If you’ve followed my blog for any time at all, you’ve seen shared posts from people I highly respect for one reason or another. Today I’m sharing a post from Michelle Munt, a brain trauma survivor. She’s battled back and continues to gain momentum in her journey of healing–and we’re all on a journey of healing, right?
Like most authors, my goal as a writer is to weave words into a beautiful tapestry; thoughts that take the reader’s breath away. To do this, I grab time when I can. While doing laundry or cooking dinner … or instead of doing laundry or cooking dinner.
But when I see it happen–when I read a piece that tightens my chest and stays with me for days–I know I’m in the presence of brilliance and need to share it with the world. That happens many times when I read Lori Roeleveld’s work.
Check out her latest piece. Find out why writers write.
This may help those who live with writers understand why their clothes may still be in the hamper or their dinners periodically get burnt.
Thank you Lori.
Even though my family of origin was pretty dysfunctional, one of my favorite pastimes, when I’m feeling a bit low, is to remember stories about my dad and how he honored my feelings and held them close to his heart.
I always jumped at the chance to be with Dad in his room—the Gun Room. It was a treat to steal away with him when he went upstairs to his room. He kept guns, cameras, family photos and film equipment, and special sentimental pieces from his childhood there. I am certain he kept us out for our own protection when it came to the guns. We were all told the only time we were allowed to go in there by ourselves was if the house was on fire and we could safely get the family’s 8mm films out and save them from being destroyed. Other than that, the Gun Room was strictly off limits. Whenever I saw him in there, I would beg to join him. And he always obliged. While he worked away on whatever project he was concentrating on, I looked around his private sanctuary with marvel. I would fold my arms behind my back holding tightly on to my wrists, just to make sure I did not touch anything. I did not want to run the risk of inadvertently grabbing for something and causing harm.
Forgiveness is a powerful thing. Consider what could happen if we practice it more.
All I wanted from our server was for him to tell us what the specials were, to make a few recommendations, and then bring us our food, quickly and hotly (is that a word?). Instead, he seemed offended at everything, recommended nothing—except that we go somewhere else—and then brought us the wrong food, slowly and coldly. When I complained, he said he’d had it with my attitude. Ahem, my attitude?
A few months later, I told our new roommate my “waiter from hell” story, thinking it might serve as an icebreaker. It didn’t. Dave paid his rent on time, did his dishes, and respected the house rules. In return, all he asked was to not be probed with churlish personal questions like, “Hello.”
When someone is moody I have to know why. It’s probably equal parts snoopiness and compassion, but whatever it is I keep at it. So I kept at Dave…
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Looking through my blog I was interested to see what my very first post was. I had made a website and had wisdom to share with the world! While it may be a bit sophomoric, I’m happy to see some things don’t change. Continue reading
Six years ago I didn’t have a care in the world. I still considered myself a newlywed after four years of marriage to the man of my dreams. My job fulfilled me professionally. My kids were happy and healthy. My local church embraced me with an unyielding love.
But I had no idea what was coming. Without realizing it, God had nudged me into preparation for what was to follow.
I saw a post on social media to all those who say they don’t celebrate Valentine’s Day. He charged that it was a cop-out when they say, “We celebrate Valentine’s Day every day. This is just a commercial holiday!”
I know some folks believe that, but this was my reply.
“Sorry, but I’m one of those gals who isn’t moved by Valentine’s Day cards. I watch guys stand in front of the card section at the grocery store, looking at each other, trying to figure out what would cost the least amount of money and effort to check off the list that they put effort into the holiday. These attitudes don’t do anything for me.
“Instead, this is what moves me to tears …