Kristine O’Brien

My childhood memories include camping trips in July, as my pastor-father sought renewal in the wilderness of different provincial parks. In the early years of our relationship, Ralph and I enjoyed exploring parts of the country with a tent. We adapted when our older two were born and became skilled at packing the trunk of our Ford Escort with all the necessities, including sand toys and clip-on-the-picnic-table toddler camping seats.

Skip to content The stories we tell ourselves are eye-witness first person accounts …..from the front line ……….of what it means to be me. With a twist. In the stories we tell ourselves you’re the hero, not me. I’m nothing. I wish I was you. The stories we tell ourselves trick us into thinking they’re not worth the telling, that they’re no page-turner, no thriller, and certainly not the mystery …..they most certainly are, a mystery that resolves into the greatest love.

It was a slippery patch of white, that driveway, and soon I found my all-season tires stuck in snow. I was late already for the girls’ tap lessons, all three of them strapped into the backseat, and now this. Now I would need to admit to my in-laws that I couldn’t back up straight out of a driveway. Now we would be late. The muttering began as I climbed from the van into the white drift. And then, the singing.