by Darcy Wiley | Nov 21, 2012 | Pencils & Pens, Preserve Your Story {31 Days}, Sweet Tea
We gather around to feast on grace, to celebrate the bounty of the year or to thank Him for the way He’s helped us muscle through hard times, all things through Him who gives us strength. We squeeze tight at the table in the name of family and faith with good gifts...
by Darcy Wiley | Nov 18, 2012 | Pencils & Pens, Preserve Your Story {31 Days}, Sweet Tea
I rake fingers through flour, light and dry, then pull beads of cold butter into it, oil and weight joining. Then the cold water splashes in, an awakening. Dough rounds itself away from the sides of the bowl. This is my second try. My practice pie turned out a runny...
by Darcy Wiley | Oct 26, 2012 | Pencils & Pens, Preserve Your Story {31 Days}, Sweet Tea
We’ve talked about writing what makes you cry, writing your everyday mercies found in the accidental collage in your junk drawer, writing timeless truths in the fresh language of kid’s quotables, writing your brokenness and writing the story-lines of answered prayer....
by Darcy Wiley | Oct 21, 2012 | Pencils & Pens, Preserve Your Story {31 Days}, Sweet Tea
I combed through gritty words and searched for my own like a beachcomber after high tide. I pictured this particular shell opening up to look like a butterfly with wings spread. I imagined the swish of the surf, like young love, and then straight away came the weight...
by Darcy Wiley | Oct 17, 2012 | Pencils & Pens, Preserve Your Story {31 Days}, Sweet Tea
We’d read the book so many times that our two-year-old boy had the thing memorized, every line of Duck in the Truck. He’d look at the pictures and recite the story in happy sing-song toddlerese. He’s got the gift of good memory and we’re steering it the best we can....
by Darcy Wiley | Oct 9, 2012 | Pencils & Pens, Preserve Your Story {31 Days}, Sweet Tea
The book on my nightstand waits like an old friend on the line, voice buzzing through miles of wire into heavy handset, me listening, twisting my fingers in the curl of the cord of words. I’ve known the author all my life, though he never knew me. I repeat his words...