I should count them all up. I really should. Bartholomew Cubbins did once, and his number was 500. “You think that’s a lot,” I wanted to say the other day

The steam, it rises, curling toward ceiling, twirling past bricks. Hand wrapped ’round its warmth, I whisper prayers into my mug, breathing petitions all quiet to the One Who Hears.

I’m drinking it in, this wild beauty. For a soul in the heat of battle, it’s beauty that heals. That calms. Restores. Renews. Creation’s shouting praise, and the trees afire

If I’d put together a line-up of the local Picky Eater Suspects from the Official Picky Eaters Registry, you wouldn’t finger this fellow. You’d pick someone else, like the smaller

She could’ve knocked me over with a feather. “Hey,” she’d said in a breezy email, “I have a last-minute scheduling conflict. Could you host the show? It’ll be easy.” It

The substitute teacher, she calls them over. They gather, bodies squirming, on the story rug with squares. Row upon row, they “criss-cross applesauce,” eager for the story to come. I

I’d told his story in this week’s column. How he’d been so sick when he came. How we’d prayed and God healed, and why ours and not others’ babies, I

Note:  This Grounds for Insanity column was published in the 10/01/12 edition of The Goshen News. It had come several weeks ago, slipped into the box with the rest of

I open the Word. And the psalmist speaks. “In thee, O Lord, do I put my trust. Let me never be ashamed. Deliver me in thy righteousness.” Inside, I’m nodding.

There it was in black and white. “Parents,” said the sheet that came home from school, “have your child name each member of your family. Put an ‘x’ in the