Welcome Spring

spring meadow






I am re-entering this place gently, feeling something inside me awakening with the spring. This morning, while the house still slept, I stared long into the meadow beyond the backyard. I remembered when this land was clear and freshly mowed, when Mrs. Casto would ride her lawnmower over to our fence to say hello as my boys played on their swingset. Now, it is a wild thing, fruit trees spilling out over brambly earth.

As I looked on, the robins sang their morning songs and I thought what a gift that brambly meadow must be to them. I wondered what it feels like to peer at the world between branches lit with the light of a thousand white blossoms. And then I thought, why not find out?

So I hopped the fence with my camera, braved the sticker bushes and pokey weeds, and found the place where the deer bed down beneath the trees. I sat on a cushion of wild violets, reclined my head on a pillow of moss. And overhead? A white-blossomed canopy framed up against blue sky. The sun broke through the branchy chuppah all at once and I was held in warm hands. The breeze stirred the trees as I lay, cupped and happy, and a shower of petals fell over me—white mingled with purple on my bed and I breathed the fragrance of beauty.

Life used to be more fresh-cut grass and orderly meadows, but I am finding there is beauty in the wild-brambly. How about you?

Happy spring, Beloveds. Where will you find beauty today?

West Virginia Morning: Light Comes Early


When I take Bonnie out this morning, the blue light of night still lingers. The stars still haven’t shut their eyes and I wave at Orion as we wind around the house. At the edge of the dome, light striations are only just beginning. To me, they look like layers of phyllo, layers of light, and the goodness of the earth’s rotation rouses a slight lift in my spirit.

The light comes earlier each morning and the days grow longer. I’m still trying to find a rhythm since returning to work at the hospital every day at the start of the new year. I miss my slow mornings, reading poetry out loud to God and Bonnie, sipping my coffee and underlining words. Yesterday, the sun warmed the winterstruck and Jeff and went walking for the first time in a while. The sparrows were singing their sweet-sad song and I could smell new grass, the earth melting from the outside in. I felt a holy whisper in my ear, grow, it seemed to purr.

As I drove to work this morning, I noticed a new level of comfort—my heart settling in to a new routine. Time. I’m always telling my patients that some things just take time. But it’s the way we take the time that makes all the difference. I’m still learning how to slow in the midst of all this busy, how to notice the kairos in the chronos. I think it will be a life-long lesson.

And I’m okay with that.


The winner of Dawn Camp’s new book The Gift of Friendship is Maryleigh from Blue Cotton Memory. Congratulations, Maryleigh! I’ll send you a private message soon.

Weather Forecast (a poem)


this will be remembered
as the Christmas of sixty degrees
when we went walking in shorts
and wore flip-flops as we sat
on the patio in the fading light
of day

the trees adorned with flashing
wings; morning drips from gray
branches; the meadow covered
in white mist

I have two sets of eyes, two sets
of ears; my skin holds the memory
of life hoped for, taken, healed

I am a sponge, filled with the water
of dreams, your voice strong
inside me, like the north wind,
all my worth measured by
the light in your eyes

beauty is a wild thing I stalk,
gathering fog by the armfuls and
heaping it onto yesterday

the lights on the Christmas tree
glisten, winking in reflection on
naked branches outside the window

the weatherman calls for rain.

31 Days of the Almost Empty Nest: Unlocking Time


This morning, the sky looks like a giant canvas of sand art—grainy clouds sweep across a blooming horizon and I rise before the sun. I set my alarm early, to do this writing thing, but my body would rather stay in bed, my mind is sleepy. It’s cold outside. I try not to think about my pepper plants as I stare out the window at the sinking moon. We’re supposed to have another warm spell this week. Hold on, little ones, I whisper against the glass.

Yesterday, we had new French doors installed in the back of our house, a project long overdue. I may have mentioned before, I don’t like to let go of things. As the workers carried our old doors away I had to fight the urge to ask them to leave them behind. Wouldn’t they make a nice rustic table? Maybe some kind of outdoor project, with flowering vines? But I know better. If left, the doors would languish in the garage with all the other left-behinds: old laminate flooring, boxes of tile, half-empty cans of paint, forgotten homebrew equipment, all the neglected bicycles, and the boys’ old radio flyer. No, best to let them go.

When we ordered our door, the salesman neglected to tell us we had to buy our own doorknob and dead bolt. As a placeholder, the installers put the old one back in—the one that never locked properly, the one with the ugly corroded brass. So, when Jeff came home from work, we went for a quick walk and then over to The Home Depot. Who knew there were so many different kinds of doorknobs? We found a set that seemed perfect and were getting ready to make our way to the register when the one other person in the doorknob aisle approached us.

“If you all want a secure lock, you should buy Schlage instead of that one.”

He pointed to the package he was holding. “I’m a locksmith. I just learned from a guy in the CIA that the lock you are holding can be picked in eleven seconds.”

Jeff and I looked at each other and moved over to the Schlage section. The man went on to give several pointers about secure locks and what we should purchase. “If it says ‘G1,’ that’s what you want. That’s the most secure.” We found our G1 Schlage knob and dead bolt set, thanked the man, and left.

It seemed like a stroke of luck to be in the aisle the same time as a locksmith evangelist. I couldn’t help feeling well cared for as we drove on home. But the thing I noticed most was how the entire interaction felt so … spacious. Before the almost-empty nest, these kinds of errands were always cutthroat, get in/get out kinds of things. No time to talk with a locksmith evangelist in the doorknob aisle. What’s more, they were usually a divide and conquer episode. Rarely would Jeff and I go together to purchase something like a doorknob.

As we drove home from The Home Depot and night began to fall softly over our little valley, I whispered a prayer of thanks for changing seasons. And the way time seems to expand in this almost-empty nest.

This post is part of my 31 Days of the Almost Empty Nest series. I’m writing in community with the thirty-one dayers. Women all over the world are joining together in the month of October to write every day about something they’re passionate about. Check out some of the other writers here. So much good stuff. To read my first post, with links to all the days, go here. 

Almost Empty

Playdates with God: Fireflies


When we walk down to the creek now, the air is sweet with the scent of honeysuckle. The boys still have a few more days of school left but already the spinning earth whispers, freedom in our ears. Every day weighs heavy with anticipation.

We sit out back at dusk, toes touching under the table…letting the slow coming on of night drip cool into these last hours. The wind is whispering over the meadow, stirring bushes and bending low the trees. It skims my skin, lifting with it the remnants of a tired day and for a moment I think I’m dreaming. But then, he sees it too—from the Maple—this faint winking.

It’s the first fireflies of the season and this quiet return always creates a celebration in my heart. After the initial welcome, we sit still and enjoy the show.

Isn’t it something how everything old is new again and we can greet the familiar like royalty in those first moments of recognition? Each winking light lifts the heavy and my body remembers how these critters usher in the summer—the way the sun lingers longer on the hills, the steady music of the peepers, and the later bedtime as we chased the lights.

I sit and wiggle my toes over my man’s…think about the amazing way the world is designed…how the Almighty gives us seasons so we’ll remember the beauty that we so easily forget when we face it every day.

I look at him from under my lashes and the beauty of our life enters quiet into my heart, like the slow turning of the seasons on a dewy night in late spring.

Every Monday I share one of my Playdates with God. I would love to hear about yours. It can be anything: outside, quiet time. Maybe it’s solitary. Maybe it’s loud and crowded. Just find God and know joy. Click on the button below to add your link. I try to visit a few of your stories every week, so if you are a new visitor, be sure to let me know in the comments so I can welcome you. Grab my button at the bottom of the page and join us.

Laura Boggess