I don’t know what to do today. Perhaps I’ll go outside and play, or stay indoors and watch TV, or take a bath, or climb a tree.
Or maybe I’ll go ride my bike, or pick my nose, or take a hike, or jump a rope, or scratch my head, or play a game, or stay in bed, or dance a jig, or pet the cat, or drink some milk, or buy a hat, or sing a song, or read a book, or change my socks, or learn to cook, or dig a hole, or eat a pear, or call my friends, or brush my hair, or hold my breath, or have a race, or stand around and slap my face.
I’m so confused, and bored, and blue, to not know what I ought to do. I guess that I should just ask you. So, what do you think I should do?
I came across this children’s humorous poem about not knowing what to do, and it immediately transported me back to the days when my kids were little.
Back then, outside of TV, the only technology we had was the Atari. We played games like Pong and Asteroids, does anyone remember those? But honestly, some of my favorite entertainment had nothing to do with any of that. It was watching my kids make up their own fun, especially when they were doing aerobics in the living room and calling out:
“Watch me, Mommy.”
“Mommy, look at this.”
“See what I can do, Mommy?”
Those little moments were priceless.
Today, my grown children each have their own unique gifts, talents, and personalities. I still love hearing from them, whether it’s through a phone call, text, or email. My heart still skips a beat whenever they achieve something wonderful. They continue to make me smile, and we still laugh together.
Children grow up so quickly. Blink, and suddenly you’re wondering where all the years went. Cherish those moments while you can.
(I originally shared this post back in 2013, but the memories are still just as special. Some things are worth revisiting.)
By the way, here’s a sketch I drew of my kids some 40 years ago.
We have five family members with birthdays this month. On Aug. 11th, Daddy turns 93.
I’ve written so many stories of him over the years because he has given me so many stories to tell. With his animated personality, he has always been a natural storyteller. If you’ve been reading my blog for a while, you’ve probably met him more than once.
These days, I find myself thinking less about the big moments, and more about the little ones. The sound of his voice. His warm smile when he sees me. The comfort of simply sitting beside him.
At 93, every birthday feels a little more precious.
“Gray hair is a crown of glory; it is gained in a righteous life.” —Proverbs 16:31
So this year, I won’t say much. Just say thank you.
Thank you for a lifetime of love, for believing in me, and for being the first man I ever looked up to.
Happy birthday, Daddy!
I love you.
“Every wrinkle on his face is a story I’m grateful to know.”
On this Father’s Day, my heart keeps returning to a kind of fatherhood that doesn’t always match the perfect pictures people post.
My parents divorced when I was young. I was only five or six when it became final. Mama raised me on her own, and I saw my daddy during visits when he’d come get me. My stepmother was there too, and thankfully, very loving. Those times were special, even if they were short. I always looked forward to them.
I loved it when Daddy took me to the park. And I especially loved his stories.
“Tell me the one about the goat sucker in Puerto Rico,” I’d say, already smiling.
His eyes would light up. “¡Oh, sí!” he’d exclaim, slapping his thigh. “¡El Chupacabra! Dis thin’ went around to all the animales, suckin’ their blood dry.” Then he’d lower his voice, warning me to close the doors because “El Chupacabra is comin’ to suck your blood!”
I’d giggle and called him “muy loco,” but those silly, animated moments made me feel close to him.
As a little girl, I was sure I had the best daddy in the world, even though he wasn’t there every day. Of course, there were moments I wanted more. More time. More ordinary days. More closeness. That distance left a quiet ache I carried for years.
But looking back now, I can see the pieces he did give me. He made me feel like I mattered. He showed up when he could. And somehow, those moments stayed with me.
I used to focus so much on what was missing that I overlooked what was there. Healing, for me, began when I started holding onto those small, good things instead of only replaying the absence.
I also came to understand something deeper: God meets us in the gaps people leave behind. Where love felt inconsistent, God was steady. Where presence felt limited, He never was.
