I was born a Christian.
That sentence might not mean the same to you as it does to me. I go into much detail about that here. The short of the story is, I was surrounded by church—becoming a Christian as a little girl, but I didn’t REALLY become a Jesus-follower until my recent adult years. Let’s say I had all the book smarts, but not the heart smarts.
When I first ventured back into church, I hid it. Continue reading »
That’s ridiculous. Right?
I can’t believe it’s been two years. That’s how long I’ve been a consistent, not-miss-a-beat blogger.
I’m jumping out of a plane with parachute in-hand. IN-HAND.


I’ve got a BIG mouth. Combine that with my invisible soapbox and it can be an awful mess.
Tumultuous.
We are born eggshell-porcelain: unblemished, innocent, and ready for the world.
Writing the check for six-dollars, I stopped.
“This isn’t believable.”
I’m not especially fond of my nose.
I have a wild friend. She’s a breath of fresh air and I think of her as a gypsy-of-sorts. We have many things in common, sans organized corporate religion. She doesn’t like it and I kinda do. And even with this one thing we don’t have in common, I confess—I’m not always a fan of it (church that is); but I am a card holding member of mine, which I love. And I do my best to make that club, of churches everywhere, good and just. I try to do my part at my church—being involved and not just showing up for a service. After all, it’s about the people and our love in action, not the building, the coffee shop, or the “show”.