My Father’s Hands

My Father’s Hands

It was an especially crisp afternoon, that bracing fall atmosphere in which children love to play. There was just a hint of chill in the air as I raced through the crunchy, colorful leaves to try out our new rope swing. Earlier, my father had thrown the rope up over...
Why?

Why?

“Isn’t this the One who opens blind eyes? Why didn’t he do something to keep Lazarus alive?” (John 11:37 The Passion Translation.)  Those nasty “Why?” questions. I’d stopped asking them. I had decided it was an expression...
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