I am emotional about Louisa May Alcott. When I think of her I become misty. You may know her as the writer of Little Women and Little Men but to me she is the one who gave me permission to call myself a writer. In her preserved home, Orchard House in Concord, Ma, I walked the floors she and her artful, creative family walked. My feet tread the aging floors of a family of intellectual giants. I stared out of…
You might be a boy mom if your bathroom smells like a subway elevator in July. On subway elevators in…
I like to wear jeans with holes in the knees to church. I also like to slip my sandals off,…
One more circle to close. Before I loved The Bearded Wonder, there was a prophecy. A good man told The…
Last week, I wrote about God the Author; the one who pens the story of your life and the massive,…
When I began homeschooling my boys, I was too confoundedly independent to join a charter school but too untested to…
We are home again. After five years of fighting for the life of our little boy, we are home and…
I haven’t written in a while. I’ve begun a number of posts, but they’ve all felt so forced. The truth…
I am good at self-denial. If there is a book out there pro-porting to solve all of my life’s woes…
I tossed and turned last night with fitful sleep. Nightmares made me squirm and nearly cry out for the first…