Tomorrow is my mother’s birthday. She would have been 77, and you would have known it was her birthday because she would have told you–probably

I admit it: after all these days at home on my own, I’m growing tired of words. Maybe not “words,” exactly, and certainly not books.

So, March was 749 days long. I’m not sure if I’m ready for the month billed by T.S. Eliot as “the cruelest.” The picture painted

In Four Quartets, T.S. Eliot observes that “midwinter spring is its own season.” What a perfect encapsulation of Michigan weather! I think about that line

I started my First Year Composition course off a little differently this spring. Instead of plunging directly into all things thesis-driven, I decided to spend

When my dear friend and frequent collaborator Jane Zwart recommends something, I listen. Particularly when it comes to poetry–because, as an accomplished poet herself, she

In the summer of 2016, I took an inelegant tumble down a flight of stairs and broke my foot. Badly. So badly, in fact, that

This Advent, I was delighted when my assignment as the “big group” storyteller at Sunday School was the Annunciation. It’s long been a favorite—indeed, it’s

“Oh, tidings of comfort and joy” goes the old Christmas carol. An interesting pairing of words. Joy–sure. That seems obvious: I’ve just had two staff