Leah Perrault is executive director at Mount St. Francis in Cochrane, Alberta.
May 19, 2019
Joy is an Easter feeling and a virtue in my faith tradition. For reasons fairly obvious to me, it is not the leading line in any description anyone would ever write about me.
April 24, 2019
Healing was not the invitation I was expecting when I showed up at church several weeks ago.
March 19, 2019
Softening is a curious thing. We soften water, counteracting metals and minerals that stain and damage our clothing. We soften edges, to prevent slivers and injuries. We soften butter, to stop it from tearing through bread.
February 19, 2019
Fluffy snow covered the sidewalk when I opened the garage door to leave for work.
January 15, 2019
Choosing is in the air. At the beginning of the year, the marketers are competing for our money, and gyms and diet programs are poised to pounce on the good intentions that follow Christmas feasts.
December 10, 2018
Dwelling is a strange concept. It’s a place and it sounds like an action: the relevance to Advent is both.
November 22, 2018
Energy is one of the great miracles of life. As the trees lose their leaves and preserve energy for the spring, I have been thinking about how I spend my energy, and what human dormancy looks like.
October 16, 2018
After we are small children, it is rare that we are carried. Perhaps for a joke or dare, a photo-op at a threshold, maybe in the case of injury, or in certain situations in old age? My baby is big enough now I rarely carry his full weight unless he is asleep.
September 6, 2018
Growing up in rural Saskatchewan planted a special place in my heart for the wildflowers that grow in the ditches. Blue alfalfa, purple thistles, bright yellow brown-eyed susans. When I moved to the city to study, I saw them less frequently, and I did not realize how much I missed the wildflowers until I spent several weeks at a youth camp this summer, thanks to my husband’s working there and my maternity leave.
July 4, 2018
I love words. They flow constantly from my head to my heart, spill out of my mouth with laughter, make sense of my world. And sometimes, words fail. They take the air from my lungs or hit me in the face. Sometimes, there isn’t sense to be made.