Dear Home, I miss you. I miss what you used to give me: shelter, warmth, and security. I miss running up and down your steps—taking the stairs two at a time and always jumping down from three up (much to … Continue reading
“The legacy we leave is not just in our possessions, but in the quality of our lives…The greatest waste in all of our earth, which cannot be recycled or reclaimed, is our waste of the time that God has given … Continue reading
I recently rediscovered one of my mother’s DayMinder appointment books. It’s from 1998. Back then the Twin Towers still had three years left. We were watching Seventh Heaven, ER, and Friends. I was a sophomore in college—my brother and sister … Continue reading
Terrible things happen all the time, but September is a month I approach with extreme caution. It is a time of year that has been marked by private and public tragedy–a season of great fear and sorrow personally and nationally. … Continue reading
As an only child for seven years, writing was one of my first companions—after stuffed animals and Barbie dolls, that is. And unlike my imaginary friends (of which I had many), words were tangible and ostensibly powerful. Even then I loved that words are adaptable to any situation; and there are always more to discover and add to my collection. Finding a fantastic new word is like receiving a gift from a secret admirer—and the gift suits you perfectly—a new possession so apt it feels old.
As an adult, I still enjoy playing with words. They can be as supple as Play-Doh and as solid as Legos. Words are conducive to both the serious and the light. They can make you think, make you angry, make you laugh, or make you cry.
Writing is alchemy. It is mysterious magic—conjuring ideas, characters, landscapes and more out of mere syllables—willing something into existence out of loops and lines and curves. Starting movements, forging history, testing paradigms with nothing but words.
Writing is the path, the destination, and the journey. It is an act of perpetual exploration and discovery. It is the vehicle—a means of moving to new and unexplored regions of imagination and reality. It is a mirror, a microscope, a rhythm, and a melody. Quite simply: writing is everything.
C. S. Lewis had it right, in grief “the same leg is cut off time after time.” You hop through life for a while. The pain is acute. You’re in agony. Then, in months or years, the sharp crippling pain … Continue reading
That joyful noise was the sound of us laughing, telling stories, sharing inside jokes, and all the while making more memories. That joyful noise was the song you sang while you cooked and cleaned—adding love and tenderness to everything. That … Continue reading
They will say that I was paralyzed by my fear. They will say that I found the situation so overwhelming that I couldn’t do anything—and that it could happen to anyone. That’s what they’ll say, but they’ll be thinking something … Continue reading
There’s only one day a year that a small part of me wishes I weren’t married—Mother’s Day. You see, my mother has been dead for longer than I’ve been friends with, dating, engaged to, or married to my husband. She’s … Continue reading
Things I’ve been in thirty-nine years: Miracle Confident Big Sister (twice) Broken Baptized Insecure Dancer Depressed (a few times) Athlete Dislocated Sleep-Deprived Student Graduate Overwhelmed Teacher Mourner Lost Unsure Home (again) Coach Assistant Associate Editor Writer Worried Best Friend Girlfriend … Continue reading