My eight-year-old granddaughter, Emmie, and I scooted into the grocery store. I had taken her to Campbellsville, Ky., to buy her a Bible. “Your very own Bible,” I promised. Then I let her choose where she wanted to eat. Before we headed home, we stopped by the grocery store to pick up a few items. …
When I retired, I had to do something with all the daily organizers that I had kept year by year. After 37 years of pastoral ministry, I had accumulated a bookshelf of them. “Toss them all,” several told me. That made sense, but for some reason, perhaps because they represented years of work, I couldn’t. …
The stories continue to roll in, one upon another, horrific and sad, each one touching another life and then another in a spider web of pain. From the children and counselors at Camp Mystic to residents in the area, the Guadalupe River swallowed lives. And, of course, people ask, “Why?” How did this tragedy happen? …
I hope they have name tags,” I whispered to Lori as we walked to the venue for my 50th high school reunion. My class of 1975 had 330 students, so I stood a good chance of not remembering a name or two. Or three. But perhaps the greatest challenge was remembering who I was. We …
The black-and-white picture of the B-24 on the front of the faded postcard caught my attention. I flipped it over to find my dad’s barely legible handwriting, smeared as it was by a browned water stain, postmarked on December 12, 1944, from San Marcos Army Air Field, San Marcos, TX. “Dear Folks,” it began (“Folks” …