Should I say something? Or just keep my mouth shut and stay in my lane? This is the dilemma for some of us teacher types. Or those of us with justice issues. For most of my life, it’s been one of my challenges, sometimes, much to the dismay of my family and friends. In fifth…

What’s your strategy? Call me old school. I have gray hair. I can accept that tag without too much fuss. I never fell into the rabbit hole of video games or TikToking that sucks and slurps the gray matter right out of some folks’ heads and dissolves hours from their lives. So visual learning or…

Finally, it’s too much. I can’t even scribble a bullet-pointed list of events. To remember. To grieve. To honor those who emerged from outside my world. My heart is full, but my head is numb, reconciling what was with what is and how I now think I know the truth and its many shades.

For many years,  I took my sophomores to our local university library during their research unit. They entered, awed at the four stories of books available to them as they begin their academic writing careers.  By the time they finished their instruction session and research scavenger hunt, they became intimate with databases, the electronic card catalog, academic…

Toes ever edging toward the labyrinth, I am called to tread its ancient spiral. Kicking my sandals with their daily dust aside, I hear the winding, brick-lined path beckon me closer, closer to my spirit… … and that of God, residing in my journey inward. Barbara Swander Miller June 23, 2023 Prairiewoods Franciscan Spirituality Center

What was your first word? Of course, you don’t remember, but maybe your mom does. Or your dad, especially if it was “Da Da.” My oldest child’s first word was “Ah-ee.” Luckily, I knew that this two-syllable utterance actually had a meaning. Otherwise, I might’ve missed this watershed baby book moment. She was referring to…

Her slim, veined hand rested in mine, as we sat on the generic floral couch in the wood-trimmed lounge. A piano nearby hinted that Uncle Bob or Aunt Becky might drop by unannounced for a Sunday afternoon visit in the parlor though only a perky nurse-in-training poked her head through the open doorway to be…

Poetry is an acquired taste, kind of like roses. Often, we don’t appreciate certain things until we acquire a little maturity. That’s certainly true of me and poetry. When I was a kid, like brussel sprouts, poetry was foreign to me. It had a suspicious odor about it, and I instinctively knew that I wanted…

The book is well worn, its pages creased and soft, the edges frayed. The cover even has some teeth marks on the corners. That’s because it’s embroiled in a survival battle. For a second generation. “Moo moo buzz buzz pop pop pop!” I never tired of reading Mr. Brown Can Moo, Can You? by Dr.…

Before digital learning stole our winter joy “Looks like it might snow tonight,” says my husband as he turns to the weather channel.  “See that dark blue band?  It’s headed right toward us.”  He pushes the thick comforter back to the footboard of the king-sized bed.   He is never cold; but I’m usually freezing. He…