Spring birthing red and fuzzy just beyond the kitchen window.
The Word coming alive in John’s first epistle – marinating in it, day and night.
Short, unexpected chats with my not-so-little brother, defending freedom in a far off country.
Her ever-expanding vocabulary: pwobabwy…unapwopwiate…cowwect.
Braeburn sweetened breakfasts.
The afghan my grandmother crocheted, warming us at night.
Candlelit dinners for no reason at all.
A newfound romance with paper and ink.
Simplifying (more on this later).
Sunshine on a stem.