My childhood story isn't spell-binding, but I am pretty sure it was on par with other students. I was just another student in a sea of students ...
My hold on reality is tenuous at times. I roll up in my sheets, comforter, and pillow, wrapping my arms around me. I don't know how I fell asleep—fearful of his coming, down the hall, through the door, and for me.
My memory is trimmed with Christmases at my grandparent’s home. Traditions wrapped in love mound under the tree.
Christmas won't be the holiday it once was, staying home all day in pjs, curled up with cat, watching Christmas movies, and eating per no schedule nor health. I am thankful God graces me with celebrating as I know how right now.
This is the first in a series of three stories written by a child who knows the abuse of parents and the spark of writing.
Guilty Priests and Dismissive Witnesses--Pope Frances "wants to root out the tragic horror" and survivors want advocates.
Sobbing, face pressed to my pillow, in total abandonment, I cry, “I CAN’T do it!” For years, I believed I was a Christian. I believed in God and that the Bible is the word of God. I believed in Jesus who died for my sins. I believed only He can give me salvation. I believed …