To my long-lost pillow, I love you so dearly,
it crushed me to learn I lost you so clearly.
You stayed by my side for more years than I remember,
I treated you like my own family member.
A gift from my sister one cold Christmas Day,
I discovered memory foam is the only way.
I’m impressed you still held the perfect shape,
always cradling my head right at my nape.
You followed me wherever I went,
from Hawaii to Alaska, in my suitcase you were sent.
I couldn’t bear to sleep without you,
for I always felt comforted, even in some place new.
Unexpectedly, on a road trip you were lost,
I had to repack the car but was it worth the cost?
You meant the world to me,
now my bed is empty and you were set free.
Does anyone love their pillow so much?
I suppose it’s good to free myself from a crutch.
My new pillow will never replace you,
for you are the truest of true.
While I’m grateful for all the years we had together,
now, in my memory, you’ll be my treasure.
I love you, my cherished pillow,
I’ll think of you when I see the dreamy willow.
Style Score: 100%

Dear C,

I see you every day but sometimes there are just no words for me to express how I feel about you. Isn’t that ironic?

You can be so complicated sometimes and some days you leave me puzzled with your complex themes but that is exactly what I love most about you. I love the challenge you give me. You make the gears in my brain turn, which is good for me. You help me to focus, and you improve my vocabulary. You make me a better person.

C, you’re black and white, literally and figuratively. There is one way to figure you out and that familiar, inside the box (pun intended) routine of yours keeps me sane. There are days when you are easier on me which I also enjoy, but I especially adore when you give me some of that tough love.

These days we meet more often online, but I do miss the days where I was very particular and chose my best ink pens to meet with you. I know we both loved that! Solving you was and still is a highlight of my daily routine.

I look forward to seeing you every day and sometimes you are even on my mind when I’m doing other activities. As a parent now, my life has gotten so busy but my love for you has not changed. C, you bring me a special kind of peace and joy amidst my typically hectic schedule. In these quiet moments I can sit with you all alone, they are the ones that I cherish day in and day out.

Even though some may call you boring, you must know you certainly excite me. Thank you, my friend, for the many years we have had together and the many more to come. I look forward to solving all the old and new things you have to offer and to eventually share you and my love for you with my daughter when she gets older.

With love,
Andrea

To the mark I leave behind,

You are the fire that drives me, the whisper in my soul that refuses to be silenced. Long before my hands touched ink or my voice carried weight, you existed—a shadow of what could be, a promise waiting to be fulfilled.

I have built you from struggle, carved you from sacrifice, and shaped you with love so deep it demands to be remembered. You are more than words on a page, more than echoes in time—you are proof that I was here, that I lived with purpose, that I refused to let the world forget me.

You are written in my children’s laughter, stitched into every lesson I have taught them. You exist in the stories I tell, the battles I have won, the kindness I have given—even when I had nothing left to give.

The world may one day forget my name, but it will not forget you. You will live on in the lives I’ve touched, in the hands that carry my work forward, in the echoes of every love I have left behind.

So I write this to you, my unwritten chapters, my unfinished song, my enduring fire—may you outlive me, outshine me, and carry forward everything I dared to dream.

With all that I am,
A man who refuses to be forgotten.

Oh, my dear tattered T,
How I love you so.
Found in a mall long ago
Among Hot Topic’s tableau,
Catching the eye of this young esthete.

Captivated by your design,
The notes all twirling ‘round,
Playing some mysterious sound,
A song to sing, but left unfound,
With only a skull to sign the by-line.

Many years have you sustained
To class, concerts, meets, and more,
Meeting the eyes who so adore
Your splendor without glamor,
Becoming threadbare but never stained.

Snugger than you were before,
Hugging my frame much tighter.
These days you feel lighter,
But you stay strong, my fighter,
Filling me each wear with ardor.

Some may say your time has come,
That you’re better fit for the grave,
No longer the current rave,
Not worth another save.
Still, I think you’re awesome.

Dear Coaching Board,

I expected to have to write this letter, oh, twenty or thirty more years from now. Maybe longer! Someone was going to have to pry you and my whistle from my cold, dead hands! I never could have imagined that I’d be writing this letter today. I don’t really remember when I first decided I was going to be a coach- it was just always part of the plan. Teach history and coach basketball. And for eleven years, I did that. But, of course, you know that! Ever since I ripped open that Christmas present fourteen years ago that Dad had so carefully wrapped you in with a shiny new whistle, and a pack of 3X5 cards (because all good coaches use 3X5 cards!), you have been with me through all the practices, late night bus rides, exhilarating victories, and agonizing defeats. You were at my side when during our very first year coaching, we won a District Championship! You were at my side seven years later when we stepped onto the court at my alma mater as a coach, not a player. I remember staring at you in disbelief after my girls won their first playoff game in over a decade. I remember my girls staring at you in confusion because they couldn’t follow my “scribbling”. Do you remember the game when I broke my marker on you because I was trying WAY too hard to make my point? Of course, you do! You were not happy with me that night! You have seen me laugh with my teams, cry with my teams, and shout for (and at) my teams.

