Today Craig A. Pridgen would have turned 70. This is what he taught me.
The father of one of my best friends growing up had a study. It was down a long hallway of the second story of their house and it mostly sat empty—the darkest, most mysterious corner of the home. I never set foot inside but once in awhile as we went running by, I’d catch a glimpse. There were mysterious paintings and strange sculpture. Once in awhile sun peeking through blinds would catch a gold pen or magnifying glass lens on the desk and temporarily blind you. None of the four kids went into the study either—if they could help it. But once in awhile a hand or a voice would beckon them in, individually, and a talk would ensue.
Though the contents of those conversations remain a mystery today, each child, in…
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