This post is part of a series telling a longer story. You can find yesterday's post I Am From White Also, But Not Only here. I asked in my group of writing friends, holy misfits in their own ways, would you please pray? Would you pray for me because I am knots and nerves and every bit that little girl who didn’t want the wrong answers to reveal she couldn’t explain herself. I had seen the link on a friend’s Facebook page for an Authors Retreat for People of Color. I was excited that my …
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For All Who Hurt with Nothing Left: A Grace Table Post
I was a week past deadline on this post. I sat at the keyboard for two days straight while fever swallowed up my hours and I mopped up my nose with a growing pile of tissues, gathering like soggy clouds in my wastebasket. And my fingers hovered over the keys. Backspace gobbled up my words faster than I could get them down and I must have started five or six posts before the letters trailed off and got stringy and anemic like my story was being siphoned off and stolen away. I wanted to blame it …
Dead to Center: Living with Bipolar
On the good days I fear that I’ll get sucked back under, churned wild under the waves, like a spin cycle set to run too long agitating me this way and that. I feared it when I was jubilant and every good thing was like low hanging fruit, so ripe and easy to pluck from the branches, heavy with worth and promise. I fear the fall. Sometimes hope terrifies me. I’m not supposed to say that. It seems contrary to all the good things like faith and promise and trusting God. Here’s the funny thing. I …
