Perhaps one of the most recognizable stories in the Gospel is that of the Parable of the Prodigal Son.
As I get older, I take more and more comfort in the fact God never promised life would be easy.
When it comes to staying true to what you believe, nothing seems more daunting, especially in today’s world.
It started with a sickening feeling of being too right too often.
My earliest memories are of the reflection of sunlight through multicolored stain glass.
From the earliest reaches of my memory I recall the breathless yearning for things.
I had just finished scrolling through my social media when I came across an article that made me stop in my tracks.
Being alone and being lonely are most often portrayed as being mutually exclusive—they’re not.
So few of us recognize that we have control over how we feel.
We arrived in Jacó in a sweltering cocoon of exhaustion, the humidity a mild 83%, considering we’d flown from Houston, and nobody was complaining.
The chill. It snakes up my legs and into my skin and pinks my cheeks in ways my southern blood is not accustomed to.
In all my recollections, not once does the name Marfa come to mind.