Last Wednesday, I shared a piece that felt particularly vulnerable and scary. Shortly after I hit "Publish" was when I got scared, flipped out, cried, and decided never to write another word again. Sometimes writing brings out the irrational in me. What unfolded, however, was this really beautiful sense of community. It was the kind of thing I write for. I was so encouraged by your own stories, your messages, and the many of you offering a brave and gracious, "me too." You've reminded me why . . .
I arrived at the restaurant first and sat down at a table that gave me a view of the door, hoping I would recognize him when he walked in. It was our first date—a blind one. We had seen photos of each other and emailed back and forth, but this was the first time I would see him in the flesh. My nerves were frayed. When he walked in, I stood up, suddenly realizing that I hadn’t planned how I would greet him. Without much thought, I opened my arms wide as I stepped towards him. I imagine I . . .
Several weeks ago, I had my first conversation with a literary agent. A real literary agent! She had contacted me, inviting an introductory phone call, and I was just beside myself with excitement. I spent hours researching her and her agency before gathering questions and talking points for our call. When it came time to speak with her, I couldn’t have felt more prepared. The conversation was wonderful; we connected well within a steady flow of thoughtful questions and storytelling. If you . . .
My husband and I found our new favorite chicken wings. You guys, I cannot describe to you how good these things are. They are char-grilled and perfect. We went to get them this weekend; every time we go, I think they're probably not going to be as good as I remember. And EVERY TIME THEY ARE AS GOOD AS I REMEMBER. Now, this is not a piece entirely about chicken wings, but I needed to start somewhere and what better place to start than chicken wings? The chicken wings restaurant is Pies & . . .
Growing up, I couldn’t bear to hear the word “confession” without getting a knot in my stomach. Nothing sounded more miserable than willingly sharing my wrongdoings with other people—let alone with God. This is probably why I wouldn’t do it unless, of course, I was caught in my sin. I don’t need to volunteer my screw-ups to anyone, thank you very much. I’ll keep that information safe with me and we’ll all be better for it. That, however, is not the case. Refusing to engage in confession is . . .
Last weekend, my husband and I had the supreme honor of attending our 4-year-old nephew’s soccer game. It was as hilarious and adorable as you would expect from a gaggle of 4-year-old soccer players—they were running into one another, tripping over their own feet, or standing totally still while staring at the sky for the entire game. I loved it. I love 4-year-old soccer players. (As a proud aunt, I must include that my nephew is legitimately talented at soccer and played a really impressive . . .