The sun’s blazing glory just there by the barn. Rounding the corner, I see rays kissing my spot of sweet solace, the BOS. The Bright Orange Swing. I sit in

It had been a lot of long months. Moses in the desert. David with the sheep, and our son, stuck away in a factory. He’d watched his peers, full of

Morning has come. Rising, I head for the kitchen. With one, quick push of the button, hot, fresh coffee (that nectar of the gods) spurts, steaming, into my favorite mug.

Dear friend, I’m sending you this letter because you’re on My mind. Perhaps it was the colors, all the purples, reds and pinks with the yellows and oranges a-tangle. And

I’m running down our country road. To the left, fields of corn roll, tassel topped and green-vibrant. To the right, acres of beans, wet with dew, are kissed by sun’s

One by one, 18 children in those 5 separate homes stumble down, bleary eyed, to the news: “It’s grandpa. He died in the night.” What a day. At our house,

The last of the nine, he’d slipped into the world on a wintry day long ago. On a quiet, country plot with a garden and shop, the last of the

The crowd, it shouts. A governor questions, and then he washes his hands. A “stroke of the pen,” a press of the ring, and the accused is sentenced to death.

After a lifetime of Bible study, Sunday School and sermons, your head knows the answer. For the question, “Is God able,” your mouth says, “Of course,” then quotes verses, gives

It said one thousand words, that photograph, coming through the newsfeed.  On the windswept plains, a tableau unfolds, drawing the eye, catching the heart. To the right, an empty wheelchair,