Toward the sunrise
July 16, 2009 by Billy Coffey · 27 Comments
Funny thing, I actually spoke with Carla a few weeks ago on Facebook. Carla’s not her real name, by the way. My idea, not hers. I’m pretty sure none of my ex-girlfriends would actually admit to dating me, so I decided to spare her the humility…
___________________
Her name was Carla, and God had made her just for me. I knew that from the moment I first saw her in Mrs. Harrison’s third grade class. And it was confirmed five years later when I accompanied her to the eighth grade dance.
A big deal, that dance. Held the week before summer vacation. The next year would be high school, which meant all of us would take a tumble down the hard-climbed mountain of acceptance. Eighth grade was the pinnacle of middle school. Ninth grade was the bottom rung on high school’s ladder. So we danced that night on the edge of where the two met.
It was understood among the eighth grade class that Carla and I were a couple. I never actually made that official, mostly because I was ignorant of the proper protocol. I was always a little clumsy around the girls.
But it’s amazing what a tuxedo can do for a guy’s confidence. I stalked around the gymnasium that night like Sonny freaking Crockett, calm and cool and gentlemanly with my date. I was impressive. So impressive that I left Carla’s doorstep that night with her unlisted phone number and a promise that I’d call over the summer.
In my defense, I tried. But the seven digits that were firmly lodged in my mind were evidently the wrong ones. I tried to call Carla the first day of summer vacation, and the nice mechanical operator coldly informed me that the number I had dialed was not in service and to please try again.
I’ve heard insanity defined as performing the same task over and over again and expecting a different result. If that’s true, then that was the summer I went insane. I called Carla dozens of times over the next weeks, and all I got for my efforts was much disappointment and more than a little frustration.
The lone bright spot of the whole situation was the fact that the town carnival would be starting in a few weeks. Everyone came to the carnival. It was the social event of the summer. I would see her there, get the whole phone number thing straightened out, and move on together. No worries.
Good news: I did see Carla there. Bad news: she was with another guy.
I remember walking home in utter confusion. Not over the fact that the love of my life was now evidently the love of someone else’s, but over the fact that the whole thing was bothering me so much. My pulse was racing, my head was pounding, and my heart felt…bruised.
No, worse than bruised.
Broken.
Yes. That was it. Carla had broken my heart.
Just as my luck would have it, when school started two months later Carla had the seat right in front of me for English class. Come to find out, I’d had the last four digits of her phone number reversed. She had waited all summer for me to call. When her phone finally rang, it was someone else.
The news did little to make me feel better, so I brooded and sulked until the homecoming dance. Carla decided to wear her dress to school that day, and I couldn’t help but think she did so just to rub it in my face. It infuriated me so much that under the cover of Mrs. Glass’s discussion of Mark Twain, I found a permanent marker and wrote “Motley Crue” on the back of her dress.
Strangely, that did not turn out to be one of my finer moments.
Then again, not many of my freshman moments were fine. It took me a long time to get over Carla, and for a while I swore it would never happen. But it did. I would find out a few years later that God had made someone else for me, and me for her.
And I learned a valuable lesson in the process: God often allows our hearts to break just so He can put them back together bigger. Bigger so they can both give and receive ore love than they could before.
_________________
I saw Carla yesterday. We were both braving the crowds at the local Target. We spoke and laughed and caught one another up on the happenings of our lives. Thankfully, she never mentioned the whole Motley Crue thing.
But all the while I was listening to that little voice in the back of my head. The voice telling me that more important than praying for God to remove our obstacles is praying for Him to help us through them. We can’t avoid hurt in this life. Not just because we’re fallen people in a fallen world, but because nothing helps us grow more.
Keeping on is a virtue, I think. No less than bravery or love. Often our greatest blessings come disguised as our greatest hurts. Hanging in there is a hard thing do to if you try to do it all at once. But running through the darkness is never a good idea. That’s when you trip and fall.
Better to take small steps, I think. One at a time, over and over. On toward the sunrise.
The best fit
July 15, 2009 by Billy Coffey · 40 Comments
I closed the magazine that had been keeping me company in the checkout line. Gossip magazines, I thought, were printed exclusively for such occasions. What better way to wait on Judy the cashier to work her way to you than gawk at the trials and tribulations of the better off? It makes you happy to be poor and unknown.
