Though I’ve shared my own poems on the blog before, I always find it intimidating and I fear it’s presumptuous. (Nobody comes to this blog to read my poems, right?) But during Advent (I know, Advent doesn’t start till Sunday, but let’s just pretend), every Friday, I’ll share with you a series of poems I wrote two years ago, while I was pregnant with Brooksie. The poems were commissioned by John Knox Presbyterian Church in Seattle. Star “A great... Read more
Amy Lepine Peterson is one of those kindreds I’ve found out there in the great big wide web. Every time I read her writing I’m moved or challenged or encouraged by our like-mindedness. I love having her here today. And it’s an honor to share her with you. Basket-Weaving At this point, I’m pretty sure there’s not a safe seat left. Every easy chair, couch cushion, and carpet has been peed on at one point or another. Despite my... Read more
For a sweet, small Thanksgiving with friends. I love hosting parties with my husband. And I love having people in our home. I’m thankful that we already had relationships here in SF and that we didn’t have to be alone on such a big day. For plane tickets to see our families over Christmas. For Monday night hang outs with The Mister. For how tired I am at 9 o’clock and how that means my day was full of hard... Read more
Yesterday morning, while our sickish boys were playing with their dad on the carpet of our living room, building Lincoln Log garages for their cars, August suddenly became Concerned. He was standing in his pjs and his little brother was walking past him en route to some other task, when August turned to him with a serious stare and put both hands on Brooksie’s shoulders. Now, usually, Brooks would care less about August’s earnest pleads. Usually, he would shake the... Read more
This is a repost from last Thanksgiving. But how can I not post it again? “It is impossible to give thanks and simultaneously feel fear.” -Ann Voskamp, One Thousand Gifts “[The] dinner party is a true proclamation of the abundance of being–a rebuke to the thrifty little idolatries by which we lose sight of the lavish hand that made us. It is precisely because no one needs soup, fish, meat, salad, cheese, and dessert at one meal that... Read more
There was Linda who spoke Jesus with her voice and with the way she stood beside us on the playground. How she whispered words of salvation and forgiveness and life. How she spoke a language saved for seven-year-olds. Then Alan and those years when he was always present, always aware. There were the conversations: The one where he challenged me to read scripture everyday. The one where he said that guy I was dating wasn’t worth it. There was Dawn, then... Read more
Listen, I woke up last spring with a wave in my hair. You may not understand the full gravity of this reality. So let me explain. I come from the plains. From people who have very little heritage. We don’t say: “We’re German,” the way my husband’s family does. We don’t say anything. We’re from Texas, that’s what we are. We are part Oklahoman too; we’ll give you that. Yes, my aunt studied our ancestry once to find that that... Read more
I believe that our passage intends primarily to teach Christian witnesses of all times how, in ministering the gospel, Jesus’ representatives should think and speak of themselves. It is very important that Jesus’ disciples know who they are and who they are not, and how to say so. (If we are sure only of who we are not, we can suffer from an inferiority complex; if we are sure of who we are, a sense of superiority lurks.) But if... Read more
From Dale Bruner’s The Gospel of John: A Commentary, on John chapter 1, verse 2 (65 and 70) “Now here is the witness of John when the Jewish people of Jerusalem sent priests and Levites to ask him, ‘Who are you?’ Well, John spoke right up, he did not deny it, he spoke right up and said, ‘I am not the messiah.’ So they asked him, ‘Who then? Are you Elijah?’ And he said, ‘I am not.’ ‘Are you The... Read more
I’ve only recently discovered Lore Ferguson’s words, but I resonate with her and am always moved by her wisdom. She also shares some space with me over at A Deeper Church. It’s good to have her here today. Swinger of Birches and No More There is a poem by Robert Frost I love. I suppose that’s juvenile of me and I suppose I don’t care if it is. “One could do worse than be a swinger of birches,” it... Read more
Micha Boyett
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