Growing up as an energetic chatty young girl, I must have driven my dad crazy. I pestered him with a million questions. With lots and lots of stories. If I heard it once, I heard it a thousand times. After taking a long puff of his Swisher Sweet cigar, a cloud of smoke and frustration would billow out together. “Chrissie, hurry up! Get to the point. You talk too much.”

My father didn’t mean to discourage me, but the enemy of my soul did. He wanted to destroy my confidence.

I can...