One open gate after another


I listened to a podcast the other day. It was evangelical in flavor, interviewing a Christian semi-public figure about the ministry work she’s been doing.
She spoke of a terrible season of her life, one of emotional loss and physical suffering. As she told her story in that interview, she was asked what was her biggest regret of that season of despair and pain. Her answer was that she wished she had regular Bible reading during that time, and not let her physical pain keep her from God’s presence.
And as I listened, I felt a internal constriction, my chest tightened and my breathing sped up. This is my kryptonite, when another believer discusses what she failed in doing during a painful season of her life. I know all about failure, all about spiritual practices I should have done.  There’s a scarcity mentality that I see often in the evangelical church, an acceptance of shame that my younger self learned to live in, that I still work hard to push back against, knowing that shame warps my faith to look more like fear than freedom.
After hearing about her suffering, I longed for her to say she regretted not leaning into God’s kindness sooner, not letting herself experience grace. I thought of how close God must have been then, how much God’s presence must have longed to warm her and hold her, to cover her broken body and spirit like a blanket. But instead I heard failure in her voice, failure in her answer.
Now, to be fair, I can’t judge her answer, or her experience of God in that season. She spoke as someone who loves scripture. And I so value her commitment and love for experiencing God through the pages of the Bible. The response I had to her words in that moment was born out of my own shame, my own fear that God’s grace is not enough, that my success at spiritual practices is the only way God will want me, accept me, love me. I’ve been on a long, ten year journey of believing that what God wants to offer me is an invitation, not an obligation: That prayer and Bible reading is not a way to earn God’s love or delight.
Spiritual Practices are an invitation into that blanket, that covering of God’s love. Spiritual practices are gifts we can receive, not tasks we perform to make God happy, or feel better about ourselves, or even to heal ourselves. 
As we head into the Advent season, my prayer is that we would choose to practice God’s presence with a lightness of heart, a belief that we are not on a spiritual performance hamster wheel, but that instead we are on a walk through a beautiful garden. Every time we pray, every time we open our sacred texts, we’re entering through another gate, invited into another garden. This one holding something new, something hope-filled, something good.

A poem for Holy Week

Last year my church commissioned me to write a poem for our Good Friday service based on the Seventh Station of the Cross. I'm publishing it here because I'm glad to share it with you.

Feel free to use with attribution.

Jesus cares for his mother - John 19:25b - 27

Standing near the cross of Jesus were his mother, and his mother’s sister, Mary the wife of Clopas, and Mary Magdalene. When Jesus saw his mother and the disciple whom he loved standing beside her, he said to his mother, “Woman, here is your son.” Then he said to the disciple, “Here is your mother.” And from that hour the disciple took her into his own home.


Near the Cross, Christ’s Mother Speaks

By Micha Boyett


Oh God, I sang those words like the angel who once blazed before me,

left me light-soaked, my virgin-clear voice lifting the poems

of the ancients into song. I was only a girl then, and still

you gave me this child. I received him, I believed.


His birth was worship. The praise I sang in naïve faith:

Magnify the Lord, rejoice in God. I claimed mercy

for generations, for this generation. I sang because you chose me,

because my child’s very living was hinged in wonder. 


God, despite your quiet retreat, despite the early years of fear,

when my exhaustion and earth-bound vision cast a veil between us.

Though he pulled from me toward you, toward danger, toward this world.

Still, I told him his story, his past and future as the Always-One.


I sang him into the song the prophets wrote:

How Yahweh shows strength with his mighty arm.

I whispered in the dark, his boy-body resting on mats,

You are the Mighty Arm, child.


And here, oh God, is where it ends: That boy I dressed,

the one whose meat I cut in bits, who—for your sake, Lord—

I told the Story. There he is—your Mighty Arm—

on that cross, writhing, calling his mother, Woman.


I’ll go with John to his home, my old shoulders

wrapped in wool, I’ll shiver by the fire,

grief my companion, let the women spoon me broth.

But I will not sing the song you gave me.


I will not sing of deliverance, of mercy, or strength,

of hungry filled, of goodness in the hands of weak ones.

No, I will die an old woman without a son,

in the home of a stranger who loved my child.


And what will become of our visions and dreams, of the prophets’

words I pressed into that boy’s hands? Your angel promised power,

vowed to shatter thrones in Yahweh’s name. Yet my son—

our son, Lord—was power cloaked in peace. He shattered us all.


What can I do but receive this? Let John

lift the bread and wine to my lips, bitter in the mouth

of this old woman who waits to kiss—one last time—

the face of her broken, miraculous son.


Or perhaps you will grant me hope enough

for a solemn hymn, the final prayer of a desperate mother:


Look upon your Mighty Arm, Lord. Save us all.


© Micha Boyett 2017. All rights reserved.




I'm in the Washington Post!

For World Down Syndrome Day The Washington Post published my perspective on how it feels to be a parent of a child with Down syndrome, while reading the public debates around the topic of abortion and prenatal DS testing. 

If you didn't have the chance to read it last week, I'd love for you to check it out here. 

Liturgy and the Wild Stream of Prayer: Prayer for the rest of us


Liturgy, a practice as old as the Church itself, had been a room closed to me in my faith tradition. And when the door opened, I discovered within it the treasure of wisdom. Liturgy was prayer I couldn’t use to make myself look better. It humbled me, reminded me of how many of the faithful had come before me. I found in that room an antidote to my skepticism.


