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Credentials of a Father
I never knew my father. As a kid, I imagined him to be a brave soldier fighting enemies across the ocean (this was the late 1960s and the Vietnam War was in full force) or a firefighter who spent his days saving kittens and grandmothers from horrendous fires. But when I was older, my mother told me that my father had been a member of a notorious motorcycle gang in Philadelphia and that . . . well . . . she wasn’t sure exactly who he was. That’s the free-love mentality of the 1960s for you, and paternity validation remains a mystery to this day. Later, my formative years were…
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Dear High School Girl
Dear High School Girl: Every morning, I crawl my way through the turbulence in the halls, swimming through an intoxicating mixture of Dollar Store body sprays and hormonal odors, dodging students jostling with friends or infatuated with phone screens. And, every morning, I catch sight of you . . . well, you AND him, as I approach the classroom. Yeah, I admit, I have to swallow down the gag reflex while the two of you make out and run hands all over each other. The way you look at him, twirling a stray curl from his cheek in one of your fingers, I know that nothing else matters in…
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Come and Drink
This was a guest post I made for She’s Intentional (Dainty Jewells). The original post can be found HERE. I hate drinking water. I’ve tried adding flavored tea bags or a few drops of lemon to it, even promising myself a special treat if I drank sixty-four ounces that day. My coworker and I challenged each other, buying matching water bottles with time markers on the side that told us where our water intake should be at certain times of the day. We’d ask one another in passing, “How many ounces are you at?” I’d color in the little box on my daily goal sheet that beamed up at me, announcing,…
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Not Forsaken
This was a guest post I made for She’s Intentional (Dainty Jewells). The original post can be found HERE. (Genesis, chapters 16 + 21) Hagar lifted her chin and held her head high as she led her son past the curious eyes of the onlookers as she made her way out of the camp. She adjusted the waterskin on her shoulder and glanced back at Ishmael to make sure he still held the sack of food. The people stood in the shadows of their tent openings; watching, curious, silent. None stepped forward to help or rise to her defense. I will not cry. I will not — “Mother.” Hagar slowed…
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The Value of a Routine
I used to know someone who hit the snooze button two or three times every morning before jumping out of bed ten minutes before they had to be out the door for work. They’d spend the commute growling at all the slow drivers on the road while pounding down an untoasted Pop-Tart, only to arrive at work and find they’d left their lunch and the laptop they needed at home. Most mornings went like that. When asked how her goals were going, she would say, “I can’t get anything accomplished! I’m so busy all the time!’ Procrastination, lack of discipline, disorganization . . . shall I go on? Oh, by the way,…