Late winter is often particularly dark and dank. My doldrums are deep; the brief respite of sun and warmth too rare. Cranky, I put one foot ahead of the other, get done what needs to be done, oblivious to subtle renewal around me, refusing to believe even in the possibility. It happened today. Dawn broke…
He left a cold, wordless goodbye in the garage. We’ve tried making sense of it ever since. Unanswered questions are always one cruel part of suicide’s trauma. The puzzle of intention never entirely fits together; there is no straight, unimpeachable line from A to B. In my brother’s case, we were only able to piece…
The first time I sat with our son while he was experiencing a panic attack, everything in me wanted to wrap my arms around him and make it stop. All I could do was pray and wait for it to pass. Anxiety and panic are all too familiar to my son’s generation. It’s estimated that…
Congress designated March as National Women’s History Month in 1987, but of course, women have long been making history. Consider trailblazers, such as Belva Lockwood, the first female admitted to the U.S. bar in 1873. Madeleine Albright, Condoleezza Rice, and Hillary Clinton have each served as U.S. Secretary of State, a position third in presidential…
When I was a kid, I impressed the neighborhood boys with my ability to lift cinderblocks, climb trees, and run fast; I was strong. But when I played dolls, house, or school with the girls, it was never about demonstrating strength. Strength was domination, force, or power, not cooperation, design, or instruction. So I became…
I believe girls can do almost anything boys can do. They might just do it differently. The news agency holds a prominent spot in our village’s downtown area on the south side of the railroad tracks, directly across the street from the train station. Housed in one of the low brick buildings that line the…
When I was thirty-two, there was only one thing missing from my life, but that one thing seemed so important that the lack of it darkened all the other good. I was in a great career—I was teaching theology and Bible to college students and taking them on international trips during breaks. I loved my…
I was nine years old when it happened, peering out the window of our second-story apartment in Monrovia, Liberia. The multiplex we lived in was in a good area, popular with internationals; the families on the top story were from India, the Peace Corps volunteers across the hall were American like us, and Mrs. Richards, the…
A few years ago, when I was recovering from an outpatient surgery, I was struck with a violent and all-encompassing headache. At the suggestion of my surgeon, I was taken to the emergency room for further examination. It was a cold and snowy February day in Chicago. As my mom and I walked into the…
I have the pleasure of introducing you to Jenny Rae Armstrong, a teaching pastor of Darrow Road Wesleyan Church in Superior, Wisconsin. Jenny is an award-winning freelance journalist who writes about faith, social justice, missional living and women’s issues for Christian publications such as Relevant, Her.meneutics, Mutuality and Red Letter Christians. She is a…
I stood in the middle of the store and felt a deep sense of satisfaction: that’s the one. That’s her Easter dress. Three generations of girls gathered that day at the American Girl® Place to celebrate a milestone birthday for my mom. It was a Saturday full of storytelling and laughter as we shared a…
From the corner of my eye I watch Jerry shuffle out of the Carpenter’s Lodge into the chill November darkness. From a pile of firewood near the kitchen door he carefully selects four or five logs. Some are split. Some are short but whole. His rough workman’s hands choose those short enough to fit into…
On my first day of student teaching I met Jerome. I was training to work as a special education teacher and was assigned to a summer school class of fourth and fifth graders with autism and other cognitive impairments. It was a lively place. Jerome moved like a bouncing ball, limbering from one part of…
I close my eyes and, effortlessly, I’m a child again, sitting in my parents’ blue Plymouth Reliant, riding in the dark along WI-29. Heading home. Everything is perfectly still, except for the rhythmic thunk…thunk…thunk as our wheels speed over the seams in the road. My eyes are closed — I’m thinking as always — but I open…