When Faith Becomes Visible: The Story of One Woman Who Did Not Forget

She prayed her family to Jesus

From Patty-Cake to Prayers

It was a moment to cherish.

There I sat in her living room watching this precious woman, my grandmother-in-law, play her special version of patty-cake with my fifteen-month-old daughter. I couldn’t understand the words (they were in another language), but the affection was clear.

And I knew I was blessed to be there. Continue reading

Honoring the Gray Haired–and Those Who Help Them

Kids: they’re kind of my thing.

Babies, toddlers,… middle school, high school, college… you get the picture. As a mom, as a teacher, it’s been a natural thing for me to write about. All in my comfort zone.

But since when does God let us get comfortable? Continue reading

No SuperMom

In honor of Mother’s Day,
here’s a post for the other 364 days…
[Originally written and published in my Kenosha News “My Turn” column]

Close-up of World's Greatest Mom--No one's perfect!

Close-up of World’s Greatest Mom–Longing to Really Deserve the Trophy

I don’t think I’ve ever seen something so ugly.

At least as far as “dustables” go: Those trinkets you put on your shelf that just sit, collect dust, and look pretty?

Well, this one does the first two, but NOT that last.

No, this was something only a REALLY good friend would give you, knowing you’d laugh every time you saw it. Continue reading

Punishment or Protection? …When Life Seems ‘Out of Order’…

Punishment or Protection?...When Life Seems 'Out of Order'...

Punishment or Protection?…When Life Seems ‘Out of Order’…

They looked at me like I’d killed their grandma. Or at least stolen their candy.

In truth, I’d tried to save them from the machine that ate it.

I was on an overnight field trip with several hundred middle schoolers.

And where there are middle schoolers, Continue reading

Musing to the Music

Musing to the Music

Musing to the Music
Photo on Visualhunt

I write to Josh Groban.

No, not like sending him letters in the mail.

Like playing his songs while I type.

His music demands something. Creativity. Thought. A story. But not its own—Honestly, I can’t understand any of the Italian—instead, it lets me make up mine. His English words? They swirl around and around, blocking out the world. Blissful white noise that invites inspiration.

It’s funny, though. I can’t read to him. Continue reading