This past month, I’ve felt like a circus monkey, asked to juggle flaming torches while balancing on the back of an elephant that is crossing a mile-high tightrope. If I let one of the blazing batons go, our entire outfit may collapse. There’s a lot to do in the Himalayas. Kids to be homeschooled, Hindi to practice, floors to be swept, potatoes to be peeled, and surprise visitors to serve chai and biscuits to. Not to mention the laundry, disciplining, breastfeeding, and overstimulating events where my kids’ cheeks are tantalizing targets for pinching. Pressures ballooning into inflated dogs and hats, ready to pop at first squeeze. My counselor asked me…

Christmas is right under our noses. I smell the gingersnaps baking in the oven, yet my holiday pizzazz is sagging like the oversized ornaments on our plastic pine. It feels criminal to slouch when I ought to be…how should I say it, “rocking around the Christmas tree”? I ran across this quote by Fleming Rutledge that brings some validity to my mood, “Even as the season outside gets more exuberantly festive, those who observe Advent within the Christian community are convicted more and more each year by the truth of what is going on inside—inside the church as she refuses cheap comfort and sentimental good cheer. Advent begins in the…

Yesterday, while our family sang in church, as my fingers smoothed the tangles out of my daughter’s hair and my husband whispered the meaning of the elements of communion again to our son, our grandma left her earthly tent and met her inheritance, King Jesus. The earth didn’t shake, I felt no flutter in my spirit, but she left all the same. It’s now the day after and the sun still dared to wake and the grocery store line is as long and grumbling as it has ever been. An entire human, a mother, wife, sister, and grandmother will soon be buried in the ground. Skin once caressed, embraced, adorned,…

Due to “advanced dilation” my midwife assigned me an appointment later in the afternoon to deliver our sixth child. She knew I hoped to treat myself to an epidural after a slew of rigorous natural births, and one baby delivered via toilet bowl. Getting to the hospital before my water broke would hopefully give me time to get those magical juices injected into my spine. I celebrated the big day ahead in the peace and quiet of my minivan in the Target parking lot with a personal pan pizza and iced latte. I felt thankful for how things were playing out. How nice of God to give my punctual self…

We are days away, perhaps hours away, from welcoming our sixth child into the world. She will be our fifth daughter. As much as I love each and every one of my girls, I am certain and happy that she will be her own person. If babies came out as repeats every now and then, new life would feel less new. A kink in the machine, a mistake of the maker. It deserves a moment of silent worship to realize this has never been the case in the history of the world. The fingerprint belonging solely to one human is quite the artistic feat.  Waiting to meet this entirely original…

We had been in America for three whole days when I asked my four-year-old at the breakfast table if she was missing home in the Himalayas. She popped raspberries and sausages into her mouth carelessly, her skinned legs penduluming back and forth contentedly.  “Nope. I like America better.” Was her decisive reply. I grinned. It was definitely the maple-flavored pork and berries speaking.  “What about you, Mom?” She asked back, her eyes steely blue.  “I like both places.” I said, as I stirred cream in my coffee. “No, you have to choose,” She surprised me by answering. We were fresh from a vegetarian world with limited produce and I was…

I have inherited a life like grass, plucked for dandelion chain necklaces and crushed by tennis shoes. A lifespan of mist, its beads suspended in space for two breaths before vanishing. I’m told the place to be is not in the center of the dance floor, but the funeral home; that sorrow yields a wildly rich harvest that could never be produced by a year of sunshine. As a result of life’s fast fade, the wise are found dwelling on rocks sturdier than flesh and dreaming of invisible treasures, while the foolish build barns on sand and stuff them like Thanksgiving birds. At the end of their days, the wise…

We met when you wore neon baggy sweatshirts and my voice was two octaves higher.  Your pockets were full of tracts and I excitedly showed you my homemade ones, laminated to boot.  You mindlessly bounced a hacky sack in a circle of friends and rode a longboard to the beach. My Minnesota accent confused you, but you couldn’t resist playing “tag” with me.  ________________________________ And so, on Wells Street, with snowflakes on eyelashes, we became a thing.  Syrupy sweet, the fastest of friends.  We rode all the colors of the L, walked miles of Windy City, and shared dreams gloriously soaked in faith and naivety.  You drank black tea, while…

Dear Himalayan wonderland that I call home for the present, You are a rainbow-studded jewel in the earth and somehow the land I hate to love and love to hate. You flaunt ruby hyacinth, mohawk-plumed birds, temperamental monkeys, and forests of pine. Cows lazily meander over you like fat cats who think they own house and owner. Ice-cold rivers bubble around boys playing in their underpants while their mothers dry sheets and dupatas on oversized rocks, hot as baked potatoes.  Your people endure. They milk the cow, set paneer, and roll a perfect roti. From just a few screaming pressure cookers, women fashion feasts to feed crowds without the help…

To feel stagnant The overnight cup of water The house with closed shutters A sense of weariness Wetting life’s appetite like stale bread And dulling the eye of its glitter Like electricity lost The whir of the fan stills The rotating washing machine mutes And the light is now blackened The room gray Stilled rumbling, absent golden hue Eyelids lead-heavy But light as a feather Compared to the heart without hope The pounds of lament Knock everything low Even the thought that one might rise Does anyone else have this thumping between their ears? Like a drum of death pursuing How will I hear when Hope comes to visit Laid…