a prophetic voice-

I look at my hands, once quite lovely with smooth, unblemished skin and see instead a mesh of veins quite visible beneath the thinning, wrinkled skin, the nails ridged and refusing to grow, splitting in spite of all the supplements I take, organic vegetables I ingest Only their palms appear unchanged, their working surface relatively wrinkle-free, though the thumb mounds have lost their youthful fullness and veins appear where once only pink, rosy flesh was visible They tell a story, these hands of mine, of love gained and lost and given... of heartache and heartbreak and heartfelt joy...of gratitude and fervent prayer...of supplication and giftedness...of sorrow felt and comfort given...of meals cooked and served and beds made and children's wounds attended... They have touched and held and felt so much, these hands of mine, conveying to my mind and heart messages from the world around me, love letters from my daily life reminding me of what a gi

On Mothers' Day long years ago at our small German Lutheran church in our small town everyone received a flower- carnations, either pink or red- their pungent odor censing the air red for those whose mothers were still living pink for those whose mothers had died brilliant red singing of life tender pink sighing of death The ushers handed them out from two vases filled to overflowing with the blooms handed them to every one who climbed the stairs  to the sanctuary on the second floor handed them to men and women, girls and boys, since each and all had a mother who had given them life, who had borne them, gladly or sadly, into this world a reminder and remembrance, a way  to honor the sanctity of creation,  to honor the holiness of every human life,  to honor the ones who had served as the crucible  for each life present that day. And though this was far beyond my child's understanding, I loved taking flowers to the cemet

If I had been the one creating the weather- which, of course, I am not- I would have created today...this absolutely, amazingly perfect day, with Carolina blue skies, temperatures in the seventies, a slight breeze, topped off by low, low humidity. I mean, who could possibly ask for anything more? Perfection... And then there was Sara...a precious woman who played the organ at my church for many, many, many years and is now in Hospice care due to chronic obstructive pulmonary disease. Sara- with her indomitable spirit and acerbic wit. We shared a visit today... me doing most of the talking since her breath was short, even with the oxygen nasal cannula...talking and laughing- yes, we do a lot of that- about some of our favorite subjects: books, politics, the state of the world, and our shared irreverence when it comes to things religious. Now, as a pastor, I guess I'm not supposed to entertain such notions, nor to admit them publicly, but there it is. Sara and I, you

I know Forrest Gump said that Life is like a box of chocolates, but for me, living in the Piedmont of North Carolina, Life is like the weather: we never know what's going to happen and when it does, we're usually not happy with it. Kind of like "Life"... So much of what happens to us is truly and totally out of our control. People disappoint or delight. Jobs are fulfilling or dead boring- or cease to exist. Friends betray or are true-blue. The trip for which we had been planning and saving for the past year is a mixed bag of "Wow!" and "Oh, no, enough already," or "Is that all there is?" And our bodies- even our bodies, that which is closest to us, that which houses our essence- sag and bag, work well occasionally, but also tire more easily and just aren't as flexible as they once were. And when you roll out of bed in the morning, you're never quite sure which you'll be dealing with: a well-oiled machine or a