by Emily Wierenga | Nov 14, 2012 | baby, birth, Brandee Shafer, die, doubting thomas, God, imperfect prose on thursdays, motherhood, prayer, pregnancy, spirituality
Art by Dot Samuel at Psalms of Samuel in Watercolor(post by Brandee Shafer)They counted to three and, working together, swung me from bed to table. Strange to witness their strain when I felt nearly weightless; I am a pendulum, I thought, tugged by time. I am... by Emily Wierenga | Oct 10, 2012 | babies, children, dying, God, hard, holy, imperfect prose on thursdays, killing, new testament, old testament, parenting, prayer
aiden is talking in full sentences now, so i’m trying to make Jesus a part of our regular vocabulary, and i am putting him to bed, asking him if he knows how much God loves him. he stretches his arms out wide like a cross. “this much” he whispers.... by Emily Wierenga | May 18, 2012 | alarm, devotionals, feature posts, fire, God, grace, imperfect prose on thursdays, legalism, prayer, sleep
he was making the last fire of the season. “i want the best of you,” trent said in a quiet way and i wanted to feel warm. “i don’t want the leftover, tired emily. i want the fresh, alive emily.”i sat in my flannels, the kids asleep and... by Emily Wierenga | May 7, 2012 | God, hardship, hope, ice, jasper, kids, marriage, prayer, snowboarding
“The earth is my shoe,” Trent says.He’s walking barefoot from the hot tub to the cabin. “For most people, every step is the same. For me, it’s all new. One step is smooth. Another, pokey, another, rough… every step is an adventure.”The sun seems brighter here in... by Emily Wierenga | Feb 20, 2012 | children, desert, fostering, God, mothers, prayer, song, st. francis
“it will get harder,” i heard, bending over the rails of the crib, the crucified stance of the mother who feeds life in the dead of night. but i shook my head. it couldn’t. it was hard enough. and then, “there will be victory,” even as my... by Emily Wierenga | Feb 15, 2012 | anorexia, anorexia nervosa, commitment, God, love, marriage, prayer
I lie in red pajamas on the living room sofa, my husband, Trenton, on the other in his comfy clothes—his green-ribbed shirt with the hole and his fuzzy pants that have no waist. “Our good times were more than our bad,” he says in a voice that aches.“Yes, but our bad...