There’s an old story that’s been floating around for years about a visiting pastor who attended a men’s breakfast in the middle of a rural farming area of the country.
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Have you ever had one of those jobs that, at the end of the day, you were so dirty you needed a shower?
In the original animated movie, Toy Story, by Pixar, the toys are all alive, but only when there are no adults around.
There’s an old story about a little boy learning the Lord’s prayer.
In all my years of ministry and all the baptisms I’ve performed, I never once heard a voice from heaven or seen a dove descend during a baptism.
My husband and I have become collectors of pottery over the years—bowls, mugs, pitchers, chalices, and patens.
My first pastoral appointment out of seminary was a tiny church tucked deep in the Catskill Mountains of New York.
I live with an artist. Which means I also live with canvases in various stages of becoming—brushstrokes that look like riddles, sketches taped to walls, color palettes smudged on every available surface.
The other day in a checkout line, I noticed a stranger—nothing special, just a person waiting with the rest of us.