I turned to face an elderly woman and her two grandchildren, all of whom were smiling. At me.
“How are ya’ll today?” I asked.
“Oh,” she said, “we’re just fine.” Then, “I just noticed your shirt. What year are you?”
Year?
I had to smile at that. Me? The University of Virginia? No. UVA rests in the middle of Charlottesville, Virginia, home of the Beautiful People. People who drive Ferraris and live in houses bigger than my church.
I, on the other hand, rest in the middle of the Shenandoah Valley, home of the regular people. People who drive Chevy trucks and live in homes rather than houses.
I have been called regular often. Beautiful never.
And I suppose that bothered me on some level. That deep down I was tired of being Levi Strauss regular and wanted to be Ralph Lauren beautiful. Just once, just for a moment. Because before I knew what I was doing I said, “I’m a senior.”
“Really?” she beamed. “My grandson is a senior! You may know him—”
“—No,” I interrupted, suddenly uncomfortable, “probably not. Big campus and all.”
She nodded. “What do you study?”
“Architecture,” I answered, figuring that if I was going to lie, I might as well lie like George Costanza.
I wasn’t sure if UVA actually had an architecture program, but it seemed pretty Ralph Lauren. And I wasn’t sure if she knew either, but she said, “Wonderful! Do you have any job prospects.”
“Oh, sure,” I said. “You know, New York, Miami, Chicago…” I ran out of cities and finished with, “Just trying to figure out which is the best fit.”
“Well,” she said, “I’m sure you’ll decide. The best fit is always the best choice.”
The line cleared in front of me and we offered our goodbyes. She wished me luck and gave me a knowing wink. One that said I didn’t really need any luck. I was a Beautiful Person. I was already lucky.
We met again on our way out of the store. I watched as she gathered her two Baby Gap grandchildren into her spiffy new Mercedes and drove away. Into the sunset, appropriately.
And me, I trudged to my truck and drove in the opposite direction, back to the dirt roads and regular folks. The ones who lived not by hedge funds and fancy cars, but with one hand to the plow and the other raised to God.
I drove and thought about what I had just done. I lied to an old lady. That’s pretty bad. But I had lied about myself, and that was worse. Still, pretending to have a life of filet mignon and Cristal was a nice switch from the reality of cheeseburgers and Coke.
But as I drove from the city to my small town, I thought maybe not. There, nestled in the shadow of the Blue Ridge, were people much like me. Hardworking, kind, and simple. Displaying a quiet strength that was both easily overlooked and a force to be reckoned with. We cared for our own, flew our flags, and minded our manners. And we might not have had much in the way of worldly goods, but we had plenty in the things that mattered.
Charlottesville may have been the home of the Beautiful People, but we had our share, too.
What was it the grandma in the checkout line had said?
“The best fit is always the best choice.”
Yes.
And I knew that I had made the best choice. Because I would always fit in with those who had one hand to the plow and the other raised to God.
And I would rather be blessed than lucky.
The second biggest lie
July 13, 2009 by Billy Coffey · 39 Comments
Being a parent of young children is all about deciding which parts of the world you let in now and which you keep out as long as possible.
For instance.
News? Out. There is no good news. News is meant to depress people. But Sunday morning comics is in. Comics are meant to make you laugh.
Hannah Montana? No. Phineas and Ferb? Yes.
Pro wrestling? Not hardly. But baseball can always provide both quality entertainment and much education.
You get the idea.
This applies to all things spiritual as well. God and Jesus and angels are definitely in, but the darker side of theology goes unmentioned. My kids don’t know what hell is. Or demons. They don’t understand that there are some people in this world who hate their faith and them for having it. The world is a nasty place. I figure part of my job for now is to do all I can to keep that nastiness away. They’ll find out about it all sooner or later.
And maybe sooner.
Our nighttime routine was interrupted yesterday evening by this inquiry from my daughter: “Daddy, who’s Satan?”
The question caught me by surprise. If hell and demons were temporarily off limits, then certainly Satan was, too. Seven-year-olds have fantastic imaginations. Having the thought of a horned and pitchfork-tailed demon rolling around in her mind would make for some long nights.
But what could I tell her? That Satan is the embodiment of evil? That he is darkness so thick that you had to brush it away with a hand? That he is a fallen angel who prowls the earth in search of souls to murder?
No way.
“Daddy?” she said again.