This Father’s Day, I’m choosing gratitude for what I was given instead of dwelling on what I wasn’t. Thank you, Daddy, for the hugs, the park visits, the laughter, the wild stories, and the love that found its way to me, even across distance. I appreciate you now in ways I couldn’t as a child.
To every daughter whose story includes distance, divorce, or a father who wasn’t there as much as she needed: your feelings are real. The longing doesn’t just disappear. But there is still something good worth holding on to, and healing is possible.
And to the fathers reading this, whether you’re biological, step, or simply doing your best to show up – please keep going! Even an imperfect presence leaves a mark.
Not the kind of hungry a snack fixes. The kind that settles into your bones when you’re small and poor and there’s not much in the refrigerator.
So when I think back to the smells of my childhood, the first one that finds me isn’t café con leche or a pot of arroz con pollo bubbling on a Sunday afternoon. It’s a hot dog. Frying. In the middle of the night.
I couldn’t have been more than five or six years old. I was home alone and had fallen asleep, waiting. I heard the door open in the wee hours of the morning. Mama and my stepfather were home from a night out. Still tipsy. Loud in the way grown-ups get home late at night when they think the little ones are asleep.
Half asleep, I called out the only thing on my mind.
Mama. I’m hungry.
She grumbled, surprised that I was still awake. But she went straight to that hotplate and started frying me a hot dog. When my stepfather asked her to make him one too, she put him right in his place.
Hold your horses.
Me first.
In her own imperfect way, she chose me that night. Eyes barely open, I ate that hot dog in bed like it was a feast.
Because it was.
But the smells and sounds that shaped me most came later.
I spent three precious years with my grandparents in their small two-bedroom apartment in sunny Miami.
At the time, I thought it was just life. I didn’t know yet that those three years would become the safest years of my childhood.
I knew I was loved there before I even opened my eyes in the morning. I could hear the soft clattering of dishes in the kitchen, my grandmother up and moving, already starting the day before it had even begun. Near the curtain window, doves cooed somewhere nearby. And always, always, there was the aroma of Spanish coffee.
On the radio, Paul Harvey’s warm, unhurried voice filled the room. And now… the rest of the story. Even the radio felt steady in that house.
My grandfather was a man of few words. Strong, quiet, and deeply loving toward my grandma. He didn’t cook; that was entirely Grandma’s domain, but he showed up in every other way a man can.
Every morning, he walked me to school. Every afternoon, he walked me home. No big speeches. No lessons announced. He allowed me to speak, asking how my day went. Just his presence, steady as a heartbeat, beside me on the sidewalk while I chattered along.
He read the Bible every day and the newspaper front to back. And every Sunday, after church, we took the city bus to a cafeteria for lunch and then to the library in downtown Miami, where we’d spend hours wandering among the books. Looking back, I think that was his way of showing me the world.
And Grandma.
She cooked three warm meals a day, every single day. I didn’t know until I was older that she wasn’t the best cook. It didn’t matter. To a little girl who had gone to bed hungry more times than she could count, three warm meals a day felt like abundance. Like being rich.
If you didn’t finish your plate, there was no dessert. Simple as that.
But what I remember most about Grandma wasn’t the food. It was the sound of her.
She hummed gospel songs through everything, while ironing on the aluminum table on laundry day, at the sewing machine, at her big black typewriter, or crocheting in her rocker.
Worship wasn’t just for Sundays with Grandma.
Grandma hummed while doing everything, always moving, making something, doing for others, always grateful.
And on Sundays, we dressed in our best.
I didn’t have many dresses, but what I had was always clean and pressed. Grandma made sure of that. We walked into church looking like we belonged there, because she believed we did.
The church was our source of strength, comforting and encouraging us in a way that held us together through the week. I would watch my grandmother in the pew, her eyes glistening with tears she didn’t bother to wipe away.
