From far-flung states, they’d come.  From a far-off country, too, just over the great, big pond, they’d journeyed, drawn, each one, with that imperceptible pull toward home, toward family, toward

Jesus in skin, receiving the needy, a line of humanity bedraggled stretching before him.  There, the woman bent with an issue of blood that had kept her weak.  Behind her,

I recalled the message we’d gotten just days before.  “Did you hear the bad news?  He was killed.”  I felt again the shock, the disbelief.  “Oh, no.  Not him.”

We’d called my mother to say, “Happy birthday.”  Boy Two (aka Kid Kaboom) was singing a seriously goofy, nasal-ly version on a phone upstairs; I was cackling into the phone

I stop.  And think.  In a split second, this-this-and-that rush through my mind, things that aren’t finished yet or tied neatly with a bow. I stop and think and then

That’s what it said on the box that held the onion rings.  Sitting there at the local Dairy Queen last night post Boy Three’s Christmas program, I laughed.  Reading it

Here on the reservation, things are nearly back to normal.  Oh, the tree is still up and the warmth of Christmas still lingers in my thoughts, but real life encroaches

After taking an extensive and much-needed break from blogging and social networking over the holidays, Monday has come, bringing that yellow bus, a new column begging to be written, and a

Chaos.  Uproar.  Shouting.  Banging.  Plotting.  Planning.  Clacking.  Calling.  Praying. It’s full-bore Christmas season at the Schrock household.  As The Mister diligently labors, unhindered by the sounds of shouting and the

In this season of consummate beauty, there is little that can compare to the sounds of Christmas.  Last night, we, along with friends, experienced a beauty and sensory overload.  Mannheim