I’d come prepared. I dug into my pocket, pulled out a tissue, and discreetly blotted my tears. I’d expected tears to appear—just not the moment I sat in the pew. My tears were joyful, saturated with nostalgia and overwhelming gratefulness. I was sitting in a pew in the small church in rural Raleigh, North Carolina, where I’d first learned about Jesus nearly 60 years earlier. I have warm, fuzzy memories of attending Sunday service at the pristine white church on the hill wi

Well, it’s official. According to the U. S. government, I’m now a senior citizen. I’m old. Even cashiers automatically give me the senior discount. To be honest, I’m not quite sure how I feel about that…although I’ll willingly accept the discount. I’m in denial that the two-word descriptor, senior adult, or the kinder, gentler version—mature adult—now applies to me. I still feel youthful—well, except when I do something I always used to do—and can barely move the next da

“So you never found a man?” He asked. There was a collective gasp around the table. It was the first time I’d seen him—the ex-husband of my longtime friend—in almost two decades. We were in the fellowship hall for the meal following the baby dedication of his granddaughter. I quickly pondered my response. After more than 30 years of being single again, I’ve heard that question—or variations of it—a hundred times. I have several canned responses depending on the situation.

I held my breath and waited. I wanted to watch, but I was too anxious, so I distracted myself—while keeping my ears fully tuned in. The broadcaster’s voice was calm as he used terms like peak-heating, true-test of the calculated trajectory, and plasma build-up on the heat-shield. I paced. While it was only a short period of communications blackout, it seemed like an eternity. I held my breath as the narrator counted down the final seconds. Then Mission Control called out,

Who knew cleaning out a closet would be so hard? I’ve been retired for almost five years and have been procrastinating when it came to purging my work clothes. Since dust has now settled on the hangers of unworn clothing, I knew it was time to deal with it. Yet, I wasn’t expecting to stand in the midst of my wardrobe, face-to-face with unexpected emotions. And, my first thought was to blame my mother—not really—but well, maybe…sorta. She’s the reason I have so many clothes.

“Lord, I can’t believe I’m actually sitting here—on Waikiki Beach—as a guest of the Moana Surfrider Hotel!” I inhaled slowly, breathing in the salty air on the picture-perfect July morning. It truly was a dream come true, something that only God could have orchestrated. As a teenager in the late 1970s, when my father was stationed on Oahu, my friends and I would take the bus to Honolulu and spend our summer days roaming the streets of Waikiki. We enjoyed people-watching

Last night in my writer's group, I was asked to give the devotion. While this was written toward writers, it applies to all of us. As a Christ followers, we're all charged to tell our stories—to share our testimonies of God's love. I’m not an orderly writer with a detailed outline of how my story will flow. I’m a pantser. While I do have an idea where I want the story to go—a target destination and key points I want to address—the storyline always takes on a life of its own.