From the time I was a young girl, I wanted to be beautiful. In the fifth grade, I resorted to desperate measures in a very eleven-year-old kind of way.
In C.S. Lewis’s The Chronicles of Narnia series, a young Edmund Pevensie is a fictional character who, at one point, almost traded his soul for a Turkish delight.
When I was growing up, ours was on the doorframe between the kitchen and the hall with the red carpet. A vertical trail of penciled dashes and dates that marked the growth of my siblings and I – that eventually got painted over.
I wanted to hurl my screaming alarm clock into an abyss. The warmth of my cozy covers and the safety of sleep beckoned my heart to stay, linger and forget what lay ahead of me that day.
Some friends of ours just experienced a devastating loss. Their lives will never be the same and we are hurting with them. When news like what our friends just experienced arrives,
You would think she had just won the lottery the way she was screaming and jumping up and down. In fact, to her she practically had! She’d found her lovey and wanted everyone within hearing distance to celebrate with her.
My friend Ellen is a preschool teacher who regularly contends with entitled toddlers and privileged preschoolers who know how to major on some minors and throw down some serious tantrums.
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