In the book I’m currently reading, “Hearing from God,” Dallas Willard quotes part of the hymn ‘In the Garden.’ He walks with me, and He talks with me, And He tells me I am His own, And the joy we share as we tarry there, None other has ever known. ‘Tarry there….’ When I read…
A Sneaker Full of Puppy Poop
In our winsome relevant way, we need to be careful we don’t soften the delivery of the gospel’s message. The medium of our words, plus human ethos, makes a difference in our converse with others. Yet, when we share the essence of the gospel, we know our lips are not adequate for such brilliance to…
Backwater Steeples
Backwater steeples in a broken town; Cities on a hill falling down; What used to be… Glistening paint, the dazzle of brilliance… …a peace upon the cobbled stones, resting under boots of war. The smell of bakeries, wisps of divine presence in holy places, how it greeted and escorted faithful up the stair case to…
Backwash of Grace
It all played out while I was in the womb. My parents were living in a trailer in Chester New Jersey, on Van Allen’s farm. But the town didn’t like it, because it was violating a zoning ordinance. My father, a very soft spoken, humble and pliable man had to go down to the town…
I’m a Nobody
I’m a nobody, telling anybody about Somebody Who loves everybody. Nobody? Do you recoil when you read that? It’s not that I suffer a poor self-esteem. I’m just getting my cues from Paul, the apostle. He called himself the scum of the world, a dreg, a fool for Christ, and a spectacle. He said, “God…
On The Tracks
The train platform was chaotic. A woman on a cell phone sprinted past me screaming, “someone do something!” I noticed an odd sight then. Normally a few over-anxious commuters stare down the track in the direction of the pending train, willing its arrival. However, this time every person had their head turned, body bent in…
My Grandfather Wrote Poetry
They say my grandfather wrote poetry. He did most of his writing in his farmhouse kitchen late into the night; a single light bulb, like a noose, dangling above him. There he pounded out meter and rhyme. He was a farmer by trade, peddled fruits and vegetables. He used to pick my father up at…
God’s Love Coming Back
In the novel, The Gift, Pete Hamill ends the story by saying, “I hadn’t received much for Christmas in any ordinary way; but my father loved me back, and there was no other gift I wanted.” For the first time that December, the son on leave from boot-camp, risked entering his father’s sanctuary (a bar)….
Clobber the Bully!
JoJo. My older brother. Fond of fast motor bikes, climbing trees and beating the tar out of his younger brother. Although only a year apart, he inherited the family genes for rippling biceps. I did not. So, how does a stick with ears survive the cruelty of premeditative ‘brotherly love?’ I learned to run at…
A Toss of the Bucket
C.S. Lewis said, “If we do not learn to eat the only food that the universe grows, then we must starve eternally.” Early on in my walk with Christ I discovered that unless I worked to put myself in a place for God to feed me, a lot of ‘good things’ would displace my passion…
When the Wind shakes the tree
Over the holidays I found myself writing in a favorite café, when an older gentleman sat down across from me and wanted to chat. I stopped and we conversed. Topics ranged from the great religions of the world, to raising sons. He told me he had been reared in a mainline denomination, but now was…
Mr. Greengrass
Mr. Greengrass lived on a quiet street in Flander’s New Jersey, and to satisfy your curiosity, yes had an immaculate lawn. Leighton taught Sunday school for 44 years in the same brick church on Hill Top lane, and never tired of telling me of Christ’s imminent return. One time as we stood on his porch,…
To Sir, with love 