Musings on personal growth, books, motherhood, writing, and more.
At ten, I always let my playmates choose.
My heart was in its own world anyway.
Give me a pen and paper, have your way
with everything else, win; for peace, I’ll lose.
In church, they said, “Deny yourself. Fast. Bruise
your knees in prayer,” and I was ready. “Slay
my flesh, Lord!” I joined in. And day by day
I murdered my own soul in coffin-pews.
But resurrection came to me. I heard
a still, small voice calling—it was my own.
I rose, and now I walk in my own light.
Still, habit grabs my tongue, forms the old word—
“sorry.” But the more I claim my life’s throne,
the better I behave, love, think, breathe, write.