The Britney Spears documentary “Framing Britney” has ignited a discussion of the way famous women are treated by the media and society at large. The unrealistic standards of expected behavior and the outrageous intrusions into their private lives make both normal development (in younger women) and personal relationships (in older women) impossible. But none of this is new, and it goes beyond the music and movie industries.

Canadian Aimee Semple McPherson became an evangelical minister in 1915. She rapidly mastered the art of promotion. By annually touring America in her car, leading tent meetings as she traveled, she became nationally…

He had a hockey game that evening and would be home late. She took an Advil PM so he wouldn’t wake her up when he rolled into bed at midnight, after a few beers and burgers with the team, probably turning on the TV so he could fall asleep to the newscasters’ voices. And he didn’t wake her when he got into bed; he didn’t wake her until he started groaning.

Through her fog of sleep, she thought, “He’s having a nightmare.” It wasn’t unusual for him to make nightmare-related groans in his sleep. …

Five pies were lined up on the table. Lola’s was in the middle, a coconut cream made entirely from scratch, topped with fluffy soft clouds of whipped cream. She’d gotten the recipe on last year’s tenth anniversary trip to Aruba, from the chef at the local café. In return, she’d paid him $20 and promised she’d only make the pie in the state of Vermont and never for sale.

She’d known the pie was a winner with her first bite: the sweet chewiness of coconut meat embraced by a fragrant vanilla pudding and punctuated by the Caribbean tang of lime…

February is the cruelest month. It doesn’t have the “New Year, New You” shininess of January. Now you’re in the slog, keeping those resolutions going (or not). You thought January weather was bad? February says hold my beer. The days may be getting longer but that just gives you more time to look out at the gloom.

I was raised in a sunnier clime than the one I now live in. I had a lot of difficulty adjusting when I moved here, and spent several years looking for ways to make winter tolerable. I don’t have SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder)…

The lies started with Hymie, our gentle, docile ram. He lived in our chain-link-fenced-in city backyard. As small children, we used to ride him around the yard. One morning when I was about 5, I came down to breakfast to be informed that Hymie hadn’t been happy living with us, and Mom had sent him to live on a farm.

Ah, the old “live on a farm” fib, you’re thinking. Not me. After my mom’s funeral when I was 25, I mentioned Hymie to my sister — six years older than me — who replied, “You still believe that? He…

For the unchurched but curious, the pandemic has made it easier than ever to find your religious fit. Yea, we are verily in a golden age of church shopping.

Pre-pandemic, choosing a congregation involved interacting directly with church members and staff. In a small town, there was no hope of anonymity. The swarm of welcome after the service could be overwhelming. Any time I visited a church, I felt like I was letting them down by not joining — even if it was my sister’s church six states away.

I’m not complaining about being embraced by a community. It’s one…

In his novel “Exit West,” Mohsin Hamid depicts the start of civil war as a series of street battles, with territory claimed block-by-block by the rebels. First, his protagonists hear gunfire from afar while dining and see refugees camping on their sidewalks. After a few months, the bullets and bombs come closer and closer, until they rain on Saeed and Nadia’s house.

If there’s one thing we’ve learned in the past few centuries, it’s that civil war kind of sneaks up on you. Gradually a portion of a community becomes so distressed that they pick up arms. Local battles spread…

I’m one of those annoying people who makes plans for the upcoming year. I’ve made page-long lists of resolutions, set lofty goals, debated One Little Word.

I can’t even tell you what my goals or word were for 2020. Any intentions I had for the year got blown out of the water with my husband’s fatal heart attack in early February. Instead of thriving, I began what Katherine May describes in her new book as “wintering,” hibernating and taking care of myself. Not self-pity, exactly, but rather resting and re-gathering my strength.

My life shrank still more a month later…