When Loss is Real–or Not

I’m better this morning. Last night I hid in the bathroom for a few moments where I flushed the toilet (so the husband and the grandgirl wouldn’t ask what was going on with me.) I blew my nose, popped my contacts, rubbed my eyes hard, and ran cold water over my face. I didn’t want to explain why I was overwhelmed over something on my computer other than this video. Maybe it’s because I’ll leave for Haiti in less than four weeks. (I might even get to meet Samedy. I hope not. I hope he’s in Nashville by then. Please pray.) Maybe it’s because I’m watching a fund fueled in record time–a fund that will build a school for hope–by Christmas. Or that I’m wearing a necklace purchased because of a...

Of Bunions and Bubble Wrap

Electric blue gleams when I pull down the green box door. It’s addressed to me. What on earth? I recognize the return label. I know her own heart has been aching lately, and she thinks of me? Again? I think about doing things like this. But my hands don’t always follow my head or my heart. “You know,” she writes, “some days just call for warm socks and chocolate, and I thought this might just be one of these days.” She’s so right. I’ve been thinking about this grumpy grief thing. And how I’ve kind of been living grief upon grief of one sort or another for years. I stare at the envelope design and note how seven circles seem to make a flower and how all the flowers connect to make the whole. I stroke the...

Textures of Text: A Different Story

  Have you met my friend, Lyla? “I do my thinking in the bleachers and my writing in the living room with balls flying, bats or clubs swinging and ESPN on in the background. When Spongebob comes on, I get nothing done.” She writes, she says, because there are words. And because she doesn’t know how not to. Lyla’s a property and casualty insurance adjustor who lives in South Dakota. She’s not afraid to get down in ditches. (I love when she takes her camera.) Or to crawl into tight places. She dresses in layers. And she writes in layers. I love how she puts words together. How she pieces a story from a day’s scraps. I came down with a burned and bruised backside but wondering, had that vent been on the other slope instead,...