I Missed the Evening News

 

I missed the evening news last night.

It could be that I just forgot.

Could be I didn’t care enough to remember.

The world kept right on spinning without my permission,

And the news anchor surely didn’t ask where I’d been.

This morning, we stepped outside

and the sun was already up,

shining the same way it always does,

steady, bright, unbothered.

It caught us both off guard.

There we were, squinting at the sky

like somebody flipped the world back on

without giving us a heads‑up.

We must’ve looked a little strange,

me with my crumpled morning face,

Nico leaning into my leg,

Both of us a little surprised

That the day showed up anyway.

And sitting there in that early light,

I realized the News can wait.

The world doesn’t need me

to hear every last thing it’s shouting.

Sometimes it’s enough

just to be here

when the sun decides to rise.

wcd

Family, Friends, and the Ones Who Want to Hurt You

 

I used to think “family” meant

the people who shared my last name,

the ones who sat at the same table,

the ones who knew my childhood stories

because they were in them.

But life has a way of peeling the paint off words.

Some of the people I grew up with

were the first to step aside

when the ground cracked under me.

Some watched me fall

and acted like they didn’t see a thing.

So I learned this:

Family isn’t the ones who claim you,

It’s the ones who keep you.

The ones who speak your worth out loud,

who defend you when the room goes quiet,

who hold your name with clean hands

and keep your private storms

from becoming public entertainment.

Family is the circle you build

after the old one breaks.

Friends…

I’ve had the kind who turned days into memories,

who laughed with me until the night forgot the time.

But I’ve also seen how fast some folks

will trade you in for a shinier crowd,

how easily shared moments

can become bargaining chips

in someone else’s conversation.

I learned to treasure the ones

who don’t let anger scorch the bridge,

who don’t disappear when the season changes,

Who knows loyalty isn’t a costume

You take off when it gets uncomfortable.

And then there are the others, many I met at church,

the ones who don’t come with warning labels.

Enemies don’t always show up snarling.

Sometimes they smile too wide,

nod too eagerly,

wait too patiently for you to slip.

They never see your goodness,

Never honor your worth.

They grin to your face

and sharpen their knives behind you,

sliding in and out of your life

quiet as a shadow,

cold as a blade.

But here’s the part that steadies me:

God sees every mask, every whisper, every hidden strike.

He lets people reveal themselves

in His own timing.

And when they do,

He lifts me out of reach,

sets me on ground they can’t shake,

and reminds me,

in ways only He can,

that none of this ever caught Him off guard.

These are the lessons I carry now.

Not bitterness.

Not fear.

Just clarity.

Family is chosen,

friends are proven,

and enemies…

Well, they show themselves eventually.

And when they do,

I can walk on,

knowing God already handled the rest.

wcd

The Old Barn

 

The old barn was never just a barn.

It was the place childhood kept its secrets,

the rich, dusty aroma of hay,

the knotty gray boards weathered into permanence,

the stalls carved out of rough timber

That seemed older than anything I knew.

I wasn’t supposed to climb to the loft.

Which meant, of course, that I wanted to.

Up there lived the feral cats,

the mice that scattered like thoughts you try to catch,

and once, the papery ghost of a snake skin

That made me swear the whole place was alive.

Back then, the barn felt enormous,

a little creepy, full of corners that watched you.

But every summer I grew,

and the barn sagged a little more—

boards softening, roofline drooping,

Its mysteries leaking out through the cracks.

By the time I was old enough

to walk across the pasture without hurrying,

The wonder had thinned.

The forbidden became familiar,

The creatures moved on,

And the loft was just a loft.

I didn’t know it then,

But the barn was teaching me

How life works:

fear turning into fascination,

fascination into exploration,

and exploration into something

You eventually outgrow.

Those boyhood memories of Grandma’s house,

the long walk through the pasture,

grass brushing my legs,

sun on my neck,

They’re etched into me now.

The barn still stands in my mind,

not as it was,

But as it felt.

A place that once loomed large,

then slowly fell away,

leaving behind the shape of who I became.

wcd