Tag: Hope
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Putting a Pin in Hope
Over your lifetime, whether long or less long, how many staff meetings have you sat through? This is not an attack on staff meetings . . . they are (usually) a necessity. I’m just curious as to the nomenclature of the room according to the decade in which you sat/are sitting. It’s been a while…
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The Towel and Basin
Several nights ago a darkness stole over my spirit. Admittedly, being all too familiar with this heavy feeling, I nonetheless allowed its seemingly inescapable, nearly imperceptible narrowing of my eyes, as I began seeing through a filmy and scurrilously critical lens. A wrong needed righting. A culprit needed correcting. A stance needed taking. A hill…
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The Homestead of Hope
Entering the world at the tail end of the Baby Boomers and growing up in the 60s and 70s, my decorative surroundings were very much oriented to flower power, wood paneling, wicker swag lamps, and David Cassidy posters. Strangely though, my wandering daydreams often took me to a time a hundred years prior when life…
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Belly Up
The 10-year old computer has gone belly up. I am plunking this out on my phone in the app which I do not trust as far as I can throw it. And so, dear brethren, we temporarily suspend operations until a new computer drops out of the sky. There are still some pretty fun posts…
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A Twist — Not a Knot
Confession time. Since the stay-at-home order I’ve been cross stitching like a mad man. I’m not sure exactly how many mad men actually cross stitch, but you get the idea. It’s a little weird. I’ve read about so many folks taking care of their families in such admirable, practical ways — canning, baking, sewing, hunting,…
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Al and Ruth
Once upon a time, decades ago, there was a church. Not small or large. An in-between church. It was straining within the era in which it existed, seeking to communicate love and Good News as it always had, yet trying to speak it and sing it in a way that was possibly uncomfortable to the…
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Wailing Walls and Tomato Sandwiches
I don’t read a lot of blogs. That’s partly why it surprises me when anybody more than my Aunt Neva reads this one. It’s not that I don’t see their value and quality, or that I think people who write them have a high opinion of themselves. They just make me nervous. Introspective. Almost every…
Beyond Lashley Lane 