She wasn’t performing. She was just… grateful. Deeply, quietly, overflowingly grateful to God.
I didn’t fully understand it then. But I was watching faith with skin on it. And it was leaving its mark on me.
I was sent back to live with Mama when I was twelve. That chapter is its own story, and not an easy one.
But I still carry the memories with me.
The soft sheets between my toes. The cooing of the doves outside my window. The aroma of coffee. Paul Harvey’s mellow voice. My grandfather’s footsteps beside mine. And my grandmother’s humming over the daily chores of our home.
Those smells and sounds didn’t just shape my childhood.
It’s been three years since you’ve been gone from us … you would have turned 91 years old today. I know you are celebrating the best birthday ever. On this day, I just wanted to wish you a happy birthday in heaven.
I hope you know you are sorely missed. It’s no secret we’ve been through some hard times together. Although you weren’t the perfect mother, I wasn’t the perfect daughter. Perhaps, we were perfect for each other. I pretty much miss everything about you! Never thought I’d say, even your bickering over something or about someone. I miss buying you trinkets, pretty blouses, and taking you to a nice restaurant. It was good to help you forget problems and enjoy your special day. Putting a smile on your face meant everything to me.
In the end, it hurt to let you go, but seeing you suffer in pain was worse. I asked the Lord that you’d still be around on Mother’s Day. And God called you home in time; it was on Mother’s Day at 3 pm. You are totally healed now. You have no more pain. There is no discomfort, or tears, or worry. You are with your Savior and loved ones who have gone on before you. Please send them all my love.
I will never forget you. Sending you kisses and all my love, Mama.
As a young girl, I knew I had the best Daddy in the world. Although my parents were divorced, he’d come for me throughout the years.
I loved it when he took me to the parks. My daddy may have been short, but he was a big kid at heart and loads of fun. He had a knack for mimicking different sounds. Children laughed whenever he cried out like Tarzan on the jungle gym. He wouldn’t hesitate to push me high on the swing. I squealed with delight when he ran in front and scrambled away right in time before I could kick him. He’d twirl me on the merry-go-round until we couldn’t go anymore and tumbled on the ground from exhaustion. Me from laughing hard; he from running in circles.
Daddy worked as the produce manager in a huge grocery chain store. He was a hard worker and a model employee. A friendly and robust people person, he never grew tired of chatting with his customers and telling them jokes. His dark eyes twinkled with glee. The mirth in his thick Puerto Rican accent, mixed with his animated personality, charmed all.
Sometimes Daddy caused havoc, but always in fun. He often mimicked the sound of a kitten near the produce stand at work to see the children’s reactions. Once, an elderly woman hunted everywhere for the pobrecito. Then another time, while whistling like a bird, he had customers looking up for one. He even imitated a newborn’s cry.
“Excuse me, sir, but don’t you hear a baby crying somewhere?” a worried customer asked.
“A baby? No, no,” he answered. “No baby over here.” Daddy chuckled as he related to me how he watched the mystified customer walk away, shaking her head.
Daddy told me another story about a little boy in a shopping cart. The boy kept staring at him the whole time. His mother was across the aisle, weighing her vegetables.
“I smiled at da boy and asket his name, but he dun say noteen,” Daddy explained. “He just keep lookin’ and lookin’ at me, like I’m ugly or somethin’.”
“Then what did you do?” I asked and chuckled.
“I dun do noteen . . .” Daddy’s eyes twinkled.
“Go on,” I persisted, knowing of his pranks.
“I just smiled big and stuck out my bottom dentures at da boy.”
“No, Daddy, you didn’t!” I laughed, remembering him doing that very thing before, enough to startle anyone.
“Yeah, but then da boy started cryin’, so I got outta there fast,” Daddy said guiltily. “I dunno where I get these jokes. You got a funny papi, eh?”
“Yeah.” I giggled. “Muy loco, all right. Tell me the story about the goat sucker in Puerto Rico,” I said, wiping my eyes.
