Nestling in at my favorite place, surrounded by high brick walls and pressed-tin ceilings, I cracked the cover, feeling lost, unfit to diagnose myself. And this is what I found:

According to a February 2009 CareerBuilder.com survey of more than 8,000 workers, a full 20% said they are late to work at least once a week. A surprising 12% admitted

I feel it in my chest. A lump of sorrow, and I remember the phone call that came last night. It was my son. “It was so hard, Mom.” My

Oh. Huh. He’s right. I know it. I feel the truth of it, and it snaps my focus ’round right. In a fallen world, we really are all terminal. So.

Of all things. There they were, right before me. Displayed in splendor, they sparkled amidst an array of more plebeian styles. I could have sworn they called my name. Having

I see you.  I know you because I’ve been in that place.  I know that weight, that thing that’s pressing in, pulling you down – you know, that thing you never

Driving along, I felt it. There we were, sandwiched between two, one in front and one behind. Why was it that the mere sight of a cruiser could strike instant

Dear Judy, We’ve just come from the church. There you were, lying asleep. Scattered around were flowers sent by folks who cared. And everywhere, photos of a happy, smiling you.

FacebookTwitterGoogle+DiggPinterestBloggerHe’d laid it all out on the sofa, pants draping nicely, shirt just so and the cap–oh, the feathered cap placed carefully at the side. Then, with monkey pillow pet

It was a rare occurrence. With every account caught up, I stood at the counter, mixing cookies. Grinding oatmeal in the blender, I smiled, thinking of the boys’ delight. They’d