Patricia's Blog

Killing Our Fear With Kindness

I’d refused to see the movie “Wonder.” Medical dramas make me cry. And this story, about a little boy with a severe facial deformity—struggling to fit in at his new school—looked to be a full blown tearjerker. It is, indeed. (Bring tissues.) That’s because “Wonder”—based on the best-selling children’s novel by author R.J. Palacio—is about […]

What Would Heather Do?

That’s the real question. After Charlottesville. After Neo-Nazi thugs. After KKK “patriots.” After white supremacists show up on your doorstep to spread terror and hate in your own hometown, what would Heather do? Well, we found out. Heather D. Heyer, who was murdered Saturday morning when a white supremacist plowed his car into a crowd […]

Let There Be Cake!

My birthday is this month, so I’m getting warm greetings in the mail. Not just from family. But from business “friends.” Our insurance agent. A favorite restaurant. Even from my local Hallmark store. As their pretty little message says: “Let there be cake!” But what does that mean? Why should we celebrate birthdays? And when […]

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. 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.