There are times when you encounter an exhortation in the Gospel that both beggars the imagination and pierces the heart. And then, only a prophet – a holy man – can help you find the wisdom in Jesus’ words.
I like to remember “Bob, the priest” – Father Bob Menner – as just such a blessing in my life.
Third time’s a charm, I suppose.
Lately, there’ve been times when I’ve felt the past three months have seemed like years.
Three years…or thirty.
The Spirit stirred a bit in a city park yesterday. So why am I surprised?
A most unusual storm derailed a family tradition yesterday, and sent us scurrying for safety.
The Psalmist had a message for me – for us – as we gathered in the pews this morning. Which, you’d have to agree, is quite a trick considering that the verses were written 2,500 years or so ago.
We had a lot of company, I discovered, when we hit the pavement the other evening for a post-dinner walk around the neighborhood.
Maybe it was the shaky WiFi connection, but I’m not sure I ever convinced our grandkids (during a recent FaceTime chat} that Gramps was “planting a volcano” in the backyard.
Day 47 of “shelter-in-place”: in which “side yard” becomes “garden plot.” And it becomes apparent to the Little One that he has lost his footing.
