I just closed the covers of my husband’s special edition copy of Paulo Coelho’s The Alchemist.
When I left my apartment the other morning, ten minutes late for leading worship and therefore in a hurry, I noticed something feeling weird on the inside of my leg.
The last time I got on stage in front of a substantial audience it was because I was writing a gonzo journalism piece on amateur nights at “gentleman’s clubs” in small towns across the province. I won’t get into it, but I assure you it’s not at all what you think.
It’s not that I don’t want to be a mom one day . . . it’s just that the idea of doing it right now is my idea of a disaster.
This article was originally published HERE on January 4, 2016 When my mother suggested that on our Christmas family vacation the seven of us drive three hours from Phoenix, Arizona to the red rocks of Sedona we all jumped at the opportunity against what should have been better judgment.