In an article Sarah Thebarge wrote after spending two months practicing medicine in a war zone in South Sudan, she said, “I keep reminding myself that rest is holy.”
Author: Marlys Lawry Page 21 of 54
The day is just beginning to light up in this remote place, all snow-piled with far-flung hills blending into the white-edged sky so you can barely tell where the mountains leave off and the sky begins.
Who knew gray and white could be so beautiful?
As I write this, I’m holed away in a gorgeous, remote log cabin, almost snowed in. (Almost means I could probably get down the mile-long driveway to the main road in my all-wheel-drive vehicle if I wanted to—but who wants to?!)
After a writing session in a coffee shop, I discovered a very flat tire. The temperature was in the teens, it was starting to spit snow, and dusk was just beginning to think about showing her dark side.
The plan was for a six-week writing retreat at a log cabin surrounded by 2,200 acres.
Someone very wise and insightful penned these words:
You can’t buy happiness, but you can buy books, and that’s kind of the same thing.
January 15 marks the day when my friend Charity watched frantically, hysterically as her husband and three-year-old son were swept out to sea by a sneaker wave.
Every year, on the anniversary of the Worst Day Ever, Charity is determined to get as far above sea level as possible.
You remember the Porch Fairy who—when my husband, Gary, was dying in the hospital bed in our living room—left Chai tea for me and Americano coffee for my daughter on our front porch? Daily. For weeks. Even in snow and ice.
After an early Christmas in New Jersey with kids and grands, and three snowy, Christmasy days in the forested village of SunRiver, I took to the road.
Five years ago this month, I had head surgery. My husband—dealing with cancer and the side effects of wretched chemo—whisked me away to a resort village in the mountains with a tiny tree, a few lights, and a couple of gifts. It was a blissful, healing time.
We didn’t know it would be our last Christmas together.