But more than those exciting basketball moments, you also witnessed the times I chose to set you aside because one of my girls needed me to stop talking about basketball for a minute. You saw me the day I had to pull one of my starters aside during a big game to say, “Your team needs you on the court, but I will not put you back in this game if you have that attitude again.” You sat on the bench as I told my point guard, “I care more about your health than winning this game, so you better not lie to me.” You were in my hand when I looked at one of my players and said, “You have no reason to be discouraged, you gave more than 100% today, and that’s all the Lord requires of us.” You watched from the sidelines the day my star player ran to me as soon as the buzzer went off and whispered, “I’m with you all the way, Coach.” You were there for every pre and post game huddle that ended with prayer and quoting Colossians 3:23-24. You were always by my side, and I loved you. So why are you packed somewhere in a box in the basement now? Why can’t I bring myself to walk downstairs, find you, and walk onto the court with you again?

Two years have passed since I first put you in that box! How has it been two years since you and I last stepped on to the court together? Two years since I last scribbled ferociously with a blue marker all over your slightly stained white surface during a quick time out. Two years since I dropped you a little too hard on the floor beside my chair when I got excited that my youngest player made a basket! It’s been two whole years since I threw you, again a little too hard, on my chair as I took a brisk step on to the court to yell at one of my girls for making a terrible pass. Two years since I held you firmly in my hands as I confidently followed my girls out of the locker room to face our opponent. Actually, that last part is not completely true. We’d have to go back more than two years to find the last time I was confident walking out of the locker room. You, of all “people”, know that, too. Because that tenth and eleventh year, you stayed inside my coaching bag much more often. I can only imagine how I made you feel. I should never have left you zipped up in that bag, but I felt like I didn’t know how to use you anymore. The confident twenty-two year old Florida coach who won two District Championships and one State Championship with you, was nowhere to be found anymore, and I don’t know how (or if I even want) to find her again.

Did I ever tell you why coaching basketball was always part of “the plan”? Remember all those huddles that ended with prayer? That’s why. Because when I was a young athlete my coaches ended every practice and game with prayer. Because my coaches taught me that loving basketball and pushing to be excellent was important, but it wasn’t the MOST important. Winning was our goal, but it wasn’t THE goal. Because my coaches showed that they loved me, even if I wasn’t the best player on the court, even if I messed up, even if…the ball game wasn’t the most important thing to them. I was. And I knew it. That’s why I wanted to coach. So I could be that coach to a quiet 11 year old who was shocked she even made the team, to a cheerleader turned to basketball player who just wanted to be an encouragement to others, to a 4’11 (and ¾) guard who always tried to play as if she was 10 feet tall, to a quick young 7th grader charged with guarding the other team’s best shooter, to a frustrated 8th grade post player who just wanted to be successful, to a quiet 10th grader who just loved the game and grew into a leader, to a hesitant emotional 9th grader who demanded perfection from herself, to a…well, I guess that’s enough for you to understand. At some point, you were in my hand as I talked to every single one of those girls. You know more than anyone just how much I prayed for, cried over, laughed with, and LOVED my girls- not for their basketball talent- but for WHO they were. That’s why you and I were on that court together.

You have probably figured out by now that this is a goodbye letter. As much as I obviously loved our time together, the world of Christian school sports has changed. We have to be the best no matter what it costs. If the season doesn’t end with a Championship trophy, it wasn’t successful. The attitude our players exhibit on and off the court doesn’t matter, but the win tonight does. Missing church or service opportunities is acceptable, but players better think twice about missing practice. “Better” only applies to the sport, not an athlete’s emotional, social, or spiritual maturity. Watching this change take place over the past several years broke my heart and I still wrestle with an overwhelming sense of grief. Grief for the next generation of athletes who aren’t being taught, as I was, WHO we play for. Grief for the young athletes who aren’t being taught that your attitude and character is more important than your talent and statistics. Grief for the athletes who will grow up believing that their success is determined by a scoreboard. Just…grief. What I wouldn’t give to be a 16 year old kid again, fist confidently in the middle of our team huddle before playing one of our biggest conference rivals, and saying with the rest of my teammates, “Knowing that of the Lord ye shall receive the reward of the inheritance for ye serve the Lord Christ.” What I wouldn’t give to be a 26 year old coach again, holding you confidently in one hand with the other fist confidently in the middle of our team huddle, reciting Colossians 3:23-24 with my team. But that’s all in the past. It’s history. I never could have imagined our time together ending this way, and I don’t know that my heart will ever truly heal from what it lost.

