I couldn’t sleep. It was a cold and cozy December night. Maybe I ate too many cookies. Or had a list that wouldn’t stop unrolling itself in my head. All I know is I was awake. I left my husband snoring deeply in our bed, curled up on the living room couch with the remote and searched for something to watch on television.
Read MoreMy mother loved the sound of the sea. Listening to its rhythm subdued memories that shifted in her heart and soothed pain she carried in the present. There weren’t many books on our shelves at home but there were bits of the sea: sand dollars, bleached white in the sun, starfish and coral with their neon colors and iridescent abalone, mementos from childhood vacations.
Read MoreWhen our memories are inseparable from the formation and understanding of our self, what does it mean to pray, "Lord, receive my memory."
Read MoreHold on to your hats and glasses, cause this essay is going to be a bumpy ride.
This isn't like what you have read from me thus far.
Loneliness pulled me outside, to the streets. Buttoning my peacoat tight around me, I flipped the collar up to brace against the wind. Walking among the Saturday night crowds of Portand’s NW 23rd, I saw myself from above, as in a sad montage in a film.
Read MoreIt is rare that I’ll remember a sweet memory associated with my father. Most of my memories of him are intertwined with fear and anxiety. And yet...
Read MoreUncle Philip knew the on-ramp to the freeway was my favorite. He gave me a wink as he revved the Bug as we waited at the signal to enter, then gunned it as the light turned green. He took the big C curved loop fast. I held on to the door handle tight, then imagined what might happen if the door opened, so I quickly locked it and took hold of the dash grab too. As we entered the freeway and straightened out he laughed and said “Well, Missy, that was our first ride of the day, cause I’m taking you to Disneyland!”
Read More“It’s my year to put the star on top of the tree!” my oldest squeals as we remove the silver star from its box from the basement. Each year, he and his brother take turns being hoisted up into the air by my husband, stretching to place it a top the tree.
Read MoreOn my grandparent’s shaggy avocado green carpet, I set up the Winnie the Pooh Weeble house they gave me for Christmas. Chubby Christopher Robin and Tigger go for a ride on the teeter totter. Pooh slides down the mini slide, rolling around when he gets to the bottom. “Weebles wobble but they don’t fall down!” I sing as I push them on the tiny swings, after I have given them a nice picnic lunch of honey, of course. I tuck Pooh into his little bed and sing him a good night song, “Jesus is coming, coming for me, in a moment, in a twinkling of an eye.” The song is about the rapture, when Jesus will come for all those who believe in Him. It will happen quickly and without notice, I am to always be ready.
Read MoreAs a parent, I am determined to give my sons, a proper film education. My husband and I have been scheduling our own Family Film Festival on Friday nights. We sometimes give in and show the latest kid film but mostly we introduce them to films and genres that we love from the classics.
Read MoreMy whole body is goosebumps as I hear the songs I listened to secretly on my Walkman, late at night as my parents would fight outside my room. These songs made me feel like I wasn’t the only person who thought things weren’t right in this world.
Read MoreMy 5-year-old son and I are sitting side by side on the couch reading. I with Annie Dillard’s An American Childhood, a book I should have read long ago and he another A-Z Mystery. I have a bag of chips on my left and every few pages he raises his hand out, without speaking for another chip. My 7-year-old is elsewhere in the house, probably in the smallest space between two pieces of furniture, curled up with his own book.
Read MoreIf he would have been embarrassed or his eyes filled with tears, my reaction would have been more compassionate. But he was tickled that such a calamity happened! He knew mommy would take care of it.
Read MoreNo music. No singing. These were not women who would pat my red head as I passed them by or give me a little squeeze. They didn’t pop a piece of ripe cantaloupe in their mouth as they chopped. They simply cut, chopped, diced, sorted into dixie bowls. This was the morning snack for the Vacation Bible School kids, including me. Fruit I normally would not have a home. Fresh fruit that was not from a tree in our yard was a treat, a luxury. I looked forward to 10am when I’d be passed one of these bowls along with a little plastic fork. Was it duty? Was it a job that needed to be done so they signed up to do it? Was it an act of service to God? Not sure which but with each bite, I felt loved.
Read MoreSinger song writer, Ryan Adams says "Whenever I’m stuck when I’m writing, I could just put a Smiths record on, and it’s kind of like if my songwriting was an iPhone, it recharges it in like, five minutes.” I understand. The Smiths do the same for me in whatever mood I am feeling.
Read MoreThrives on moments where storytelling, art and faith collide.
Goldberg is much more practical than many of the texts that I have read. She gives you much to hold onto.
If you know me, you know I love encounters with strangers. Here is one that left me encouraged.
First time writing for Catholic World Report. I have wanted to tell this story for a long time. Read my essay on the theology of the body as it pertains to our last moments here on earth.
I had the honor of chatting with Melissa Wilkinson on the Anchored with Purpose podcast! We talked about my journey to Catholicism, the difference between happiness and joy and encouraging each other.
I must pinch myself that I am part of this collection from Ignatius Press ! It comes out next month but is available for preorder now.
How easily we forget that we are, at every moment, shaped with care by a Creator. Artists, however—who know intimately the blood, sweat, and tears of the creative process—can help us sense how marvelous it is to be created: the patience, the detail, the joy. In this essential collection, thirty-one Christian artists from various disciplines, from music to poetry to film to sculpture, offer personal essays on the strange experience of following God’s lead by making beautiful things.