Grant

We’ve told Sophia a hundred times: Don’t take so much cash with you. You don’t need it. You probably won’t spend it. And if you lose it—it’s gone. But last week, she zipped up her little black fanny pack with all of it: sunglasses, lip gloss, and a wad of her hard-earned dollars—then she boarded…

Exactly one year ago today, I stood backstage at a conference I’d spent months producing. It was the final session of the final day. The room was packed. The lights were pulsing. And onstage, performance artist Erik Wahl was painting to the sound of U2’s Beautiful Day—canvases flying, paint splattering, hands moving faster than we…

Growing up as a pastor’s kid at our little Southern Baptist church in Buckeye, I used to think the church building had secrets. While Dad taught the midweek Bible study and Mom worked on bulletin boards, my siblings and I would explore—wandering the hallways and empty Sunday school rooms like we were Lewis and Clark…

It’s been a while since I last cried. I don’t mean the quiet kind—where your eyes just well up and maybe one tear escapes. I mean the kind where you can’t stop it. Where your nose runs and your pride gets drowned in it. That happened this morning.

Friday was my last day of employment. Then came Sunday. I dragged myself to church. Still heavy. Still spinning. Still quietly sulking and ticked off at the world around me as if it’s the world’s fault. And as usual I took it out on Talacey and Sophia and Jason. (Talacey signed up for ‘better or…

Some passages are hard to understand. Others are hard to obey. This one? It’s both. Because Matthew 25 goes beyond parable and becomes a courtroom scene.

There’s a kind of security that feels solid—until it’s tested. That was my fence this morning. A few years ago, I reinforced it. Replaced a few slats. Nailed everything tight. And until today, it looked strong. Stable. Sturdy. But that was before our neighbors’ four dogs—yes, I said four dogs—on the other side of it…

Some posts are difficult to write. This one’s harder to publish. Because tomorrow morning, as she sips her coffee, my wife will read this. And a couple hours later, my sweet, innocent, 13-year-old daughter will, too. They are the two I love most in this world. And they’re the two I’ve hurt the most with…

There’s nothing majestic about a stump. It’s merely what’s left after the cutting. The aftermath. The ruin. It’s the kind of thing you walk past without noticing—just a reminder of what used to be. But Isaiah 11 opens with a clear image: “There shall come forth a shoot from the stump of Jesse, and a…