Rachel Woodham

How am I supposed to practice resurrection? I didn’t know what else to do, so we went fishing. Lake Lafayette was swollen from a flash flood in the early morning hours. My son showed me the rock he stood on the afternoon before—it was at least six inches underwater. It was a rare April day—the […]

As I entered the kitchen to begin dinner, I noticed a dim glow emanating from the dusk-cloaked dining room. Unaware that I was quietly watching, my daughter continued to play. In one hand she held a wooden figurine of Mary atop a donkey and a flashlight in the other, wreathing Mary in light. The shadow

I first encountered Kristin Lavransdatter the summer my daughter was born. It was my final pregnancy; my age got the better of me, resulting in a painful and frustrating third trimester. I began Book 2, The Wife, during the final weeks of pregnancy between bouts of prodromal labor. I would pace the floor, contractions increasing

Beauty is at the forefront of my mind every Lent. When I began the path to order my life around the Christian year, I struggled with Lent. I did not have a problem with fasting—I had a problem with flowers. In North Florida, spring begins early, and as Lent begins every growing thing has exploded

 I have vivid memories of kindergarten—wriggling on the carpet during naptime, bored, or swinging high on the swing set, hoping the swing would one day carry me to Narnia. It was also in kindergarten that one auspicious afternoon we gathered in the adjoining classroom where I first saw Star Wars: A New Hope. In hindsight,

This school year has been…suboptimal. It was an inauspicious beginning when the school year began on “demo day.” Last spring, water damage in our home led to an unplanned remodeling project that encountered constant delays despite my best efforts. The time allocated to prepare for the year was chiseled away by communicating with contractors and

Soon after moving to western Ukraine at age 19, I began language training in earnest, eventually studying under two extraordinarily different teachers. My first teacher, Tanya, spoke English. She was the consummate teacher, who turned everything into a lesson. She set out to introduce me to the beauty of the Ukrainian people and culture; she

  “It’s party time!” Jason shouted, pumping his fists in the air. It was the first day of my first year in a classical school. My new students had just entered their fourth-grade classroom immediately following chapel. “You better nip that in the bud,” a colleague reproached me sternly. Fourth grade was not (I hope) abject

 My first Christmas as a mother, my son was only two months old. I remember three things distinctly. First, I had a small existential crisis after buying my son gifts, wrapping them, then unwrapping them for him (which was, in hindsight, absurd). Second, I cared about nothing other than taking a nap. Third, I noticed

 Every October my life is marked by the paradox of vitality and fatigue. The school year begins in interminable summer heat which a friend recently described as “Satan’s armpit.” The busyness of the school year careens at a questionable pace. When October begins, the heat relents, and I am reminded that the world is a

 I would like to begin by telling you about the nature journals that I have kept over the years—growing in artistry from year to year, filled with memories of the outdoors when my children were small. These journals, however, do not exist. Over the last five years, my attempts amount to a dozen pages interspersed