Author: kpiazza91

“How much longer?” A question we’ve all posed at least once in our lives. And no, I’m not talking about a “How much longer” asked from the backseat of a minivan on an endless road trip. I’m talking about the “How much longer’s that flow out of hearts in desperation. Your version of this question may be a typical (but no less discouraging) one such as: “How much longer will I have to wake every two hours to feed this ticking time-bomb?” Or “How much longer will I be in this ghastly, unrewarding job… or spending half my life in…

I spotted a kindred spirit in Thomas Jefferson after reading that he once sent ten wagon loads of his beloved books from his home in Monticello to the newly established Library of Congress in Washington, D.C. Though I’ve never counted my books by the wagon-load, I would certainly say that books have played a major role in my life. I’ve marked my life by them. I associate certain events in my life with the books I was reading at the time… Sense and Sensibility after the birth of my first baby (I read it out loud to him… I’m sure…

Hope is such a peculiar thing. At times it is a source of life. Something like a wind that stirs stagnant water. It moves us, filling us with visions of what could be. Hope has the power to stimulate our souls and carry us through nightmares. And yet at times hope becomes a poison. A source of pain. A thing that results in agony. For when we hope, we allow our hearts to paint the future the way we desire it. We dream in the brightest, most brilliant colors. We create a portrait of the life we long for. But…

In the next few days I will be facing the anniversary of the day Colette left us for Heaven… I inch towards that day reluctantly. It’s one of those days I wouldn’t mind sleeping straight through. And yet, I know I must face it. I must live every one of those twenty-four hours regardless of the sorrow they bring me. For a while, time will hurt me. It will drag me, pulling me forward. It will usher me into the presence of a day I dread. It will compel me to come face to face with agonizing memories. But time,…

 You know that I’ve never shied away from the idea that good fruit can be harvested from bitter soil. God has a pretty clear record of redeeming pain, of turning ashes into things of beauty. It’s simply how our God works. Yet, I’ll be the first to admit that I struggle in times when I’m incapacitated. I hate “wasting” time. I hate seasons of sickness… seasons of weakness… seasons of sub par–ness. It just frustrates me! I want to do, to achieve, to check all the boxes and hand the list back to God saying, “What next?” When I run…