The moral high ground
    is a perilous precipice,
    and the fall from there
                      is a long one.

Liz McFadzean

Photos by Gary and Peter Bayer

Sometimes life feels like unraveling
threads pulled and frayed
...

This is a big, beautiful country.  Last week I complained about western Kansas.  I’m sure that for the people born and raised there, even that broad expanse of flat grassland has a mesmerizing beauty.  When we moved back to the Midwest from California in the 1980s, I...

Many people have described the cross-country trip that I undertook with my daughter and her two oldest sons as a prime opportunity for making memories.  But on the road, you can’t be sure precisely what memories you’re making.  You can plan the things that you think will...

We didn’t lose anyone at the Grand Canyon.

Every time I told somebody that this summer I was driving across the country with my daughter and her two oldest boys (six and four), and that our first stop was the Grand Canyon, I was warned to hold onto them tightly.  You would think that...

One Thursday I find myself sitting by the side of the road.  What am I doing here?  I’ve thrown a lawn chair and my journal into the back of the car and headed for the hills.  From whence does my help come?  

The sun is out, and it warms me, warms the earth as it...

Yesterday was our 47^th wedding anniversary.  One thing that has enabled us to survive the “better and the worse”  is that David and I have a “missional marriage”.  What do I mean by that?  During our earlier years together, we were literally...

A couple of years ago, my husband ordered a Rebel robot to vacuum our pool.  Whenever the filter is running, it roams around sucking up leaves and other debris that sink to the bottom. 

My daughter wrote a short story chronicling my relationship with this little robot entitled,...

The kingdom of forever
   won’t have predator or prey.
Peaceful the mountain dwelling
   that last restorative day. 

Mosquitos will not torment,
   nor the dreaded Tsetse fly;
termite mounds in Africa
   untrampled by rhinoceri.

La llama will lie with...

Whose hands are those?  Whose thinning hair
and small eyes, drab, but mischief-merry?
Who is that crone whose energy flags,
who can’t keep up with all I used to do?
I’d fret, and yet
I’m a grandma soft, my contours
plump enough to nestle up to
as I snuggle little ones into a book,...