Parched.
Languishing.
Afraid this was who I would be…forevermore…after the death of my Mom. I know that spell check thinks it should be a lower case “m”; but, hey, it’s my Mom with a capital M.

Then late one night at the office (because I hadn’t been able to complete any task during the day), I pulled from my mailroom cubby an unprofessional looking beige flyer. I remember thinking, “If I was a flyer, I’d look just like this.” So, because of the personal connection established, I began to read. The flyer was advertising an opportunity to participate in a spiritual formation group. Words like authentic,
compassion, and community were on the page. These words, plus the bold typed contemplative soul
care moved me to tears. 

A literary hankering glommed onto me early in my ministry. When parishioners encouraged me to publish prayers penned from my heart, I’d feel my soul expand. Then Bob, my husband and former homiletics professor, would add, “What about including some of your sermons, too?” Yet my personal fear of failure and incessant insecurities would successfully pry loose the hankering.  Reality would speak up reminding me, “Pastors will fly across the country to preach but won’t walk across the street to hear a sermon.”