Editor’s Note: This story is written by Haley Bellows who was recently diagnosed with a very aggressive cancer. She is 20 years old. You can read her story HERE. To stay up to date with Haley, follow her on her blog or Twitter.

I walked in to my fourth consecutive day of chemotherapy, exhausted in every aspect. At this point of my journey, I was ready to throw in the towel.

Physically–my whole body was weak.
Mentally–my world was spinning.
Spiritually–my hope was gone.

As I walked towards my usual room, my nurse stopped me. She asked, “How would you like to join the chemo room today?” Continue Reading…

Editor’s Note: This story is written by staff writer Matt Appling, who blogs about church (and other things) several times a week over HERE. Do you “like” Prodigal on Facebook yet? What are you waiting for??

This room is full of complete strangers.

And most of these strangers are much older than I am.  They are wearing their best suits and dresses.  I’ve done my best to blend in.

The air is permeated with a somber feeling as many of them wipe tears from their eyes.  Except for me.  I am the only person in the room who has not shed one tear.  In fact, my emotions at the moment are not at all sad, but nervous. Continue Reading…

Editor’s Note: Today’s post is by Prodigal President Darrell Vesterfelt who is committed to helping people tell and live good stories. If you don’t already follow him on Twitter, you can do so by clicking HERE. Speaking of which, you should also follow Prodigal on Twitter.

If you read Prodigal every day, you know that we are committed to telling stories. In fact, you probably know that we believe good stories have the ability to change the world.

Here’s the thing. In order to tell a good story, first you have to be living one.

How do you do that? Good question. Continue Reading…

Editor’s Note: Today’s post is from staff writer, Krisi Johnson. If you don’t already, make sure you follow Krisi on Twitter. Also, are you already a Prodigal subscriber? If not, make sure you become one by clicking here.

My mom is not from Norway.

She just married into the clan of mid-west Lutheran farmers, and out of love and commitment to my Dad, she was determined to become an expert Lefsa maker.

So we spent hours watching the VHS “How to make Lefsa” and giggled over the plump farm wife’s little phrases and northern accent. Continue Reading…