Holy Spirit, Hold My Hinges

Outside of my familiar cardigans 
and oversized specs,
I’m not your typical librarian—by design.

I’m an introvert at heart,
but laughter lives loudly in me.
The kind that escapes without permission
and fills every quiet corner of the room.

I speak with my hands out of tradition,
with passion wrapped in in a rural octave

that still feels awkwardly misplaced

 in polished spaces.

So no—public speaking has never come naturally to me.

Repetition makes me restless.
Routine has never been my portion.
My mind craves movement, 

mystery, and meaning.

That’s why psychological thrillers

 feel like home—
because my adrenaline likes smoke,
my discernment likes puzzles,
and my spirit enjoys testing 

truth against a good plot twist.

I love unraveling mysteries.
I love the tension of not knowing.
I love stories that force you to pay attention.

And writing—
writing is where I exhale.

It is my peace.
My release.
My therapy.
My act of self-preservation.

Because public service is not

 for the faint of heart.

It’s exhausting.
Political.
Unpredictable.
Sometimes thankless.
And no two days ever arrive 

wearing the same face.

So after spending hours 

being relentlessly “on,”
serving, solving, responding, carrying—
I retreat into silence.

I meditate.
I unplug my thoughts.
I unpack my day piece by piece.

And sometimes healing from “daily realities” doesn’t arrive dressed 

in pretty language or tied 

with polished bows.

Sometimes healing sounds 

like an exhausted whispered prayer:

“Lord, don’t let temporary frustrations trigger permanent reactions.

Guard my mouth, my mind, 

and my character.

Don’t let my emotions dishonor Your name or the integrity You’re building in me.”

These past few weeks have 

felt like raw, unedited manuscripts—
full of unexpected plot twists, 

emotional whiplash, and scenes
that left your girl staring into the distance trying to process what just happened.

So saints, friends, family … 

if you stumble upon this—

pray for me! Pray fervently! 

Pray that my spirit remains anchored,
my discernment remains sharp,
and my “hinges” stay spiritually secured
in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Precious Holy Spirit.

Cause baby there’s always 

one the enemy uses 

to try to blow the hinges 

off the frame of the foundation that God built.

Lord, hide me near the cross (daily),

so I can see the work you called me 

to completion.

No distractions.

No external noise.

No reaction.

No interference.

Just forward motion

in community service.

Cinco Shades of Pink

What you see in this photograph
is not simply five people standing side by side—
it is five spirits,
five storms of becoming,
five histories stitched together by purpose.

Five different personalities.
Five ways of seeing the world.
Five lived truths.
Five perspectives shaped by triumph, exhaustion, sacrifice, and hope.

Five shades of pink—
soft enough to comfort,
strong enough to survive.

And yet, beneath every difference,
one shared calling:
service.

As librarians,
as advocates,
as guardians of access and possibility,
we wage quiet revolutions every day.

We battle barriers that keep people unseen.
We bridge the digital divide
one conversation, one resource, one open door at a time.

We nurture literacy not just as a skill,
but as liberation.

And the weight of that mission
is not carried lightly.

There are long days hidden inside nontraditional hours.
Moments when frustration spills across the desk.
Moments when tension rises
from fatigue, misunderstanding, or simply being human.

Because even those devoted to serving others
sometimes struggle to pour from half-empty cups.

But somehow—always—
we find our way back to one another.

Across the circulation desk,
across the noise,
across the heaviness of the day,
we reach.

We pull each other close enough
to remember our why.

To steady the rhythm.
To restore the fire.
To reclaim the joy hidden beneath responsibility.

Today was no different.

With a thousand demands tugging at our minds,
we chose each other instead.

We chose to pause.
To exhale.
To soften without breaking.

To become, for one another,
a refuge in the chaos.

A pillar when the world feels heavy.
A haven when the spirit grows tired.
A safe place to land
when carrying everyone else becomes too much.

Five shades of pink.
Different in hue,
united in heart.

“In the Stacks”

Baby, this “auntie” lives  

for a good read…

They say at fifty plus,

the heart seeks still waters.

But this Auntie?

 I crave the flood.

I don’t want the sappy, 

the shallow, 

or the ghost in the corner.

Give me raw and uncut.

Give me the knots that won’t untie.

Give me the jagged turns 

and the plots so tangled 

they draw blood.

I just emerged from the wreckage 

of S.A. Cosby’s, “King of Ashes,”

and let the record show: 

it held me in a 

stilled-breath chokehold.

I wasn’t just reading; 

I was clutching pearls 

and counting casualties.

Imagine the cold ambition of Power, 

the raw soul of Beauty in Black,

and the desperate, 

dirt-stained hustle of The Ozarks

all bled into one big roar.

Cosby didn’t just write a book; 

he built a pyre 

and handed me the match.

It’s giving FIVE stars—

a rating written in smoke.

Don’t you dare whisper that 

reading is a quiet obsolete thing.

I have the receipts 

and scars to prove it’s alive.

Escobar told us that 

empires are created in 

blood and fire,

and honey,

 Cosby brought the entire inferno.

If you value your peace, 

look away.

But if you value the truth, 

find Chapter 28 

& lay a marker there, 

where the soul of the book 

finally speaks:

“Sometimes the man wearing the crown 

ain’t the man that’s supposed to be the king.”

It is a sermon on power. 

It is a eulogy for the unworthy.

I won’t betray all the secrets, 

but know this:

It is drama refined into a diamond, 

sharp enough to cut.

Run. 

Don't walk toward the heat.

Cosby isn't just an author; 

he is the GOAT of the burn.

And in these pages?

Everything—

the crown, 

the kingdom, 

and the man—

turns to ash.

It’s definitely LIT!