At Granner’s house, everyone belonged. Granner never told anyone she didn’t have room for them to come in. She never made a person feel they were intruding or inconvenient. It was Granner’s house – a house built on love. Everyone shifted a bit to make room for the other.

Abigail Adams could not vote or overtly fight in the Revolution, but she absolutely personified the definition of what it means to bring home the bacon and fry it up in the pan. And she absolutely never let John Adams forget he was a man – while also taking him to task on his testosterone-fueled shortcomings. I can relate.

As I worked to remember the art and joy of riding a bike, I mentally counted the number of years since I had last ridden. Thirty-five. Thirty-five years is a long time. And whoever said anything comes back easily, just like riding a bike, clearly didn’t let 35 years go by in between excursions.

The chapel of everyday is vital to my existence. It’s different than going to church. Let’s be truthful. No matter how much we insist otherwise, church is a place where we clean up, make-up, and shut up in order to fit in, find acceptance, and maybe just a little salvation. I still attend from time to time, but church seems less about experiencing God and more about fitting into an image or mold that makes those who bear His name more comfortable.

The pot is garish; green paint chipping away from red terra cotta. Red and pink splotches form Van Gogh-styled flowers with yellow dots forming their centers. The paint is peeling, water and seasons of searing summer heat and winter’s freezing cold wearing through its carnival exterior. It is something only a mother can love. My daughter painted this pot for me on an early spring afternoon more than 10 years ago…