There’s something about November. So much to love: turkey, family gatherings, pumpkin-flavored everything. I love pumpkin! We have three family birthdays this month—two grandchildren and our daughter. And I do love birthdays. I also love the giving of thanks. Over the years, November has become for me a month—not just a day—of giving thanks. God seems to remind me continually of how many blessings I have to count. And everyone knows how good giving thanks is for the soul. 

I get book titles stuck in my head. Whether I have actually read the books or not. The current example falls in the latter category. “The Loneliness of the Long-Distance Runner” is the title of a long-ago short story by Alan Sillitoe which was later made into a movie, also long ago. Full disclosure: I have never read the book or seen the movie. So why is this title running through my head repeatedly?

For some reason Madeline L’Engle’s book, The Irrational Season, has been on my mind a lot lately. Not so much the book—which is wonderful, but which I haven’t read for years—but its title. Just the title. I feel as if I am living in an “irrational season.” A tumult of emotions that are not easy to explain rationally. A living paradox, maybe. A seemingly irrational season.  

Who knew? That stretch marks happen in your heart as well as the rest of your body. And the heart-kind are more ongoing, deeper, and longer-lasting than the other kind. In fact, they never go away. At least not if you’re a mom. 

For me, this is a summer of stretch marks. Two of my three kids are moving. Really moving, I mean. Farther away from me, which is how a Nana measures space and time.

My father’s birthday was this week. He would have been 104. But he has spent his last 12 birthdays celebrating in a far better place. He was a remarkable man: a scholar and an author and a man who passionately loved the Word of God.  He was also a wise and loving father. How often I wish that I could talk with Him, especially to ask him questions about the Old Testament, his specialty field of study and his passion. June was his month. The month of his birth, the month of his death, the month of his and my mom’s anniversary—and Father’s Day. Much for me to give thanks for in June.

Such a topsy-turvy day it is. An emotional maelstrom. How can Valentine’s Day and Ash Wednesday share the same day? My heart doesn’t know how to feel.

I love Valentine’s Day. I always have. But maybe not for the reasons you might imagine. For Woody and me, Valentine’s Day was always a family kind of day...

I almost wasn’t brave enough to put it up this year.  Do all hearts come home for Christmas?  Really?  In this season of life, I’ve actually given this question considerable thought.  Slowly, I am learning that hearts can come home even when bodies don’t.  Good to know.