None of us had heard it before, and all of us were thinking the same thing: “Kim Mitchell doesn’t carry that kind of baggage. There’s no dark side to Kim’s sunshine. She’s the happy, life-is-always-perfect-as-long-as-Clemson-wins lady.”
Heck, even on those rare occasions when Dabo and the boys drop the ball, Kim Mitchell, one of the world’s most rabid Clemson football fans, finds a cheery word to say on her socials, praises Jesus for her Tigers, and moves on.
So truly, what in the world is this? A double betrayal? Depression?
I meet Ashley’s 19-year-old son who drove her down from their home in Goldsboro, NC, along with her 11-year-old daughter. They are sweet, respectful kids and appear joyful. I wonder how many times they’ve heard their mom’s harrowing story of drugs, johns, beatings, jail, and the traffickers who controlled her life for two decades.
So often it’s the smallest decisions we make that change our lives in the most monumental ways.
For Heather Pounds, it was a split-second decision to forego her turn-signal that drove her out of her life of bondage.
By that point a young woman in her early 30s, Heather had been trafficked for the better part of 18 years.
She rocks some tattoos and a cool mom vibe that makes me think she’s the kind of mom—replete with the groovy jewelry and outsized personality—that would intimidate the rest of us in the school pickup line or the PTA meeting.
Yet if you ask Heather Pounds about her shiny skin and sunny smile, those hip shoes on her tiny feet, and she’ll claim the compliment not for herself, but for “her Jesus,” as she loving refers to Him.
For a sacred time here on earth, she was half of a perfect match—a match so perfectly designed, in fact, that those witness to it knew without a doubt it came directly from the hand of God.
But now, now that Mia is home with her Creator, those left behind are left grappling with the whys of God’s design.
Dear Daughter: Happy birthday! You’re 19. And surprise—while the calendar confirms it’s the 21st century, current circumstances make it feel more l...
You’re at the top of your game, your college future settled, and this is finally your senior year—you intended to sail through and celebrate these few sacred months. Then along comes an opponent in which there aren’t enough reps to prepare, no game plan sophisticated enough to counter. COVID-19 proved the one thing that could bench softball superstar Carsten Puckett and her senior season. But she’s not giving up. She’s looking up.
So I was on a roll with this whole blog thing commitment. I set every Monday night as my personal, arbitrary deadline and was for the most part hitting it. It wasn’t perfect, mind you, but for a string of months I had a pretty good at-bat percentage.
Then, as you well know, Corona changed everything.
Tina Plew Whitlock is a former South Carolina Gamecock softball great. Her big bat helped her 1997 team win the SEC tournament that year and a tr...
Last week I walked out into the front yard, fired up the leaf blower, and burst into tears.
My reaction was not triggered by the sorry condition of my yard (which would have warranted a totally justifiable, full blown, hysterical meltdown in less serious days) but because I finally had time—actual moments strung together in sequence— to blow the dang leaves.
The relief I felt at that moment was tangible.
And that’s kinda weird.
Since we moved to the woods years ago, I mostly think of birds as the slightly maniacal, always startling, winged nuts that fling themselves into our closed windows.
I’d like to claim it’s because I keep our windows so crystal-clear that the birds can’t help but assume they’re flying safe on the horizon.
But as the bazillions of spiders—as well as the occasional Amazon driver familiar with our house—clearly knows, that’s an outrageous lie.
My “baby” sister recently turned 50.
The milestone called for a celebration that brought the three sisters together. That means, frankly speaking, the need to pack some Depends. I know, TMI, but I never escape a reunion with my sisters that doesn’t dissolve into a pool of laughter, resulting in the need for, well, a back-up plan.
It’s just a consequence of togetherness.
Being with my two younger sisters (I am the dinosaur in our threesome) never ceases to amaze me. How is it that three so completely different human beings can come from the same womb and the same parents? And yet, unless mom hooked up with the milkman at some point, that’s our story.
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