I slip outside, pack slung on a shoulder, coffee in hand, and I sit. Before me, it spreads. Three acres, often sunny, where birds call, squirrels dash, rabbits hop, flowers

The rains had come.  Drought still gripped the land, but the liquid gold, so long delayed, had begun to fall, transforming brown landscapes with advancing shades of green. In our

“Raising boys—that’s an extreme sport!” Such was the sentiment that found its way to my desk on the recent Mother’s Day weekend. On the front was a photo of three

Coffee perks, splutters joy full into my cup, and I lift it, inhaling all grateful. Taking up my pack, I step out the door, walk right into the ‘shine. I

I should’ve known it would come. Sure as the sun comes up in the east. Sure as the tides rise and fall. Sure as Republicans will fight with the Dems,

I learned a lot from my mom. As a girl growing up on the prairie, I learned how to keep a house. Dusting, sweeping, mopping, straightening, organizing and washing dishes

From my place in the back, I’m looking at them. I drink it in, this unlikely assembly. Old and young, black and white, from every walk of life, they’ve come.

And instantly, I felt small. Silly. Invisible. Inferior. And discouraged (to name just a few). Unable to not look, I checked out her posts. I followed her links, visited her

Amen. He’d come to them, had the child, later on in their lives. Had come all unplanned, unexpected. How he’d blessed them, the five, with his sweet, winning ways; loving

Well, that’s not good news. Not if you live within spittin’ distance and your running shoes are shot. It’s not. According to scientists, magma levels in Washington state’s Mount St.