I've been on a bit of a Jane Austen bender recently - not reading her actual books, but reading of her life and how it impacted her writing - prompted by my classes in Creative Writing at Tabor College. This pair of letters is my homage to Austen, inspired by a lively chat with one of my dearest friends, over a picnic lunch in Kuitpo Forest. Every writer needs a friend who is willing to play intellectual soccer with ideas. It is plausible that Anne Sharpe, a governess to Aust

Photo credit: Joshua Sortino Her hands are tearing at her hair; she sobs. Clean cloths discarded, dropped amongst the dust, destroyed, along with priceless spices lost. Two days since Friday’s foul and unjust death, an emptied grave steals closure for her grief, indignance adds to his degrading end. And now a stranger's asking why she weeps. How can I bear the silence and the shame? Me - and my sisters – welcomed in his world. Shall we be seen as lowly once again? One

I just returned home from a gathering of women from my church, despite the fact that I didn't want to go. I'm not in need of female company, though I acknowledge that many are. My reasons for not wanting to go were all very selfish and I don't need to elaborate. There were two reasons I went: The speaker (Melinda Cousins - she intrigues me) The passage (Proverbs 31 - also intrigues me) One day I might be able to update this post with a link to a blog post from Melinda herself