Patricia's Blog


Dumping Our Cheapest Emotion

Yeah, anger. We’ve heard a ton of it this election. You know the look of it: Lips curled. Fists balled. Mouths cursing. Eyes burning. The harmless mocked. Opponents scorned. Even a fire bomb made the cut. Yep, it’s been ugly. Yet some people are proud of this? That’s how one campaign insider sounded in a recent […]

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You Are Not a Failure

It’s Father’s Day and my Facebook feed is filled to bursting with loving photo tributes to beautiful dads. I posted a photo myself, showing my beloved late father plus a current photo of my fun husband Dan. But what if that isn’t your story? What if your memories not only of Dad but of other […]


Bicycling With God

I’m at a bicycle shop in south Denver, waiting nervously for my Adult Learn-to-Ride class to start. I feel embarrassed. I learned to ride a bike as a kid. Sharing a one-speed Schwinn with my big sister, I biked up and down our northeast Denver streets—determined to pedal fast. I loved the speed and skill of mastering […]

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.