Sisters

It was a bright, pleasant, frosty morning, perfectly still, with an air like wine. –George MacDonald, What’s Mine’s Mine, 1886 Happy Birthday to my big sister Kathy! We’re reading this book together this winter, she in the Texas Hill Country, I in the mountains of Montana. Upon hearing that I had re-discovered the copy she’d…

Bathed in beauty

We do not want to merely “see” beauty—though, God knows, even that is bounty enough. We want something else which can hardly be put into words—to be united with the beauty we see, to pass into it, to receive it into ourselves, to bathe in it, to become part of it. C.S. Lewis—The Weight of…

An artist at heart

Graciela Rodo Boulanger I do not have to be “qualified” to play a Bach fugue on the piano. . . But I cannot play that Bach fugue at all if I do not play the piano daily, if I do not practice my finger exercises. There are equivalents of finger exercises in the writing of…

Stories

O God, why dost thou cast us off forever? Why does thy anger smoke against the sheep of thy pasture? . . . Thy foes have roared in the midst of thy holy place . . . they hacked the wooden trellis with axes. They set the sanctuary on fire; to the ground they desecrated…

Come September…

Every once in a while, if you’re like me, you have a dream that wakes you up. Sometimes it's a bad dream—a dream in which the shadows become so menacing that your heart skips a beat . . . Sometimes it's a sad dream—a dream sad enough to bring tears to your sleeping eyes .…

A still small voice

It’s a perfect August afternoon at the lake. Our little log cabin is cool inside, but I’m out on the porch since the temperature has not risen above 78. Clouds gather white at the tops of the blue mountains . . . then stretch and darken, rumbling every now and then. The pine boughs move,…

Let not your heart be troubled

I had a little talk with Jesus last week . . . same topic but a different conversation on my end. I’ve been praying all these months for the truth to be seen, for justice to be done, for strength and protection for those I love who are under attack . . . and I…

City of trees

She’s called “The City of Trees,” this place we’ve called home for at least part of each year, these past fifteen years. And she’s a charmer. I remember the first time we visited being struck with how beautiful the sky was . . . its wide blue arc stretching from the foothills and red-rocked cliffs…

Guardian angel

We drive south along the lake, rain showers pattering on the roof of the truck now and then. The morning sun finally breaks through the clouds as we pass Wild Horse Island, Big Arm, Chief Cliff . . . and as Flathead Lake ends, Polson. It’s our breakfast stop on this ten-hour journey back to…