I read Episcopalians and Catholics, writers who spoke of prayer as something they were invited into, not something they were creating for themselves.. I had been living as if prayer was my daily task to produce, words I needed to speak or think to build a bridge of connection with a living God. What I began to see was that prayer was not dependent on me: it was a living organism—a stream—I could enter. It was, thank God, beyond me and outside of me and something I was invited into.


Nowhere was that clearer than when I begin to pray with liturgy, something I’d been warned in the past was “hallow” and “vain repetition.” What I found in those early days of breaking open The Book of Common Prayer and fumbling through the local Episcopal church service, was that these prayers written hundreds of years prior were new and fresh to me. They were a reminder of the depth and breadth of the Church—both past and present. When I prayed a prayer someone else had written down—words that had been uttered around the world, in generations past, words lifted in expectation toward the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, words that would be voiced again long after me—I entered the miracle of the Body of Christ. Something which was (shockingly!) bigger than my generation, my understanding of faith, my culture, and my personal experience of God. Suddenly, prayer was opening up my world.


What was at first a way for me to pray when I no longer trusted my own words became a connection to the people of faith who came before me. Through liturgy the communion of saints offered me prayer when my own words had run out, when I was full of doubt, when I didn’t know how to thank God, or ask for help. Far from being empty, the words of the morning prayer liturgy gave me life when I couldn’t find it anywhere else.


Today I have a new piece up in my "Prayer for the rest of us" series at Off the Page. Find it here!

Prayer and Panic Attacks: Prayer for the rest of us

Sometimes you find yourself walking out of the challenges of your life, and you no longer recognize the landscape that changed while you were in the fog.

So it’s true to say that these years have brought me to a richer spiritual space. But it doesn’t look like I would have expected. My faith is deeper but also ragged. I’m a bit battered and I’m still figuring out what it means to live here, on the other side of the crisis. What does faith look like now, when the wild wind has calmed, and I’m not sure I remember how to walk without being forced to lean in?




A couple of months I wrote a piece about panic attacks for my "Prayer for the rest of us" series over at Off The Page. Find it here to read the rest


Wonder: A Review



A couple of weeks ago I had the chance to review the new movie Wonder over at Christianity Today. I had loved reading the book with my kids, and was so excited to take my older boys to see it. 

I wasn't disappointed. As the mom of a kid with special needs, I connected on a deep level, but walked away most proud that my kids were exposed to something so beautiful. 

Here's my review: Wonder Reveals the Face of True Human Strength.

Introducing . . . My new series at Off The Page!


I'm excited to announce that this month I began a new series on prayer and spiritual formation at one of my favorite sites, Off The Page

Each month I'll be exploring "Prayer for the Rest of Us," aka those of us who don't have our spiritual stuff together. What does prayer even mean? Why do we do it? How do we do it? I'll take on a different spiritual practice each month and talk about my experience with it, and invite you into with me. 

This month I'm sharing about the desperation and the "Uneasy Silence" we face every time we come into the sometimes uncomfortable space for prayer.

If you haven't seen the article yet, I hope you'll take a look. Here's a bit for you:


Here’s what I know: When the doctor’s reports refer to your two-year-old as “malnourished,” and when he’s vomiting (again), and refusing to eat (again), when the doctors’ appointments and the therapists’ evaluations recommend a new system for eating, a new medication, a new calorie-heavy product to try or to stop trying, when you think you cannot face another day of begging your child to eat, and telling yourself it is not my fault when he doesn’t get the 200 calories he was supposed to get this morning, because you tried (because you used the vibrating mouth tool, and the cheesecloth trick, and made the elephant puppet sing about how yumminess of the bagel with cream cheese), when you aren’t sure if there will ever be a day you won’t wake up afraid for his beautiful, tiny body; that’s when prayer is breath.


Desperation often clarifies the why of prayer. I’m learning I pray not to let God know I’d really like some help over here (God knows, I’m sure), but to train my own eyes to see the help already available: the presence of God’s spirit in the kitchen, at my son’s highchair, holding us both.


Lately, it’s been helpful for me to think about the spiritual life as a movement towardor away from the presence of God. If Jesus is a dot in the middle, and we’re all arrows positioned at different places, spaced at varying times further and closer to the holy bull’s-eye, what matters isn’t how close we are to the middle, but whether or not our arrow is pointed toward the center.


What prayer does is reorient our arrows toward the presence of God. It reminds us what direction our true life comes from. It turns us from the darkness to the sun. It helps us shift and lift our faces from the anxiety or grief, the uncertainty or monotony, the desperation or maybe just the boredom of our lives, toward the One who holds life in its completeness, its fullness.


Read the rest at Off the Page.

Upon Turning 38 (And having a babysitter so I could write this.)

Twenty years ago today I turned eighteen. Now, that’s something. It was my first week at college. My New Student Orientation group took me out to dinner at Chili’s. I was a wearing a yellow and purple beanie and I was equally in love with my cute cheesy college and tortilla chips dipped in ranch dressing. Twenty years ago I stood on the padded Chili’s bench and let the table sing to me and me only. I loved it.

Twenty years ago. It’s just like all the annoying Hallmark cards always said. It goes too fast.

The night before last I held my baby throughout the night as he vomited every ten minutes. I whispered, “It’s okay. Mama’s here. I’ll always take care of you.” I told him he was brave every time I held his tiny body over the toilet. Every time he fell back against me, immediately asleep.

Then, after a night without sleep, I downed a cup of coffee and turned on the world’s best First Day of School Kids Bop music. I packed new backpacks and helped find missing pants. Sent them off to the terrifying world of new classrooms.

