Thursday, December 23, 2021

Deconstructing Christmas

Jesus has been on my mind a lot this advent, even though I'm not sure I qualify as Christian any more.

I'm planning to read my way through all four gospels soon, and focus on the words Jesus spoke, because I'm interested in who he said he was. I know those words were recorded decades after his death, and the mutable magic of memory ensures inaccurate reporting, but reading them is the only way to explore this question*.

But today it was Mary's words which rang out, as she sang her song of hope and triumph to Elizabeth: 

My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices, in God, my savior.

She sang at the revelation that God was with her, within her, part of her, produced by her, replicated and pushed out into the world. Grown, magnified, birthed.

Her soul did magnify God, as did her body. Literally.

Through Mary the presence of God was welcomed, fed, protected, carried, and grown into the divine iteration known as Jesus. Her body and his, both holy temples of the holy spirit.

Mary sang about the coming of Immanuel, meaning "God with us," and I've been wondering something. Maybe Jesus didn't save us by dying to satisfy his father's bottomless thirst for blood. Maybe his salvation was the command to wake up and recognize that God is with us. Immanuel. 

God is within us, within those around us, and within all things; past, present, and future. 

And maybe that knowledge has the power to save us from being consumed by darkness.

Christmas can be challenging for those in the process of deconstructing their faith. I'm still figuring out who I think Jesus is. But this year, I am going to celebrate Christmas, regardless. 

May my soul magnify the presence of God. 

Immanuel: God with us.

Merry Christmas.

*The non-canonical gospels are also on my list.

Monday, December 6, 2021



All my books hold special places in my heart, but this one has particular poignance. It was born from seeing the pain and confusion experienced by people whose loved ones came out as trans, and the lack of resources available to address their situation. The format mirrors the Where True Love Is series, and while it centers on love (all my books do), faith isn't a core element. People from any faith tradition or none will all find it useful.

Transitioning people deserve love, respect, and hope... and so do their partners. If you or someone you know is facing the challenges presented when a trans loved one comes out, Reaching for Hope can help.

Please spread the word.

Monday, November 29, 2021

New Book Announcement!


I've been working on a new book for months, and it's launching early December! Here's an early peek at the cover. It's a draft, but pretty close to the final version. We hope it will be a resource that helps the partners of transgender people understand what's happening, and find ways to move through it as smoothly as possible.

Send an email to if you'd like to be notified when it's available.

Monday, July 19, 2021

Leaving Behind Beauty

Leaving Behind Beauty

by Suzanne DeWitt Hall

I don’t know which creature

snail or slug

leaves behind a glittering sign

of midnight motion

but there it was;

a lacy map

of iridescent trails

which had not been the day before.


Disdained thumbless things

gliding on a magic carpet

of their own pulsing creation

slick and silent

up trees and over fences

intent on simply being

and leaving behind


Wednesday, July 7, 2021

The Year of the Cicada

Oddly enough, this is not my first poem about cicadas.

The Year of the Cicada

by Suzanne DeWitt Hall

July 7, 2021



I’ve heard the cicadas will be many this year

not heard the way we hear

the waxing, waning waves of sound

pulsing from their tymbals

to fill the dusk.

Not that,

but heard through the pulse of data

across wires and air

bearing news from one being to the next

in cicada-like proclamation:

“Look at me! Judge me worthy! I am here!”


I’ve heard their presence has been a plague

encouraging exodus.

They’ve not yet begun to thrum

where we live, also waiting

buried in the earth

hungering to be born

to stretch and groan

escaping the confines of this present exoskeleton

clawing into tender freedom

flying away

to fill the world with the pulse of our own song

and leaving the dead shell

of these former selves


Friday, July 2, 2021


I moved my laptop to another room, and there's a mirror behind the desk which means I get to watch the skin on my throat transform into crepe in real time.

I don't hate it. Hopefully my spirit is softening simultaneously.

Tuesday, May 18, 2021

Look Toward the Light

Our kitchen contains a narrow rolling island made from an antique console table my beloved got from the church where we met over a decade ago. It's looking rough after all its years, but it's useful for chopping veggies, stirring batters, and shucking hard-boiled eggs, which was my pre-breakfast task this morning. In most kitchens, you stand between the countertop and the island, facing in toward the room, but I often work on the opposite side, because there's a window over the sink, and its light is helpful for my aging eyes. 

I've been co-existing with depression over many months of pandemic, and have learned that it's a thing which behaves like the tide. Sometimes it hangs back and you have space to putter around and do what needs to be done. Other times it washes in deep and with seemingly serious intent, halting motion and leaving you helpless to do much more than wait it out. Today was one of the crashing-wave times. My spirit was heavy and my mind discouraged, overwhelmed with worries and the mountain of things I'm not doing a good job of getting done. 

The eggs needed shelling, and my beloved waited for me so we could strategize about our work for the week. It was a rainy morning, and I moved to the far side of the island to face the watery light. 

It reminded me of a night long ago, when I wound my way through the woods toward the outhouse at my ex-husband's family cottage. The privy was set a fair distance away from the central compound, and the walk curved around and down, out of sight and away from the light of the buildings. My flashlight's beam illuminated the pine-needle-strewn path but little else. There was nothing to fear in that quiet space of looming trees. No people for miles. Bears bedded down elsewhere and uninterested in my proximity. Squirrels and chipmunks startling in their scurry but welcome company. But it was eerie, walking toward the increasing darkness. Leaving the light behind.

It was always a relief to head back afterward, knowing that in another few steps the light from the big cottage would appear around a final bend. 

What a difference the disposition of light makes to our feelings of safety and comfort. Even though I could be standing in exactly the same place, when I faced the darkness there was fear and subtle dread. When I faced the beckoning light there was expectation and hope. The actual safety of the space was exactly the same. I was no farther or closer to danger, no more or less content with the mess that was my marriage, and my being was the same facing either direction other than the state of my bladder.

But the light made all the difference.

I felt that same sense of lifting this morning, when I shifted from facing into our rain-dim kitchen and instead turned toward the window. I felt more light as I watched my beloved's face assessing my sadness a few minutes later, and plotting how to help.

We can handle a lot of darkness in our lives as long as there are sources of light to turn to. I hope you are able to both seek light, and be it.

Wednesday, February 24, 2021

Sleeper, Awake is almost here!


All my devotionals have involved deconstructing aspects of the faith I'd been taught or absorbed over the years. The latest is titled Sleeper, Awake, and it takes on the concept of unlearning itself. 

The book will be available at the end of the month!

Tuesday, February 23, 2021

Unnatural Companions


Unnatural Companions

The dogs and I startled

a flock of mourning doves

from the cover of bare branches.

They flew off in pairs

clucking twirtles of disruption

and fluttered to the tree

lying beyond our fence.

Its roots rise in the frozen air

but the boughs still offer shelter

for startled doves

and feral cats

as we all seek comfort

and wait together

for the coming of spring.