All Smashed Together

Before I could share with my husband and receive a loving hug of encouragement, our youngest shoved past my writing chair and pounded his fist on the bathroom door. Snarls or rage and pain answered back and I knew that our middle son must have been putting in his contacts at that exact moment, stabbing himself in the eye … again.

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The Altar

It is humble. The crowded coffee table is at my right, a stack of laundry baskets boiling over with clean cloths is at my left, and my writing chair is just behind me. Sometimes the dog creeps into it and I have to shoo her away before I write. Nonetheless, in the quiet darkness of the early morning, after I study God’s word but before I open my computer to write, I kneel.

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