A few years ago, my wife and I were privileged to spend a long birthday weekend in South Carolina with two other couples. The large lakehouse was cozy and beautiful and the fellowship was rich and nourishing to my soul.
On one of our afternoon trips, we explored an incomplete railroad tunnel dug by hand into Stumphouse Mountain. The . . .
We have a trashcan under our kitchen sink. It's an odd size in the fact that small garbage bags are too small and "kitchen size" bags are, well, too large. While we've opted to use the latter, the reality is that even when the trashcan is full, there is still room in the bag. So, we've gotten in the habit of pulling the partially filled bag . . .
A bit of background: The medical facility where I serve houses more than ten clinics offering care for both adult and pediatric patients. And while the building is filled with a variety of different providers every day, there is one constant: the complex software that everyone uses to serve our patients, ironically named EPIC.
Within . . .
A number of years ago, a worship team with whom I was rehearsing seemed to hit a mental roadblock. And while I thought I was being extremely clear in expressing what I wanted to happen in a particular section of a song, this group of skilled musicians just could not get it.
Each time we missed the mark on what I had musically intended, I . . .
In my previous blog entry, "MASTERclass," I shared how the relationship between a vocal student and his operatic mentor, captured in this video clip, was analogous to our encounters with God. I must confess, however, that there was something that transpired that I did not include in that blog.
The incident happens right at . . .
Not too long ago, I came across a video clip of a vocal masterclass. If that term is new to you, a masterclass is an instructional experience for students led by an expert in their field of study. As a piano major in college, I was always fascinated by the unique group learning dynamic of an instructor publically working one-on-one with . . .
Several months after my mom passed away, I scheduled an appointment with a dear brother who cuts my hair. It was good medicine to see him. Amidst the hustle and bustle of his salon, our conversation drifted from topic to topic carried along by his infectious joy, his tender heart, and his deep compassion.
As we continued to catch up, I . . .