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How Rest Exposed the Inner Critic

on April 24, 2023

Poems Psychology Self Worth Travel

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To Vaccinate or Not To Vaccinate: Questions to Ask Yourself

on October 15, 2021

Lists Manners Psychology Self Worth Travel

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Comstock Chronicles: Scary Decorations

on October 01, 2021

Comstock Chronicles Family Home Making Parenting Religion Thankfulness Travel

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Family Camp Take Aways 2021

on June 21, 2021

Celebrations Family Marriage Motherhood Music Nature Parenting Reflections Teaching Thankfulness Travel Updates

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The Huntington Library and Botanical Gardens

on November 27, 2020

Gardening Nature Thankfulness Travel Updates

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The Wanting Ships

on October 14, 2019

Marriage Motherhood Poems Providence Thankfulness Travel

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Camping Sycamore Campground

on May 19, 2019

Babies Family Motherhood Nature Thankfulness Travel

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Monterey 2018

on May 10, 2018

Family Motherhood Travel Updates

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Abigail Joy Stevens: I like to describe both the simple and complex rhythms of life, so that I might better understand and trust Providence.

Family of 15 Years

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Popular Posts

A Live Coal in the Sea

William Langland: “But all the wickedness in the world which man may do or think is no more to the mercy of God than a live coal dropped in the sea.” Does a day come for everyone when they realize that their parents are just people or do some never find out and keep expecting their parents to be super human? I suppose for some—those whose mothers drink, whose fathers sexually abuse, whose parents have affairs and divorce—I suppose the children of these parents find out the truth all too soon. They learn from the beginning that dad doesn’t keep his promises; that mom only cares about herself; that their parents don’t provide or protect. Shall I call these children the poor in spirit because they understand from a young age that mom and dad aren’t the source of love, peace, and safety? Shall I even go so far as to call them blessed? Them? With their distrust of men and homosexual inclinations and insatiable craving for human affection? Shall I call the abused blessed? True, some s...

Sight to the Blind

My Irish Breakfast tea tasted like Lawry’s Taco Seasoning the morning we came back from our vacation. The tea and the seasonings were zip locked together during the fumigation. The apple jelly’s top wasn’t on all the way, and it dripped down my loose-leaf Oolong bags and pooled on the bottom of the plastic sacks; and the bottle of picnic-sized balsamic vinegar leaked black dots on my spice jars. The burning-red Kangaroo Paws that I’d planted below the freshly painted staircase don’t look like they’re going to make it. Their leaves are half crispy; their flowers, all faded. The Boston Ivy is a stubby bush again; all its fingers that had crept over the ugly wall outside our studio door are chopped. The furniture was sprinkled with dust; dust bunnies rolled over the laminate flooring upstairs. I guess nothing can be good after coming back from a vacation like that. Nothing at all. Phil and I have been suffering from post-vacation blues. I want to see the mountains again. I wan...

Granada Heights Friends Church

Church is a complex thing. It’s full of arms that rocked me in a room once painted with bible murals. It’s full of hands that gave me donuts and Big Sticks, and lifted me onto the organ bench so I could run my fingers over the keys. It’s full of familiar voices that preached and performed and lead children in singing, “Johnny works with one hammer, one hammer, one hammer. Johnny works with one hammer, then he works with two.” It is full of closets storing the paraphernalia from Wacky Wednesdays and Joy Bells and START. It’s full of remodels that left doors in hidden places and made rooftops accessible through oddly placed windows, and left patches of ground between rising buildings, patches of ground loved and attended and then left to the weeds only to be rediscovered, torn up, planted, and loved all over again. Granada is a complex thing. As a child of the 80’s and 90’s, I could see no end to the love my elders gave me at church: a prayer, a role in the Christmas play, ...

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