Chip Shots

One of the favorite volumes in my library is a tattered Bible that once belonged to Aunt Nora. Nora wasn't a blood relative, but as long as I can remember she shared in all our family celebrations. When she died, my grandmother saw to it that her Bible was given to me. I noticed immediately that Aunt Nora was not the type to keep her Bible hidden away until Sunday mornings. Virtually every page was littered with red pencil underlines and notes written in the margins. The fore and aft blank pages were cluttered with pithy comments and sayings, notes taken from her reading, or sermons she had heard. As I read them I imagined the immense depth of her spiritual life in comparison to my own. One poem in particular caught my eye. I don't know its origin, but the effect on me was dramatic and unexpected. I'm a little embarrassed to tell you that it choked me up to read it. I read the simple words, imagining myself a frightened bystander at Jesus' execution. Blood stained his h...

It was an auspicious beginning. I crawled out of bed at 3:45, threw a few clothes on, woke up Kurt, our oversleeping son, and squeezed into the van parked perilously close to our other car. We were, as usual, touching the edge of tardiness. By 5:00 he needed to be at the home of a family who had consented to take him to an important soccer tournament in San Diego. We were sleepy-tired, a little late, and sad that he would miss Thanksgiving with the family. Our two older children had come in from California the evening before. We enjoyed some pre-Thanksgiving pumpkin pie and a few blessed hours of conversation. The joy of last evening was stabbing me deeply as I contemplated Kurt's absence this afternoon. We're immensely proud of the success, independence, and strong Christian character of our three children. It's bittersweet to see them grow up and out, but deeply gratifying to observe them making life decisions that make us proud. Being together on Thanksgiving eve made Mo...