Turning to the sacred text, there it is, the story of the 1 and the 99. The story of the sheep gone missing and the Shepherd who pursued. The tale

Her daughter’s standing there, all curly-headed. “Mama’s moved,” she says, smiling, too. And then she tells me, this petite girl, and earnest, about her job. She’s working just now in

It’s the season for celebrity sightings. Not that I’ve seen any, mind you, but folks I know have had some excitement. In our small town, we’re not exactly overrun with

After he’s gone and I’ve written a bit, I pack my girlish backpack, grab my BOP (Bright Orange Purse) and dash over to his office. He waves me back to

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