“Um…” I said. “Well, Satan is (someone? something?) bad.”
“The baddest?”
“Yes, the baddest.”
She thought about that and said, “What makes him the baddest?”
“The Bible says he’s a liar,” I told her.
“Daddy, everybody lies,” she retorted. “Even me.”
I decided not to pursue that last little bit of information and instead file it away for later. I really wanted to know what she had lied about.
“But he’s the worst liar ever,” I said.
More thinking. “What’s the worst lie he tells?”
“That God doesn’t love you.”
“I know God loves me, Daddy,” she said.
“That’s good. But maybe one day you’ll start thinking that isn’t true. If that happens, then you just remember that’s just a big, fat lie.”
She nodded and then asked, “What’s the second?”
“The second what?”
“What’s the second biggest lie he tells?”
I opened my mouth to answer, and then closed it. What’s the second biggest lie? I had no idea. I’d never really thought about it. To me, there had always been the first and then the rest. Ranking them beyond that seemed a little unnecessary.
But as I sat there and stared into her eyes, I thought about my life and all the lies I had been told. And then I thought about the lies we’ve all been told.
The best falsehoods are the ones that aren’t told to us as much as they are felt by us. One we accept as truth because that’s what the evidence states.
Those we fall for every time.
It’s easy to lose sight of who we are. Our mistakes and regrets are piled upon one another as a monument to our failure. Stacked high up, blocking the sun. And the Son. It’s hard to see the light when you’re standing in your own shadow.
We carry so much, don’t we? So much knowledge of not only what we’ve done, but what we’re capable of doing. That bad in us is so much easier to see than the good. We dwell upon the depths to which we can plumb but never give thought to the heights to which we can ascend.
There is a holy spark within us all. The thumbprint of the Almighty is stamped upon our hearts. There is a righteous power within us all to rise above where and who we are to become better and more. Too often we limp through our days when we should walk upright, all because we deny the great truth of our existence—we are more than we appear.
“Daddy,” my daughter said again, “what’s the second biggest lie?”
I tucked her beneath the blankets and kissed her forehead.
“That we are all ordinary,” I said.
Catching happiness
July 12, 2009 by Billy Coffey · 18 Comments
Big news!
July 9, 2009 by Billy Coffey · 64 Comments
I had the pleasure on Tuesday to speak with Rachelle Gardner, a very respected and much admired literary agent.It was to be, she said, The Call. I had never gotten The Call before and so didn’t really know what The Call meant, but it sounded good enough to allow me the pleasure of getting my hopes up. Turns out that was the appropriate thing to do. Rachelle was kind enough to get the whole Are you still available for representation?/Would you like me to represent you? matter over within the first minute of the conversation. I could breathe after that. Breathing is important when you’re talking to someone.
The story behind how this all happened is actually pretty amazing and close to miraculous, but I’ll save that for another time. Suffice it to say that prayer, persistence, and the help of good friends can accomplish much.
I’ve been warned that things will change now in my life, and that’s welcomed. Everyone can use a change now and then. Me especially.
All indications are that I’m about to get very busy. This is a good thing. After so many years of struggling to write with only a faint sense of purpose, I now have a very clear one. Trust me, it makes a difference.
With that in mind, I’m going to try to switch things up a bit around here. You’ll still be able to find me on Katdish’s blog every Monday (at least until she kicks me out), and then I’ll be back here every day from Tuesday to Friday. I’ll mix in new stories with a few polished reruns for the newbies, and I may devote one day a week to more questions (assuming there’s anything else you good people are curious about). Fun all around.
In the meantime, please know this:
This could not have happened without you. There was a time in the not too distant past when my hand hovered over the “delete” button for this blog. I didn’t see the point in continuing. And then you came along. And then you told your friends. And then your friends told theirs. And then, much to my amazement, you kept coming back for more.
I get a lot of emails thanking me for my words, stories of people whose lives have been made a tad brighter by something they’ve read here. I cherish each and every one of them. But honestly, I’m shaking my head as I read them all.
Because you made my life a tad brighter first.
Love made visible
July 8, 2009 by Billy Coffey · 32 Comments
Love has always intrigued me as one of those divine aspects of life that is both fleeting and permanent, fragile and strong. For thousands of years Poets and philosophers have tried to define it, but to no avail. You can’t speak about love and get it just right. You have to see it in action to really know what it is.
