Her name was Edna

Her name was Edna. She was a black woman raised in a multi-ethnic home, had a daddy with a wooden leg who died cradled in her arms, spent the first part of her adult life helping people heal and raising 4 children; and, in her later years, when others had their sights set on retirement,... Continue Reading →


For months now, I’ve been searching for a word or phrase or image that could be hung above the door frame in our bedroom over the spot where Jesse says he opened his eyes to find everything was different all those months ago, something to replace a symbol of fear with a reminder of Hope. ... Continue Reading →

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