We’re here to study and write, leaning into the sounds of silence together, my man and I. Books and iPads, hot tea and coffee ready, we hope to hear from God. Like Moses outside the camp, but with Sonny’s BBQ instead of manna. The flame in the propane heater is no burning bush, though.

Hurting

I tumble into bed with knots in my stomach and grief in my throat. Dear people with good intentions lost in labyrinths of longings and allegiances. I love them. I can’t fix it. I can’t sleep. I can’t…

Waiting is a womb pregnant with hope and fear. Worst case scenarios wrestle with words of promise, and through it, a deeper yielding grows inside.