Sarah Chestnut



An Altared Heart: Sunday

By Sarah Chestnut

Nickaela also says, “Sundays are hard because we are homesick for heaven.”

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An Altared Heart: Saturday

By Sarah Chestnut

This morning I am making cinnamon rolls. How many “covid confessions” have already circulated over text from friends, announcing that in spite of Lent chocolate and wine are free-flowing in our homes again? “It’s just too much,” we all agree. Because suddenly we are submitting to a fast we did not chose: our mobility—perhaps the defining feature of our time—is utterly restricted.

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An Altared Heart: Friday

By Sarah Chestnut

Lily, our five-year-old, is standing in the narrow hallway outside her room in only her underwear. It’s bedtime. It’s past bedtime. She should be brushing her teeth. She leans back against the century-old, textured wallpaper. “Mama,” she says seriously as I approach. “I am thinking of Mowgli.” She grins because I grin, and begins to bop up and down, giving herself a back-scratch.

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