Based on a true story It was the perfect summer day. Pristine blue sky. Simmering warmth. Just enough unobstructed sunshine to heat my pumping bare arms. I maintained a measured, quick stride up G Street past ranches and bungalows with my beagle, Patches. Nike running shoes? Check. Shorts and T-shirt? Check. MP3 player, earbuds, and playlist ready? Check. After being chained to the chair in my basement office, the prospect of being outdoors after a long day of editing was heavenly. My neck ached, and I longed for the solace only woods, fresh air, and sunshine could provide. I was walking my dog—or maybe she was walking me—toward that sun-dappled forest path that led beyond the subdivision and quite literally into the woods. Where the road ended, the path began—little more than two ruts carved between the trees by four-wheeling joyriders. Ahead lay the promise of sunny meadows, wild raspberries,…
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It’s hard to sum up a life in only a few words. And this offering certainly doesn’t do this amazing worker, provider, father, husband, and grandfather justice. Exactly one year ago today, my father, Larry, only 71, said good-bye to this life and stepped into a much better one after a two-and-half-year struggle with brain cancer. He left behind a wife, a daughter, three sons, a son-in-law, three daughters-in-law, and eleven grandkids. Beyond a few mementos and clothes that didn’t fit my brothers but fit me perfectly, all I have left of Dad, a GM retiree, are scriptural values and beliefs he instilled in my life. And of course precious memories—and what a treasure trove I have to draw from. Not only for my writing but just to remember Dad for who he was. Lest I ever forget. I’ll never forget the beautiful Revolutionary War-style muzzleloader Dad built from a…
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In January 1991, I began a newspaper internship at the Greenville Piedmont (now defunct) in Greenville, South Carolina. It was my senior year in college, and I was graduating in May with a BA degree in print journalism. One of the more unusual “adventures” (misadventures might be a better word) occurred the day the managing editor turned to me with an unusual assignment. “I’d like you to drive over to the Greenville Hilton and see if you can track down Shirley MacLaine. She’s doing a show in town, and I heard she’s staying there.” No joke. Now, many of us think of Shirley as a New Age guru, but actually she’s a pretty talented woman. (And no, this is no endorsement of her beliefs or anything else she represents.) I just sort of stared at him. I was a twenty-year-old journalism nobody who wrote feature stories about city volunteers and…
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See Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, and Part 8. #9: Once I publish my novel, I’ll finally be someone people notice. Oh, this is a sad, sad way to live—to be a slave of others’ approval. When I was a child, I wrote stories simply because I enjoyed writing them. As I grew older and became more self-conscious, I realized that writing could be more than fun and games. I could actually get published and “be somebody” (as if I wasn’t somebody already). Someone important. Someone people would notice. Who knows? Maybe I’d even write best-selling books, and then people would know who I am, and I’d be famous. The Trap (Do you hear the pride ringing in those statements? Perhaps the pride of life described in 1 John 2:16?) In my opinion, the most genuine famous people I’ve ever met are the ones who never sought attention.…
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