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Born of Water, Blood, and Spirit

By Teresa Bruce

My son-in-law’s feet rooted him to my daughter’s side, but I paced Os and 8s around the delivery room waiting for my first grandchild to be born. Hours in, I realized my daughter’s labor was costing her — wounding her — far more than my three children had required of me. I finally grasped the …

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Sabbath Revival: A Year of Failing (Maybe Even Spectacularly)

By Kellie Purcill

This Sabbath Revival post is from Kel way back in 2013. This time of year, I look back as well as forwards. I even give myself a general, not-looking-at-the-details-too-closely kind of report card as well for the previous year. Didn’t Accidentally Set Anything on Fire: A+ Kept One’s (Mostly) Beloved Children Alive, Fed and Mostly …

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Six-Word Autobiography: Dear Self, What’s Your Story?

By Teresa Bruce

  Almost five years ago, a friend challenged me to write a six-word autobiography. After a brief panic, I scribbled: Daughter. Friend. Wife. Mother. Writer. Widow. Never mind how — but for the penultimate word — I’d identified my life story in terms of relationships with others. At 45 and scarcely into my second year of …

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When A Bookcase Isn’t

By Kellie Purcill

When I move, the first thing I unpack is the kitchen for necessity, then my books to make the house my home. My bookcase is the repository for all my inanimate preciouses. Books, movies, a couple of photos, car keys, ornaments, dust you can’t see if you squint slightly, art and family heirlooms all shoved, …

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Sharing the Afternoon

Now that we have uncovered the secret cache of guest posts, we’ll begin sharing them with you. Today’s post is from Lori Nawyn. Her essays, articles, and short stories have appeared in regional and national publications. Her first novel, My Gift to You, was released in 2010. In addition to writing, she works as a free-lance …

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Time

In honor of Father’s Day, we bring you a post by guest Jennifer Wunderlich.  Beyond composing grocery lists and the occasional “Thank You” card, Jennifer is a novice to writing.  But oh!  How she loves it!  Married to her sweet husband of 16 years, together they own a sign and graphics company  and try to maintain the peace between their four nutso but lovable, children.  When Jen isn’t at home with her family, she’s in the trenches at a local hospital as a full time phlebotomist.  Though she loves drawing blood what she really loves are road-trips, singing at the top of her lungs, laughing irreverently and chocolate.   Jen recently started her own blog   mainly to keep herself sane. Really and truly.

I could see it in their eyes.

These sons, these three grown men, stayed with their father through every hour of the day and night and I could see it in their eyes. I could hear it in their voices–not so much from the words they spoke, but from their hushed tones and wistful timbre. I could feel it in the air, tingling and crackling despite their efforts to create a quiet haven for their sick father. There was no stopping it or stalling it. Time had come and surprised them all, as it seemed to bid their father’s body to age and his mind to slow to a plod. They wore it on their faces; when they glanced at each other you could almost see it travel as a mindless thought from one to another: Where does the time go? When did this happen?

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A new crown, no prospects of royalty and today’s a new day

By Jennifer Whitcomb

toothbrush

Yesterday I sat in the dentist chair with the drill humming in the background and I made a resolve NEVER to eat sugar again. I promised myself that I’ll floss everyday. I swear I’ll be more vigilant with my kids’ teeth so that they don’t have to endure agony in the chair. I carried home extra toothbrushes and packs of mini floss to put on the dinner table, planning to have the dental hygiene talk. I’ll tell my children that it’s hard enough to stay on top of regular bills, without adding the dentist’s car payment to the list.

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A Limited Perspective

Today’s UP CLOSE:Death and Dying post comes from Connie Boyd.  Connie Boyd is the mother of six grown children and six grandchildren. Since her children live from coast to coast and north to south, she is fond of travelling. She also enjoys religious research, church service, swimming and writing. Connie teaches eighth grade science in Worcester, Massachusetts, but is soon to retire. Born in Brigham City, Utah, she moved to Saginaw, Michigan when she was four years old. She began her undergraduate studies at Utah State University and later transferred to the University of Michigan where she earned her Bachelor of Science Degree. She received her Master’s Degree in education from Cambridge College. Her husband of forty two years died March 2, 2009.CBoydSegullah

Six months ago my beloved husband of forty-two years died unexpectedly. His heart simply stopped beating. He was not in pain, as cupping water in your hands, his spirit simply slipped away. The event is still so near, my perspective is probably limited. Death counselors say that grief has several expressions: shock, loneliness and sorrow, confusion, guilt and anger. I have yet to experience many of them. My overall emotion was, and remains, deep gratitude that I even knew this wonderful man, that I shared a great portion of his life and that I have the prospects of eternity with him. My list of gratitude grows longer each day: gratitude for family, thankfulness for friends who so willingly and constantly offer help and deep appreciation for the gospel teachings and the constant comfort from the Holy Spirit.

With all that, however, comes the waiting period. Unlike my cat that waits impatiently for me to feed him, I want my waiting period to be less grumpy and more fruitful but not manically busy. I want to live the rest of my life to be worthy of his eternal companionship.

 

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Evening Comes to Donner Lake

By Cheri Schulzke

air cools. rich, lucent blue ripples, flaxen with slanted sunlight. canoe slips through narrow pine-shadowed inlet, nuzzles coarse sand. jumbled cargo awaits— remnants of play. laughter fades sun-weary, content. sandcastles sag as little waves greet one small stray shovel. suntips slide behind the alp. wind stops. the lake rests silent as glass.