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It was early in the morning. Very early. But the mid-August air hung heavy and my legs protested as I walked down to the track. There were about thirty of us, but no one said a word. Unless yawns count as words.

First day of soccer practice, junior year in college. We arrived at the track, and the coaches were waiting for us. It was the same first day of practice that I had experienced the previous two years. They didn’t bring soccer balls. No nets. No cleats.

Just bring your running shoes, they said. Continue reading “Anyone Else Out There Exhausted?”

I tell you, love your enemies. Help and give without expecting a return. You’ll never – I promise – regret it. Live out this God-created identity the way our Father lives toward us, generously and graciously, even when we’re at our worst.

Sitting in my living room, on my couch, in front of my laptop, I try to imagine going to sleep tonight worried that someone might very well sneak into the house and murder me. Or steal my children. Or burn the house down. This is, after all, what I imagine an enemy might do. Why am I thinking about these things?

Simple: I’m trying to figure out whether or not I actually have enemies. Continue reading “My Search For Enemies”

If there’s one constant at the fair, it’s noise. Country music scratches loudly from the speakers mounted on telephone poles; vendors shout out their offers (“Turrrrrkey Legs!”); the tractor pull roars as frustrated vehicles bog down; and people people people talk talk talk.

So when you encounter silence of any kind, it first strikes you as out of place. One of these things just doesn’t belong here.

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I’d never seen such a quiet group of kids. Continue reading “The Perfect Example of Community”

A little girl skips through the light rain, her brown curls clinging to her forehead. She has a lollipop in her mouth and a miniature American flag in her hand. She splashes from puddle to puddle, the soles of her shoes slapping against the wet ground. Her mouth moves in small flutters, and because I have a girl her age I know she is probably telling herself stories, or singing. Continue reading “Frederick Fair, Day Seven: The Inevitability of Rain”

The eight-year-old boy scans the horizon. His mom says they are close. He rubs the sleep from his eyes with small fists and yawns, pleasure swelling at the thought that it is Friday, and they are almost at the fair. He leans his face against the car window, his breath glazing the glass.

Then he sees it, rising up beyond the small town like the north star, or the silos that used to help him find his way home: Continue reading “Frederick Fair, Day 6: Another Time Machine”