Moments before I was swindled by a beautiful elderly lady in a black lace shawl with gleaming dark eyes who claimed to be the sole caregiver of five children and their children, I purchased a poetry print for twelve euros. Drew and I, along with my cousin and his fiancée, were at a Saturday market in Galway last November and an entire market stall devoted to Irish poetry printed in black ink on small squares of jute fabric had caught my eye. Our traveling in Ireland had been a journey of re-enchantment—a slowing down of pace and a quiet opening of the spirit. My time-dulled senses were growing sharper. I was becoming more porous, more receptive to beauty and to the land itself and all the ways its ancient stone and wind-swept hills whispered something of eternity. When I saw the particular poem print that now hangs on my wall, I knew deep down that William Butler Yeats was telling the truth, even if I had forgotten to believe it. . .

Drew’s mother used to read Psalm 121 during every airplane takeoff, and now he does the same. When we are on a flight together I look over at him and see his Bible open, his lips silently forming the words I know almost by heart. Psalm 121 is an invitation to look up from our circumstances and look towards our Protector. This is a childlike posture, for as adults we tend to think there is no one bigger or higher than ourselves and we assume that if help is to come from anywhere, it will be from within. So we keep our heads down and press on. We forget that we are children, still. . .

It is a strange and blessed thing when the person with whom you share a home, British dramas, dirty dishes, and breakfast burritos is also your pastor. So many people never get to see their pastor “in real life” on the mundane Mondays after church. But I do, and I’m glad. I watch Drew like a hawk and I can say with confidence: he’s the real deal. The intimacy and trust that comes from a day-to-day life shared together is what keeps me in my seat on Sunday mornings, genuinely open to listening to God speak to my spirit through him. And this past Sunday brought the weight of discovery that has sunk to the depths of my soul, refusing to budge until I reckon with it. . .

“Is it because we had potatoes *growing from* our rotting potatoes that we shoved in the cabinet for several months?” Drew asked.

It was a fair question. We do, in fact, tend to put organic things in refrigerator drawers and kitchen cabinets, blissfully ignoring them until the sheer stench of decay causes us to wake up a bit to the reality of entropy and do something about it. Such was the case with The Easter Potatoes, of which I had purchased an unreasonable amount because as we all know the worst thing possible on Easter is not having enough scalloped potatoes. It is now July, and I am proud to report that after checking monthly on those dank, unused potatoes then promptly forgetting the undeniable mass of roots and rot fermenting in the dark recesses of our lower cabinet. . .

Think on These Things

Now it is time for the unashamed exuberance of summer,
Leaping and frolicking across emerald hills
Like an untamed colt who has just learned to run—

Beaming like the freckling sun who celebrates her birthday each morning
With the trumpet of swans and a yellow jubilee of honey bees,
Alluring like a tangle of jasmine and orange blossom on a starry night—

Singing so convincingly it is almost as if winter never happened
And the bitter wind of fall never cut to the bone,
Almost as though the early spring rain never extinguished our last ember of hope.

Lest you forget,
Think of how much darkness it took to get here.
Think of the cold, the bitter burrowing deep into frozen soil—

The thin surround of a seed’s final exhale before surrendering to death.
Think of how long the birds stayed silent, wrapping their Feathers around fluted bones and fragile beating hearts,
Just to preserve what they sing in the light of a distant sun.

Think on these things, and be glad
—for dark, for silence, for deep—
For the countless ways that death yields to life, turning
What we hardly dared believe in the long ache of months into a dream true as roses.

Welcome, dear unimaginable summer: Long have we waited for you.

. . .

Within the past week, I have known the deep honor of journeying alongside several women who shared their stories of pain with me. Most of their stories involve a sense of betrayal—either by the people they loved or by a sense that God did not come through for them when they most needed help. I have felt this way many times, though God is doing much to heal the places in me that still ache with the question, “Where were you?”. . .

Thirteen years ago, I was living in Prague for the second semester of my junior year of college. My roommate and I spent weeks researching the most ideal (and cheapest) spring break journey which consisted of two trains and multiple buses, four flights, three nights in hostels with very mixed company, whirlwind stops in four different countries, and one sleepless night on the thinly padded bench of an overnight ferry—all to reach the final destination of our dreams: Santorini, Greece. . .

It may come as no surprise to you that I composed this poem while on an airplane, my eyes getting dryer by the minute from the unceasing stream of filtered air coming from above my seat, my heart wondering how it is that I get to gaze upon the Colorado desert—sensing in some tiny way what the resurrected Jesus might have seen when he ascended into heaven before his disciples’ watching eyes. I felt as if I was peeking over the shoulder of Jesus as I pictured how the clouds must have looked beneath his feet, watching with as the brown and scrubby land of Israel and the upturned faces of his beloved ones faded from view. Was Jesus sad when he left them?. . .

