I’ve heard faith described as a muscle—something that gets stronger with use and atrophies with disuse. Difficult times, I’ve been told, will “strengthen my faith.”

Every night, I sneak into my daughter's room to kiss and pray for her. I find her twisted into an unnatural position, with her stuffed animals neatly lined up at the bottom of her bed. This scene perfectly sums up her personality.

A few years ago, at the recommendation of a couple people who are much smarter than I, I spent Lent reading Fleming Rutledge's The Crucifixion: Understanding the Death of Jesus Christ.

It’s dense stuff, but I pushed through it because I love Rutledge’s insistence that we cannot talk about the resurrection without talking about the crucifixion.

“I’m meeting with my agent,” I said to my mom a few days ago.

She laughs. I tell her as soon as everyone knows her name I will just call her Keely. I feel as ridiculous as my mom thinks I sound saying “my agent.” Give me a cup of tea, and I’ll stick my pinky in the air.

I have a literary agent.

Rise executive director Holly Stallcup was given the opportunity to guest blog on The Mudroom. You’ll find an excerpt from the piece below.

Each time I lift the lid I know not much will have changed, but my fascination with my new compost bin does not wane. My curiosity with the process of decomposition rivals that of any five year-old’s curiosity about everything.