The Holy Spirit’s Gifts: Our Gauge of Sanctification

The Holy Spirit’s gifts are our gauge of sanctification. The Holy Spirit brings a set of nine gifts, linked together like a surveyor’s chain. If you grew up with Christian parents, or went to a Christian school, you might have memorized them: Love, Joy, Peace, Patience, Kindness Goodness, Faithfulness, Gentleness, and Self-control. That’s usually as

Purest Fiction: No Pickle No Chips

Purest Fiction: No Pickle No Chips

Farther down the road were the unmistakable lions that guarded library steps. She could go in, perhaps log on. No! When she logged on, her eye for details demanded that she comment, giving her hunters a place to begin again.
Instead, she entered the Laundromat and found an unused washer. The author raked heaps of laundry from the cavernous suitcase and fished a handful of quarters from her waist pack. There was enough detergent in her bottle for one load, but she needed more than that. The easiest thing was to start the first washer load, then go buy lunch.

Her editing eyes rebelled at the misplaced apostrophes on the restaurant menu board.

I Became a Singer Unseen but Not Unheard

I Became a Singer Unseen but Not Unheard Long ago in the distant past of December 1975, I participated in a major musical tradition. With other students and community members, I’d gathered weekly on Monday nights since mid-September, focused on learning Handel’s Messiah. The college auditorium wasn’t large enough to accommodate the expected crowds, so

Purest Fiction: Post Office

Purest Fiction: Post Office

The woman raked her dripping bangs out of her face and forced herself to her feet. She picked up the suitcase with her left hand. The wheels had broken off long ago, but it still held the things she valued. The galleys of the last novel for her publisher’s contract, packed in a box at the bottom, weighed the case down. 
At the end of the off-ramp stood a road sign. She wiped her water-spotted lenses on her damp jacket sleeve and peered at the lettering. “Welcome to Donegal. How appropriate! I hope my agent gets the joke.”
The woman leaned to her left and slogged down the incline. “Donegal should have a post office,” she muttered. “I’m weary of lugging this around.” 

Purest Fiction: Off Ramp

Purest Fiction: Off Ramp

The fog resolved to steady drizzle, and she didn’t know which was worse. The woman pressed close to the guardrail. Her shoes slid in the bluestone chips and crumbling asphalt on the margin of the road. There was the familiar hiss of tires on wet pavement, and she fought the panicky desire to freeze.

Comparative safety was yards ahead.

With a mighty roar, the dirty semi moved past at the speed limit. Its draft made her stagger and the water thrown up by its wheels spattered her glasses. If she survived walking farther up the road, she could lean on the “road closed” barrier that blocked the off-ramp and put the suitcase down for a moment.
“Either someone has a sense of humor, or life imitates fiction,” she said to a robin that perched on the fence pole and shook water from its wings. “I’m as homeless now as Ruarri ever was. I chose this red suitcase in a moment of hope, and look at me.”