My reveries and spider-web memories catch me. I find the water rapidly cooling.
There are only minutes left if I’m to make it on time.
I drag myself from the tub after a vigorous scrub, tuning in to the silence—once filled by chatter, yelling, screeches, or giggles.
It is Tuesday.
Read MoreThe dark days of winter stretch from 8 a.m. until 4 p.m. Cloudy skies force the sun to take cover. I feel alone. Slow home-school mornings compete with news feeds of election season anxiety, and air thick with virus. Although I see the faces of four eager-to-please children, I know the weight of their isolation in my chest.
Jesus, I declare, “Come.”
Read MoreRead MoreNot unusually, I am sitting in the living room, writing. It’s 5:30 a.m. My 10 year old girl plops down by my side, reading her novel, and listening to the morning news with me. The day isn’t off and running, yet. We enjoy quiet morning moments, interrupted most often by two Labrador retrievers wrestling.