“¡Oh, si!” Daddy exclaimed, slapping his thigh. “¡El Chupacabra! Dis thin’ dat went round to all the animales suckin’ their blood dry.”
“Yep, that’s the one,” I said.
“Man, da people get so scared and say it’s some kind of diablo. They say, ‘sierra la puerta’, close your door, El Chupacabra is goin’ to suck your blood!”
“Ya ever see one, Daddy?”
“No, no, I never see dat thin’ in my life.” He chuckled and added, “I dunno if I believe it.”
“Well, it’s sure an awful, scary story.” I shuddered at the possibilities.
Yes, my daddy has always been a natural-born storyteller. I could sit and listen to him for hours. “Tell me again about the first time you left Puerto Rico on the plane.”
“When I left my hometown Utuado in 1952?” His eyes flickered miles away, as he mused. “Flyin’ in dat two-engine airplane made me so scared. I needed to go to el baño so bad. The stewardess want to tell me somteen. Pues, I dunno what she say; I dunno any Inglish then. She talk louder but I dun understand; I just wanna go. I try to make her understand me, so I jell to her, ‘I no spic inglish! I no spic inglish!’”
As I listened to his broken English, I laughed until my sides ached and my eyes watered.
My Papi, Benjamin Pérez
“Daddy, you didn’t know how to speak English when you were nineteen?”
“No hija, I didn’. Later, my cousin in New York explained to me that da stewardess just wanted me to put my seatbelt on. Ay bendito nene,” Daddy laughed. “I didn’ understand noteen.”
“Hey Papi,” I said, wiping my eyes. “Ya know what?”
“¿Que mi vida?”
“Ya still have an accent.”
“Ju tellin’ me, man.” He laughed.
This is a story about my father (who recently turned 92 years old). His character is one part of the tapestry of Running in Heels: a Memoir of Grit and Grace. Now, I’m translating the memoir into Spanish to honor my Puerto Rican roots and reach hearts that need this story. I can’t do it without you! Help me bring grit and grace to new readers.
Creative Director – Charlie Duggar featuring artists: Evan Craft, Danny Gokey, Redimi2 – “Be Alright” Tercer Cielo – “Yo Te Extrañare” Boyz II Men – “A Song for Mama” Elvis Presley – “Take My Hand, Precious Lord” Josh Groban – “You Raise Me Up” Mercy Me – “I Can Only Imagine”
We had to say so long to Mama 6 1/2 months ago … on Mother’s Day … at 3 P.M. to be exact. After much prayer and reflection, I tried to brace myself for the end. It still shook me to the core. As a Christian, I know she received the best Mother’s Day gift and no longer suffers. I have no doubt she is in a much better place without pain and illness. She is dancing on the streets of gold. She is seeing her Savior face to face. She is reuniting with loved ones who had gone on before her. I am thankful to the Lord that Mama finished the race. And I know that I will see her again. But the pain of missing her still lingers on.
Sadly, two of her sons–my half-brothers–were constantly on her mind. They had lived a hard life, incarcerated. Her youngest barely made parole after 27 years. I’m glad he was able to spend some time with her. He saw Mama at the end and attended her Memorial Service. The next-to-youngest wasn’t so fortunate and didn’t have that luxury. Although he is now out of prison, he is in the beginning stages of grieving for Mama. He was trying to process it all.
If I’m to be honest, I didn’t feel up to it. I didn’t want to have Thanksgiving with them in my home. I certainly didn’t want any more drama. I just didn’t know what to expect! Too many years had gone by. The two brothers hadn’t spent quality time together for over 30 years. Yet, I knew Mama would have wanted this for them: for us to all be together again. And so, I asked for prayer at my church, for the grace and the strength to carry it through. You see, I knew in my own strength that I was powerless.
