by Kimberly Coyle
Around the time my youngest child turned two, when we lived in the thick of toddler tantrums, I began having meltdowns of my own. My daughter’s usually occurred in the toy aisle at Target, but mine were mostly behind closed doors. I could be found quietly sobbing in the bathtub or lying in bed at night, blood pulsing hard and my thoughts a roar into the silence.
Enjoy what you read? Share it with others...
by Kimberly Coyle
When we think of change, our minds often turn to the big and the noteworthy. We think of the day we got married or the day we became a mother. We look back on the year we moved out of our parent’s house, or our first day on the job, or the night we accepted Jesus as our Savior. We often forget that our everyday lives are cyclical, peppered with changes small and the opposite of noteworthy
Enjoy what you read? Share it with others...
by Kimberly Coyle
And I grew angry with myself for writing about my daily life on the most public forum on the planet, and withering when faced with criticism there. I exposed my son to people who, quite honestly, think the marriage of faith and everyday life is downright crazy.
Enjoy what you read? Share it with others...
by Kimberly Coyle
You and I might not be artists in the capital “A” sense, but we all have dreams that rise up from the dark and quiet places of our heart. God knit you together in a particular fashion, and the world may not believe it, and your family might not understand it, and your paycheck may not reflect it, but you can honor the dream and respect it.
Enjoy what you read? Share it with others...
by Kimberly Coyle
My own story doesn’t have the flash or the dramatic appeal of these broken ones. It’s the story of a slow burn, how God scooped me up as a child fresh from my mother’s womb and how He carried me every day since. In my story, there is no conversion experience or years of running or dark night of the soul. There is three-year-old me singing my little songs to Jesus.
Enjoy what you read? Share it with others...
by Kimberly Coyle
Every December, I buy a new daily calendar for the year ahead. And every January, I sit down and fill in the blanks—the birthdays, anniversaries, school dates, and vacations we planned in advance. I find it comforting to know a few of the things that lie ahead, giving me something to look forward to as I flip the year’s pages.
Enjoy what you read? Share it with others...
by Kimberly Ann Coyle
My son entered the world of light and noise and oxygen on a day when the windows stayed open. A breeze blew the curtains back and sun streamed across my bed as I labored, bent over and breathing heavy at the foot of it. It was April in London, and I have yet to see another sunny April day there since. I birthed my boy into light, rivers of it washing through the upstairs bedroom of the little house with the blue front door.
Enjoy what you read? Share it with others...
By Kimberly Coyle
I hear her talking from across the coffee shop. I’ve seen her there before, circled close to the same group of older gentlemen clutching coffee cups. They come here often to talk about the latest headlines, their medical problems, the grandkids, and, occasionally, their faith. As a serial eavesdropper, my ears fine-tune to the tenor of their conversation, and I listen in.
Enjoy what you read? Share it with others...
by Kimberly Coyle
Every week, I convinced myself it was time to release my dream of becoming a professional writer, and every week I found myself sitting in front of the computer screen or spiral-bound notebook laying down words again.
Enjoy what you read? Share it with others...