|
|||||
|
My shoe covers rustle along the linoleum floor until I come to the holding area. I find her, eyes closed on the gurney, brown wisps around green paper cap. A tiny lady almost swallowed by crisp white and warm woven. I pick up the chart at the foot of the bed and page through it. I check for signed permit . . . → Read More: To the One Who Heals (Repost for National Nurses Week)
I aimed and fired. “I don’t NEED you!” All over a pair of muddy boots. The ones I wore to chase wonders down by Lake Abby a few weeks back. The ones that are always in the back kitchen. I’d asked him to wash them off for me. He said he would. Now I can’t find them, and I . . . → Read More: In Every Muddy Moment I don’t know what to expect. But I pack a new lunch bag with seven-grain rolls, cheese, snow peas, carrots, and blueberries. I toss in a dark chocolate bar and a packet of tea bags. I fill a new stainless container of water. I pack a suitcase, stuff pencils and notebooks and gum in a small backpack. I leave . . . → Read More: I Belong in this World–and I am Angry Someone landed on my blog the other day when they searched for “Hoosier cabinet.” I doubt they found what they were looking for. That short little post was written in response to L.L. Barkat’s suggested writing exercise from God in the Yard to play with words. In the section on “Habits” from her newest book, Rumors of Water, she . . . → Read More: In Which I Cultivate My Wild Side–Or Not
We’re on the way to school, and I tell Grace how Great-Grandpa is home and can’t drive and is lonesome since Great-Grandma died. I tell her how he likes us to call, to hear our voices. “I don’t know if he’ll be up yet,” I say, “but let’s try.” He answers on the second ring, and I say . . . → Read More: Five Minute Friday: In Which She is Afraid to Say Hello “What are you hiding?” She asked. I stared at her. “What do you mean?” (It probably really came out like “Whaddayamean?”) I’d been transcribing reports for Heidi, a rehabilitation nurse, for several months. “I tell you about my family, stuff I’m doing, but you never tell me anything about you. It’s like you’re in the Mafia or something.” I was . . . → Read More: I’m Afraid to Read Ann Voskamp (Photo has absolutely nothing to do with this story.) It is loud here. Very. Loud. It all starts when oldest grand girl comes out of her bedroom and begins to scream about the bat swooping over my head and around the living room and into the kitchen and back into the living room. I scream at her to . . . → Read More: In Which I Pin a Bat With a Ragu Jar Absolutely free! But it can cause worse damage yellow lace, age spots from rusting. Drives you a little crazy. Rust–one of the toughest stains, but all you really need is the safer substitute, a splash of something. Swish! A sweeter smelling way, a . . . → Read More: Are We Crazy?
Snow dusts the field, the driveway, the roof. A robin shivers in the pregnant branches. Feathers ruffle in the bitter wind. The feeders are empty, so I don my jacket and boots, scoop black oil to refill. I purposely spill some for the ground-feeders and for the love of sunflowers. I come in and empty the dishwasher, empty the trash, . . . → Read More: Spilling the Filling
“Do you have any suggestions for how one learns to trust God,” she asks, “in times of uncertainty, change, looming decisions and overall precipice-clinging periods in life?” “I have to set up stones.” I respond. “Look backwards. Remember when He’s been trustworthy in the past.” And here’s a strange thing. I wrote about a precipice-clinging time in my . . . → Read More: They Call Him . . . |
  Be a deep see diver. Deep See Diving     
    
 |
||||
|
Copyright © 2012 Sandra Heska King - All Rights Reserved |
|||||
American Christian
Fiction Writers
Follow Me!