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,

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

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.

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.

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

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