No one told me that it would all happen at the same hallowed time: Mothering is at once the hardest and the holiest and the happiest.

When I fully enter time’s swift current, enter into the current moment with the weight of all my attention, I slow the torrent with the weight of me all here.

Every moment I live, I live bowed to something. And if I don't see God, I'll bow down before something else.

I don't want a Christmas you can buy. I don't want a Christmas you can make. What I want is a Christmas you can hold. A Christmas that holds me, remakes me, revives me. I want a Christmas that whispers, Jesus.

What if I gave thanks in the trouble, for the trouble, because the trouble is a gift that causes me to turn? What if I loved God not for His goods but for His love itself that is goodness enough?

In counting gifts, to one thousand, more, I discover that slapping a sloppy brush of thanksgiving over everything in my life leaves me deeply thankful for very few things in my life.

God doesn't want your leftovers. God wants your love overtures, your first-overs, because He is your first love.