Writings
Hot tears streamed down my face in a torrent.
It was March of 2010. Almost five years ago now. I sat in an enormous auditorium, alone yet surrounded by thousands of strangers, listening to Nichole Johnson perform her piece “Playing with Fire.”
She shouted. She yelled. She screamed with narrowed eyes and hatred in her voice.
Read MoreThe war for her heart granted me a different perspective and the wisdom to discern which issues were truly battles to fight. I have become much more selective about which hills are ones I'm willing to die on. Now I consider issues through these three filters:
Read More"I’m so proud of you, Buddy."
He gives his goofy grin that he does when he’s simultaneously embarrassed and happy and pleased with what we’ve said.
"Are you proud of yourself? Does it feel good?"
"I don’t know."
"What do you mean you don’t know? You played really well. Are you proud of that?"
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