On Fridays around these parts we stop, drop, and write.
For fun, for love of the sound of words, for play, for delight, for joy and celebration at the art of communication.
For only five short, bold, beautiful minutes. Unscripted and unedited. We just write without worrying if it’s just right or not.
Won’t you join us?
- 1. Write for 5 minutes flat – no editing, no over thinking, no backtracking.
2. Link back here and invite others to join in.
3. Most importantly: leave a comment for the person who linked up before you – encouraging them in their writing!
I never expected these roots.
When Peter asked my dad for my hand in marriage on a phone call from two thousand miles away his answer is one that echoes in my head still some days twelve years later.
“This wasn’t supposed to happen, you know. She was supposed to come home.”
Four years of college was supposed to be a jaunt. A runaway excuse to spread my wings. A flirtation. It wasn’t supposed to grow into a commitment with deep roots that spanned continents.
Continents and three kids that sleep in beds down the hall and dream of South Africa one night and Thanksgiving the next. They are children of cross-cultural genes and it’s their normal. Part of the package is the hurt of homesickness and part is the gift of seeing the world through two sets of eyes.
They grow in ways I didn’t discover until I was 18.
And our roots feel good and at home in this American soil. Welcome. Wanted. Beloved.
We bloom a Christmas tree family here this December. Here in the snow and hot cocoa out of earshot of the hot sun. We grow welcome here and it fits right. This is our season for now.
OK, show me what you’ve got.