There’s a twenty year gap there between the girl dipping tortilla chips and the girl shushing her two year old in the night, telling her eldest that he is fun and interesting, just like fourth grade. And the gap between those years is deep and ravenous. Also, it’s sweet and small. I still love to stand on a bench and let the table sing me a song. I still love to eat tortilla chips, though I’ve given up on the ranch dressing. And Chili’s.

Here’s what I think I know, now that I’m 38:

  • If social media is too mean and you feel terrible about the shouting on it, it’s okay to stop hanging out there. Actually, I’d recommend it.

  • The world is a hard and scary place and we need each other to tell the truth.

  • As Ace has taught me, if you sing about the task in front of you it feels a lot easier to do it.

  • There is not as much time in a day as I used to think. So, sleeping is a good idea.

  • Also, exercise makes you happier.

  • Life is not what you accomplish, no matter how many “important” people say otherwise. It’s about hugging and playing.

  • I’m not perfect, so it’s not all going to get done. Especially email. (It took me a lot of therapy to learn that one. So if you’re still waiting for an email from me, that’s why.)

  • Raising kids is not about constructing something from the ground up using raw materials. It’s about growing a garden: surprising, hard, beautiful, sometimes heartbreaking. And rarely what you planned for. (See The Carpenter and the Gardener, which I’m currently reading.)

  • Hats are cute and they keep you from getting wrinkles.

  • Wrinkles are sometimes cute too.

  • There is not a perfect body. There is just the body you have.

  • God is not all air and mist. God’s in the flesh and making Godself visible through all the pain and goodness. The question is whether or not I’m paying attention.

  • Leading is hard. Making decisions is hard. Following Jesus is hard.

  • Early childhood specialists are the best people in the world. So are speech, physical, occupational, and feeding therapists.

  • The little rituals are the heart of a marriage. Our six am coffee dates are my favorite part of the day.

  • Birthdays should be celebrated every time, because nothing is guaranteed and being alive is a beautiful thing.

Untangling Gnarled Roots: Recognizing My White Privilege


The conversation around race is hard. To have it each of us has to be willing to challenge our own assumptions about the world, to see life through another's eyes. The beautiful thing about Jesus is that he is always asking us to challenge our own assumptions, to see the world with the eyes of mercy and justice and compassion. Jesus always asks us to be uncomfortable, to hurt with those who hurt.

This is a story I've always been intimidated to write about before, but it's time. Today I'm over at Off the Page, sharing how I came to a place of acknowledging my own white privilege, how my eyes were opened to racism's long, hairy roots.


Molly and I sat at the round laminate table that had been my great-grandmother’s in the eighties. I’d been home from my month-long trip to Kenya and South Africa for one day, and we were doing what we always did in that year post-college: eating our feelings in burritos. She was my best friend in the world.

I’d collected a thousand thoughts for her in my journal, prepared to explain each story, to tell her each wild idea of God I’d consumed in my graduate African Cultures and Religions class, and share the names of the people I’d met in South Africa whose faith had given them courage to fight for justice, to put an end to Apartheid.

But I was mostly silent. We stuck chips in guacamole.

She stared at me across the table. “You seem older,” she said. “Sadder.” And I knew it was true—forever. I could never go back.

Read the rest over at Off the Page today. I'd love to see you there!

10 life lessons I can rely on during these troubling times



(This was originally published at Atleteia's For Her magazine, but is no longer available there.)

This past week, in the midst of this country’s political upheaval, I’ve been shaken, and so have many people around me. There is much at stake right now. There is much to fear and much to work for, and it can feel overwhelming. When life is troubling, I’m learning to go back to the kernels of wisdom I’ve already gathered, the smooth stones I carry in my pocket to remind me what matters, what God has taught me, what it means to move forward with joy and gratitude.

  1. The peace of Jesus is not passive. Jesus is called the Prince of Peace, yet he had a way of always making someone angry. Jesus constantly offended the religious leaders and welcomed everyone into the circle, whether they deserved the invitation or not. Peace is never ignoring hatred or evil, and it always includes having the courage to tell the truth. Peacemaking requires action. Following the way of Jesus usually requires more pain on my part. It asks that I be quick to forgive, set relational boundaries, speak with honesty, and often, that I give up my rights to comfort. It is never the easier way, but it is always the way of Jesus.

  2. Questions are not something to ignore but to embrace. A life worth having is a life where you choose to stare your doubts down all the way. Once you get to the bottom of them, they shrivel. Their power is in their position in your periphery, lurking, hinting that what you believe or what you’re committed to is empty, or worse, a lie. They are loudest when you try to ignore them. But if you’re brave enough to hold them to the light, to examine their realities and their flaws, they have something bold to teach you, and their power withers. When I choose to turn my attention to my fear, to pull each sliver of my doubt from my mind, place it under the examination of God’s presence, God has proven up to the task. There’s a reason Jacob wrestled with God: The more we are brave and bold enough to deal with the fears and doubts and questions, the more we experience a God who meets us in the darkness, stays with us through the night, and sends us back into the daylight—altered, yes (Jacob walked with a limp for the rest of his life), but changed into something real-er, wiser, more our truest selves.

