We read Miss Twiggley’s Tree so many times that both covers tore off, including the final page of the book, which offered the moral of the story. But the last page I had was enough. It pictured the inside of Miss Twiggley’s house, tucked deep in the boughs of a willow tree, where the entire … Continue reading A Set Table in a Safe Tree
Sitting across the coffee shop table from her, I cannot see the Spirit of God in her---just as I cannot see the wind that’s whipping up off the cold Missouri river this morning. I do not know where these January gales come from, or where they’ll lie down tonight. They’re sharp, cutting right through my … Continue reading Where the North Wind Blows
Here is something I didn't expect when I began coaching writers--- I never thought I'd travel so far. It's a cliche to say that reading lets you travel the world, but when you rally a group of writers around a table, you're really in for an expedition. Writers write stories, and stories need people inside … Continue reading Circumnavigators
There were many things I did not know about Helen McCallie, but none of them surprise me. For one, I didn’t know she had hiked across Central Africa as a single woman in the sixties. I didn’t know she played classical piano, or that she sang opera--- though I remember how her laugh sounded like … Continue reading Goodbye, Helen
For Mike & Ashley: May this long table be filled with friends, Maybe not all pirates, but both the righteous and the rogue. May they eat and party and be merry. May this dining room ring with the laughter of a feast to come. May this kitchen smell like coffee and bacon, Or Fruity Pebbles … Continue reading A Blessing for Home
I met Darlene at the café on the first floor of the doctor’s building. And before I met her, I heard her ordering at the counter. The cashier had asked how she was doing, and she had answered with: Not wonderful. She had an elbow propped on the counter and her gray head in her … Continue reading Coffee and a Breakfast Wrap
My favorite part of Fritz’s funeral was when his friends got up to tell stories about him--- how he got locked inside the city dump once, how he ate breakfast at Wimpy’s diner every week, and how the waitresses kept a bottle of special syrup there just for him. Fritz was man with his eyes … Continue reading Fritz
You're a writer, and suddenly, it's 1940 again, and the streets are dark because the blackout curtains are pulled tight. But behind them, there's a lamp in the window of a second-story university room, where Jack Lewis and his brother brew tea and smoke. The bell of Christ's Church tolls nine as they wait for … Continue reading A Table in 1940
My friend who shares my name, Bethany Rose, called me last Tuesday morning from somewhere up in Minnesota, where she was bundled and walking her Great Pyrenees named Shiloh. “We’re experiencing a warm front,” she said. “It’s twenty-five degrees today.” I was planting a tray of lettuce on my patio in Missouri, because we were … Continue reading The Long Winter
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