Tagged Sarah Forgrave


The Patchwork of Humanity

My mom used to make quilts when I was little. I suppose it’s a natural part of living in Amish country. She would bundle me up, and we’d go to the fabric store, where she would pore over bolts of cloth until she found just the right mix. Solids, patterns, florals — they all played…


Protesting Rest

It was a scenario I knew all too well. My four-year-old son was showing signs of exhaustion before we even got home from preschool. I mean, he took a break on the playground to rest his head on the monkey bars, for goodness sake. On the drive home, I said, “Honey, we’re going to put…


The Other Side

I’ll never forget the morning I got the call. A shrill ringing flooded my ears, and I peeled my eyes open, squinting at my bedside clock. 5:00 am. I immediately knew who waited on the other end. I stumbled through the pitch black of my bedroom and plopped onto the floor, leaning against the wall….


Then He Smiled at Me

I’ve often wondered what I have to offer to the One who created me. In my limited travels, I’ve experienced worship in other cultures and seen firsthand that we have all been intricately designed to worship God in different ways. Regardless of my cultural or economic background, I have something to bring to Him as…


Blessed Anvil

A blacksmith stands near the fire, a metal rod in his burly hands. The metal’s tip hovers over the flame and transforms into an orange glow. He removes the burning piece from the heat, then places it on the edge of an anvil and strikes the metal with a hammer, bending the rod until it…


Off the Ledge

A canopy of trees stretched before me. Crystals of sunlight pierced through the thick forest, providing a sliver of warmth to the otherwise cool day. My eyes barely processed the beauty in front of me. The only thing I could focus on was my stomach tied in a web of complex knots that could put…


The Least of These

I walked past the maze of cosmetic counters in Nordstrom toward the downtown streets of Indianapolis, my high-heeled boots clicking with each step. A barrage of perfume scents flooded my nose, and I couldn’t wait to reach the cold air outside. My husband Jeff strode next to me, setting the pace. I stepped out into…


The Perfectionist’s Cure

I’m a perfectionist. There, I admitted it. My husband is probably in the next room saying, “It’s about time.” He should know. He’s been on the receiving end of my impossible expectations often, such as the numerous times I’ve coached him on how to load the dishwasher most efficiently. Or the few times he’s attempted…

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