“I can’t find my money or my card!” I felt sorry for the woman as I sat next to her in the dimly lit restaurant, watching her dig through a purse that was both too small and too big. It was so small that everything was crammed tightly into it, yet it was too big….
I flopped into the hard metal folding chair with a happy sigh, weary, but unwilling to call it a day. The wedding was over and it was time to leave the reception venue, but my friends and I were reluctant to part ways. Young people from the Midwest were in the area for the weekend;…
I picked up the candle that was burning on the kitchen island and carried it slowly to my writing table in hopes that it would give off an ambiance of peace and untangle my spaghetti brain, giving me the freedom to write. The candle, given to me by my daughter at Christmastime, was one of…
I huddled dejectedly in the corner of the living room couch, listening to the voice instructing me through the speaker of my phone. I was completely overwhelmed by all I “needed” to do to become an author. No, not an author, a successful author. It was too much. I’d already struggled for many days about…
My daughter and I met each other in the hallway of the strange house, still in pajamas, our eyes bleary and our smiles a bit lopsided. We hugged each other and half whispered the same words, amid the chatter of little voices around us. “Happy Mother’s Day.” It had been a week! It’d been a…
When his little sister died, Lyndon dealt with his pain in a way that was totally opposite to that of his siblings. While the other kids talked of Connie and remembered her days with us through tears and sometimes giggles, each trying to stay connected to her, Lyndon walked the road of denial. In a…
“Be an example to all believers… in what you say…” My attention was drawn to these words the other morning and I paused for a moment, thinking about the things we say. Words are one way in which we communicate with others. We use words to share life experiences and to encourage each other. We…
I took up my pen to write but as much as my fingers itched to put thoughts onto paper, my mind was one dark, vast void. I threw the tablet on my bed and grabbed up my computer. Sometimes I can write better when I type. I’ll try that. But typing didn’t jog my brain…
I was six years old and held my new metal lunch box tightly in my hand. It was so pretty with its blue trim and a little Holly Hobbie wearing a patchwork dress adorning the lid. I stood by the sewing machine, watching anxiously as my mother sewed a brand-new dress for me to wear…
I stood at the back of the church; my face red with embarrassment. I didn’t know what to do with my hands. How could I hide the fingers whose dirt underneath the nails had just been exposed? The stubborn dirt that had managed to stay lodged under those nails despite my bath the night before…