Author: Rhonda Schrock

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Mar 25, 2015

Tomorrow’s church, here today

This year, the adult track had featured something different, a “Wise Sage Series.” Instead of one evangelist, we’d had four. And the youth–oh, the youth, they were learning that “you

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Mar 17, 2015

Letters from a Friend: Be-ing first, then do-ing

Dear friend, The word for today is be-ing. Just as Elmo and his friends on that one special street had their own “word on the street,” this one’s yours. Be-ing.

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Mar 13, 2015

In ordinary days, “soul baristas”

From my spot at the counter, I hear it. The clink and the thrum of this bustling place. Door whooshes, coffee spurts and a barista chirps cheerful at the register.

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Mar 10, 2015

Growing up, some sweet day

It was in a simple country church on simple hardwood pews that we received The Word of the Lord from stolid country pastors. That’s how I grew up. There, on

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Mar 03, 2015

Letters from a Friend: Living, not existing

It was the old, gray-haired lady, frame marked by the passing of time, and hardship, who nailed it. In one succinct sentence, she summed it up. She, new believer, come

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Feb 24, 2015

Letters from a Friend: Have-tos

Dear one, From the distant reaches of time; long before you were conceived, begotten, my heart’s desire has been–you. In the counsels convened in eternal realms, our focus, our goal

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Feb 23, 2015

Somewhere, a teacher is smiling

Just like that. Spoons dipped into soup bowls and hungry hands reached for dinner rolls as Little shared his big news. “She told us today.” “How exciting!” I enthused. “Your

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Feb 20, 2015

Letters from a Friend (a new series)

So shall I. Today, I begin a series I’m calling “Letters from a Friend.” It may be a series of 2 or 100. I can’t guess, don’t know and can’t

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Feb 14, 2015

When pain has a shape (and it’s yours)

Like a trickle, it begins. A droplet here, a rivulet there, and then the dam, it breaks. A milling, roiling flood of youth spill lively down cement steps. In the

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Feb 04, 2015

For the Marcellus’s of the world, there is this

FacebookTwitterGoogle+DiggPinterestBloggerBump-bump-bumping over rough, icy roads, I turn in. “Grande macchiato,” I say to Barista, “stirred, with a shot of the whip.” I never come to Starbucks on Tuesdays close to

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