones and friends. I am so grateful that everyone I know is well, and safe, and I was thinking how much we are simply at the mercy of God. But the moment the thought appeared, it kind…
From a letter to his father, on June 3, 1855: How does dear mother bear it? It must be a dreadful trial to her. Life grows so sad sometimes — “but there is the one who makes the joy the last in every song” and no trial is too sad which makes us look more…
We invited my husband’s mother for dinner the other night, and she shared the story of a little conversation she had with her boss. He had asked her if she would mind sharing a little of the organic coffee she brought in to work, and she said to him “Of course – mi casa es…
This beautiful poem and prayer came to mind this morning, and how fitting it is today, even though the winter be symbolic. The skies are pale for us now, and the winds seem rather cold, and the children need help as much as ever they did before. Father – help us! You are our present…
I was thinking how we operate so much on the physical realm – we walk, we talk, we breathe, we laugh, we run. And we pretty much know what to do to keep our bodies running, and our little corner of the world livable. It’s easy to imagine that if we have taken care of…
For every tiny town or place God made the stars especially; Babies look up with owlish face And see them tangled in a tree; You saw a moon from Sussex Downs, A Sussex moon, untravelled still, I saw a moon that was the town’s, The largest lamp on Campden Hill. Yea; Heaven is everywhere at…
When I wake up in the morning, I have my routines and all the little things I feel I have to do. Wash my face, brush my teeth. Make some coffee, and while the machine is working I put away dry dishes, and tidy the living room. Take time to pray, and commune with my…
“O light of dead and of dying days! O Love! in thy glory go, In a rosy mist and a moony maze, O’er the pathless peaks of snow. But what is left for the cold gray soul, That moans like a wounded dove? One wine is left in the broken bowl!— ‘Tis—TO LOVE, AND LOVE…
