In spring’s fullest bloom, wearing purple dresses, the neighbor’s lilac bush is full, is fragrant. And just like that, I’m back on the farm, running ‘long the lane. At Grandma’s

“A little nonsense now and then is relished by the wisest men.” If Roald Dahl nailed it, then the Schrocks are right up there with the sages. It had been

“My house shall be called a house of prayer.” That’s where he’s speaking from. He tells it straight, our pastor does, and how we love him for it. He lays

It was a headline that caught my eye. “Where should vote centers be?” it read. And beneath in smaller print, this: “Parties agree on several locations, others still up in

Shower finished, I’d been preparing for bed when I breathed a prayer I only pray carefully. “Lord. I need a sign.” Sitting, still, in a season of waiting; a season,

The sun is up. A breeze blows playful over fields and yards. Birds sing all glorious as I drive down roads ribboned with sunbeams, two schoolboys tucked in just behind.

What a deal that was. Graduating a kid from college is not nothing. It’s not, especially when it’s your first buckaroo. And when First Buckaroo is the first of a

The breeze, it’s fresh, and the birds, they sing as I’m walking the road in all of spring’s glory. That sky. That sun. The song of the birds, and those

“We need to coffee again. And yes. That’s a verb.” Such was the note that I slipped to a friend the other day. I know where Mr. Webster put it.

Arriving, I settle in, coffee in hand, journal open beside The Word, and here he comes. He’s a regular, this happy fellow. A cheerful sort, easygoing, but–well, I’ll just say