I am a country mouse at heart, a fact I attribute to personality paired with a pleasantly primitive childhood.

I grew up on a quiet and quaint New England road–Old Mill Road–pulsing with four deliciously distinct seasons, flush with beauty: stately trees, a broad backyard field, lush gardens, and a peaceful pond.

Majestic maples glowed- every hue on fire as autumn erupted: burnt red, tangerine orange, buttery yellow, against the backdrop of chimney smoke slowly rising, curling upward, its rustic scent invigorating. Winter’s snow arrived with fury, all fluffy for sledding and biting temperatures creating ice, perfect for skating at our pond. It was a small, lovely pond encircled by trees, maples, birches, and pines, a wall of beauty buffering winter’s howl; branches weighted low, hushed by ice, stilled by snow.

Just when it seemed that winter had settled in to stay, spring swept in, all gentleness and grace, her soft breezes smiling, dancing, and melting gray snow into puddles. Puddles which pooled and dried beneath the sun’s warm tilt, as trees yawned and stretched, stirring from a long winter’s nap, their branches popping with verdant buds.

The pond’s ice thinned and thinned and thinned once more, before melting away. Turtles’ heads bobbed, breaking the surface, and fish awakened from hibernation. A chorus of frogs lulled me to sleep, a pretty lullaby as I hugged my stuffed bear and memorized the moon from my bedroom window.

By the time school ended in mid-June, summer reappeared, our season for romping outdoors. My brother and I swung on our tire swing beneath the crooked crabapple tree, toeing the dirt, spinning faster and faster, sweaty and dizzy, touching the tree trunk to steady ourselves, our small hands cascading a knotted trunk peppered with woodpecker holes.

We scooped and shoveled roads for my brother’s trucks in our sandbox, raced in the back fields, and feasted on warm, sunbaked raspberries, decadent blackberries, and tangy Concord grapes—plucked from the side gardens. The pair of us reveled in games of tag, racing between the billowy sheets hung from the clothesline. Blissfully exhausted, we freed our pet rabbits from their hutch, laughing as they hopped and scampered at our feet, noses twitching as they nibbled thistle and field grass.

After lunch, we slipped down the pond’s muddy embankment, slinging faded life preservers around our necks as we crept into the aluminum rowboat-Careful! Don’t tip!–and paddled to the center of the pond, the exact spot where the Old Mill once operated. How oblivious we were to this rich history as we lowered our nets and skimmed the water, capturing frogs and baby turtles no bigger than a half-dollar.

Once the sun began its afternoon descent, we traded the rowboat for our bikes and peddled up the road to share an apple with our neighbor’s aging horse, who gratefully nibbled from our flattened hands, his tongue sandpaper.

In the ten trips around the sun I spent at this address, trees matured, shrubs expanded, seasons spun, and I grew taller. One thing, however, did not change: the ancient millstone, lying flat and still beneath our front maple tree.

Its broad, etched surface served as home base for every single game of freeze tag and hide-and-seek. It was the waiting pad for our school bus each morning, and the circle where we played with our pet frogs before releasing them to the pond.

Atop this millstone, I bowed and accepted my Olympic gold medal after completing the perfect cartwheel, and it served as the table for tea parties with my first-grade friends; the place I sat, crisscrossed and scribbled secrets into my journal. Other days, I sprawled on my back, arms resting beneath my head atop the cool millstone, enjoying the drifting clouds while reading Nancy Drew, Charlotte’s Web, and Little Women, inhaling the fresh air, daydreaming the hours away.

What I did not know: that 800-pound millstone was an artifact: one of a pair used by our town’s first mill, built alongside our pond, and used to grind wheat into flour in the year of our Lord 1688, and for the 200 years to follow, until the fire.

A fire that destroyed everything, save the millstones.

My brother and I tried to lift the millstone a time or two, which of course proved fruitless. A stone of that weight is impossible to lift.

