The little girl’s face wrinkled up with incredulity and mild horror. “You drink sink water?!” she gasped.
My wife was drawing water from the tap at the kitchen sink, “Yes, don’t you?” “No!” the girl replied as if being asked if she drank from a toilet bowl.
My wife and I have a few reality TV series that we like to watch.
Over a year, we binge-watched the cooking show “MasterChef Australia” relying heavily on closed captioning to comprehend the Aussie accent.
In three decades of preaching and writing, I have had a growing appreciation for how often it is the smallest words that make the biggest difference.
Dwarfed by their larger companions, they seem insignificant, but they are not.
Friday, Jan. 6 was the Feast of the Epiphany in the church calendar, commemorating the wise men’s visit to the Christ child.
That date never fails to dredge up in me the memory of an epiphany I had 37 years ago.
A blank page, or screen in this digital age, is intimidating for a writer.
In your head is a jumble of ideas, each one a potential vehicle for a creative journey, but like cars in rush hour traffic, they are backed up with none moving forward.
I have a favorite Christmas hymn that I am uncomfortable singing. It is one of the most beloved Christmas hymns, and I love it too, with reservation. I am a man conflicted!
The hymn is “Away in a Manger,” a song mistakenly attributed to Martin Luther.
I have a friend who is obsessed with the proper use of grammar.
One time when going through TSA security screening at the airport, he felt the need to correct the TSA agent’s grammar.
November 27th was the first Sunday of Advent; its theme was hope.
When Winston Churchill learned that the Japanese had bombed Pearl Harbor and the United States had entered World War II, he said, “Silly people, and there were many, not only in enemy countries, might discount the force of the United States…But I had studied the American Civil War, fought out to the last desperate inch. American blood flowed in my veins.
My wife has an endearing habit that I am gradually making my own.
She says, “thank you,” for everything I do. If I take out the trash, she says, “Thank you for taking out the trash.” When we go grocery shopping, she says, “Thank you for helping me do the shopping.”
I awoke with a start in full panic mode. It was morning and sunlight flooded our tiny motel room.
Shaking my wife, I shouted, “Get up, we overslept! We’re going to miss the ferry!” We bounded out of bed, threw on clothes, and wrangled our suitcases out of the room.
