Most of us have dreams of being a super hero, but we never dream of being the side-kick. That’s why I always insisted on being Batman and made my younger sister play Robin when we were little girls saving Gotham in the countryside of rural Georgia. I would tie a towel around my neck and jump off the front porch to wrestle our cousin, the Joker, but mostly to feel my towel-cape flap in the wind.

“Karon is a good student, but she talks too much.”

Almost every report card of mine as a young child included some such comment. At six-years-old, I didn’t understand why this was a problem. I loved school. I studied. I made good grades. And I was sure I did not talk any more than the boys because they were mostly leading the discussions.

I need this time, so I go.  My shirt is wrinkled after a rushed morning, my hair is frizzy from this blasted humidity and my jeans are cutting into my waist as I bend to get into the car, reminding me that I haven’t been to the gym in weeks.  No time to change, though.  Maybe I can discreetly undo the top button underneath my wrinkled shirt when I get there so I can breathe.

Whoever decided high rise jeans were back?  Please. 

Please stop teaching my children Bible stories.

Teach them The Story.

I love Sunday School teachers.  I especially loved Mrs. McLauren. She was beautiful. She was kind, gentle, and patient. She loved us and we knew it.

It’s a tradition.

Every Friday morning my husband takes our nine-year-old son to school and lets me sleep in a bit…Dad and son leave for school early and stop at Chick-fil-a for breakfast. These two strong-willed, yet predictable creatures of habit order the same thing every week and for my son, that means a chicken biscuit and chocolate milk.

Reflections of Nicholas Wolterstorff’s Lament for a Son

“Suffering is the shout of ‘No’ by one’s whole existence to that over which one suffers—the shout of ‘No” to nerves and gut and gland and heart to pain, to death, to injustice, to depression, to hunger, to humiliation, to bondage, to abandonment.”

Two weeks earlier, I welcomed my first grandchild into the world, my daughter gifting us all with 9 lbs of perfect baby boy. He looks like her, she looks like me, I look like my father, and my father looks like his. Post family genes must be hardy ones, running deep in our generations.

I almost got into a fight in the parking lot of my church the other day–with a grown man. I don’t know what I was thinking. Sometimes words fly out of my mouth before my brain filters them for me. And it gets me in trouble…

Walk with me for a minute back to 1977. We are now sixteen years old and you are my new best friend. After school we hop into the high mileage blue Ford Pinto I proudly drive. You remember, the car that explodes when you get rear-ended? (Good thing none of the six accidents I had that year were rear enders.)

At first glance you think his eyes are brown, but look closer and you’ll see that they are really green, the only visible evidence of my fair Dutch contribution to his gene pool. Take time, Mr. Camp Counselor, to look into those eyes. You will see that they sparkle a bit with mischief and wonder today, that beautiful unspoiled wonder of firsts

“What do you plan to do with that?” As a woman pursuing a seminary degree, I am often asked this question. No, I don’t want to pastor a church. I honestly can’t think of anything more frightening, for all kinds of reasons.

Hear that? It’s the sound of an old heavy door slowly creaking open, one that’s been locked far too long. Come closer and peek in if you will, and catch a glimpse of something changing–something old, treasured and respected, now morphing new and exciting.