A Letter to the Middle
I was at a friend’s house a couple of months ago, and we were sitting around a dinner table talking together when I started to feel sick. I’m allergic to most things, so for a while, I thought the problem was just too much dust or cat hair, but then I started to sweat and my brain clouded over. I couldn’t see straight. I couldn’t hear what the others were saying. My stomach swelled and then my liver and kidneys overloaded; it was all I could do not to double over in pain.
Read More ›On The Hiding Place & Shared Suffering
A couple of weeks ago, I was sitting in a conference room with a group of my coworkers, and for some reason, my stomach was killing me. Sharp pain was shooting up and down my abdomen and all I could do was sit still and try to hide the pain with a smile. As I looked around at my co-workers, I noticed that no one could tell—either they were all too wrapped up in their own thoughts and actions to notice, or else I am a much better actress than I thought I was.
Read More ›Waiting to Love Well: Advent, Friendship & the New Creation
Advent has always been described to me as a time of waiting for the coming of the Christ child, and throughout my childhood, I accepted that information and didn’t waste too much brain space on it. Even when I did consider the implications of Advent, it always seemed so ceremonial and almost archaic to me, a beautiful ceremony without an abundance of practical application. The birth of Christ had already happened in time and space, in history, and while I understood the need and desire to celebrate that fact, I didn’t really understand why we still insisted on waiting. The light of the world has come. What are we waiting for in the Advent season specifically? Is it just a reminder? A sacrament like the Eucharist that mysteriously points back to the crucified Christ and forward to the renewal of all things? Maybe. I certainly don’t pretend to be an expert, but this year, Advent has meant something else to me.
Read More ›Taste & See: The Glory & Struggle of a Beautiful Meal
I was fourteen when I came to Hutchmoot for the first time. My mom knew it would open my eyes to a whole new world of art and storytelling, and she was right. I had never seen anything like it and I was overwhelmed by the poetry and artistry all around me. I soaked up the words of speakers I had looked up to for years, listened to authors read aloud from books I loved, and admired the wonderful culinary creations that were set out for everyone who attended—but I admired the feast from a distance. At almost every meal, there was nothing I could eat.
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