John Wooden once said, “Young people need models, not critics.” I think of my coaches who modeled what a Christ-honoring person looks like. Who, because of that example, had an eternal impact on the girls I later coached. I can’t help but wonder what this new style of Christian school coaching is modeling…and what the result of that will be. That is not a question I am going to get an answer to today, and this “Dear John” goodbye is already longer than I intended. So, thank you. Thank you for the memories. I truly am sorry for leaving you in the basement these last two years. I am sorry the layers of dust will continue to build on your once white surface, but I promise that if the Lord ever calls me back into coaching, you will be the first to know.

Until then, know you are missed, old friend.

“Heartily” for Him,
Coach P

My Darling TA,

I am counting the hours until we can be together again. Waiting for the endless frigid winter winds to cease their blowing, for temperatures to rise, for warm spring air to beckon us to answer the summons of the open road. I know you want it too; you miss me just as much as I miss you.

From the moment I first laid eyes on you, I knew we were destined to be together.

Your bronze metallic sheen sparkling in the balmy sun, accented by the thin golden lines framing your sleek curves. The majestic phoenix, fiery plumage resplendent across your glinting hood, reposing in a state of honor, regal presence guarding the realm.

You complete me. I am the pilot, the guide on this journey. You are my royal chariot, your deep baritone purring; keeping time to the beating of my quivering heart. The pulsing vibrations reverberate through my being. Pains and worries float away through the unveiled t-top, as the gentle breeze ruffles my hair.

From the moment I slide into the seat of honour behind the wheel, and turn the key, our shared adoration takes flight. Slipping into reverse and pressing down on the pedal, the rendezvous that awaits us on the horizon fills me with anticipation. Gliding onto our route, the familiar sweet scents of sultry summer air mingle with the subtle hint of gasoline.

You make me feel young again, the comforting glow of nostalgia; I am transported back to a simpler time. Cruising the countryside, the soothing hum of your engine joins in the chorus resonating from the archaic cassette player: “Don’t stop believin, Hold on to that feelin”-etched in my mind forever-I will never stop believing in us, my love. I will cherish this glorious feeling for time everlasting.

I know you think you are ageing. Rest assured, I will be by your side to help you navigate the speed bumps and the potholes, steering you safely around the bends in the road. Working together as a well-oiled machine, we will ensure you are aligned, well-maintained, and polished to a dazzling gleam.

Always remember, you are not just a ‘car’. You are an icon, a legend in your time. As we coast the streets, the awe and adoration on the faces of onlookers is clear: they wish they could be me. There are no words to express the pride I feel at their admiration and envy. You are the talk of the town, my dear, and all mine.

As winter nears its end, I count the days until we can be together again. I am my best self when I am with you.

I remain,

Always and forever,

Your copilot in love.

Dear Unsealed,
I love the smell of the ocean.
I love to feel my toes in the sand.
It is a potion
Of a notion
As I walk upon this mountainous land
Of sand and sea and valleys
And alleys
Of sandcastles built upon the sand
Of our America land.
I cried today,
Along my paths highway
Of illusions
Of delusions
Of lies spewing from control freaks
Of tweakers and tweaks,
Of I just want to sit on the shore
Forevermore.
Look at the ocean.
Look at the sky,
Of notions
And potions.
I pray for peace to calm the turmoil
Of dictators and liars in high places,
That creates turmoil and hate and boils,
Of ugliness in all spaces.
I carve my peace of calm
On the beach,
To reach prayers of songs
To the universe to bring peace
As the calm after the storm
As the fisher in the boat of life,
Not of strife.
I sit on the shore,
Forevermore.
To smell the salty air, and the cries of the seagulls
As they fly up above
My head.
I see the ocean.
I see the beach,
Of I love the smell of the ocean
I love to feel my toes in the sand.
It is a potion,
Of a notion
As I walk upon this mountainous land
Of sand and sea and valleys
And alleys
Of sandcastles built upon the sand
Of our America land.
I cried today,
Along my paths highway
Of illusions
Of delusions
and potions.
As peace flows through my body
As I sit on the shore forevermore
To embrace the ocean
As a potion.
I love you my retreat
Away from mean peeps.
A retreat from hate,
Debate,
To relate,
We are all a part of earth,
Before birth and after birth
To death of all.
I pray we all learn,
The ocean way,
To yearn,
For love and truth.
I love you, ocean of dreams,
And schemes to cherish your embrace
Of romance
From birth
Tio my ashes
Are spread in the love
Forevermore
Upon the shore.

