Destiny Herndon-DeLaRosa


In Uncategorized on March 15, 2017 at 3:53 pm

I just considered getting hit by a car to teach my husband a lesson. I’m not sure if all women are this psycho, but right now I most definitely am.

First let me clarify, I have THE BEST husband in the world. Usually.

Today, however, he brewed the end of the coffee, drank it all, then left the house and wasn’t answering my texts. Texts like, “Hey, did you drink all the coffee?” and “Where are the coffee beans?!? I need to make more coffee!” and “ABRAHM, PLEASE ANSWER YOUR PHONE. I’M TRYING TO RUSH OUT THE DOOR AND CAN’T FIND THE #@$%&^* COFFEE!!!”

I mean, who wouldn’t want to respond to those, amiright?

Turns out, he wasn’t answering because he was busy dropping our son off at preschool, since he’s the adult in our marriage who wakes up hours before his day starts and keeps our lives functioning. I, on the other hand, am the one who wakes up 15 minutes before I’m supposed to be at work, throws my hair in a ponytail, and totally expects that my husband will always have left half a pot of coffee ready and waiting  for me as I fly out the door.

Today was different though. Today, I was betrayed by those closest to me.

So now, I was officially late, but luckily there’s a Starbucks right by my office. I parked and ran in because their drive-thru is ridiculous. As I was walking up there were two other women right behind me, I did that nice thing where you hold the door open and let them go through first. WHAT WAS I THINKING?!?! Never, I repeat NEVER do that at a Starbucks!

Basically, I just bought myself another 10 minutes in line while these chicks ordered their ridiculous 15-step lattes.

Finally, it was my turn. Black Coffee. “Leave room for cream?” the barista asked. “Nah.” I already had a travel mug in the car with 2-inches of my creamer, so that I  could at least pretend like this was a normal day where I had my perfect home coffee and not their froo-froo-frappi-crap.

She handed me my Grande paper cup o’coffee and I hit the door. I parked opposite the drive-thru and as I started to cross, the car at the window lurched forward.

That’s when it happened.

That’s when my crazy lady brain actually started doing some sort of weird almost mathematical resentment equations tallying up the amount of physical pain I would inflict on myself vs. the amount of guilt and emotional pain I would inflict on my husband for drinking all the coffee if I let that Dodge RAM live up to its name and take me out right there on the side of a Starbucks.

It would also be an excellent excuse for why I was late to work. Plus, I could probably sue them and the settlement would be Venti, so added bonus.

Clearly, I wasn’t thinking straight. My brain needed caffeine, pronto. I scurried out of the drive-thru lane and zipped to my office.

As soon as I parked and got out of my car, I saw a woman coming from the opposite direction holding an enormous crockpot. I vaguely recognized her from the office park, but I didn’t know her well enough to, like, rush over and help or anything. Plus, I was carrying my Starbucks paper cup, phone, and keys in one hand and my travel mug of creamer in the other, so who was I to be helpful at a time like this anyway?

As she began matching me step-for-step I realized we were going to get to the glass doors at the exact same time and it was going to turn into one of those super awkward moments where one person whose hands are full of crap was gonna have to struggle to hold the door open for the other person whose hands are full of crap.

I made a split-second judgement call. Hang back.

That’s when I realized this had potentially catastrophic consequences, because if she was the Saint I suspected she was (for goodness sakes she was evidently about to cook something for her co-workers), she could end up reaching the door first, opening it, THEN WAITING and holding it for me all the while trying not to drop a giant crock-pot.

ABORT MISSION. I sped back up so we’d both reach the door at the same time again.

She gets there right before me, struggles to open it a crack and then begins trying to shimmy her body through the opening. At this point, I know I have to do something, so I transfer my paper Starbucks cup to the crook of my elbow and hurriedly stick my keys in my pocket. Now I have one free arm so I can open the door all the way for her.

She jokes that my hands were full too, and thanks me. I wish her a nice day as I feel the paper cup pinch together in my elbow. Hadn’t I learned my lesson about holding the door for people by this point?!?!

I make it down the hall to my office, and fumble for my keys as I feel the paper cup shift again. I walk through door praying the cup won’t fall and with my co-worker, Todd, and his dumb, happy, well-caffeinated face watching, my life suddenly clicks into slo-mo.

You know what I’m talking about. One of those moments where you feel like you’re living the instant replay version of what just happened.

The cup slips, I drop the other stuff in my arms, I catch it and only a few drops erupt from the top, I let out a sigh of relief, then the lid pops off allowing the entire cup to collapse and slip through my hands again. I drop to my knees in a feeble attempt to catch it. I make contact, but only enough to change the trajectory, sending the scolding hot coffee into a glorious tailspin allowing it to soak my pants, shirt, phone, and the carpet all in a record braking .03 seconds.

And then there was silence.

