I Am From . . .

(Here in Florida, I am often asked, “Where are you from?” Then I name the states I have lived in, but Katelyn, our remarkable teenager, reminded me there is so much more to that question.)

I am from nimble hands . . .

  • that tickled my skin while pinning the seams on my hand-me-down dress.
  • that transformed our garden carrots, onions and peas into savory servings that sustained us.
  • that aged with creases . . .
  • yet continued to carve symbols of what one heart can do for another.

I am from broken parts . . .

I am from old cars with broken parts like this 1950's Chevy that limped and chugged us to our first year of college.  You couldn't get the doors to close without a hammer. 

Even in our Sunday best, Sandy and I would clumsily wield a heavy hammer on the door hinges. Once they gave way, we would toss the hammer into the back, slam the doors shut, dust off our clothes, straighten our hats, then regaining our best lady-like postures, we would walk up the front steps at Our Lady of Victories Church. 

I am from other broken things, like hearts that became unhinged after loss, who limped through life to find closure and healing . . .with family and with our church community, where bread was broken in memory of Him. 


I am from the ordinary. . .

I am from generations of the ordinary, the wretched, the poor, the homeless, who came ashore carrying in the palm of their hands a fierce legacy of hard work, steadfast faith and devotion to family.  That in itself is extraordinary.
I am from sturdy soles, the ground workers with purpose, yielding earthly crops and cultivating souls.

I am from girlfriends . . .

I am from strands of untangled friendships braided together in harmony.  Together we smooth out the knots. 

I am from books . . .

  • that cultivated my mind with gardens of thought.
  • that mapped new roads to travel.
  • that delighted me with the wonders of words.
  • that ignited the poetry of life.
  • that could simultaneously echo me back and jettison me forward.
  • that generate the power of inquiry.
  • that never cease to inspire . . .
A book is a garden, an orchard, a storehouse, a teacher, a doorway, a map, and a multitude of counselors.
            – Charles Baudelaire
I am from little knees that could bend each night while holding onto beliefs that could not . . . and did not . . . bend.


Blessed is the man who trusts in the LORD, and whose hope is the LORD. For he shall be like a tree planted by the waters . . . and its leaf will be green.
      -----Jeremiah 17:7
And I am from Christmases of glistening tinsel, memories of long shiny threads of light, that once flickered and are now gone but not forgotten.


Where Are You From?

8 Comments Add yours

  1. Nancy E Buhrer says:

    Gosh Gloria, I love this one as it brings up so many memories for me –thank you!!


    1. Nancy, Great memories for me too. That same old Chevy was even more quirky. The hood would randomly pop-up while driving. I know that sounds so dangerous, and it was . . .but we’d always pull over, close it and be off again.
      I am very proud of my ancestors. My grandchildren have everything they can ever want, but I want them to know from whence we came.


  2. Trudy Getler says:

    I adore this and the flood of memories you evoked. Thank you. Would you mind if I share on my fb feed?


    1. Thank you. That would be fine. My words are meant to be shared.


  3. Jeanette Garcia says:

    Dr. Hill, this is so beautiful! Although there are many years that separate us, but so much of your story resonated with me! Everything from the Christmases and family background truly struck a chord. I have to add in the love for American cars (it’s rare to find another woman who includes that in their story!) but I own a Mustang and I, too, come from a lineage that loved American cars. I am so happy that you shared this with me. I hope to begin a blog of my own like this one day- perhaps between ending my masters now and beginning my Ph.D?


    1. Jeanette,
      Thank you so much. I appreciate every word and thought. There are free blog sites. You can journal without posting as some of my friends do. It’s just a way to sort of “prime the pump”. Yet I understand the whole timing issue. Your gifts will not spoil. No shelf life on creativity. You will know when “it” calls you.


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