What I lack in a history of sexual sin I make up for in a thousand other ways, as named here. I am greatly in need of grace.
I had a lovely little idea that February would be the perfect month to focus on intimacy, and then I inherited a newborn baby.
You know deep in your bones that what he is thinking or doing or feeling or chasing is going to land him in deep guano sooner or later.
This griddle. Hm. It has seen better days, and no wonder. It’s one of our wedding gifts, from seventeen years ago today.
Both of my last two blog posts are true pictures of my family. There is great pain and great beauty side by side in my home.
We have been walking through difficult things this summer. His words feel redemptive, protective, perfect to me.
Our family dinner was a lovely success despite a candle-wax spill (entirely my fault), and blurry pics, and too much food.
How dare he? This is not the first time he will shave his whiskers for the state, and it will probably not be the last, God forbid.
This applies to more than friendships with women. It applies to marriage, child-raising, and all manner of things. People are what you believe them to be.
We marked fifteen years this month, with a four-day stay in an apartment made from sparkling surfaces we hadn’t cleaned.