Author: Rhonda Schrock

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Sep 05, 2024

Carrying each other ‘forward’

It happened on a gorgeous September night. The starter’s gun fired, and hundreds of running feet took to the course. The pack was running fast. Standing at a break in

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Jun 29, 2024

Don’t let the urgent crowd out the important

This essay first appeared on The Daily BS on June 22, 2024. It fell so quickly from his lips. There he lay, “starfished” on the floor, exhausted. His face with

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Jun 27, 2024

About that widow and the faith that rests

Yesterday, I wrote on prayer. When I teach on this, it’s common that someone will raise their hand and say, “But what about the widow who got the answer because

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Jun 27, 2024

To the prayer weary

Several weeks ago when I spoke to a group of local women, there was a Q&A afterwards. One of the questions in particular has stayed in my mind ever since,

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Jun 27, 2024

Veteran father of four speaks to America’s dads

This essay was first published on The Daily BS on June 15, 2024. In honor of Father’s Day, I decided to interview one of the best fathers that I know,

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Jun 27, 2024

Bitter and sweet: accepting the past, embracing the future

This essay first appeared on The Daily BS on June 8, 2024. It’s the golden hour. On an early summer night beneath the old walnut tree, we’re enjoying the evening

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Jun 04, 2024

To the homemakers: you’ve chosen well

This essay first appeared on The Daily B.S. It was discussed on the air on May 25, 2024. It sparked a conflagration. Speaking to the graduating class of Benedictine College,

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May 25, 2024

Lessons from the pine–ever green, even in old age

Standing at the kitchen sink in my quiet country home, I look up. Outside the window, the old pine towers, a stalwart sentinel just there by the drive. At once,

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May 20, 2024

What I didn’t know–words for a young mother

Spring is here at last. With it, the rains have come, and the budding of the leaves, and the flowers. Just before the chicken coop, marigolds march in cheerful rows.

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May 20, 2024

From parents of differently-abled kids, “Please love them”

Backpacks drop. Shoes, they plop. Words rush and tumble like stones swirling about in a bubbling brook. And then it comes. “They’ve abandoned us,” he says. His tone is matter

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