Something Old at Something New

 

Something Old at Something New

I’m getting ready for an art show,

pretending I don't care

about opinions I’ll still feel in my gut.

Pretending “no sales” won’t sting,

even though I know it will

just enough to remind me

I’m still made of a few stupid things.

I keep wondering how people

from my other lifetime

will see me now.

If they’ll recognize anything,

or if I’ve changed too much

or not enough.

I tell myself it doesn’t matter,

but of course it does.

I rehearse conversations in my head,

the casual ones,

the nonchalant ones,

the ones where I don’t look like

I’m secretly hoping for praise

I swear I don’t need.

But God, it would be nice

to hear something kind

without asking for it.

I’m excited and

nervous in that way

that feels like standing in a doorway

between who I was

and who I’m growing to be.

Hoping old friends show up

with new eyes,

and maybe I’ll see them

with new eyes too.

I’m trying to walk into this

like it’s just another day,

but it isn’t.

It’s me,

showing up for something new,

And that has to count for something.

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My Pretend Girlfriend Died Today

 

My Pretend Girlfriend Died Today

My pretend “girlfriend” died today.

I never thought she would.

Her songs were simple enough to hum without thinking,

yet somehow they reached places in me

Without names.

Deep places.

Secret places.

I am nearly her age now,

but in my mind she was untouched by time...

that big blonde hair, that easy smile,

a face I could recognize even in my sleep.

Another loss added to the quiet pile

I keep tucked safely in my mind.

Another reminder that the good ones

seem to leave early,

while the hateful ones

cling on like dust.

I found a picture of a friend today

who went to heaven years ago.

No real connection to Dolly, I guess,

except in the way grief likes to braid itself

through unrelated moments,

tying them together

until they feel like one long rope

I’ve been carrying all my life.

And tonight, I’m holding that rope again,

thinking of a Star who sang the world softer,

and a friend whose laugh I can still hear,

and the strange way memories arrive

in pairs

when the heart is already broken.

My Little Art Studio

 

My Little Art Studio

My painting studio is small,

a shirt pocket stitched onto the day,

just big enough for the things I carry

and the things I've yet to name.

It holds my half‑formed confidence,

my occasional impostor ghosts,

lets them sit over in the corner

without making a fuss.

It hears me pick at the guitar in my head,

humming whatever tune wanders through,

never asking for a full song,

never minding the unfinished.

It doesn’t judge the pictures I toss,

the ones that didn’t quite land,

the ones that felt like they were trying too hard.

It just lets them go instead.

It listens to me talk to my dogs

like they’re old familiar friends,

Stretched out in my walking space,

who know what I'm going to say before I say it.

This place, my studio,

my retreat, my thought vault,

my slightly shrunken getaway

holds me without ceremony.

For now, it’s enough.

Because it’s mine.

When the Old Songs Held Me

 

When the Old Songs Held Me

I grew up with hymns that felt like handrails
on a staircase I was still learning to climb.
They were the songs of people who had lived long enough
to know what trouble was,
and still believed God would meet them on the other side.

Back then, the sanctuary felt like a shelter.
The altos carried me,
the tenors steadied me,
and the words, those old, carved‑in‑oak words,
told me heaven was not a rumor
but a destination with my name written down.

Later, in ministry, those hymns became my companions.
Not props, not nostalgia,
anchors.
When I sang them, something in me settled,
like a child who finally hears a familiar voice
after getting lost in a store.

But now the music has changed.
The room feels louder,
yet somehow thinner.
The screens glow, the band swells,
and I stand there trying to find the thread
that used to tie my heart to safety.

I hear jokes about the old songs,
as if reverence were a punchline.
As if the saints who taught me how to hope
were outdated furniture.
And I feel something loosen inside me,
something I thought was bolted down.

I don’t say this to scold anyone.
I say it because I’m older now,
and the ground shifts in ways I never expected.
The hymns once carried my certainty,
and without them,
heaven feels a little farther away
than it used to.

Still, sometimes in the quiet,
a line rises up, uninvited, and familiar,
and I remember how it felt
to believe without effort.
To trust the promise of glory
the way I trusted the sunrise.

I don’t know if that feeling will return.
But I know the old songs are still in me,
waiting like a door I can open
whenever the world tilts too much.

And maybe that's enough
for now. -wcd

Fear Shows Up

 

Fear Shows Up

Fear doesn’t text or knock.

He just shows up.

Slides in when the lights go out

and the world finally stops pretending

it’s louder than your thoughts.

He reaches for your sleep first,

steals it like you owe him,

like you signed some contract

you don’t remember writing.

Then he grabs your heartbeat,

cranks it up as hard as can be,

past comfortable,

past anything you asked for.

And in the dark,

his favorite place,

he parades out every mistake

you’ve ever made,

lays them out like trophies,

like he’s proud to remind you

of every wrong turn

you've ever made.

He lies about you.

He whispers old insults

like they’re fresh wounds,

like they still belong to you.

He paints disasters

in full color,

one after another,

each one worse than the last,

like he’s painting a portrait

of “worst-case scenario.”

