This was six-year-old me.
It’s back when wood paneled, station wagons were the rage, and Otter Pops were a part of the food pyramid. I grew up in the Midwest. Part Michigander, part Hoosier, part Chicagoan.
In 1987, I met a cute boy in a green, Ocean Pacific shirt who was so not my type. In 1993, I sported a sparkly, red, mermaid dress and attended prom with him. In 1994, I swore him off. In 1998, we both attended this little event.
We live life with these two sweet things. They remind me to look for shells and see good and always hope.
Throughout most of my life, Christians made me feel itchy like a bad sweater. However, through a crazy series of events (and because God knows I never do things the ordinary way), I met Christ through a medicine man on a Navajo reservation. Since that time, God has flung His goodness and grace all over my life.
If we ever meet in real-life, count on me bombarding you with questions. I do this because I yearn to know the stories behind the faces, and it’s also a sneaky way for me to avoid telling you too much about me.
When I was a child, I wrote stories in my head and forced unsuspecting neighbor children to listen. Now, I write for oodles of online and print publications.
I am psyched you are here. I can tell I am going to like you. I know we just met, but trust me on this one. It’s a done deal.
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