Jason F. Wright is a New York Times best-selling author of 10 books, including "Christmas Jars," "The Wednesday Letters" and "The 13th Day of Christmas." |
He can be reached at email@example.com or jasonfwright.com.
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Dear Unknown Driver: On Sept. 10, sometime between 8 and 10 p.m., you were driving northbound on Route 11 - Main Street - in Woodstock. You were right in front of our quaint, small town movie theatre in the heart of Shenandoah County.
While visiting our home for the first time, a friend noticed the iMac sitting on a small desk in the corner of our very open living room. "That's an interesting spot for a computer. Is that temporary?"
Don't you just love commas? The little periods with tiny tails give great meter and rhythm to writing. They can do the same for speaking -- acting as a breath, the pause or that pivot from one audience member to another.
During my middle school bus-riding years, my family lived in the quiet country several miles outside of Charlottesville. Unfortunately, I was usually the last to board each morning.
At some point during the evening of Election Day, Tuesday, Nov. 4, 1980, my parents happily went to bed knowing that their guy, Ronald Reagan, was going to be elected the next president of United States.
Last week, my family hosted a few good friends for dinner. At some point during the banter between pizza and brownies, one of our guests abruptly changed topics. "So, I've been meaning to ask, what's all this fuss about 'Frozen'?"
A year ago in this weekly column, I described the relief at getting a clean bill of health from my doctor. My mother had threatened that if I didn't schedule a checkup, she'd cut me off from inheriting her extensive thimble collection.
Cue the inspiring music.
Stephanie Robinson of Toms Brook is a wife, mother, friend and Christian. She's also a very thankful soul, and she wants heaven and everyone in between to know it.
Our beloved Virginia has been hit with another winter storm. That means schools have been closed, plows are busy and grocery stores look like the set of a Michael Bay disaster movie.
Every year I speak to thousands of students in public and private schools across the country. At the end of the day, when I walk out the front door and climb back into my rental car, I always have a bit more faith that the future is in pretty good hands.
I've stayed in every imaginable hotel brand from sea to shining sea.
Like many Americans of all faiths and backgrounds, I like to pray often. You probably do, too. We pray at church, over meals, at bedtime, before road trips and when life presents a need that only heaven can meet.
I'm something of a worrier. I worry about our country, my kids, my half-written books, my friends, my mother, money and time. I even worry that I won't have time to do all the worrying I've already scheduled for 2014.
Every year, a few days before Christmas, my family walks into a superstore and with mom and dad's help, our children scatter and purchase pre-budgeted presents for one another. They bob and weave like spies to avoid detection, hiding in clothing displays or playfully posing as mannequins.
By Jason Wright When my novel Christmas Jars, was first released in 2005, our goals were modest. We aimed to sell a few books and inspire readers to experiment with the tradition for themselves. On a personal level, I hoped to reignite the spirit of Christmas in my own heart and home. In 2005, it was about a book. Nine years later, it's about a movement of miracles. For the uninitiated, the tradition is simple and works for anyone and any size family. Simply place an empty pickle, peanut butter, jam or other Mason jar on your kitchen counter or desk at work. Each day, every member of the family drops their spare coins into the jar. Even in this day of electronic money and debit cards, you'll be amazed at how quickly a few shiny pennies and a quarter will accumulate into real change. When Christmas arrives, gather with your family, church friends or officemates and select someone who might benefit from a little boost. During the last nine years, based on thousands of emails and anecdotes, we've calculated that by the time a jar is given away, the average Christmas Jar holds just more than $200. For many...
It's not that I didn't see this coming, right? I've known for a long time that Oakli, my oldest child, would turn 18 this week. Come to think of it, I guess I've known for, well, 18 years.
I first collaborated with Glenn Beck on his 2008 novel, "The Christmas Sweater." Though categorized as fiction, the inspirational story was carefully poured in the concrete of Beck's childhood, and with every edit, he insisted we stay as true to his personal history as possible.
One of my biggest regrets celebrates a birthday this month. Ten years have passed since I ignored three of the most important words I've ever heard.
It's hard to imagine just 10 years ago we lived in a tragic world where no one knew what their friends had for breakfast.
Twenty years ago a young married woman was sexually assaulted in California. The attack resulted in a pregnancy that the woman refused to terminate, despite her husband's threats of divorce.
Picture this: I was strolling around the track at the Central campus with a handful of students discussing what subjects they like most and who were their favorite teachers. After a lap or two, a young man startled us from behind by sprinting right through the middle of our group and shouting something rude as he blurred by. "Whoa!" I asked, "Who was that?" A darling blonde swept her long hair over her shoulder and said, "Oh, that's just my ex." You would expect this interplay among high school students. But no, these kids weren't quite there. Middle school? Nope, these kids still have to hold a hand when crossing the street. They couldn't possibly be in elementary school, could they? Indeed, my walking buddies were third-graders. I quizzed the kids as we continued circling the track. "How many of you have already had a boyfriend or girlfriend?" Almost half said they had. "Have you ever been on a date?" A few brave students said "yes," and then explained that a "date" for kids their age usually means meeting at a predetermined place on the playground during recess. "Do you actually call them dates?" I asked. "Do other boys and...
There are at least three alternate headlines that could have told the story of 2-year-old Jakob Heintzelman. Each would have grabbed the reader right by the heart:
One year ago, if a friend had told me he was suffering from anxiety so debilitating it prevented him from working, studying, speaking in public or even being alone, I might have suggested it was a figment of his imagination.
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