He never mentions the good.

Not once.

Cuts you no slack,

no credit,

no mercy.

Just circles you

with that sharp, night‑owl scream

only you can hear.

And he latches on,

like a leech on the heart

holding on tight

until dawn finally shows up

and he has to run.

But don’t be fooled.

He’s not gone.

He’s just waiting,

resting,

getting ready

to try again tomorrow.

How We Got Here

 

How We Got Here

Some days I look around and wonder

how we drifted into this weird century

where people act like they’ve forgotten

we all share the same air,

and the same fragile condition of being human.

Where politics turned into a sport

played with tongues like knives,

and cynicism became a badge of honor

instead of a warning sign.

Where hateful rhetoric rolls out

as casually as weather reports,

and no one seems startled or embarrassed anymore.

Where the Bible is quoted like a drive-through menu,

picking only the verses that flatter the moment,

and never the ones that demand humility.

Where truth feels like a house

with its foundation cracked,

and everyone keeps living in it

as if the floor won’t eventually give way.

Where rights once understood as universal

are now treated like bargaining chips,

and the dignity of a stranger

is somehow up for debate.

I ask myself how we arrived here,

not in a single leap,

but in a slow, lazy forgetting.

A forgetting of patience,

of listening,

of the quiet work of seeing one another

without suspicion.

Maybe the path back isn’t dramatic or traumatic,

Maybe it’s built in small refusals,

refusing to join the cacophony of contempt,

refusing to treat cruelty as normal,

refusing to let exhaustion harden into apathy.

Maybe it’s choosing to remember

that society is not an abstract thing

but a collection of choices

made by ordinary people

who still have the power

to turn toward decency

one conversation,

one moment,

one act at a time.

And maybe...just maybe...

that’s how we begin again.

The Art of Not Quitting

 

The Art of Not Quitting

At 71, I started closing the book on my career in professional education, a calling that shaped me, stretched me, and gave me purpose for decades. Most people would have called that “retirement.” I never liked that word. It sounded too much like stopping, and stopping has never fit into my plans.

So instead of slowing down, I shifted gears.

I finished a PhD program when many assumed I’d be riding off into the sunset. I underwent open‑heart surgery and came out of it with a deeper appreciation for time, how precious it is, how intentionally it should be used. And at 73, I picked up a paintbrush with no expectations other than joy and relaxation. What started as a personal exploration turned into something much bigger: commissions, invitations, and conversations with people who see something in my work that resonates with them.

This September, at 75, I’ll be sharing my artwork at an event in Thibodaux, Louisiana, the secondary land of my roots, in another unexpected turn in a journey that keeps surprising me. My paintings are now available internationally, something I never imagined when I dipped that first brush into paint.

If there’s a moral to my story, it’s simple: don’t quit. Life doesn’t always require a full stop; sometimes it just needs you to shift into another lane. Fulfillment isn’t tied to age, titles, or comfort. It’s tied to curiosity, courage, and the willingness to begin again, over and over if necessary.

And btw, someone else's opinion of you and your work is none of your business.

I’m living proof that reinventing yourself isn’t reserved for the young. It’s reserved for the willing.

My Dogs Are Smarter Than Me

 

My Dogs Are Smarter Than Me

My dogs are smarter than me.

I’ve stopped fighting that truth.

They sit there with those patient faces,

pretending to listen,

tilting their heads like tiny professors

waiting for me to finish the wrong answer.

I swear they roll their eyes.

Not even subtle about it.

A slow blink…

a sideways glance…

that little huff through the nose

that says,

“Bless his heart, he’s trying.”

They talk about me, too.

I hear them.

Not the words,

just the tone.

That low conversational rumble

when they think I’m out of earshot,

like they’re discussing

my questionable life choices

and the fact that I still don’t understand

What “woof” means in context.

They tell on each other

with the enthusiasm of toddlers.

One trots up, proud and righteous,

to report a crime:

a stolen sock,

a chewed corner,

a conspiracy in progress.

The other follows behind

with the face of someone

wrongly accused

but absolutely guilty.

And when they’re really up to something,

they close my studio door.

Not push it.

Not nudge it.

They close it.

Firmly.

With purpose.

Because whatever they’re plotting

is none of my business

until they decide it is.

My dogs are smarter than me.

I’ve accepted it.

Honestly, it’s a relief.

Someone in this house

should know what they’re doing.

wcd

Soon, I’ll Walk Back In

 

Soon I'll Walk Back In

Soon enough, I’ll drive that stretch of familiar highway,

back toward the town where my name

used to mean something different.

I can already feel the weirdness of

being invited back not to preach or teach,

not to shepherd,

but to create, to show, to stand there

as the person I've become

after I stepped away.

I keep imagining the faces.

Some will stare, trying to reconcile

the man who once stood behind a pulpit or podium,

with the one who now stands behind a canvas,

or a script,

or whatever shape my work takes that day.

They’ll search for the old outlines,

the familiar vocal cadence,

the version of me they tucked away

into their memory years ago.

