Patricia's Blog

Keep Chasing Your Crazy and Impossible Big Dream

It’s too close to quit. You’re too smart to fail. But when you do, you jump back up and get moving. That’s how dreams become real. How do I know? First, I’m riding today in an airplane. Once just a dream. First of the Greek Archytas. Then of Leonardo da Vinci. Then finally of those […]

Woman worshipping God on a beach at sunset with sunspot.

Loving God Better in 2017

Not just half way. Not fingers crossed. Not looking over my shoulder—whistling in the dark, tiptoeing around fear, doubt and uncertainty into the New Year. Instead, as 2017 begins, I propose this one thing. Love God Better. That’s what I wrote at the top of my 2017 Goal List. I scratched out “Be Pleasing to […]

Let’s Stop Living on Leftovers

I’m sitting in a church on Sunday morning after Thanksgiving. The pastor makes it clear what he’s not preaching. “No sermon called Let’s Stop Living on Leftovers.” As he explains: “It’s the most predicable sermon to preach the Sunday after Thanksgiving.” He preaches powerfully on something else. Still, as he speaks, I keep thinking about the leftover […]

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. 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.