Recently, I had a rich experience that was pure joy for me. I was invited to play in a band assembled for a one-time concert of soul music.
The concert was part of a weekend event designed to raise funds for an inner-city ministry in New Orleans whose goal is to create a safe neighborhood where kids can ride their bikes safely.
“Go to the ant, thou sluggard, and consider her ways, and be wise,” says Proverbs 6:6.
I was doing that very thing yesterday afternoon as I did yard work. My hedges desperately needed a haircut. It was my day off, so I spent the morning doing something that I love, playing my guitar. I got to the trimming around 2 p.m. I am a guitar player, not a sluggard.
“God needs you to have a Bible app on your phone,” the in-app ad states. Accompanying that statement is an illustration depicting Jesus with a look of longing.
I enjoy playing Sudoku on my smartphone so, as with most free apps, I must occasionally sit through an ad. The above ad is promoting a King James Bible app and it appears regularly.
Recently over lunch, some friends and I were discussing social media and how online interactions are akin to what went on in the barbaric games of the ancient Roman Coliseum.
In my opinion, social media is a misnomer, it should be called unsocial media, or even anti-social media. I know that I have whined about this in the past, but social media interactions have not improved.
Growing up in Canada, my first taste of pineapple was from a can.
Those perfectly sliced rings of gold, floating in juice, looked enticing, but they tasted a lot like the can. Pinning them to the side of a Sunday ham and immolating them in an oven did little to improve the taste.
“God showed up!” a colleague’s Facebook post announced regarding a particularly moving worship service at his church.
“You’ve got that backward,” I remarked to myself, “it is you and your congregation who showed up.”
Over the past three decades, my library has become almost completely digital.
When I admit this to colleagues, they wax fondly on the tactile experience of turning pages in a real book hoping, I guess, to spark in me something lost.
On a recent flight to Indiana, I was only half-listening to the safety orientation, that is until the flight attendant said a word that made me pay closer attention.
The word itself was not provocative, it was her pronunciation that captured my attention. “To tigh-en your seatbelt belt,” she informed, “simply pull on the strap.” Tigh-en? What happened to the “T”?
I am writing this from my father-in-law’s living room in rural Indiana here to celebrate his 106th birthday. I marvel at the grace of God in granting him a long life.
Our perspective on aging is a curious thing. As children, we proudly marked our years in fractions, proclaiming, “I’m 4 ½ years old!”
Last week, I was pondering the expression, “work out.” I wasn’t actually working out, just pondering the expression; pondering doesn’t make you sweat.
“Work out” is a curious expression. If someone says to you, “I worked out this morning,” you assume they exercised. People follow a “workout regimen,” a plan to get in shape.