Which is why I can appreciate the spectacle of a fine wedding.
I’m sitting in a church pew on a bright Sunday afternoon looking very James Bondish in a suit and tie. Because what I expect to see in the next fifteen minutes or so is not just a marriage ceremony, not just candles and pretty music and maids all in a row, but true love made visible.
The groom stands at the front of the church, hands folded in front of his cummerbund. He is not nervous, this man. There are no pre-wedding jitters or thoughts of a quick escape through the side door. No, he knows exactly what he’s doing. Not marrying this woman never crossed his mind.
The organist launches into a fevered rendition of “Here Comes the Bride,” and the gathered stand and turn to face the opening doors. A beaming bride and her proud father make their way down the aisle.
Hand in hand. Not just out of love, but out of necessity.
The father passes off his princess to her prince, and the two stand facing one another. I’m sure they have spent many moments over the past weeks staring into each other’s eyes, wrestling in their own way with the prospect of this moment. And though they are surrounded by God and a few hundred friends and family, I can tell that to them no one else exists. The world has been shut out and the door barred.
There is just them and nothing else. For now, anyway.
The preacher begins the standard reading of 1 Corinthians 13. I wonder how many times I’ve heard that scripture read. How many times those words have skidded over the surface of my heart but not really plunged to its core.
Love is patient, love is kind…
They’ve known one another for about four years now, this bride and groom. About a year and a half ago over a nice dinner picnic in the park, he pulled out a diamond ring along with the potato salad. Marry me, he asked. Yes! she answered.
…love does not brag and is not arrogant…
That their love was pure and true was unquestioned. God had crafted them as the only two pieces of a beautiful puzzle. It was cliché, yes, but true—they completed one another.
Both knew they didn’t deserve such happiness. But both praised God daily for allowing them to have it. And now that they had found each other, they would be together always.
…bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things…
When you’re in love, everything seems possible. There are no sudden bends in the road ahead, no ruts to fall into. There are only clear paths and sunny skies. Whatever darkness your life was under is now bathed in sunny skies.
And it’s true. Everything is possible.
Not just the good. The bad, too.
When the bride began suffering headaches a few months ago, the doctors told her it was likely migraines. Don’t worry, they said. Just the stress of planning a wedding. When they continued despite medication, tests were ordered. Don’t worry, they said. Just a precaution.
She worried anyway. Her fiancée did what any man would do for the woman he loves. He comforted her, held her, and told her everything would be okay. After all, their love was meant to be. He busied her with thoughts of caterers and flowers, but he busied himself with that same worry.
A few days later, they both sat numb as the doctor informed her of the cancer eating away her brain.
…endures all things…
After the tears and the confusion and the silence, the two talked. How could this be? How can God let this happen? What can we do now?
They had no answer to those first two questions, but they knew what to do about the third. They would marry. They would celebrate their lives together as long as they could. Their love would endure.
It must. Because as I watch them staring into one another’s eyes, my attention returns to the words of the preacher. He is finishing his scripture reading, and I whisper to myself the last three words he speaks to them:
“Love never fails…”
Yes.
Here this bride and groom stand, in front of God and two hundred people, testifying to those three words. They are true love made manifest. And we are all witnesses.
And now, so are you.
The writing life
July 6, 2009 by Billy Coffey · 40 Comments
There has been recent evidence of this, too. Batman shirts and cargo shorts are being replaced by faded jeans and black Ts. Cartoons are giving way to baseball games. His Iron Man hat has been exchanged for a spiffy black cowboy one.
But most telling is the fact that he has begun carrying around a notebook and pen in his back pocket.
I take paper and pen with me wherever I go, mostly because I have the memory of a fruit fly. You never know when something worthy of writing down will happen, and there is no worse hell than witnessing something good that you know you’ll forget.
So when I pulled my own notebook from my back pocket yesterday and proceeded to write something down, my son did the same.
“What’cha doin’ there?” I asked him.
“I need to get this down,” he said.
“Get what down?”
He looked at me, confused. “…I don’t know,” he shrugged.
I nodded. “Don’t worry,” I told him. “I have the same problem sometimes.”
I rose from the table to take a look at his work. Squiggly lines mostly, along with a few numbers, three exclamation points, and a smiley face. Standard five-year-old fare.
“Whaddaya think?” he asked.
