The Rock + a Hard Place

By Nicole Hoover I’m always talking to my dad from the road. Thursdays. 5:00-6:00 PM. This is our recurring calendar invitation to chat while I travel through three states to get home. “Your generation amazes me,” he always makes a point to remark. “My generation was happy to land a job in their early 20s, settle down in the same town we were born in, and rarely ever cross county lines. You guys jet across the world like it’s just today’s agenda. You can just pick up and put down somewhere entirely different. Unfazed.” I nod as if he can see me affirm his sage analysis of my troubled generation. It makes a lot of sense. And as I spend the next few minutes cycling through my Rolodex of family and friends—young and old—the data seem to support his claim. “We’re just more flexible, Dad,” I tease. “I love to travel. It’s so exciting. Unfazed.” Flexible? Unfazed? Do you (yes reader, you) even own a physical, paper map? Honestly, I do not. I remember the days of MapQu

By Lindsey Sell I struggled with drugs and alcohol for six solid years, beginning at age sixteen. I fell in love with the feeling of losing control, believing the lie that I was obtaining true freedom which I longed so desperately to find. I hated myself deep down and thought it was easier to be feel loved and accepted when under the influence of a substance. I was always the kid who went overboard—overdosing or ending up in hospitals—only to have to pick up the broken pieces and play connect the dots from the night before. I damaged countless relationships and put myself and others in danger. Looking back and being a parent myself now, I’m not sure how my parents put up with me. All I know is that they had unwavering faith and constantly prayed for me. They would ask God to send his guardian angels to surround and protect me, knowing that they themselves did not have ultimate control over my life. My sophomore year of college is when I began to change. Literally crying out t

By JJ Landis “There’s been an accident. Mom fell asleep in the garage. She’s dead.” When I heard my father say those words, I stood motionless beneath his hand that rested on my head, wondering if he was truly talking about my mom. The reality soon set in, but the grief and healing were years off. I was twelve when my mom killed herself. My parents were divorced. My dad was remarried and lived nearby. My older brother lived in his own apartment, so it was just me and my mom making our way. She sometimes left me home alone when she went out drinking. I begged her to stay home, but she would only promise to be home by a certain time. My neediness was useless to change anything. I slept at my dad’s house the night my mom died. More accurately, I moved in. A few blocks were all that separated the houses—a slight but infinite distance. This time the sleepover wouldn’t end. When the sun rose I wouldn’t have a home to return to. Home as I knew it had vanished. When mo

By Christy Steiner “Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not lean on your own understanding.   In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make straight your paths.” Proverbs 3:5-6 There are some experiences in life you pray to God you NEVER have to go through again. May 6 th , 2014. My 4 year old daughter Isabella (Izzy) was playing with her brother when I heard her crying. I entered the room, picked her up, and attempted to console her. She was soothed for a time, but within the hour she presented with concussive-like symptoms: lethargy and vomiting. “Not again!” I thought. Not another “episode.” We monitored her all day and throughout the night, but in the early morning my husband woke me and said it was time to take her to the ER. She was not moving her right side and was minimally responsive. Little did we know this would be her worst “episode” yet. — Izzy was born a healthy baby, without complications . She was more uncoordinated than a typi