When an aged lady takes you by the arm and weeps and stares at you and asks you why her husband suffered so horribly after a lifetime of selfless service, and why her godly sister — her only companion in her recent widowhood — was killed by an illegal alien drunk driver, what do you do? Do you tell her that you’ll pray for her? Give her a soft platitude about all things working together for good? Remind her that her loved ones are in a better place? Like so many other things about my beliefs, the commonly accepted teaching on the Bible’s view of suffering is much on my…

He comes to her as he always does, when she is relaxed and contemplative. He bows his yellow head with its “m” between his brows, and he nuzzles her red head, enjoying the reciprocation from the larger beast whom most would assume to be his adversary. But he comes to her on a baking July evening, and this little moment is important because it is genuine, and because it is shared. Animals do have emotions, and this moment of affection belongs to the barn cat and the old dog, and it is genuine. Animals do have rituals, and this one is theirs, and it is born of need, and need…

A friend called yesterday and mentioned during the chat that his little girl’s pet died last night. He described her questions about why God would allow such a thing, why He apparently doesn’t hear or doesn’t answer “yes” to prayers for the healing of a sick animal, and why innocent animals suffer while evil people get away with very bad things. He told me that his answers were pretty weasely (his phrase) and that he didn’t think she was satisfied with them. Pastors and other overpaid authority figures like to throw around a phrase: “This is a teachable moment.” The phrase is intended to mean, “Here’s a moment when a…

We are, for all our care and caution, a rushing people. When one thinks of the act of hurrying, of moving with impatient rapidity, one associates such rushing with the exertion of effort. And yet it is the act of deliberately slowing down that requires the real effort. And sometimes the exertion of our wills to slow ourselves is more than we can bear. There was a time when I rushed, when my days were supple and languid and I had an endless supply of them. And during that time, a choice came up before me, a choice that demanded a clean, clear answer from me. I made my choice…

When I decided to begin blogging, I knew that I wanted to share my art — the short stories, poems, and personal essays — that I have been creating ever since I learned to hold a pencil. The act of writing is for me a type of worship, and I can only perform this act after my thoughts have been steeped in the scalding water of memory and experience and even regret. What remains in the cup is what I place on the page. Whether you enjoy or appreciate what I write is your decision. What I write here is honest and true. That is my decision.