For almost four hours, the line of people stretched around the walls of the enormous church foyer then curled around a corner and extended back into the church’s sanctuary.
Hundreds of people had come that evening to pay their last respects to my wife’s brother, Dave, a testament to a life well lived by a man well-loved.
“He’s going home,” we both pronounced with confidence. My wife and I have been binge-watching the History Channel’s reality show “Forged in Fire.”
After watching an entire season’s worth of shows, we noticed a trend: the contestant who boasts the most in their introductory clip tends to be the first one eliminated. The moment a contestant begins his boast, we make our pronouncement. We are correct more times than not.
“God comforts us in all our troubles so that we can comfort others.”
Those words of Scripture were of particular assurance for my wife and me as we made the long drive home from Indianapolis after having laid her brother to rest.
A much-loved feature of the home we rent is that it is nestled among trees of various kinds.
The southern property line is bordered by aromatic pine woods whose limbs reach across the fence to commune with a robust magnolia and a towering pine.
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.
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.
