We’re stuck, my man and I. At an impasse, and we circle to it again and again these last four days. At the coffee-shop over my dark French roast, in the car on our way home from an errand, and whispered in the dark at night before bed. We have a decision to make that…

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It’s the original walls. This home, built thirteen years ago by Russian hands. This home in which we’re the third owners, third occupants. (Photos above not of my home. See credits below) Foreclosed and bank-owned when we found it, knee high in thistles and clover, we know very little about this house’s past owners. Intriguing…

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Latin samba drums thunder from my computer speakers, and we dance, jumping around the living room. My five year old Daniel leaps joyfully beside me, tiny shoulders bouncing rhythmically, legs stomping the beat. We grab hands, shimmy to the beat, and swirl. Jetlag whirls off, this third day back from our missions trip, and it’s…

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It wasn’t at the fire pit that I felt him most. Glowing embers spelled out his name amidst laughing families, playful Family Camp counselors, and sticky fingers waving blackened marshmallows. The unmistakable scent of bug spray wafted off us all, and a spectacular red sun slipped into the lake. I felt him, and loved him,…

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It was the lightning bugs and the laughter last night. That’s what stands out the most.  In between are glimpses of grandparents arriving, of jostling elbows in the kitchen as we rinsed black dirt from tiny fresh garden beets, stirred spiral garlic pasta around green peas, and frosted a birthday cake. Seven of us crowded…

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