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At seven years old, I was certain the hens had accepted me as one of their own.

Gold Medal winner, 2026 Forsyth County SilverArts Literary Competition.

Sometimes a baby becomes part of the thread that holds a family together.

At her first Pentecostal service, a little girl discovers that fitting in can be harder than having faith.

A wedding dress sewn by hand, a cotton patch ring earned through sacrifice, and two young people standing at the altar with more faith than certainty. This story follows Joy and Ray as they begin a marriage that would shape generations to come.

Ray and Joy marry, move to Oklahoma City and all the way to Germany.

Ray and Joy's time in Germany and coming back to Oklahoma.

Joy believed the hardest years were behind her. Then a folded slip of paper fell from the glove-box.

My piano career lasted exactly one lesson. Mark's love of music lasted much longer. From beneath the piano bench, I learned more about my brother than I ever learned about playing the piano.

From my hiding place beneath Mother's sewing machine, I watched fabric, thread, and determination come together one stitch at a time.

A fishing trip, a waterspout over an Oklahoma lake, and a glimpse into the complicated man I called Dad. Some storms leave a mark long after the clouds are gone.

Every family has a day when the routine breaks. Mine happened in kindergarten, when the people I counted on to remember me... forgot.

The dog I loved most never belonged to me.

This story isn't really about hunting—it's about recognizing danger, childhood innocence, and the complicated ways we remember our parents.

Sometimes a single sentence changes the course of a life. Mine was, "Run, Robin."

Last night when my mother told me to run, I did.

Grandmother never hovered. She fed us, loved us, and then sent us into the Oklahoma summer with one unforgettable blessing: "Go outside and try not to die."