It’s writing day. Tucking my BOP (Bright Orange Purse) and my EBB (Eddie Bauer Backpack) in just behind me, I drive up Main past Christmas lights shining cheer from Victorian

“The patient is an FBI agent investigating terrorism.” That’s what the doctor said as I sped along, typing a referral letter. Wait. FBI agent? Investigating terrorism? Well, rats. Here I

The lights, they shine bright in the morning darkness. Oh, it’s Christmastime. The greenery strung high, trees lit brilliant, all whisper hope. This season…it’s hope. Music plays; spirit of Christmas

It was impossible to miss. Unless, of course, you were a burlap-clad Sherpa living on a mountain somewhere in Eastern Nepal. In which case, I’m jealous. For the rest of

“What will they be when they grow up?” This is the question of every parent’s heart since the first stinkers were born just outside the Garden of Eden. From the

God is in control. In changing times, in shifting political fortunes, it is this rock on which I plant my feet. There is much that concerns me in the aftermath

In the light of the morning, there’s heaviness. “God’s in control.”Over and over, I repeat these words. This, I know. This, I believe. This, I proclaim. But along the horizon, storm

Ask any Israelite if it mattered which king was put in. Ask them how they suffered under bad kings and prospered under good ones. Ask them about life under Ahab

I never saw it coming. Not as a girl growing up on the Kansas plains. Not as a bride relocating to the North. Not as the young mother of a

“Are you in line?” I say, not wanting to budge (a cardinal sin if you’re a kindergartener).  He nods. “Do you write in the Goshen paper?” he says at last.