Category: Personal Essays
-
With Me When It’s Scariest
I was five the first time I dialed a phone. A yellow rotary on the wall. My grandmother’s number. My dad behind me on the barstool. I’ve been dialing scary numbers ever since.
-
UFO Sighting in Missouri: She Wasn’t Lying
She pointed at the blurry picture on her phone. “This right here — this is a real UFO.” Traveling these curvy Missouri hills, she waved it in front of me. For a second, I thought we might crash.
-
I Knew His Face
I didn’t know his name. I knew his face. About a man at a round table, a string of numbers in blue ink, and the question I’m still asking about whether I got close enough.
-
Armadillo. Egret. Squirrel. Rainbow.
Seventeen squirrels. Two white egrets. One armadillo staring me down. And a rainbow waiting at home. Less than two hours. Less than five miles. More than I expected. #FiveMinuteObservations
-
The Overqualification Olympics
Overqualified. Overeducated. Over fifty. Enthusiastic. Reasonably caffeinated. This is my situation, and I am choosing to find it funny. Mostly.
-
Writing That Happened
I read a faith column in Sunday’s paper. Three numbered points. Charlie Brown opener. A tidy bow at the end. And nowhere did the writer tell me what he was afraid of. New post on Five Minute Observations. What does showing up actually look like? Link in bio.
-
A Half Marathon, a Stranger, and the Race I’m Really Running
The morning air was a lie, the hills were brutal, and I was just trying to make it to the next mailbox. Then a stranger at the finish line said something that made me realize I’d been running a different race the whole time.
-
The Tomb He Owned
One man steps into the story of Jesus without introduction, almost a footnote. Joseph of Arimathea. A member of the Jewish High Council. A good man who had been quiet until one afternoon, when he wasn’t. What would I have done? What would you?
-
The Saturday I Let Go
Five hundred posts, nine queries, one tired writer. A Saturday morning, a cup of coffee, and the wife who reminded me what the work actually is.
-
Three Doors In
Three doors. A diner. A highway. A social media post. Three stories that have nothing in common, except me showing up, paying attention, and then getting out of the way. Which one stayed with you?
-
You Almost Walk By
Most storytelling describes values. Incarnational storytelling makes you feel them before they’re named. The difference between an audience and a witness.
-
Told It Gently
A budget meeting goes sideways. Words land like scalding coffee. Ten years later, everyone still remembers the room. What’s in the cave your words come from?
-
Can I Have a Hug?
I was ten. She promised she’d always be there. I came home and asked for a hug. I remember. “Can’t you see I’m busy?” This is about forgiveness, trust, and a line I drew.
-
Prepositions Matter
Most of us pray FOR and call it hope IN. We do not notice the preposition doing theological work. Until we do.
-
Show Up. Stay. Risk It All.
Three ice waters. Fifteen minutes. A shaken server on the verge of tears. A nine-top that wasn’t ours. A middle table where everyone could see us. New on Five Minute Observations — a quiet essay about showing up, staying, and the risk of being kind first.
-
Do You Remember When?
One flavor of Doritos. Three sizes of drinks. A show inside a show inside a memory. Yesterday’s break room conversation turned into something bigger.
-
Why I’d Be a Terrible Counselor
Speed limits. Advice that almost got me beat up. And a counselor’s chair. Three things that have nothing in common. But they do.
-
Invisible
I found a slide from my 8th-grade graduation. My classmates were smiling. I wasn’t. I didn’t ask why. Nobody else did either.
-
Winter Protocol
My essay, “Winter Protocol” is live today at bioStories. It’s an essay about ordinary people doing quiet work. In the cold. Go read it. bioStories.com
-
Embers
I smacked Ray’s arm out of the way, waiting for him to swing back. He didn’t. His older brother held me back. Fifty minutes later I was kneeling in front of the wood stove, still burning. And the fire wasn’t mine.