“Do Not Be Afraid” That’s my sister’s theme for Christmas. She picks a theme every year and, at Christmas dinner, we each talk about our thoughts on the theme. This year, I’ve brought Piglet as a theme visual aide. (A stuffed Piglet, Pooh Bear’s most faithful friend.) I love Piglet, he is the most nervous...

Why would we create a season of joy then scowl and purse our lips when those not “us” partake? “Happy Holidays!” “Merry Christmas!” The “reason for the season” is Jesus’s love. Given to us freely, yet we can’t share? The flash of a delighted child’s eye. An early Christmas...

A friend who’d read my blog entry about my book asked: “So, what did you decide – the check or the email?” It reminded me of when someone is telling a story to make a point and I’m listening not to the message but to the plot and they get to the end and I ask, “So . . . what happened to the chicken?” My friend was responding to...

I have trouble staying in relationship with needy people. I’m not talking about female friends who’ve just broken up with the man of their dreams. I’m talking about people who need a ride to the Social Security Office. Those who need someone to visit them in jail. Those who ask if maybe they could stay in my spare bedroom. Those who...

I didn’t know what cool was until my stepsister Elise came into my life. Christmas of my eighth grade, I weighed eighty pounds. I know this because my new school required a photo id, and the plastic-encased id included my weight. My new father had moved us to a new city, and I’d fallen into a group of friends, but I don’t remember ever...

Yesterday, I was sent two things in connection with my book, “Making Crosses: A Creative Connection to God.” One, a heartfelt “Thank you!” for writing a book that spoke directly to a reader who’d been twirling around the cross for a while, wondering why it called to her. The other was a check. A big check. Which...

When all of my friends and loved ones exuberated at the birth of my grandbaby, I saved their words and found a poem. The words are now tucked in a handmade book to be delivered tomorrow. Here they are: Thomas Aubrey Hill Prewitt: A Found Poem Babies take their own time coming into our world wander around New Orleans, people pretend not to...

Bigmama was there, because I used the dessert plates she gave me. Washing up afterwards, I turned them over and there on the tape on the back was her cursive: “Ellen.” Hers, too, were the ice cream dishes that held cranberry sauce, pickles, and jam; we had jam because Bigmama always had jelly or jam for any formal meal. My...

I was upset, because my friend had been admitted—not his idea—to a mental health facility for evaluation. I was nervous because I’d never been to a mental hospital before. (Yes, I’d painted the lobby at Whitfield for the Junior League, but this was a whole different ballgame.) Finally, I was frightened because it was two days after Halloween...

Anyone who thinks loving the earth is beautiful has never kept a compost bucket. Squishy pumpkin guts. Black coffee grounds. Gobs of gooey matter whose origin as food is no longer discernible. We load the bucket into the back of the pickup truck and ride to Binghampton where we lift the lid of this paint bucket that we’ve fancied-up by...