Todd just stared at me, and I just stared at the floor as if I was examining the ballistics of a coffee bean murder. My eyes stretched from the carpet to the wall.

And then I decided to give up. To just quit. I crumpled onto my stomach and laid on the floor mourning my morning. Because that’s what grown-ass women do. They lay in the carpeted lobby of their offices and quit life sometimes. But only for a few minutes. Then they have to get up and check emails, because they were already late, not to mention they’d just destroyed the carpet of the office so they really have a lot to make up for.

As I slunk to my desk, stupid Todd with his always jolly great dumb face (which I normally adore, but not today, Todd. NOT TODAY!) tried to lighten the mood by saying, “Hey Destiny, I’m gonna get you a shirt that says, ‘I survived March 15th!'” to which I replied, “You know who didn’t survive March 15th…..”

“CAESAR!!!!!!! Caeser didn’t survive March 15th! But at least Brutus ONLY stabbed him in the back and didn’t drink all the %#$@^&* coffee.”


I dedicate this story to my husband Abrahm. He’s probably not going to love that I wrote it, but he needs to know that this was very cathartic for me and turning this shit show of a morning into something at least mildly amusing is the only way I’m going to be able to get out of my funk. Since I’m tired… and I don’t have anything to pep me up.



In Uncategorized on February 3, 2016 at 3:27 pm


He’s always touching me when we’re together. It’s one of my favorite things. His older brother does this too, so even though we’re not suppose to draw such distinctions in 2016, I wonder if it might be a “boy” thing.

My daughter’s cuddle me with reckless abandon. For them, sitting on the couch and watching TV is a full contact sport. I often joke that like those monkeys that die in captivity from lack of touch, I’m going to be the first human case of death from far too much. I’m their pillow, jungle gym, and personal futon all rolled into one. I adore them and their affection, but it can feel a bit overwhelming when they’re both literally laying on my body.

My boys are different though. My oldest will sit on the other end of the couch but his foot will always be touching my foot. There’s a connection there even if it’s not obvious to everyone else because I mean, c’mon, he’s 15 and way too cool to actually love me and stuff. But still, he’ll walk by and throw his arm over my shoulder or play with my hair, if only for a few seconds. Likewise, Max doesn’t need to smother me like his sisters but he does need contact… a lifeline.

Maybe it’s a boy thing, or perhaps my boys are just more in tune with my preferences for affection. Either way, I know how hashtag blessed I am to have eight little hands twirling my hair or fiddling with my necklace and eight feet kicking me out of my own bed most nights. Some day those touches will be gone and then I’ll know how the monkeys felt…

Finding Persecution in Paper Cups

In Uncategorized on November 11, 2015 at 6:35 pm


What happens when righteous indignation is the closest we can get to feeling righteous? It’s simple… we’ll start looking for it everywhere.

When there’s nothing about our existence that screams, “I’m a follower of Christ,” we end up having to do the all screaming ourselves.

Because here’s the thing, as believers we’ve been told that the world should hate us just as it hated Christ. And well, if it doesn’t, then we’re doing Christianity wrong.

However, these days few Christians live offensively. I mean, don’t get me wrong, many of us are plenty offensive, but in all the wrong ways. Most of us live for our own comfort… for our own success.. for our best life now.

We donate to charities when we can, but blame the government for taking too much out of our checks (which we claim is why we’re unable to donate as much as we’d like).

And while I’ll give the rest of you the benefit of the doubt when it comes to that, I’ll be honest… if suddenly every paycheck had an extra $250 in it, would I take that straight over to a food pantry?

Probably not.

I have four kids, and two bald tires, and my inspection’s been out for an embarrassingly long amount of time, and hey, I also run a group that’s trying to change the culture, so there’s enough reason to justify that $250 staying with me, right? Isn’t there?

…we’re so quick to point out the generational welfare dependency of others that few of us want to acknowledge our own dependency on the government to do the job Christ called us to do.

We take care of the orphans… kinda. I mean, isn’t that what my tax money is going toward? And we feed the homeless… sorta. Where do you think they get those food stamps from after all? And we help the widows whose husbands were killed by drug cartels and now need a safe home for themselves and their children… oh wait, no. We don’t even pretend to care about those people. We tell ourselves they’re all just rapists and criminals who weren’t #blessed enough to win the geographic lottery that we did. Obviously, something’s wrong with their walk… otherwise God would be #blessing them too.

And because of that, we suck. And deep down we know we suck. But we don’t know how to change because for generations now Christians have been comfortable and so instead of living like Christ and being persecuted by the world because what we’re doing is so Earth shatteringly effective that the enemy wants to stop us…. we do nothing except listen to the lies of the talking heads from the comfort of our couch. “Oh, you are being persecuted though…. There is a war on Christians in America… the world hates you just like it hated Christ… see, the proof’s right here in this paper cup.”

And the righteous indignation sets in, and for just a moment we feel holy… holier-than-thou.