A Resurrection of a Different Sort

 

 

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Salem, Oregon – Resurrection is that moment when Jesus rose up from the darkened cave in which he was buried, cast off his too-tight grave clothes, pushed aside that massive stone and walked out in the bright sunlight of day.

He is Risen, as my grandson Bean declares.

But resurrection isn’t just a one-time happening that absolved a world of its daily and unyielding sinfulness. Resurrection happens every single day in our lives and the lives of those we love, in big and small ways. Too often, though, we fail to recognize the daily resurrections, fail to see them for the miracles they are, fail to shout the victories that are happening all around us.

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A Few of My Favorites: BOOK GIVEAWAY!!!

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The first thing I usually do after preparing a manuscript for publication is to read new work.

That’s right.

I start reading all the books I didn’t have time to read prior. Currently, I’m reading MY NAME IS LUCY BARTON. The book got great reviews but I’m undecided on it. But like I said, I’m only halfway through the book so I’ll keep at it.

I’ve also got a pile of books that some of you have recommended that I can’t wait to get around to reading. I’ll let you know when I do. Meanwhile, two friends have launched new books in the past weeks and I am giving away free copies!!!! That’s right – FREE!!!

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What Becomes of the Broken Children?

IMG_6656There’s a stillness over the house, the unusual quietness that is companion to the sick and ailing.  The Bean is sleeping now, propped up against a pillow that deludes his Mimi into thinking it helps him breath, being upright a bit instead of flat on his back as he most often sleeps. A Venti Latte sits here on the floor beside me. I don’t usually order the large ones but after the long drive that began in the gloaming hour and ended too late, I knew I would need double the caffeine.

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Cussing on the Way to Church

 

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It was there, while crossing the bridge that connect this part of Oregon with the southern part of Washington, that I glanced over at a boat cutting through the silver waters of the Columbia River. Maybe it was the stillness of the water. Or maybe it was the way the fading light cast out over the river. Just that brief glimpse from the steel archway joining the border of one land to another gave me pause.

So lovely is this world of ours.

I think about its beauty all the time and how one of God’s least talked about characteristics is beauty.

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Other People’s Children

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She started coming around the house when she was an itty-bitty thing, knee-high to a water-bug or thereabouts. She’d come to play dollies with the girls in the “museum” room. That’s what everyone called the formal living room back in the day because nobody ever really used the room. When they grew tired of dressing dollies, she and the girls would explore the backyard, or sled the hill by her house. In other words, she’s been a part of our family nearly as long as her own family. She even calls me “Mama.”

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