  3. When it comes to lines in the sand, I want to draw mine on the side of generosity and grace. In politics and theological frameworks, everyone has their opinion, and most of the time life—for better or for worse—has clarified their stance. There are reasons to be liberal; there are reasons to be conservative. If there weren’t, our two party system wouldn’t still be going strong after 240 years. In the same way, theology is a complicated system. There are many ways to read the scripture, and there is much to wrestle with in the Bible. When it comes to politics and theology, I want to form my framework in the place where kindness dwells. I want to look at the world, the church, and my community through the lens of Jesus’s life and teachings. If I have to draw a line in the sand, if I have to choose what I believe about a specific issue, I want to err on the side of generosity and grace.

  4. What makes a human being valuable is not success, but love. My son who has Down syndrome may not live up to most of the world’s expectations of power or prestige, performance or impressiveness. But our performance is never what makes us human. Intelligence is not what makes humanity as beautiful as it is. It is our ability to love and be loved, to make connections, to show empathy—these are the things that allow us to stand out from the rest of creation. These are the things that should be celebrated, in our children, in ourselves.

  5. Kindness should be our native language. The longer I’m married (only 13 years, so I still have much to learn), the more I believe that the key to happiness in a marriage is mutual kindness. It’s the hardest and the simplest thing. (Most of the time, the simplest thing is the hardest.) Also, the key to moving forward as a country? Kindness. The key to unlocking the deep and gnarled roots of racism, sexism, homophobia, and xenophobia? It’s kindness. The more we practice listening, knowing, and befriending one another, the more the world will change around us. I believe that. Fiercely.

  6. The elderly have powerful things to teach us, and they deserve our time and our attention. I believe our culture and our nation is suffering acutely because we have forgotten how to listen to our elders. The simple way is always the hardest, but if we want to slow down our wild lives, we could start by visiting the vulnerable; start by listening to the ones whose wild lives have been forcibly slowed down. There is deep wisdom there.

  7. I choose whether time is my friend or my enemy. If time is controlling me, and my schedule does not reflect what I say are my priorities, I’m the one who has to make a change. I can’t blame the world for asking too much of me. I have to choose to slow my life down, and choose to make space for the people who matter most, even if that means sacrificing my status or my success.

  8. Wise people pay attention to their bodies. My body is not simply an annoying ball of feelings that I’m forced to carry around. It’s a gift from God. It’s a friend that wants to teach me about my soul if I’m careful enough to listen. Exhaustion and stress lead me to anger and anxiety. Every time I’ve hunkered down, forced myself to work through the pain or ignore my sadness or fatigue, the more I become the person I don’t want to be: quick to rage, less able to listen to the needs around me. God gave us our bodies so we can test the wind, learn the direction from which the storm is coming. The more we listen, the more we are prepared when the storm arrives (and it always does).

  9. Sorrow and suffering will be part of my life no matter what: I choose what that suffering does to me. I can either run from the pain of this world, or lean into it. Those who lean into suffering are battered, of course. But they come out of the battering smoother, like stones at the bottom of a river. Those who run from pain are still battered by it, but it doesn’t make them stronger, only more bitter. I don’t want pain, but when it comes I pray I’ll allow it to make me wise, that I’ll come out on the other side closer to the woman God has created me to be.

  10. Prayer changes us because God changes us. There is nothing easy about prayer. Also, prayer is incredibly simple. This is the rich dichotomy of the spiritual life. God wants to meet with us, and also? God is already here, already active. Prayer is simply allowing ourselves to be loved by our Creator, to be redirected toward the Way of Jesus, to be made whole. There is much work to be done in the world, much work to be done in our own hearts, but it all starts with the movement of God: in us, in the world. We are loved, and prayer is simply coming back home to that love, choosing to live there in the space where our Creator is endlessly making peace, mending brokenness, and creating beauty.

An invitation to breastfeed in church (and stop fighting about it)


Vera Lair | Stocksy United

(This article was originally published Aleteia For Her magazine, and is no longer available there.)

I’m the mom of three boys, and though I live in San Francisco—the land of organic veggies on every corner and required composting—I’ve never really thought of myself as a poster child for breastfeeding. But, in the past eight years since my oldest son was born, I’ve spent exactly 43 months of my life breastfeeding a child.

I’m sure you have ideas of who this means I am. I must be wildly free spirited. I must wear cut off jean shorts and birkenstocks and sew my own flowy shirts. I must be one of those women who don’t wear bras and who have no qualms about pulling the boob out in front of the entire park-going public, while my five year old says, “Mother, may I please drink from your breast?”

To answer your questions: No, my older children don’t breast feed. No, I don’t sew my own shirts. And I’m not—and never have been—what people might describe as “granola.” Actually, I wear spandex more often than I probably should. I wear makeup and always always wear a bra in public. I have strong concerns about showing my boobs in to the park goers (and anywhere else, actually). And yes, I still breastfeed my seventeen month old.

Here’s what I want you to know about me and my baby, Ace. Ace has Down syndrome and experiences delays in several areas of his development. He’s the size of a twelve month old and he nurses five times a day, despite his age, despite the fact that I never planned to still be breastfeeding a seventeen month old as much as I do. Ace has refused a bottle since he was three months old, and is still working with a therapist to build the muscles in his mouth for cup drinking. He breastfeeds because if I left him to receive all of his liquid nourishment from a sippy cup, he would wither.

Our life is full, so while Ace works once a week with his feeding therapist, I nurse him in the baby carrier while I pick my older kids up from school or during my eight-year-old’s swim class, or my five-year-old’s soccer game. I breastfeed him at the park and at the grocery store. I breastfeed him while I play board games on the living room floor. And, yes, I breastfeed him at church.

If I didn’t nurse him in public, I’d be incapable of tending to my older children. If I didn’t nurse him in public, he’d literally shrink.

