by Emily Wierenga | Jul 11, 2012 | anniversary, bible school, children, God, hope, husband, love, marriage, renew, submission, vows
you’ve always saved me, in your own quiet Christ-like way.”i don’t ever want our house to be without children,” i tell you. “even when we’re old, so long as we have beds, we have children,” and you nod and you smile.but just... by Emily Wierenga | Jul 5, 2012 | abingdon press, children, death, heaven, just write, letting go, love, mother, motherhood, sacrifice, the gypsy mama
well, there are many reasons.reasons like rising when you feel like falling, reasons like producing milk when you want to produce tears and being called to represent every feminine attribute of God for men, girls and boys, and not knowing night from day from hour... by Emily Wierenga | May 30, 2012 | anorexia nervosa, art, book, chasing silhouettes, families, giveaway, hope, hungry, imperfect prose on thursdays, love, pre-order, starving
The nurses murmured to each other under fluorescent lighting as I lay shivering on the metal hospital bed, cold. Later, I would learn that they had marveled at my hypothermic, sixty-pound sack of bones, reasoning, “She should be dead.” I was a breach of science; a... by Emily Wierenga | May 22, 2012 | abortion, children, ethics, fair-trade coffee, faith, holistic, love, pro-life, sweatshops, unborn, wal-mart
i transplant a flower, rub the soil between my hands. it’s so much easier to worship without walls, and we skipped church today. it’s hard to skip church in a community that doesn’t ever miss a sunday. but we do sometimes, because the sabbath is for... by Emily Wierenga | May 11, 2012 | faith, feature posts, imperfect prose on thursdays, Jesus, life, love, meaning, purpose
“that’s where Jesus died,” Joey says, pointing to the hole in the paper he’s scribbled with markers. it looks like an orange and yellow explosion happened, like a daffodil was torn apart. “that’s where it’s all empty and... by Emily Wierenga | May 9, 2012 | beauty, children, God, imperfect prose on thursdays, love, mirror, sheep, springtime
i tuck kasher under my chin on the kitchen linoleum and we dance while the tea kettle boils. outside my window i see an old man in a plaid shirt limping along the winding road. he’s so frail, i can almost see his heart pulsing through the plaid and i tuck kasher...