Patricia's Blog

Yellow tennis balls out of black container

Leading With Our Serve

We’re standing in the kitchen, watching Serena Williams blast through the final set of last week’s Miami Open tournament. “It’s her serve,” says my husband. I nod, but feel confused. “We’re watching tennis?” We’d been surfing channels for the NCCA Basketball Championship semi-final game, the “real” sports competition on this particular weekend. But first, here […]


Coming Back from Prime Time

The call came on a Saturday night. “The Today Show is coming!” The TODAY Today Show? “When!” I gasped. “Tomorrow morning,” answered the publicity chief for our upcoming book. “They’ll film at your church.” At my church? Tomorrow morning? She needed details. “What time is the service!” Our publicity lady was gasping, too. Speaking in […]


What We Do For Love

Why drive 45 miles to give a speech to 8 people? I think I know. But it’s early, too soon for knowing. Maybe too soon for going. So on faith, I pile in my car at dawn to make the trek from my house near Denver to speak to a Bible study group in Superior, a […]

About Patricia

My daddy wouldn’t say no…

aboutPicNo, 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.