Pope Francis and the Nursing Mamas

Back in 2014 the Pope surprised a lot of folks when he encouraged some mothers of babies waiting to be baptized to feed their crying infants.

Yes, he meant they should breastfeed their babies. In church.

To quote Pope Francis, “If they are hungry, mothers, let them eat, no worries, because here, they are the main focus . . . I wish to say the same to humanity: Give people something to eat!”

Will all the mamas out there please stand up and give Pope Francis a standing ovation? Yes, if a baby is hungry, that sweet child should drink some milk.

It is a beautiful thing when a spiritual leader can recognize the good and powerful gift God has offered most mothers and their babies: nutritious, simple food for young ones who need to grow. When the Pope welcomed the women worshipping beside him to feed their babies, he welcomed a healthier, more grace-filled vision of families in the church.

Breastfeeding is not about sexuality

There may be some who hear the Pope’s words and shrug their shoulders. Of course women should be breastfeeding in church! Why should this even be a discussion?

But there are plenty others who view the act of breastfeeding, and the exposure required (even while covered!) to be inappropriate for a place of worship. After all, we know what’s going on under that hooter-hider, and it involves bras unsnapping and a baby’s unhindered gulping noises (not to mention the burping and pooping that often comes with the drinking process). It’s hardly the stuff of holy, prayerful reflection!

I’d have to disagree. Perhaps breastfeeding in church is uncomfortable for some people, but if it is, it’s uncomfortable because of a failure to recognize the holy goodness of feeding a child. It’s uncomfortable because it’s messy, because it’s sometimes loud, because breasts have been over-sexualized in our culture. Breastfeeding tells the people around you, “I have boobs!” and—if we buy into our society’s glorification of breasts as a man’s trophy to accept or reject as he wishes, to judge and pervert—the acknowledgement of a woman’s breasts can be distracting from worship. But it doesn’t have to be distracting. It shouldn’t be distracting.

Unless the church chooses to reject our culture’s obsession with over-sexualizing the bodies of women, we will buy into a false story of the gifts God has given us. God has equipped mothers to nourish and protect their children, both literally and figuratively. That should be celebrated.

There is no better place for nourishing a baby than the very place where each week Jesus offers us his own body and blood for our spiritual nourishment.

Breastfeeding is not a debate, it’s an opportunity for compassion

There are some who insist that breastfeeding is a private thing and should be done in the home. There are some who will tie modesty to breastfeeding and point to scripture passages that should keep all of us nursing mothers well-covered. And there are some who draw a hard line in the sand, determining when babies should be old enough to move away from the breast.

Still, there are also those who would quickly judge a woman who can’t breastfeed, or has chosen not to. Because of the breadth of beliefs about breastfeeding, women of all opinions and choices have been labeled weak, uncaring, or backward. When it comes to women’s choices and parenting standards, there are camps for every particular belief, a reason to label any mother a failure.

But, then there are Pope Francis’ words: “If they are hungry, mothers, let them eat, no worries.” Church should be a place where hunger is met. Church should be a place where the broken, the beaten up, the weak, and, yes, even the exhausted nursing mothers are welcomed to come and receive from God’s table.

Of all places, let’s bring our babies to church and breastfeed them. Let’s model ourselves after the God who gives us good things, who nourishes, who provides.

And let’s have compassion on one another. After all, I’m the woman nursing her older baby, worried about his weight and his muscle development. And you may be the woman who couldn’t produce milk, who wept every time you prepared a bottle of formula.

If we heard each other’s stories, if we listened to one another, if we chose mercy over judgment, the Mommy Wars might come to their natural and gentle conclusion.

What matters is the beautiful, remarkable work of giving and sustaining life. What matters is how we welcome one another and how we show compassion, whether that happens under the hooter-hider on the back pew, or as we receive the Eucharist at the altar.

Hospitality and the Secret Power of Weakness



I'm taking a break from my Not Writing Anything and sharing on Grace Table a little nugget of what I've been learning and thinking about this summer.

"We as a humanity are obsessed with power. The sorrows, the tragedies of this summer might as well be narrowed down to the powerful, the powerless, and those who will do anything to keep their power. And all those who are crushed along the way? They’re the casualties of turning our faces from what makes us human. When we fail to care for the weak, we fail to flourish. We fail to be what God has made us to be.

Ace worries me. He’s too small and he doesn’t gain weight easily. He’s on a high-fat diet, sitting in his high chair at least three hours a day while I coat bite after bite in oil, or cream cheese, or butter. At the amusement park last weekend, his feet couldn’t touch the bottom on the baby boat ride and there were no seat belts to hold him steady. So his five year old brother Brooks—the only one among our extended family who was small enough to ride with him—climbed in the boat. He put one arm around his brother and one hand on the bell and rang it for the both of them, holding tight to Ace.

Hospitality is everywhere. Hospitality is not about performance. It’s not about perfection. It’s not even about beauty. It’s about weakness.

It’s about us—individually and as a society—turning our faces toward the weakest among us. Extending our power to the powerless.

Read more over at Grace Table. 

On Feeding Imperfectly: Hard-earned Hospitality and Motherhood

Two posts in one week! I know, right? Today I'm over at Grace Table sharing about my long-journey into the kitchen and how--though I am not a natural cook--feeding my children has become a liturgy of grace in my life. Not all the good things we spend are lives doing come easy. In fact, plenty of them don't.

And still, on my son's "Top 10 Reasons I Love My Mom" list, my willingness to make him dinner was listed twice!

