PAULA SCOTT

Yesterday, I was shopping at American Eagle Outfitters. A tan, flannel shirt in the men's section caught my eye. I walked over and felt the fabric. When I touched the shirtsleeve, a memory hit me that came like a bird landing on my shoulder. Not a good bird. At least not at first. When I was naked, he clothed me. Okay, I wasn't completely naked, but I felt naked as I remembered that night years ago. This memory isn't about sex. It's about shame. And it descended upon me in the mall like a crow or a dove, I can't decide which kind of bird it was. Maybe it came as an eagle. Maybe remembering will give me stronger wings. When I was younger, I tried to laugh off or quickly bury these painful memories that came unexpectedly, but I've learned they have shaped me, so I pay attention now. I was eighteen years old, just months out of high school. Scott turned twenty that October. We were at Yuba College for different reasons. Scott was there to play football and get his grades Continue Reading

I'm starting the new year with four funerals. Four good dads. Four beloved husbands. Men dearly loved by their family and friends. None of these deaths were connected and yet I know at each funeral I will probably see people from the last funeral. My heart has been so heavy stepping into 2019. One of these men was only a couple of years older than my daughter, Cami. I will never forget the day I shared a Bible verse with this boy. It was at his high school and he looked so surprised but responded so sweetly. Michael was an amazing kid. I just can't believe he's gone. Sometimes people ask me why I always bring up Jesus. I get this. I remember back when people like me got on my nerves or just plain made me really uncomfortable talking about their faith or their Bible or their church. I got away from these people as fast as I could. I didn't want to go to their church or open a Bible. I didn't want to think about God. I just wanted to live my life and have fun. I did that until Continue Reading

Growing up, I loved listening to the radio broadcaster, Paul Harvey. For years my big brother, Patrick would sometimes call me Paul Harvey because I liked telling stories too. I don't know if Paul Harvey originally told this tale of the Christmas birds, but I think I heard it from him. I can't remember the exact telling so I've recreated my own version for you. One snowy Christmas Eve, a man told his wife he would not be going to church. "I can't listen to that preacher any longer. It makes no sense to me that God would come as a baby in a manger and live among humans. You can believe what you want, honey, but I'm staying home. I've had it with church." The sad wife bundled up and walked out the door into the night without her husband. The church wasn't far, just across the bridge, and down the lane from their country home. The man settled into his worn, leather armchair by the fire on that cold, winter evening. He pulled out the newspaper and began to read of the war raging Continue Reading

For the first time in nearly three decades of raising kids, taking our Christmas picture this year was relatively painless. The boys are old enough to behave themselves. Except for the seven-year-old who ran back to the house and changed his shirt because he didn't like the black one I had him put on. Christian's favorite shirt, The talent has arrived, about sums things up. Our youngest is fast, agile, and nearly fearless, but then so are his big brothers, so I guess that's a wrap. These boys take after their dad. We couldn't get all of our older kids and their growing families to the farm for our Christmas photo. At first, I was disappointed about this, but after the ease of this photo shoot, I'm thinking our big kids did me a favor. I tend to want things to stay the same, and in a large family like ours nothing stays the same. Trying to keep it the same drives me crazy. In less than two years, we've gone from no grandkids to four babies. Yes, four by 2019. Both Cami and Lacy are Continue Reading

Aaron Rodgers donated a million dollars to the Camp Fire survivors but did not call his mom to make sure she was okay. Perhaps while packing up to evacuate the fire, Aaron's mom was hoping to hear from her son. She's reached out to him numerous times in the past several years, but he's never reached back. "It's complicated," Aaron's father Ed told the New York Times in 2017. "We are all hoping for the best." The best being reconciliation, I suppose. Family rifts are so painful. I'm sure Aaron's parents just want him back. The boy they raised. The son they love. Perhaps the kid they took camping with his brothers in the mountains above the little town of Paradise lost to the Camp Fire. My heart goes out to these parents, to Aaron, and his brothers. Sometimes things are said, things are done in a family, and it's like a wildfire. Everything flames out of control in spite of your efforts to stop it, and you're not even sure why your family has burned down. "When your own Mom Continue Reading