“I think It’s brilliant,” I said. “Can I copy that down and use it?”
“Yes!”
I rubbed his head, grabbed my own notebook, and began writing.
“Daddy?” he asked, peering at me.
“Yeah, bud?”
“I’m gonna be a writer when I grow up. You know, like you.”
My pen stopped.
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. I like to write. Writin’s fun.”
I stared at him, unsure of what to say. I settled on, “Well, you have plenty of time to figure that out.”
The answer was good enough for him to accept. He gathered his notebook and pen and left me to ponder what he’d just said.
My son sat down one day three years ago with a sheet of paper and a blue crayon, and something very special happened. He put the latter on the former and made a blue streak from top left to bottom right. Magic. And when he scurried off and came back to that sheet of paper an hour later, he found more magic—that streak was still there.
And though one important truth was incomprehensible to him at the time, I knew he was creeping ever towards it: if he wrote, he could always leave something behind for others to remember.
That, in a broad sense, is why many writers write. To plant a sign into the hard earth that says I Was Here. To know that to someone somewhere, what you say matters.
I had to admit that what my son said was true. Writing is fun. As frightening as a blank sheet of paper or a computer screen bathed in white was, it was also marvelous—a canvas upon which to paint my story and a map by which to explore my world.
But I knew what he did not—writing was sometimes also not fun. Writing is work. Difficult, exhausting, painful work. It takes courage to look genuinely, whether into life or your own heart, and more courage to share what you find with others. To write is to bare your deepest self, naked of sham and disguise.
It is lonely work, a solitary walk through a land of light and shadow. The writing life is one full of irony in that by exposing yourself to the world you inadvertently construct walls around you to keep the world away. And though you may indeed be surrounded by friends and loved ones, you know that in the end you are utterly and completely alone. You write. They do not. That gulf is not easily bridged.
Because for many of us writing is not a job, but neither is it a hobby. It goes deeper than that, permeating every aspect of our lives. Every conversation, every face, every moment bear is seen through the lens of the page. We ply our trade from the moment we wake until the moment we sleep, and often even our dreams are grist for the mill.
Success is fleeting. Failure is constant. You are turned away by agents and editors, gatekeepers of your aspirations, and deemed unworthy of your dreams. You struggle though doubt and fear. You drown in desperation.
You face the agony of knowing that no matter what you manage to get down on the page, you will never feel as though you’ve gotten it down just right.
And I was left with this one question: was that the life I wanted for my son?
Yes.
Because despite it all, there is to me no greater pursuit in life than the search for meaning, and no other way to chart those undiscovered lands within us than with pen as our compass and paper as our sail.
What today means to me
July 5, 2009 by Billy Coffey · 25 Comments
The banner still waves…
July 3, 2009 by Billy Coffey · 20 Comments
(This post appeared as a column in the Staunton, VA News Leader)
I’ve heard there are grumblings that “The Star Spangled Banner” should be removed as our national anthem. It’s too antiquated, those grumblings say. And the words are not only hard to understand, but hard to sing. What kind of national anthem do you have if it’s hard to sing?
And to tell you the truth, some of those grumblings are right. I’ve heard the anthem positively butchered by well-meaning folks who were simply mystified by the phrase “O’er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming.” I couldn’t sing that, either.
That isn’t to say, though, that I’m all for replacing the words of Mr. Francis Scott Key with “My Country, ‘Tis of Thee” or “America the Beautiful.” I’m not. I like things the way they are just fine. Not because I love our anthem. Not because I love the words.
But because it’s endured.
We are a people who look ever forward. Hope and change are our new touchstones, and neither of those are readily found by glancing over our shoulders. No, the promised land of better times lies ahead. Just there, over the horizon.
We say that the past doesn’t matter, just the future. Not where we’ve been, but where we’re going. And while that may be correct in some aspects, it isn’t in others. In many ways the future is dependant upon the past, and you don’t know where you’re going unless you take a look behind to see where you’ve been.
That’s true in both the life of a person and the life of a country. We are not the product of our tomorrows, but our yesterdays. The freedoms we enjoy may be sustained by the continued sacrifice and vigilance of today, but they were granted by the courage of those who have gone before us. Men who held firm to the believe that freedom was worth persecution and that death should be favored over oppression.
Men who put country and people ahead of party and self. Who believed leaders were not above the public but subject to them.