I wonder how it will feel

to walk older now into a place where I used to speak

with a different kind of authority,

one I no longer carry,

one I no longer want or need.

This time, I’m not arriving with answers,

or scripture, or texts,

or the weight of expectation.

I’m arriving with color, paint

with story,

with the strange freedom

that comes from rebuilding yourself

outside the frameworks time gave you.

There’s a quiet thrill in it,

but also a quiet ache.

Not regret, just the awareness

that I’m returning as someone

they didn’t see me becoming.

Someone I had to leave to find.

Maybe they’ll understand.

Maybe they won’t.

But I’ll be there anyway

not to prove anything,

not to correct the past,

Just to show what grew

after I stepped out of the role

that once defined me.

Soon, I’ll walk back in,

and the future version of me

will meet the old one

in the only place

that ever held both.

And it will be okay.

Almost Praise

 

Almost Praise

We've all heard that tone of voice,

the sugar‑coated sting,

The compliment that limps in

carrying a hidden rolling pin.

You toss it out like it’s harmless,

like you’re gifting me something

I should hug with gratitude.

But I hear the crack in it,

The quiet insult lying just beneath the smile.

Funny how you call it “just being honest,”

as if your opinion were a light

I’m supposed to walk toward.

I never asked for your light.

I wasn’t standing in the dark.

Still, you tilt your head,

deliver your masterpiece,

half praise, half poison,

and wait for me to swallow it whole,

And thank you for it.

I stay silent.

Not because it didn’t land,

But because silence is the only shield

That doesn’t escalate the war.

But silence doesn’t mean untouched.

It means I’m carrying the weight

That you pretended wasn’t there.

These are the wounds nobody sees,

the ones shaped like kindness,

the ones that bruise without breaking skin.

Damage done in daylight,

with a smile,

with a tone so soft

It almost sounds like care.

Almost.

I'm Done Being the Fixer

 

I'm Done Being the Fixer

I’ve stopped trying to fix what I didn’t break.  

There’s a welcome kind of freedom in that, 

the moment you finally unclench your grip

from the wreckage everyone swears you caused.

I’ve spent years picking through pieces

that were scattered long before I arrived,

trying to fit them back together

like some unpaid fixer of other people’s storms.

Friendships, ministry, family,

the urgent emergencies in other people’s lives, 

I kept showing up with glue and hope,

thinking maybe this time I could make it whole.

But I’m tired in a way that sleep doesn’t touch.

I’m scraped thin from apologizing for fires

I didn’t start,

from carrying guilt that never belonged to me.

There’s no redemption in bleeding for someone else’s chaos,

no miracle in rebuilding what was never mine to save.

So I’m laying down the tools.

I’m stepping back from the ruins.

Let the pieces stay where they fell.

Let the blame echo somewhere else.

I’m old, exhausted, and I’m all out of guilt 

and maybe that’s the first real healing

I’ve ever given myself.

Friendship Exit, Stage Left

 

Friendship Exit, Stage Left

Friendships sometimes end with a fizzle

and a subtle slide toward the nearest exit.

You don’t owe anyone a dissertation.

Just the quiet confidence

that you’re allowed to walk away

from anyone who discounts your life

And makes you miserable.

And once you have that fixed in your mind,

You can start looking for escape hatches,

the polite, gentle excuses,

for those who’ve become too constant, too draining,

too much for your peace of mind.

“I should’ve told you earlier, I’m an immigrant.”

He’ll freeze, start rethinking,

trying to figure out what reaction won’t get him canceled.

While he’s buffering, you can exit stage left.

“I’ve gone full Democrat.”

Say it like you switched toothpaste brands.

They’ll either lecture you or dump you.

Either way, congratulations. You’re free.

“I’m simplifying my life.”

Which is code for

You’re loud, you’re exhausting,

And I’m not your emotional janitor.

“I’m focusing on my mental health.”

Nobody argues with that.

It’s the friendship equivalent

of pulling the emergency brake.

“I’m stepping back from people who drain me.”

You don’t have to name names.

They’ll know.

They always know.

“I’m not doing drama anymore.”

If they insist they're not dramatic,

That’s your proof they absolutely are.

“I’m spending more time with family.”

Even if your family is just you,

your dog,

and the quiet corner of your couch.

“We’ve grown in different directions.”

That's the polite way of saying:

You grew sideways,

And I grew up.

And that’s the whole deal,

not cruelty, not fireworks,

just the steady courage

to choose your own peace

over someone else’s noise.

The Invitation

 

The Invitation

It’s not the date on the calendar,

not the drive, the flight, or the folding chairs waiting.

It’s our name spoken in a room,

and someone saying, "make sure we ask them."

That’s what matters to me.

That’s the belonging.

An invitation across miles and memories,

a gesture that tells me we are wanted there.

Even if work keeps us from going,

even if distance wins,

the invitation itself is the real gathering.

It’s proof that friends still reach for us

in the way only family and friends can.

Whether we show up or not,

The door was opened.

And that right there, that’s the love.

It’s asking us to be there that nails it.

Be blessed!