Picture: Juha M. Kinnunen

In my spirit, everything is white.

Like clean bedsheets. Like freshly laundered blankets and sheets and pillowcases whispering on the line.

Like light pouring through the window onto bare walls—not sunlight, varying in its golden tints, but plain, white light.

As this morning: the winter sky is overcast, though not slate-gray, but salt-white; and snow falls in the lightest, tiniest grains.

It is white above and white below,

and white coming through every opening to reach my soul.

Is this what it is to be a young wife?

White. Space. Peace.



Like snowflakes, quietly, exquisitely in freefall. The white, the space, the clarity, the snow—they fall around me with purpose: a mercy-covering for the ground in the cold season, blanketing seeds long-sown that will emerge with life and color in the spring.

Mercy for the hibernation.

I am slumbering under a cloud of white blankets and sheets, stirring long enough to turn over and find your body next to mine—still a surprise.

I’m not yet used to the permanence of your presence, this home you have made in my deepest places… and at the same time,

the recollection of life before you is slipping away.

Fox Hair

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Through the black bedroom window, I can see a full moon casting its iridescent glow beyond the limbs of the snow-saddled maple tree.

It reminds me of the pearl earring I removed before applying the henna dye to my hair.

I sit in an old white t-shirt and shower cap, looking like a mushroom with a little red fringe peeking out from underneath.

I mixed the powered henna plant with a little allspice and chamomile tea, a spoonful of white yogurt. The paste turns out green, but once applied, heated occasionally, and rinsed, turns my hair a fox-red, like the drawing of the animal on the box.

It’s a long-held girlish fancy of mine, to have red hair.

Without meaning to, my hair styles have come to coincide with whatever season I’m in with Jesus. A natural, physical reflection of a supernatural, spiritual reality.

Dreadlocks for a season of grieving, a shaved head for a new beginning, a pixie cut during true self-discovery, the disheveled, asymmetrical growing-out process during an overseas season of suffering…

This is a first for me, dyeing it other than a color close to my natural blonde.

But what’s the reason? What’s the season? Why is now the time when I take my interest seriously and go to a full-day’s effort to turn my hair red?

I suppose it’s a re-turn.

A returning to lots of things I would call “girlish fancies.”

Girlish fancies being the things we–Jesus and I–did at first, when I was young captured by romance, and long before I ever attributed the whispers of love to Jesus Christ, but only found “the ring around that moon enchanting.”*

Every few minutes I pick up the hair dryer and heat the shower cap through, and the shadows on the snowy yard shift slowly with the movement of the moon.

This is a returning to the natural, instinctual endearments of a child, before the first fracturing, the first heartbreak, the first clumsy attempt to bind–with self-protection, or people-pleasing mechanism, or withdrawn silence–the wound left by bitter, cynical adults who were all too eager to welcome you to “the real world.”

Let the little ones come to me.

A return to innocence and simple delight.

In the basement, I rinse my head over the laundry room sink and blow-dry the vibrant, wet strands, giggling nervously at the shocking red-orange tint.

The color will deepen, and shift ever-so-slightly, in the next few days.

Back under the covers, I lie awake in the company of a moon with its own orangish hue. I am a fox, flitting between shadows, striking red against the white snow.

I’m returning to my first love.



*See for reference: Anne of Green Gables