Who believed that the ultimate authority was not themselves, but God.
That we continue to cling to what some see as a worn and outdated song for our national anthem is to be reminded that there was a time in our country when such men existed. Perhaps that’s why there is this slight but steady push to modernize the singing of praise for our country. It will help us cope with the knowledge that such men seem to be more difficult to find now.
Whereas our leaders of yesterday are revered, our leaders today are ridiculed. Our trust with those first great Virginians, Washington and Jefferson and Madison, have been replaced by a mistrust for those who lead us today. This, I suppose, is inevitable. The natural consequence of favoring a winning smile and a photogenic face over substance and wisdom.
Those ideas of freedom and liberty that inflamed the hearts and minds of our forefathers seem to have burned to embers now. What caused them to stand and fight now allows us to sit and rest.
So this Fourth of July weekend when we’re surrounded by the present and looking forward to the future, perhaps it would do us well to pause and look back, far back, and remember the kind of people it took to found this country. Because that is exactly the kind of people we need in order to continue it.
Let the words be sung, and let that flame of freedom and liberty ignite again. Let us all make sure that when the question is asked, “O! say does that star-spangled banner yet wave O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave?” the answer will always be yes.
A matter of time
July 1, 2009 by Billy Coffey · 30 Comments
I’m going to die on November 5, 2055. So says the nifty little quiz I just filled out on the internet. And though it’s hard to put much faith in the accuracy of a prediction based in part on how often I recycle (question number five), this is good information to have. Because whether the date is exact or not, the truth of it is.
One day, I’m going to die.
November 5, 2055, does seem reasonable. I’ll be eighty-three years old then, and my children will be in their late forties. I’ll most likely have grandchildren, be retired, and spend most of my days telling everyone who will listen that the world was a much better place back in 2009.
So yes, dying at eighty-three would be okay with me. That’s a good age to smile at this world and wave goodbye, right there in the meaty part between hanging around too long and not long enough.
At least, that’s what I thought. I’m not so sure now. Having forty-six years left for me to finish whatever it is I want to start seems like a lot of time, but it isn’t when you start to dig a little deeper. Trust me. Because that’s what I did.
If the scribbles on the sheet of paper in front of me are right, most of my remaining forty-six years are already spoken for. I’ll spend twelve of them sleeping, three eating, ten either exercising or resting, and another ten just on home maintenance.
All of which leaves me with a grand total of eleven years to live. One hundred and thirty-two months to make a difference.
Not a lot, is it? Especially considering the fact that November 5, 2055 is at best an approximation and at worst a clever marketing ploy designed to deluge me with junk mail. My end may come later. It may also come before I finish writing this. I don’t know.
None of us do.
Which is why it amazes me that we always think there is time. Plenty of time. There’s always tomorrow, we say. And that may be true for some of us. But not for everyone.
About 146,000 people in the world will wake up this morning thinking there’s plenty of time, not knowing this will be their last day in this life. That’s 6,098 people an hour, 102 people every minute, and about 2 per second. In the time it took you to read this paragraph, twenty people have died.
Amazing, isn’t it? Sad, too. Not because our lives must end, but because the thought of death rarely crosses our minds.
Life fools us into thinking it is this hulking, indestructible beast, when it’s really as fragile as a porcelain figurine . It is holy and sacred and fleeting and never guaranteed. Believing otherwise is not only dangerous to us, it’s dangerous to how we live.
The truth? We don’t have plenty of time. Our every breath is the oil that moves the gears of our days, sending us closer to the moment when we say goodbye to this world and hello to the next. We can’t put off chasing that dream. We can’t delay making those amends. We can’t wait to say “I love you” or “I’m sorry.”
We can’t linger when it comes to the things that make living worthwhile, the people and the dreams that give us meaning. We have to take care of them every minute, every moment. Because maybe they or we won’t be here the next.
There is no time for doubts. No time for hate. No time for hanging on when it’s time to let go and letting go when it’s time to hang on. We get one shot at this world, one chance to do something good and right and true. That time isn’t later. It’s now.
Don’t think it’s never too late. Because sometimes it is.
I’m a writer whose first novel, Snow Day, will be published by FaithWords in 2010.
But don’t let that fool you. I’m just as confused as anyone.
And that is fine with me, because the great thing about wandering around in the fog is that you never know what you might run into.
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