The dream that changed my life forever came to me in the summer of 2012. In my dream, I saw a blonde man with a beard standing on stage behind a wooden podium. He was preaching passionately, and I sensed that this was the man I was meant to marry. I had started dating a seminary student with blonde hair and a beard shortly before this dream, so when I awoke the next morning I excitedly shared it with my mom because I just knew it was confirmation that I would marry the man I was dating. And I did. . .

There were steaming piles of mulch and swarms of sprightly, neon-vested volunteers everywhere we looked. Drew and I had unsuspectingly pulled up to the community center this weekend to go to the gym but were met with a community-wide display of eager and altruistic mulch spreading across the parking lot. Feeling guilty that we were not among the volunteers, we parked out of sight and slunk in to the gym through the back door—justifying this decision by musing about how our property tax dollars very likely contributed to this manifold mulch-buying which means we were basically sponsoring the entire event. To make matters worse, the gym has a wall of windows that faces the parking lot, which only served to emphasize that although we were working out, we were not working outside, which was the obvious right thing to do. (Later I overheard a teenage girl saying, “I’m only doing this for the doughnuts,” which made me feel much better). . .

This Eastertide, I have the privilege of sharing some thoughts on death and resurrection for The Redbud Post, a monthly online magazine written by members of the Redbud Writers Guild. Its message strikes me as more true today than when I wrote it in March, through no brilliance of my own but because God is faithful to deepen and grow the thoughts he plants in my heart. Many times Every time I write—whether for this blog or for another publication—I write what I need to hear. I declare what I desperately need to be true. May these words serve to water the new seeds of life and resurrection that God is planting in you, even now.

November 10th, 2018 was the perfect evening. All of mine and Drew’s favorite ingredients for joy were gathered in one wedding tent: the people we love most, pizza, greenery and flowers along with drippy wax candles and blue glass goblets, words that celebrate life, and most of all, the sweet fellowship of the Trinity as we breathed and laughed and cried the breath and joy and tears of God together. It was and is the most fulfilling evening of our life together. . .

“How did she die?” I asked Drew at the breakfast table. It was my automatic response to his sharing that a friend’s mother had passed away. As I listened to his reply, I began to grow uncomfortable with my question. Why did I ask that? I wondered. Do I really need to know? Death will happen to all of us, yet it seems to take us by surprise when someone dies. And this is good, because something in us knows that we were made for eternity—that death is not the way it is supposed to be. ..

On the one year anniversary of my grandfather’s death, I found myself on a plane to North Carolina to be present for my grandmother’s final days. It felt all too familiar—that heavy cloud of anxious dread, praying with every breath that she would hold on and that I would make it in time to say a meaningful goodbye. The preparing to sit with my beloved one in the space between life and death during the liminal season between winter and spring, to hold her hand until the end: this felt like too much to bear and exactly as it should be, all at the same time.

Every time I look at the scar on my left knee, I remember. We were living in Lexington, Kentucky at the time and I was an exuberant nine years old. It was summertime, the summer of the big tree in our front yard that I never tired of climbing. We were living in a rental home, but that tree felt like a true home to me and I wanted to live in its branches. . .

It was a bright and glorious afternoon in May when I found myself eating in silence with a group of four strangers. I was attending a training retreat in Malibu, California with Ren­o­varé, and this was our first and strangest assignment: to eat lunch in silence with our group, to spend one additional hour in silence together somewhere on the Franciscan retreat center campus, and then to begin our first official meeting together by sharing from the depths of our souls. I couldn’t have known that these strangers would soon become impossibly dear to me, so as I sat there silently eating I felt anxious and did my best to stay present while also avoiding eye contact with those surrounding the white plastic outdoor table. . .

Being married to a pastor means that my designated seat on Sunday mornings is always, always the front row. This is slightly awkward because Drew and I are the only ones on the front row, across the whole church. There is no hiding. Although I am used to it now, this seating arrangement was initially difficult for someone who once preferred arriving late, sitting in the back, and making a hasty exit once the service was over. When Drew goes up to preach, it is just me holding down the fort up there like in the Hunger Games when the heroine steps forward from a long line of people and says “I volunteer as tribute” so the rest can go free. For an introvert, sitting alone on the front row can sometimes feel heroic. . .

When it became clear that rumors of a global pandemic were, in fact, true, two things happened almost immediately:

1.     Drew and I began exercising in our living room to workout videos on a YouTube channel called “PopSugar.”

2.     I learned how to bake bread.

One of these practices has remained, while the other has mercifully slipped away now that we are elite card-carrying members of the Auburn community fitness room…

First of all, I think you should know that I am writing this in my fuzzy purple Care Bear adult onesie, a beloved comfort object which my brother-in-law presented to me as a “welcome to the family” gift for my first Christmas as a Dixon. Second of all, I feel prompted to tell you why I am wearing this suit…

I am not where I thought I’d be by now—as a human or a student of literature. Ever since the pandemic, I have been unable to read nearly anything except children’s fantasy books, poetry, and British mysteries. It has been a bit embarrassing to try to explain why I have not read all of the glorious and wonderful non-fiction books that have come into the world over the past three years. . .