Here's a little preview.



The Friday before Mother’s Day my second grader came home with a “Top 10 Reasons Why I Love My Mom” note in his hand, one he couldn’t wait until Sunday to give me.

This was one of those fill-in-the-blank, extra generic worksheets with cartoon illustrated smiling kids at the top, one of those pages of homework that will go into his bin of saved second-grade pictures and stories, one that serve as an artifact of a moment in time, when the child I’m raising wrote about the mother he knew more deeply than any other human on this earth, but only the me at this moment. Only the me who mothers him.

Some answers he got just right, exactly as I hope he’ll remember me. “I love my mom because she reads me Lord of the Rings,” number 10 says.  (I love myself for that, too.)

“I love my mom because she taught me how to read.” (Yes!)

“I love to hear my mom sing ReptillSong” (also known as “Reptile Song,” my own invention, thank you very much.)

And then there are the other answers. “I know my mom is smart because she knows multiplication.” (Ha! Of all the things that *might* make me smart, my math skills are not among them!)

“I know my mom cares because she makes dinner for me.”

“I love my mom because she works so hard at dinner.”

I'd love for you to read the rest at Grace Table. 

You, me, and Leigh: What living with my single friend has taught me (and my family) about friendship and unexpected blessings.



This is my friend, Leigh. She's also my roommate. Today I have a new piece up at about what it's looked like and what I've learned by having a single friend live with me and my family for the past year.

Spoiler Alert: I think that when families and single people live together it's good for everybody.

Here's a little nugget of the article.

When Leigh—a friend from afar who had just moved to my city—first came to live with us, it was supposed to be for two months: one month of cat-sitting while we spent a lot of time visiting grandparents, and one month of temporary stay while she searched to secure her own place. Now, almost a year later, Ezra the cat, whom she started feeding out of obligation, splits his nights between her room and the room I share with my husband.

At first, this was an arrangement of necessity: the San Francisco housing market is ridiculous. It’s competitive and incredibly expensive. As we watched our friend Leigh search, we learned two undeniable truths: it’s hard for a 36-year-old single woman to a) Make enough to live on her own … even in a tiny one-room apartment, or b) commit to sharing a single bedroom with a random woman from Craigslist. When this became clear, my husband and I invited her to stay for the year.

There have been sacrifices, sure. My baby, Ace, has slept in my room much longer than I’d originally planned: he’s going on 13 months now. This wouldn’t have worked with his older brothers, who were much more intense even at that young age, but, luckily, Ace is laid back.

Keeping him in my room has forced me to adjust his baby accouterments and accessories, along with my expectations for what a baby needs. It turns out that a baby doesn’t really need a navy striped with matching elephant prints after all. He doesn’t need a Pottery Barn shelving unit either. A big wicker basket in the corner of the room works just fine. We’ve simplified and are focusing on the essentials. And simplicity is good for the soul.

Of course, it hasn’t been a walk in the park for Leigh, either. Not only does she share a bathroom with my two older boys (ages seven and five) who—let’s be honest—don’t always succeed at aiming for the toilet, she also shares a wall with them. When they’re up at 6:30 a.m., no matter whether it’s her day off or not—their little voices come right through the air vent, like a morning alarm she can’t hit snooze on.

During the day, Leigh doesn’t exactly have the life a single woman might otherwise, either. Most days, she can’t wake up and decide to whip up a fancy breakfast on a whim … because, though Leigh loves to cook, our kitchen is a madhouse. I’m always there, making a snack, making a meal, washing dishes. I imagine Leigh relishes the times when we’re out of the house so she can make something wonderfully adult and delicious without worrying about when one of us will charge into her space and start slicing an apple for a whining kid.

Yet, for all that, after a few months of cohabitation, we collectively decided to make our living situation permanent for a while. All of us—my husband and Leigh and I—shared the same reasoning: this experiment was good. In fact, we all agreed that it had genuinely surprised us all with its goodness. Its unexpected gifts were making all of our lives richer, and taught us a few valuable lessons.

Join me at For Her to read the rest! 

The Day I Won the Lottery



Happy World Down Syndrome Day from Ace! Today I have the honor of sharing what I wrote for Aleteia's magazine about what World Down Syndrome Day means to me, almost one year after our little guy's birth.

If I could write . . . [to] my pregnant self, the woman at the kitchen table with her laptop open, the woman who feared she was walking into a world of loss and sorrow, this is what I would say to her:

Sweet girl, take a deep breath. You just won the lottery.

This is not what you planned for and those are the best of all the adventures.

I would tell her that her older sons are capable of tenderness she’s never seen before. I’d tell her that loving another person is always a risk, whether or not that person has a disability. I’d tell her about the day I put three-month old Ace down for a nap and my oldest son asked me to pray “that Ace’s Down syndrome won’t hurt him.”

I’d tell her how when Ace cries my five-year-old half shouts/half sings the song we wrote together: “I am Acey! I am Acey! I’m a sweet little boy!” I’d tell her how, despite the chaos of all of it, as soon as Ace hears his brother’s voice he always stops crying, just so he can listen.

I’d tell her that there was never a different story. The one she had in her head, the one with three typically developing sons all growing up strong and handsome and successful with easy lives.

This was the real story all along, I’d tell her. The true story of our family. Your older sons were created with this plan already in motion. And it’s perfect this way, I’d say. Just watch and see . . .

I’d tell her it’s worth it, all of the risks, all the fears, all the therapies and challenges and the uncertainty of the future. It’s worth it because love is bigger and wilder and more spectacular than she can imagine.

