Glory on a Grainy Screen
I stood in my parents' bedroom on Christmas Eve in 1968, watching a grainy moon slide across the screen of our Zenith television. While the world outside felt like it was unraveling with war and riots, the voice of an astronaut reading Scripture from space brought a sudden, holy hush to the room. That night taught me that even when history feels like a wreck, God is still on His throne. It is a reminder of where we need to look when our own world feels out of control.
The Twenty-Nine Cent Legacy
I remember when a twenty-nine-cent box of drugstore cherries was the height of Christmas luxury in a house where we counted every penny. I nearly fainted at the three-dollar price tag at Walmart yesterday, but it reminded me that the best things I ever received weren't actually the things at all. If you're fretting over a budget this season, come read why a grandfather’s change purse and a box of cheap chocolates are the only inheritances that actually stick to your ribs.
The Divine Wrong Turn
The entire 20th century turned on a dime because a driver took a wrong turn and a finicky gearbox stalled in front of the wrong person. We tend to think history is written by powerful men in oak-paneled rooms, but more often it’s shaped by the "accidents" we never see coming. If your life feels like a series of random stalls and wrong turns today, come read why there’s no such thing as luck when a sovereign God is moving the pieces.
The Spinach Can
I spent my teenage years embarrassed by a father who used pliers to change the TV channels and an old broomstick to jumpstart a hallway fan. I didn't understand why a man with a steady job lived like the Great Depression was still happening right outside our front door. It wasn't until I was a struggling father of three, looking at a can of spinach my father had written on, that the scales finally fell from my eyes. Come read why that handwritten mark became my most treasured reminder that love isn't always spoken—sometimes it’s stockpiled.
Unbonded
I can still picture the toughest teachers I ever had—not the ones who challenged us academically, but the cold, drill-sergeant types whose classrooms felt like battlegrounds. My wife tells of one who yelled time from the girls’ bathroom, warning of doom for the tardy. These teachers might have pushed for excellence, but what did they truly feel for their students? When there’s no bond, the job feels hollow. Without a connection, the classroom becomes mere routine — and teaching loses its purpose.
One Teacher’s Journey
Tomorrow begins my 24th year of teaching, yet I still remember the first hour of my first day—hands shaking, voice thin, wondering what I was doing there. Since then, the classroom has been both a crucible and a gift: seasons of exhaustion, unexpected laughter, heartbreak, and joy. I’ve taught lessons in economics and literature, but life always had lessons waiting for me too. Students grow, but so do teachers—shaped by storms, successes, and the steady rhythm of showing up. This journey has never been perfect, but it has always been worth it.
What Faith Looks Like in a Pandemic
School’s starting soon, and our “detailed” return plans are held together by Jell‑O. Anxiety among teachers is high, even more so with the virus still looming. Some say faith means no fear—others say wisdom may ask for caution. Is fleeing fear or failure of faith? Scripture doesn’t say faith always looks brave. Sometimes it looks smart, humble, or even quiet. And maybe that’s okay. This piece isn’t telling believers how to act. It’s offering a thought: faith doesn’t have one face—and maybe that’s a relief.
Faithfulness in Small Things: The Parable of the Talents Revisited
There’s a kind of emptiness I’ve seen in students who seem perfectly capable—present but not present. It’s like they’re slipping through the cracks of their own potential. That’s what made the Parable of the Talents hit me differently. The servant who buried his gift wasn’t lazy—he was afraid. My dad, by contrast, never waited for work to come to him. He collected soda bottles, worked without complaint, and never sat idle. Real faithfulness isn’t always flashy—it starts in those quiet, everyday choices to show up.