Somehow, this fall has turned into a season of beginnings for me.
Its fall, when leaves wither on the vine and our lives begin to wither at the prospect of winter. It only makes sense if we remember Spring will come again.
It’s such a small little office, really. Two rooms plus the powder room. The place felt full most of the afternoon
It’s always about this time every year that I grow wholly grateful for life in ways I wish would stick with me through the year. October is my birth month—a birth so many moons ago I begin to lose track. But October also is my death month. At least that’s the story I thought I was living nine years ago.
On Sunday during the Bible study I lead at church, we were talking about grace. First, we defined grace in our own words, and most of us came up with some version of “a gift from God we don’t deserve.” When I asked the group why people have a hard time receiving grace, we all agreed that generally people are suspicious of free gifts and would rather just know what they owed so they could pay back their debt.
On Sunday, my stepson came up to me at church before the service started and asked, “Did you write another book? Grandpa said you wrote another book.”