Read the rest over at For Her.

#Aceface & World Down Syndrome Day

“Every child, every person needs to know that they are a source of joy; every child, every person, needs to be celebrated. Only when all of our weaknesses are accepted as part of our humanity can our negative, broken self-images be transformed.”

-Jean Vanier,



Each year on March 21 the world celebrates the lives of those who carry an extra 21st chromosome. I'm inviting you to celebrate Ace and all the children and adults in this world living with Down syndrome who deserve to know they are loved, wanted, and have something important to contribute.

On Monday I'll be wearing my #Aceface is my friend shirt. I'd love for you to join me!

If you don't have one yet, you can still purchase! (There are so many styles and sizes to choose sizes too!) You may not receive it in time for World Down Syndrome Day, but all proceeds from #Aceface tees will go to Ruby’s Rainbow, one of my new favorite charities that provides scholarships to help young people with DS achieve higher education and attend college. Ruby's Rainbow is also challenging us to take their 3/21 pledge. Give $21 to Ruby's Rainbow and then challenge three of your friends to do the same.

And then spend a moment with this beautiful video in honor of World Down Syndrome Day. So grateful you're with me and Ace in this journey, friends.

You can order your shirts here!

On the Glory of the Clementine, and Noticing



One of the gifts of having a child whose development moves at a quieter, more deliberate pace than my other babies is that I have more time to notice the miraculous moments of his everyday growth.

Today I'm writing at GraceTable about the day Ace learned to feed himself a clementine, and the wonders of being present to notice.

Here's a little snippet:

And then that next morning I peeled Ace a clementine slice. I’ve been reading about the brain. How it learns something new by building more myelin and clumping it together. How the more you do a task, practice it and practice it, your brain makes new roads, new circuits, to travel down. How did Ace’s brain make the road that tells him eating is good? Was it every breakfast, lunch, and dinner when I forced food between his tight lips?

Or was it simply that morning when I threw two slices on his tray before moving my older boys from breakfast to the bathroom. Brush your teeth, wash your face. Is your backpack packed? Jacket and shoes ON YOUR BODY?

At some moment I looked up and he had closed his rolly fist around that quarter moon slice. And he’d realized he could suck it. The juice he swallowed lit the places in his brain that said: Food is good! Food is good! And he took more. And more. I offered slice after slice, which he dropped onto the floor beneath him, into his seat, into the neck of his pajamas.

And the brain-circuit had been built. Suddenly, without fanfare or declaration, Ace began opening his mouth for the spoonfuls of pureed spinach and salmon/sweet potato mix. His little fingers began to grab for the cereal on his tray. Amazingly, he started eating. Three weeks ago, he started eating.

Yes, glory gets lost in there. But sometimes our circumstances offer us the grace to slow it down, to notice what the exact food was that taught a lovely tiny human to eat. It was a clementine orange mandarin slice in the fist of my baby. One glorious piece of fruit, grown and picked and colored orange by the sun.

  Join me at GraceTable to read the rest of this wonderful moment

Dear Parents of a Child with Special Needs (Revised and at TCW today!)

Monica Ayers Photography

Monica Ayers Photography

Several months ago of some things I wrote about some things I had learned in my then six or so months of being the mom of a child with special needs.

Today that piece (revised and with some additional thoughts) is over at Today's Christian Woman. You'd usually need a subscription to read the articles at TCW, but you're special to me, so I'm giving you a top-secret link. Feel free to share. :)


Delight: My One-Word for 2016 (and an announcement)



You are a delight. We say that to Ace, the baby who seems remarkably gifted at sweetness. I say it while I tickle him or while he giggles to my lame-mom attempts at singing our way through the afternoon. I say it to my older boys when they’re snuggling close, their hair sometimes the scent of the dreamcicle ice cream pops of my childhood summers.

You are a delight. It’s a word that registers a moment of bliss, a surge of joy, a renewal of wonder. To delight to is stop the monotonous motion of daily routines, to be present, to receive the dearness of the moment.

Delight. That’s my word for 2016. I want to delight in my children. I want to delight in this life I have. I want to believe in God’s delight in us. I want to move slowly enough through my days that I cannot help but stop for the joy of it all. I want to read because I love to read. I want to write out of a sense of emotional health, not guilt, not obligation.

. . .

So what hinders delight? I’ve been asking myself that question for the past month while I’ve mulled over this word. What stands between the drudgery of regular life and the joy of the present moment?

My own mind: My obligations. The directions I’m pulled in. The guilt I carry of not doing enough for enough people.

And without delight, I am not the writer I want to be. To delight is to find a new way toward creativity.

. . .

I’ve been waiting to “figure out” this whole three kids thing. I’ve been waiting to figure out what it looks like to raise a little boy with special needs. I’ve been waiting for life to calm down so I can go back to writing like I used to.

And readers, I’ve come to a realization: I can’t write like I used to. Not with the same speed, not with the same frequency. My older kids may be in school, but they demand a different level of emotional attention. There are challenges that require a mom who is present, who is intentional with our time after school.

My baby is not in school, but his therapy schedule is surprisingly intense. And Ace not only demands constant nursing. (He still won’t take a bottle! Ahhh!), but he also struggles in things that were easier for my older babies. He takes a lot longer to eat. He naps for a smaller amount of time. He has exercises he's supposed to do every day! I need to be intentional in the time I give to him.

I’m learning how to be Ace’s mom. And learning takes time.

