Patricia's Blog

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Being Kind to Yourself

Do you celebrate your own birthday? Or as my friend says: “What are you doing on your birthday–for you?” She asks me that every year. Still, the question always catches me off guard. What am I doing? For myself? In the Christian life, which focuses so often on our outreach to others, it can seem […]

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Thanking God for That Struggle

In my twelfth year as a journalist, I hit a big bump in my career. When the dust settled, I didn’t have a job. My job, as I saw it, was given to someone else. And I was stunned. Devastated. Shell-shocked. In less than a year, however, I realized that losing that high-profile newspaper position–the […]

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Letting God Talk First

In Barcelona, husband Dan and I stand in a church with our mouths wide open. In awe. That’s how we feel gazing on the brazen beauty of La Sagrada Família. It’s the sublimely gorgeous church designed by Antoni Gaudí, this city’s tenderly brilliant late architect. I look for the right words to describe it. But […]

About Patricia

My daddy wouldn’t say no…

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No, you can’t be a writer. No, you can’t climb a mountain. No, you’re a brown-skin girl in a color-struck world. So go for something safe. Something small. Something easy.

Instead, Daddy bought me a typewriter. Shiny blue plastic and my own. A Christmas surprise. Better than a Barbie. Or ice skates. Or a fancy–dance dress in red silk or black velvet. Instead, I got the plastic blue Remington. So that sealed it.

I’ll write for life, I told myself—never dreaming I’d just chosen a kind of heaven. Or a certain hell? Giving your life to something tough and crazy is, for sure, a wild and rocky journey.

So Daddy tempered it. He mixed in Jesus. Not with speeches. Not with mandates. Instead, he piled us in the Dodge and drove us to a little Denver church where Daddy sang in the choir and Mama taught Sunday school.

Then on ice-cold mornings when the boiler in the church wouldn’t crank, we’d huddle with other believers in the second-floor sanctuary wearing coats and scarves and singing “This Little Light of Mine”—clapping our hands for warmth, praying the offering was enough to fix the doggone furnace.

But every Sunday, we came back. Because, in Christ, that’s what you do. You keep going. So here I am, half past 60—with my Daddy long dead and Mama, too—but still writing. Still at it. These are my books and this is my site and these are my thoughts so far. Not done yet. You’re not either.