PEACE AND LOVE CONQUERS EVIL!

Thank you for stepping up. As a solo mom of four daughters, I’ve relied on you more than I ever realized. You weren’t just a game in our lives—you were a co-parent, a mentor, a teacher, and a guiding force. You raised up daughters who know their worth, chase their dreams, and push forward with grit and resilience. I owe you everything.

Tonight, I walked onto the court for the last time on Senior Night. My youngest, my 5’7” defensive-minded rebounding daughter, will graduate in a few months. Her three older sisters have moved on—one 23, one 22, another 20—each charting their own course, shaped in part by the lessons you taught them.

Basketball, you stepped in where a father wasn’t. When my daughter chose you in 3rd grade, you didn’t just give her a sport—you gave her a foundation. You gave her discipline, accountability, and a team that became family. You taught her that effort matters more than talent, that setbacks build strength, and that winning isn’t about playing time or personal stats—it’s about commitment, teamwork, and heart.

Without a stable foundation, too many girls lose sight of their dreams. They shift their focus, chasing relationships instead of purpose, and before they know it, their potential slips away. I’ve seen it time and time again. But because of you, Basketball, my daughters never lost themselves. You gave them something bigger to fight for. You kept them focused, determined, and strong.

Reading the diaries of teenage girls during my 17 years of teaching showed me how often we fail our daughters. I got so much wrong. But you, Basketball—you filled in the gaps.

You taught them that success isn’t handed out—it’s earned through extra reps, unseen hours in the gym, and the resilience to push through failure. You showed them that body type doesn’t define ability, that hard work outweighs talent, and that leadership isn’t about scoring—it’s about lifting others.

A female athlete will walk through fire for someone who believes in her. Too many coaches don’t understand this, but my daughters were blessed with ones who did.

So thank you, Basketball, for believing in my girls. For bringing us to this small town in Northern Missouri, where you helped shape them into strong, independent women.

I used to think the destination mattered most—the championships, the scholarships, the accolades. But you showed me it was never about that. It was about the journey. The hours spent in the gym. The late-night car rides after tough losses. The pride in watching my daughters hustle, rebound, and instinctively pass before remembering they could score, too.

It was about watching them grow—not just into athletes, but into women who know how to fight for their place in the world. Women who understand teamwork, leadership, and resilience. Women who will take these lessons beyond the court—into college, careers, and life.

Basketball, you were more than a sport. You were a father when there wasn’t one. A guide when I fell short. And a lifelong teacher of what it means to work hard, believe in yourself, and never back down.

For that, I am forever grateful.

Your Biggest Fan,

Dear Grandma’s House,

Every Christmas Eve you were my favorite place to go. I would come into the kitchen when I was a child and the smell of cookies would fill my nostrils. Then everyone I loved the most would greet me with hugs and kisses. I would go into the living room to put my present under the tree. Grandma always had a small tree with lots of presents. I would go into the kitchen for Christmas dinner and eat with my family. Then we would gather around in the living room. Grandma would pass out of the presents one by one and then we would take turns opening them. Even if grandma’s house didn’t have presents or a Christmas tree it wouldn’t matter. It is the memories attached to this place that I never want to lose. Grandma’s house is the only place in my life that has never changed. I always want to return here no matter what happens.

Love comes in many
Forms, it doesn’t
Have to be sexual.
The concept of love
Is different for each and
Everyone of us.
Some love to touch,
While others love to talk,
Hear the reassuring sound
From the words that come out.
Love is expensive and expressive.
It’s addictive but don’t get it twisted,
The words “I LOVE YOU” don’t mean shit.
Love is a feeling that is revealing through
The ears, the eyes, can be touched from
Vibrations of the frequency of the voice.
Once you hear that certain noise,
Ears perk up like a dog, now you’re filled
With joy. Even the scent can bring some
Love as your brain ignites and triggers
A wonderful feeling from inside.
Love struck like lightning from deep
Inside my mind, I had to express Myself.
I’ve felt love from plenty.
I’ve showed love, also experienced
& expressed it gradually.
Without loving myself,how
Could I show it,
Love is diverse
& driven from Emotions.

