I keep taking pictures of my kids, these strange and glorious days, because there are four of them and they are all together.
I am the light you cannot see, searching, piercing – not the mild sunlight of a summer day or the glimmer of candle and firelight, but the unescapable blaze of a streetlight on a deserted parking lot when all around is darkness.
I love you.
We have been ferried up, up, up the excruciating climb, full of dread and horror. Now we creep over the edge and hang poised.
We do not want to be apart. For each member of our family, including him, this is the hardest part of our sacrifice. We love him, and he loves us.
This summer, our family was given the gift of a photoshoot by a friend of ours who is just setting up his side gig of photography.
This is not going to be one of those cutesy posts that says we’re not good at things like “holding grudges” or “ignoring people in need.”
This dessert is good enough to be eaten warm from the oven, without strawberries, as a coffee cake. With berries, it’s Mmmmmmmmmmmm.
I’m writing a manuscript for Herald Press. If you did not know about this and feel you should, I am nothing but sympathy. I didn’t know about it either.
What do they do, little urban citizens of virtual worlds, when they arrive in a home where screentime for preschoolers is not prioritized? How do they live?
Danette Martin writes: “You’ve been on my mind ever since I heard the news of your dad’s engagement. Twenty-four years ago, I was in your shoes.”