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Steps
Do you count your steps? Back when I counted mine, 10,000 seemed to be the sweet spot. Tools to measure the number of our steps flood the market. But could someone invent an app measuring the how? Are our steps hesitant or confident? Ambling or running? Faltering or steady? Weary or energetic? Measuring the how would enable us to evaluate those times we need help getting where we’re going. Most importantly, what about tracking the direction of our steps? I don’t mean geographical direction. Plenty of devices exist for that. Instead, I’m thinking of the destination to which our steps ultimately lead. Who or what are we moving toward? A…
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A Curtain of Fog
My husband and I unloaded our two small suitcases and the snacks we’d brought. Three relaxing days at the beach stretched before us. So what if it was winter and the weather was overcast? We love the beach anytime. While Barry returned the luggage cart, I stepped onto the balcony of our oceanfront room, eager to check the size of the waves. Instead of waves, a curtain of fog greeted me. Dense, thick fog. The ocean was nowhere in sight. I zipped my jacket and settled onto a balcony chair. We’d stayed at this hotel before. I knew the ocean ebbed and flowed on the other side of the heavy…
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Work of Art
My wonderful mother-in-law, Helen Teague, loved antique shops. When she visited, we’d spend hours combing the shops for a unique work of art at a bargain price. On one of these expeditions, she introduced me to Blue Ridge pottery. Southern Potteries, a plant in Erwin, Tennessee, manufactured the pottery between the 1930’s and 1950’s. Each piece is stamped with ‘Blue Ridge,’ named for the mountains surrounding the town. My sisters-in-law and I have collected pieces of the bright, cheerful dishes over the years. The hand-painted designs make each dish unique, its own work of art. Have you ever considered that you are a work of art, with a value far…
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Treasures and Tea Kettles
Some of my favorite childhood memories are woven into family visits with my Grandmother and Granddad Stewart. I always felt special the second my sister and I burst through their den door. They’d hug us, exclaim how much we’d grown, and listen to my incessant chatter. A loud whistle would reverberate through the house, and Grandmother would hurry to the kitchen to move the tea kettle from the burner. She’d lift the tin cover from the cake plate and slice big pieces of chocolate cake. We’d sit in the immaculate kitchen with the starched white curtains, red countertops, and gleaming gray floors my Granddad polished the way someone from the…
Faith for the Adventure