At first, I was afraid of thunderstorms.
I would hide in the bathroom with my doll in my arms.
I knew where to go if a tornado came.
I’d sleep in bathtubs or basements to feel less afraid.
At school, they taught us to get under the desk,
And I think I’ve been keeping myself low to the ground ever since.
Maybe that’s why, as I grew older,
I became fearful of airplanes,
And now I’m terrified to fly.
In my mind’s eye, it doesn’t seem right to be up in the sky.
I always feel safer in a window seat near the wing.
I guess I find the clouds sort of beautiful and calming.
They make me briefly forget I gave away all control,
To whoever’s flying the plane that I don’t know at all.
Maybe losing control is my real fear in life,
Or maybe my real fear is dying.
Maybe it’s ending up like my mom,
Or maybe it’s being too afraid of trying.
I know I’m afraid of becoming insignificant.
I know I’m afraid of wasting another year,
And now, I think I’m afraid of how I respond to fear.
Of all the toxins I’ve had to remove,
Fear has been the most potent and lasting.
Fear takes over the brain without even asking.
Stuck in survival with stress hormones recycling,
I realize I’m tense even when I’m relaxing.
They say knowledge is the antidote to fear,
But I know that not to be true,
This is what the Tree of Knowledge will do.
The more I learned, the more fearful I became,
And because of fear, I didn’t see things the same.
I want to watch clouds, but my judgement is clouded.
All the new information made my thoughts too crowded.
I realize now everything is neutral until slapped with perspective,
And living in fear is no way to live.

Style Score: 100%

Dear Fear,

I immediately regret using a cordial word like ‘dear’ in my greeting. I have zero friendly feelings toward you. You freeze us in our tracks. Fear, you are a giant speed bump on the roads we take to self-actualization. You keep us from getting close enough to the people who need us, as well as those who can help us overcome you.

Choosing one fear to write about in an uncertain world full of trepidation is difficult. I reject some of the bigger and darker fears that people have. Death doesn’t scare me. I can’t summon up fear for a one-time event that is inevitable for us all. It will happen. It’s all of humanity’s destiny. And once it happens, it’s possible we’re not even going to know or care. It’ll be over, and our book of life, at least in this realm, will be closed.

Fear of failure is a popular choice of many, but I’ve never feared failure. Perhaps I’ve fallen short so many times that I’ve become inured to failing. I’ve always believed that if you’re not failing, you’re not trying enough. So, come at me, failure, and I will give you a great big hug.

Way back in 1974, Jim Stafford had a Billboard-charting song titled “Spiders and Snakes” in which Stafford sings of his dislike of the title creatures. They perfectly describe you, my fear. I don’t literally mean creepy, crawly spiders and slithering snakes, although I will admit that coming across a hairy spider in the basement or a snake ready to nip at my ankles in the garden are not my favorite experiences. Maybe if I lived in Australia, where most living creatures are ready, willing, and able to kill humans without any provocation, actual spiders and snakes may scare me. But I live in the USA’s Midwest. Most spiders and snakes I encounter are benign and harmless, except for the figurative ones.

I’m referring to “spiders” like:
“It’s going to take too long.”
“I’m not creative enough to come up with ideas.”
“I don’t have the skills to do that.”

And to “snakes” like:
“I just don’t have the time.”
“I’ve never tried that before.”
“I don’t know how.”

I fear falling prey to those “spiders and snakes” far more than a hairy spider crawling toward me while I’m sitting in the bathroom or turning over a garden rock to find a snake. I much prefer a small bite that will surely heal (again, I’m in the US Midwest and not Australia where almost every living creature is poisonous) to the crippling power of the metaphorical “spiders and snakes” that can stop our lives dead in our tracks with fear. I always try to be kind to animals, but I have no qualms about squishing my symbolic spiders in a tissue of determination or whacking my figurative snakes with a club of resolve. I hope PETA will cut me some slack and look the other way as I dispatch the imaginary creatures representing my actual fears.

And so, I have eschewed fears of death, failure, shark attacks, tornadoes, IRS audits, time share contracts, and buying life insurance, and I have settled on the ever-present metaphorical spiders and snakes in my life as my greatest fear. I can’t carry a tune to save my life, but you can always count on me to sing along unabashedly with Jim Stafford, proclaiming to the world that we both don’t like spiders and snakes.

With great disregard,

88% Style Score