Jon Eliot, Once a man named Abraham took his son to a mountain. There at the mountain, God spoke to Abraham and told him that He would provide in all things. He told Abraham that he could trust Him. Baby, he did something really hard when he walked up that mountain with his little boy. You know how Daddy always tells you how proud he is of you? Abraham was proud of his son, Isaac, too. And God was proud... Read more
The apartment is still coming together, slowly but surely. I worked on the balcony today, and to my joy, the air outside was a breezy 75 degrees, so I was comfortable as I worked. There’s a great deal of peace, of shalom that comes with a home that’s put together, to a space that has room for every little thing– Now, I don’t always do it well. There are definitely odd things in odd places, but organization is a constant... Read more
We’ve been here 12 days. 12 days, and I’m already running the tallies in my head. The guilt is sinking in, that guilt that siezes me and instantly builds a wall up around me. This guilt, instead of drawing me into the arms of forgiveness, pulls me to the darkness of apathy and avoidance. Today I come to the quiet and wait for God to speak– Because of the move and transition, we haven’t been to church in over a... Read more
“It (God’s will) is the living flame of God’s own Spirit, in Whom our own soul’s flame can play, if it wills, like a mysterious angel. God’s will is not an abstraction, not a machine, not an esoteric system. It is a living concrete reality in the lives of men, and our souls are created to burn as flames within His flame. The will of the Lord is not a static center drawing our souls blindly toward itself. It is... Read more
I pour white sugar for my coffee, let it flow as granulated crystals; I pack my cart full of groceries, full of clothing, full of thrills. I sit still for tiny moments, lit by lamplight, air is stale; I calm my sorrows in the quiet, remember, everything is well. Everything that ails me, every trifle, bland concern; It means nothing to the memory of widows, lost at war. It means nothing in the oceans that see above them rockets fly;... Read more
This morning I saw Isaiah’s smile. I saw him rise from the bed and look at me– I saw him safe. Every morning he wakes there, every morning, smiling at his mom. And I look at him, and I don’t know who he’ll turn out to be. I don’t know how long he’ll live or what conditions he’ll face. I don’t know what his patriotism will look like, how extreme his beliefs will be. If you’re not a mother, maybe... Read more
We drove to the outer edge of the Amish community and shut our radio off– it just seemed the right thing to do, entering a place that calls itself quiet and calm. Light brown dust rose up to baptize our car, and we were covered in peace. We passed the hay, piled instead of rolled, because here there are not machines but hands. There is not empty busyness, but solitary work. I’ve been here before, but I was pregnant with... Read more
A nomad wanders, finding a new home based on the changing of seasons. I’m catching a tiny glimpse of that here– we’ve come to settle for just a month in a town that’s not our home, though we’re settled with sweet family. Things have indeed been stripped away, and I still feel the ache of losing a house where furniture aged with our children; where floors sagged and walls stood, adoring the life that pulsed around them. I’m a descriptive,... Read more
Last week two friends came over. Both boys finally laid down in their beds, breathed deep, and slept. And we were able to finally look our friends in the eyes and tell them that we’re tired and overwhelmed, but also happy. And they asked to pray for us. Then it was my turn to breathe deeply as I crouched at Trav’s feet and Mariana laid her hands on me, Cody on my husband. And I can’t remember all the words,... Read more
I’d like to tell you a story. About voices. Trees. Memories. Future Hope. Promise. If there is a God that is present, He is present now. I sat in the coffee shop on Memorial Day, watching the come and go of coffee drinkers, the wane and wax, ebb and flow of faces and their life-stories. And I looked down and wrote, and asked God to speak to me something, anything. Sometimes God’s voice is one that stirs in my stomach, or... Read more
Stories - with Kaitlin B. Curtice
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