Delight in this stage of life looks like a different kind of freedom. I need to let go of my old expectations. I need to embrace some new ones.

. . .

I’ve decided to stop blogging.

This has been a long time coming. I’ve backed off more and more. I’ve gone longer and longer between posts. I stopped apologizing for those long breaks. But I’ve still felt an obligation to this blog, a loud voice in my head telling me that I need to do more, that I need to use my time to get something up on the screen.

And I’ve decided to permanently shush the blog-obligation voice. I’ve decided to take some time to let myself be inspired again, to let myself play with my kids without a guilty feeling that I should be writing.

I started blogging because I was inspired. I was reading things I was deeply excited about. I was full of ideas. I want to be there again. And I really believe that in order to get back to that head space, I need a little delight. I need fun books to read. I need notebooks full of thoughts. I need space to have some new ideas.

I’m going to keep this space open. I am not closing this blog. I’m planning to publish pieces from time to time in other places. And when I do, I’ll share links to them here. I’ll still be posting on my accounts. You can find me in all my places.

If you haven’t already signed up for my email list, please fill out the form in the side bar! =======>

I promise I will not flood your inbox. But if you’d like to keep up with what I’m writing, I’ll send you an email every time I post something up on the webs. That way you won’t have to keep coming here to check in, you’ll get an email from me instead.

The season of constant blogging was such a sweet one for me. I’m so grateful for you all for reading and commenting and supporting the work I’ve done in this little corner of the internet. The reality is that the blogging life is just not sustainable with my right now life. And I’m learning to be more and more at peace with that.

So I’ll be off practicing delight. Relearning what it looks like to choose books for fun, to use time to play, to write things that make me giddy. And I hope you’ll look for ways to choose delight as well.

Thanks for the freedom. I’m grateful for you all and I promise to stay close by.

With love,


Wednesday: Ashes and Death

Photo by  Danka & Peter  on  Unsplash

I wrote this post five (FIVE!) years ago when I was pregnant with Brooksie, now a little boy who is making some extravagant plans for his fifth birthday next month. It's one of those rare things when I can come back to an old post and can still say, Yes, that's what I wanted to say. It's Ash Wednesday. I hope this day and your Lenten season is full of grace and goodness.  

I love Ash Wednesday because it reminds me that I will die.

I am a product of a culture obsessed with youth and beauty. We honor the young and ignore the elderly. We worship comfort at the expense of wisdom. We refuse to consider that each of us are constantly moving closer to our own deaths. And we convince ourselves that we have control over the reality of living and dying…until the cancer, the terror, the tragedy.

I don’t know what it is about pregnancy, perhaps those millions of years (until this past century), when a woman’s body knew that giving birth meant the possibility of death. Maybe my body and my brain still haven’t connected over the existence of modern medicine and the rarity of death in childbirth for the average American woman. And so I’m feeling in these final days of pregnancy like my womb has switched on an awareness-radar, saying: Love everything! It could all end soon! The world is suddenly brighter and more fragrant. August is charming even as he whines while I’m on the phone. I’m seized by a need to stroll instead of hurry. What a strange thing to have hormones telling you you’re risking your life, possibly dying, and doing something so significant it could change the world.

So tonight, I will sit alone in an Ash Wednesday service, preparing myself to stand before a priest of the gospel and hear the words that ring the bell signaling the Lenten season: Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return. I will feel near to death. Not like it is a monster coming at me, but like it is a sleeping terror I am allowed to approach.

The older I get the more often I know people who have lost those they love. I know it's possible. The tragedy could come to me. I could be the tragedy. There’s something to sitting alone with that thought on this first day of Lent, for a mother and a wife who is never completely alone, to approach the bowl of ashes and feel them pressed into the skin that covers my brain. I am made of this. I will be this again.

The ashes tell me that I am broken. I am human, not a god, not a marvel, not a woman of accomplishment. They tell me that whatever I do with my life, this body, in all its beauty, will be the same lump of ash as the vilest criminal in prison. The ashes make me look at myself: thirty-one years old. Have I lived long enough to have become the woman I want to be? Have I loved completely?

I want to ooze hospitality in my life. I want to see the people around me as Jesus. I want to care. I want to carry peanut butter and jellies in my diaper bag to offer to those begging just blocks from my home. I want people who meet me to sense peace in my presence. I want my son to joyfully remember his childhood as full of color and kindness and rich love. I want to patiently listen to my husband instead of storing up bitterness until I lose my temper.

I’m thankful that the ashes are about more than my own death. They’re about the death of the God whose brokenness and ultimate restoration heals my failure, who brings purpose to a life that could easily be written off as ordinary.

Last year, as I sat through our Ash Wednesday service, I watched a couple carry their ten-month-old baby with them to the pastor, who marked not only their heads but their little girl’s as well. I watched them carry her back to their seats, a bit shocked at the sight of ashes on a baby’s face.  I couldn’t help but consider their intentions. Were they reminding themselves of their child’s own brokenness as well? I thought: August will die. At some point he will die.

As I write this, he is asleep in his room, snuggled up with around 12 different stuffed animals. My other son, the one whose feet press into my side long enough for me to measure a length that simply should not be (those things are not going to fit on the birth certificate), is waiting for our God to give him a little shove out of me. He’ll breathe oxygen for the first time and scream at the injustice of life outside of my warmth. He will be fresh and beautiful and it won’t take long before he will be scarred.

It’s Ash Wednesday. So let these ashes remind us that what we need is not the avoidance of age, the fear of our own endings, but the glory of healing, of purpose, of life lived fully.