Sharing Mom's old bike...
Mom’s Bike
Author: Anne Arthur
Writing, living the abundant life, believing God put us here for a purpose.
Memories of Advent
It's just after four o'clock and already dark outside. Helga and I are tapping our feet at the threshold, freeing boots and pant bottoms from snow before opening our entrance door. I inhale deeply. She looks at me, nodding, and we giggle in anticipation. A wonderful whiff of baked apples, cinnamon and caramel sugar greets … Continue reading Memories of Advent
A woman from the East
Grandma Ida’s house was not really that large. But too big for a widow living by herself, decided the mayor. “Sorry, Madam, but you must take some of them.” “How many?” she asked, fully knowing there’s nothing much she could do. The ending war just swept a wave of refugees from the East into the … Continue reading A woman from the East
Dèyè mòn gen mòn.
Haiti. The '70s. "The grass will only grow…" “…if we water… we need lots of water. And lots of black dirt,” he says. “If we use our cistern water, we’ll have to stop bathing as of right now. It’s not enough. Either bath or grass,” I declare, standing beside him on our terrace, hands on … Continue reading Dèyè mòn gen mòn.
Math problem solved
"You are dreaming again," shaking her head, Charlotte darts a disapproving look my way, blue-checkered kitchen towel in hand. I am watching the bird fight in the bird house outside our window, hoping my math problem is solving itself. Some redstarts are fiercely defending their lunch, fighting off an audacious sparrow. Birdseed flying all over … Continue reading Math problem solved
What’s with you, little flower?
Your seed fell where you didn't expect taking root. Yet, you are well seated, nourished too. You expected drought. Instead, you were watered. Perched high, you bloom and stretch to the sun. Smiling, I greet your sunny face welcoming me this morning.
Both beautiful and ugly
The Island, Haiti. When I first met her, she was called “Pearl of the Antilles” and life was running peacefully. Despite the paradox of living under dictatorship.
