Outside my office window, the crimson and magenta azaleas bloom, and the red bud trees blossom. (I wonder why they are not called purple buds?) They look like they are just poised to open up on Easter Sunday. 

I took Mom and Dad, 88 and 89 respectively, to buy new cell phones. We spent two hours in the store before we realized we needed some passwords safely stored back at the house.

The word “Lent” means “lengthen” and is often associated with the longer days of Springtime. Historically, Christians have asked themselves to stretch spiritually during this season, either by denying themselves some ordinary pleasure or adding some edifying practice such as prayer.

Instead of reading the usual column today, please take some time to enjoy this 5-episode mini-documentary series on the Tanzania mission partnership (total runtime 22 minutes).

Out the window of my third-floor study loom shades of grey. Charcoal tree branches absent of leaves. Ashen sky successfully hiding any hint of Earth's red sun. Slate rooftop sheltering families.

“I'm sorting through my things to give away half of what I own.” My eyes widened when she proclaimed this. Of course, most of us have some shirts we never wear or some belts that no longer fit.

When the ashes are smudged on our foreheads, we begin the journey through Lent. Often, the journey feels ominous, heavy, and brooding.

“I still remember the 5-pepper chicken,” she exclaimed last week.  I was startled that my former graduate school roommate could recall what we ate for dinner decades ago.

I spent last Saturday at one of the few remaining vast landscapes that lack cell service. We hiked through Joshua Tree National Park in Southern California. As we left the park, I opened my phone to share some of the group photos taken among the stunning scenery with my two sister-in-laws who were in the hiking group.

I have a confession to make. Two-part confession. I’m a news junkie. I subscribe to four newspapers and follow multiple digital news outlets. I try to hear both sides of an issue.

During that week between Christmas and New Year’s when I was never quite sure what day of the week it was, my husband sent me an article contrasting “resolutions” with “rituals.”

As I walk down the main hallway to my office, I can just feel it.  Something is about to happen.  As the poet Scott Cairns writes, “the air is scented with the prayer of pines.”