Patricia's Blog

Bachelor Looking For Food in a Fridge

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 […]

Group of six friends hiking together through a forest

Still Walking Tall

I should be raging today. My candidate lost. Americans are divided. My soul feels battered. Yet when I woke up this morning—a victory itself to wake up, right?—the sun was shining. Bright. Before my husband and I could open the shades in our bedroom, sunshine shattered the dawn. Like a sign. Carrying hope. Don’t lose […]

Portrait of an attractive young woman doing push ups outdoors

It’s Never Too Late

To grind. To fight. To struggle. To run. To create. To fall. To get back up. To keep going. To be, finally, your best. I think of this today because my husband Dan—who’s half past 70 plus some change—published his first book this week. The writing took five+ years. Now after sweating, dreaming, sowing, and […]

About Patricia

My daddy wouldn’t say no…

2014 01 29_4187_ppspec_Light Portrait Profes_edited-1
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.