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What Really Happens at the Super Bowl

What Really Happens at the Super Bowl

Football. Hot Wings. Ranch Dressing. Chips. Beer. Millions of screaming fans. Excitement. Winning.
This is what the Super Bowl is supposed to be about, right?

photo credit: digital global sports

photo credit: digital global sports


There’s something deeper.

There’s a danger lurking behind the million dollar commercials and cheering fans filling the stadium. 

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A New Year of Intentional Living

A New Year of Intentional Living

One word. Since 2011, it’s changed my opinion on making New Year’s Resolutions. I don’t make them anymore. Instead, I narrow my focus on one simple, yet life changing word, or as the folks over at One Word 365 put it,

One word that sums up who you want to be or how you want to live. One word that you can focus on every day, all year long.

A New Year of Intentional Living
Last year my word was radical, inspired by David Platt in his life-changing book, Radical: Taking Back Your Faith from the American Dream.  (affiliate link) It’s been a word I’ve both loved and hated.
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A New Year of Intentional Living

Vintage Dreams

Writing is an art. Storytelling is an art. I love to do both, so why not share with you?
Jeff Goins has challenged me recently to step out of my comfort zone and share with the world, so here goes it. I wrote this short story sitting in my favorite coffee shop last year. It’s been sitting in an Evernote file since then, but now I’m sharing it with you.

photo credit: billy hara (creative commons)

photo credit: billy hara (creative commons)



Enjoy.
She glares at the back of his plaid, wrinkled shirt, staring at his salt and pepper hair as the bottom of the coffee cup tilts with his head. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t look back. For three hours she’s been sitting in the tiny coffee shop and he hasn’t moved an inch. She wonders if he even knows she’s there.
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A New Year of Intentional Living

The Art of Grieving

I miss her. She was a mentor, a friend, a confidant. I sat under her authority, confided in her with some of my deepest, darkest secrets, and shared many laughs with her.

photo credit: grungetextures (creative commons)

photo credit: grungetextures (creative commons)



It seems as though one day she was here and the next she wasn’t. I would like to say the change happened overnight, but it really didn’t. It was a gradual process – little things here and there.
I’d get a check in my spirit, but I’d brush it off because I thought she could be trusted. I should’ve listened to my gut, but I didn’t.
Yesterday I was bitter. I didn’t want to talk about her. I didn’t want to think about her. I certainly didn’t want to forgive her. One minute I was furious and the next I found myself missing her terribly.
I’m realizing something though, in the midst of this pain. I’m hurting the right way. I’m grieving.
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Doing The Unthinkable: How You Can Survive Without Technology

Doing The Unthinkable: How You Can Survive Without Technology

What is the first thought that comes to your mind when you think about forgetting your cell phone? Do you start to panic? Do your palms get sweaty? Do you think of all the things you will miss out on if you’re without this lifeline for 15, 20, even 2 hours?
I get it. We live in an age where we have to be connected to everyone, everywhere, all the time. Or so we think.

What if we actually gave ourselves permission to disconnect?

The other day I had plans to meet a friend for dinner and a movie. Since we were meeting at Panera for dinner, I decide to go a couple of hours earlier to have a change of scenery and finish up some work.

As I reached for my bag I realized I had forgotten my cell phone. I could feel a slight panic coming on and my thoughts started to race, going something like this:
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Pursuing Your Dream and Sharing Your Story

Pursuing Your Dream and Sharing Your Story

Have you ever wished you could tell your story? Perhaps you want to share with the world your redemption story. A memoir? A children’s book? A collection of poetry to share with your family?

photo credit: jjpacres



I’ve known I wanted to be a writer since the sixth grade. My teacher, Mrs. Moore, made our class do these “stupid” poetry books. I hated the thought of it. The rebellious person that I was fought the idea of doing such a thing.
Then the pen hit the paper. Yes, there was ink and everything.
I was in love. I knew the minute I started writing, something great was going to happen. I felt inspired. Creative. Something about writing made me feel connected. Mrs. Moore had to make me stop.
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