Thankful for Another Birthday

Today is my birthday. I can tell you that they seem to come around far more often these days. But I’m not complaining. I think of many classmates who are no longer with us. I think of well-loved cousins who have gone to be with Jesus. I think of the children of friends and family who left us far too soon. I think of my parents. And I’m thankful for this birthday.

When I was three, my mama had a party for me at our home with cousins and friends and, of course, my big sister there to help me celebrate. Mama made Sissy and me matching taffeta evening gowns for the occasion. They were red and so pretty. I can still smell the fabric and hear the crinkle sound it made with each movement. I loved that dress.

It's Never Too Late For Your Dreams

by Debra DuPree Williams @DDuPreeWilliams

It’s been a few weeks since I returned home from the Blue Ridge Mountains Christian Writers Conference. The conference gets better with each passing year. This was my fourth one.

The fact that I even went to that first conference back in 2014 was a miracle. At that time, I didn’t even know there were such things. And why on earth would I think I should attend one? Me, a writer? No way. I was a singer. That’s what I had done all my life. God was supposed to use me and my voice to reach people. Period. And then I got older and my hearing began to fail me. But God was already working in the shadows to give me a second voice.

It's Not a Coincidence, It's a God-Incidence

Indian Rocks Beach, Path from our Home There

  by Debra DuPree Williams
 @DDuPreeWilliams

I quote Jeremiah 29:11 and Proverbs 3:6, to my children all the time. If they remember nothing else of their mother, I know they’ll remember these two verses. Both of these scriptures speak of putting your faith and trust in God and following the paths He has set forth for your life.

Childhood Dreams

I never dreamed of the places I’ve been or the relationships I’ve formed over the past four years. I’m talking about in the writing world. When I was in the seventh grade in Andalusia, Alabama, I began writing a novel. Every night before I turned off my lights, time was spent putting another chapter into my idea of The Great American Novel. Let me tell you, it was pitiful. But a friend waited daily to read what I had written the previous night. Thank you, Anne Evers Mount Brown. I don’t know what happened to that great achievement.