Photo Credit In the summer’s clear, bright sun, I sit. Somewhere in the pool at my feet, Little Dude is splashin’. There’s funky music in the air, and youthful shouts

“Mom,” he’d said, blue eyes troubled, “I don’t deserve Starbucks.” On a steamy Hoosier night in July, we’d traveled to another town, another place to see an old friend from

Sigh. So this mornin’, the sun was shinin’, and I was sittin’ out in my favorite spot in the whole wide world, out there on the famous BOS (Bright Orange

FacebookTwitterGoogle+DiggPinterestBlogger Recently, I wrote a blog post called, “When your complaining is hurtin’ your husband.”   From all over, women stopped by. Men did, too, and it seemed like many folks

Well, yes, I have. Yes, we have. And, yes, we did. Meanwhile, others of you have messaged me privately or left comments here and there that tell me you’re goin’

I am writing today to the woman in my path who’s in a real hurting place. I’m going to do what I’m learnin’ to do with hard, painful things, and

In my 26-1/2 years as a mother, I’ve learned that the stretch marks at birth are just the beginning. For the nine months that I carried them, my body, my

Darkness falls across the land. In a city way down south, home of tacos and bighorns and ranchers and Stetsons, honest, working folks head for bed. And like that, a gun

Today, I’m going to step a bit outside my comfort zone and just talk plain about something that’s on my heart and mind. Pornography. If you’ve visited me here at

It came to me in my quiet time today as The Friend and I were having coffee. And chattin’… A spring rain is comin’ down. In the garden, thirsty tomatoes