My dad was an avid gardener, and my mom was a wonderful cook. With six children, our dinner times meant family packed around a large, wooden trestle table and a vast spread of food. Vegetables were plentiful, along with meat, potatoes, and bread. Friday nights were fish sticks and Saturday always meant homemade pizza using sauce from tomatoes . . .
Most every Sunday at my church, I sit at the keyboard in the choir loft. When Communion is served, I am privileged to have a direct line of sight to the Table and can easily see the elements as they are consecrated by our pastor.
One particular Sunday, when the Celebrant lifted the homemade loaf and began to break it, the bread stretched, . . .
Almost a month ago, we bought a "real" kitchen trashcan: The 13-gallon, stainless steel, foot pedal, removable insert kind. It is shiny, sleek, and has significantly more capacity than our previous receptacle.
Our former kitchen trashcan was actually a rescue: a salvaged base of a paper shredder that bit the dust years ago. And although . . .
A few months ago, I woke up in the middle of the night. Feeling particularly alert, I rolled over onto my back, folded my hands across my stomach, and just listened. In the beauty of that peaceful, dark stillness, the Lord gently said, "Son, you have settled."
As an internal processor, suddenly feeling vulnerable, it's incredible to me . . .
"Mentionables" in our Journey of Grief.
In the movie, "A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood," one of the main characters makes a poignant statement that is the springboard for this entry. In his gentle, thoughtful, and intentional way of love, Mr. Rogers says to the family surrounding the bedside of a dying man, “You know, death is something many of us are uncomfortable . . .
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 . . .
A number of years ago, amidst a season of physical, emotional, and spiritual burnout, I was asked to minister at a funeral. "Perfect," I thought sarcastically, "A dead man ministering at a funeral." Drowning in negativity from the seemingly incessant discouragement that I had been experiencing, the inability to find a . . .