Being a painter is a lot like being a human being. Time after time, I approach a blank canvas with a preformed notion of how the painting is going to play out. From the beginning of the piece, I have this imagined end in mind, a completed painting that is daring and masterful- so I go about trying to control the process, directing the work towards this imagined end, totally unprepared for all the problem-solving inherent to the act of painting and intolerant of all those genius accidents/mistakes that ultimately make a painting successful. The painting is underway and I default into a total control freak. In reality, I have no better chance of steering the painting where I want it to go than I have of throwing a saddle on a grizzly bear and telling it to canter. It reminds me of Steve Buscemi’s character in Armageddon, riding the nuclear warhead- some things (most things) are simply too big for us to handle on our own.Read more

Austin in August. The thermometer read 102 today, and our AC unit is just as busted today as it was yesterday when it was 100 degrees. It’s hotter than a Baptist preacher’s Hell. We’re waiting for a new unit. Waiting.

 Waiting is relative. When you long for someone or something, the time between now and the arrival seems interminable. You know time neither stops nor slows, yet a dozen glances at the clock tempt you to wonder. Pacing at the airport waiting for Stephanie (!), the vigil at the hospital waiting for word from the surgeon about Dad, the three eternities between when my baby son cries and the breastfeeding begins: the more I want the one or the thing the slower time moves.Read more

One of the greatest feelings in the world is to be spent at the end of the day, knowing that all your energy has gone to serve the Lord! 

This picture has stuck in my head for a long time. 
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For the first time in my life I found myself underemployed and the part-time and freelancing gigs I did have couldn't pay much and were inconsistent in hours. I had just graduated with two master's degrees from seminary and was at a loss for what to do next. On top of all of that, I was still single, my personal belongings were in storage, and I was renting a room from a family from my church. This is how I found myself on my thirtieth birthday.
 
Rewind a few years and I certainly wouldn't have envisioned all of that for my thirtieth birthday. I started what seemed to be a promising federal career at the age of 21, was surrounded with friends, actively involved in a vibrant church, and upon entry into seminary, did not seem too far away from marrying my best friend.Read more

I'm writing this as I get ready to head out for a week at the beach with my extended family.  I am grateful to have a family to go and be with, a beach to lie on, and little people to boogie board with in the waves.  It is a gift. I really do know this.  But I can't fake it; I'm also daunted.  Everyone there--and there will be 35 plus folks--over the age of 18 will come with his or her spouse/partner, except me.  Every other female adult my age or younger (there are 8 of us in that category) will have--within the last year--gotten married, gotten pregnant or had a baby, the one exception being one sister-in-law whose first child is college bound.  Whether or not you are a woman, if you have ever been single longer than you thought, or been in situations where you can't escape that "odd man out" sensation, I think you might understand why ... this scenario gives me a rather large internal wave!Read more

I had the wonderful opportunity to attend my cousin’s wedding this weekend. It was a gorgeous (and very humid) ceremony in New Orleans. Let’s just say that New Orleans in late July might be the closest place to the sun on earth. Heat aside, what a joyful time it was for the family and friends of these two. Along with my family, I was so proud of this cousin, where he’s been, where he’s come, and where he’s going. He will be a great husband to this lovely woman of God as they grow in new ways, and they have the support of loving families. That said, there is no doubt my cousin has had a mischievous past, and no one at the rehearsal dinner would relent on the colorful, hilarious stories.
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I have a few treasures from my grandmother’s kitchen: her metal measuring cups, a buttery yellow mixing bowl, and her famous pound-cake recipe. A few years ago, when I dropped one of the mixing bowls and it shattered splintered sunshine on my apartment floor, I cried. Sweeping it up felt like sweeping shards of her into the trash. But there’s something I treasure even more than her well-worn tools or secret recipes: her legacy of hospitality—passed down like a precious heirloom wrapped in crocheted lace.
 
My grandmother was no Martha Stewart and for this I’m grateful. I tried following Martha’s directions once to make pretty little chocolate bowls for Valentine’s Day. Let’s just say that the directions included dipping balloons in warm chocolate, and that the result looked a lot more like an abstract painting (read: flung chocolate on the walls) than the beautiful edible bowls graced with dainty raspberries on the magazine page I’d torn out.

My grandmother’s hospitality was not Martha’s kind. No ornamental paper lanterns hung from trees, no flouted phyllo-dough hors d’oeuvres, and certainly no edible chocolate bowls. Lois’ hospitality wasn’t the kind meant to impress well-to-do neighbors, or to barb another woman with a twinge of jealousy.Read more