I wrote out the holiday menu, went grocery shopping, and did lots of prepping. That afternoon, my daughter and son helped with some of the recipes. I spent 6 hours in the kitchen the night before! Hubby got up at 2 am to smoke the turkey, and I finished cooking that morning. Daughter and son scooped up the brothers separately and brought them to our home around noon.
We all embraced, and the brothers were surprised to see each other. It felt awkward at first. Heated words were exchanged. But, as my son said, some things needed to be spoken and released. We reminisced as serene conversations commenced. Pictures were soon taken, and we found ourselves laughing. The smoked turkey, ham, and side dishes were spread out on the dinner table. Then, we stood in a circle, united. We took turns praying for both of them. When it was time to grub, my goodness, can my brothers eat! They devoured every morsel until they couldn’t. Afterward, we played a board game and then dug into the desert.
At the end of the day, I think something afresh ignited in our hearts.
Google says gratitude is the quality of being thankful. It also means readiness to show appreciation for and return kindness.
Sometimes you must put your feelings aside and do something out of love and gratitude. The Lord has been so good to us and has blessed us in countless ways! This selfless action made a difference on my part – my pettiness had to get out of the way. Lord knows I had prayed enough, so it was time to put my faith into action. The Lord has blessed me to be a blessing to others. It was time to be a blessing, a time of giving, a time of love.
Life is made up of moments. I am thankful for my family and the gift of life. God has a perfect plan for each and every one of us. We all come from different walks of life; no one is better than the other. May we find joy in the simplest of things. Easy? Not always. Possible? Yes! Because He lives, we can face our tomorrows!
Someone said: Instead of living in the shadows of yesterday, walk in the light of today and the hope of tomorrow.
One of my cousins from across the miles posed a couple of great questions, giving me food for thought. He asked:
Why do you write? And why do you write about the family?
My answer to him:
First of all, I write because I know I have a story to tell. As a kid, eventually, I discovered we were dirt poor. In my teens looking back, I realized that I was neglected and forced to grow up too fast. I was ashamed of my childhood and bitter for being my mama’s mother. As I “matured,” settled down, married, and had children of my own, along the way I found I was a stronger person because of some of the things that I endured as a child.
Once I embraced the God of my grandparents, I became a much better person, too. NOT that I had it all together; I still had a few things to learn. But I learned that it was much better to let go of the bitterness and to forgive than to hold onto the junk.
I also learned that I didn’t have to be a product of my environment! I could rise above the ashes like a phoenix and become so much better. That was my freedom — still is — and God has called us to liberty, not to be in prison. Sure I made some mistakes along the way, but I learned from them as well. It starts with a made-up mind! While I’ve managed to confront my past, I believe my past hasn’t spoiled me, but has prepared me for the future. I may not be perfect but whenever I stumble, I can wipe the crud off and walk on. I share my story that I might help one person – and if I have done that then I have done a good thing and God gets the glory.
I mention family because the little girl growing up — although she may have felt like she was alone most times — she was not an orphan and did not live on an island unto herself. There were others around who helped to nurture her in one fashion or another, even, the antagonists in her story. And yes, some were heroes. She cannot tell her story without mentioning those she looked up to. For it to be truthful, she had to address some real and raw emotions and mentioned the flaws — the good, the bad, and the ugly.
The story is not fiction. It is written about how she remembers the events that took shape in her life as a child, a teenager, and into her adulthood. All the memories do not take her to a happy place. She has had to dig deep to find them. To some, those “happy” places may be simple and insignificant, but to her, they were her lifeline.
His response:
I am keeping this to remind me what it takes to be selfless.
The Spanish translation of Running in Heels is complete—but the journey isn’t over. This memoir of grit and grace is being prepared for publication in Spanish, to reach hearts across cultures and generations. From family setbacks to divine provision, every step has been a testimony.
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One of my cousins from across the miles posed a couple of great questions, giving me food for thought. He asked:
From Heart to Heritage
Reflections From the Heart 