//

It was not until I was a young wife and mother that I opened my Bible and read Jesus’ words in Luke 17:1-2:

And he said to his disciples, “Temptations to sin are sure to come, but woe to the one through whom they come! ² It would be better for him if a millstone were hung around his neck and he were cast into the sea than that he should cause one of these little ones to sin.

When I first read his words, my heart thumped. This was strong, terrifying language. My mind flew back to Old Mill Road and our millstone.

I clutched my throat, feeling the burden of the heavy millstone circling my neck as I was flung into the cold sea. Thinking of it now– I sense the terror as I thrash and drop to the ocean floor, legs kicking and arms flailing, gasping as I drown, wide-eyed, desperate, unable to escape death.

A horrifying way to perish.

Do you mean to tell me that this violent death is better than leading another Christian to stumble? To sin?

Yes.

Woe to me if I lead another believer to sin.

//

It is time, dear Christian, to wake up and pay attention to your life. Read your Bible and listen to the savage language that Jesus chooses as he speaks of eradicating sin. (Matthew 5:29, Matthew 5:30) Believe him. Take heed of the severity of leading others astray.

Temptations to sin are inevitable, but woe to those who cause another to stumble.

As God’s people, may we snatch others from the fire, rather than enticing and dragging people straight into it.

A few examples of normalizing sin: flimsy church attendance, gossiping, watching movies or shows that normalize sexual sin and coarse language, and reveling in a life of self-indulgence rather than denying ourselves and living to serve God and others.

Our spouses, children, grandchildren, friends, neighbors, and church family are watching us, learning from our lives. The consequences of our personal sins are always corporate, stretching like a translucent spider web across a barn door.

What brutal and alarming words from Jesus: death by drowning, weighted by a millstone, would be better.

I now understand that whatever sins I permit, embrace, and normalize will shape not only me, but others. What sins I relinquish, turn away from, and repent of will bless others.

It is not the absence of sin but the grieving over it which distinguishes the child of God from empty professors. – A.W. Pink

//

The next time you are tempted to sleep in and forsake the gathering, consider the precious faces of your spouse, your children, your grandchildren, and your church family. As you normalize forsaking the gathering, your choices will open the door for others to follow you into sin. It would be better for you to drown with a heavy millstone around your neck than treat church as a hit-or-miss affair and invite others to do likewise.

The next time you have a juicy tidbit to share, consider the person before you and understand that as you spread gossip, you are causing another to stumble. It would be better for you to drown with a heavy millstone around your neck than to gossip and invite others into such poison.

The next time you choose a movie or a show, consider what you are allowing not only into your living room, but into the hearts and minds of others. It would be better for you to drown with a heavy millstone around your neck than to corrupt a fellow Christian.

The next time you ignore the needs of others and choose to feast upon your precious bucket list, counting all of the ways and dollars you may entertain yourself before you die, consider that your children, grandchildren, friends, neighbors, and church are learning, from you, that old age equals a heaping dish of self rather than a happy denial of taking up your cross and following Jesus. It would be better for you to drown with a heavy millstone around your neck than to spend your winter season of life wasted, spoiling yourself, and inviting others to stumble.

When God speaks with clarity, which he always does through the Bible, listen to him, love him, fear him, obey him, and repent.

Woe to us if we tempt another to sin. Death by millstone would be better.

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Here is a call for the endurance of the saints, those who keep the commandments of God and their faith.

Revelation 4:12

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For biblical help in killing personal sin, I highly recommend: Transformed into His Likeness: a Handbook for Putting off Sin & Putting on Righteousness by Armond P. Tiffe

Once upon a time, I sprinkled a little pizzazz over Valentine’s Day, wrapping up small treasures for our young children. The night before, once everyone was asleep, I slipped into our dining room and decorated our breakfast table with shiny heart confetti, cards, gifts, and a slew of candy.

Those mornings were happy occasions. Four children’s mouths stuffed with pre-breakfast candy, and as sunlight streamed through the blinds, I heard the echoes of notes read aloud, four offerings shyly gifted to my husband and me. We oohed and ahhed over the handmade cards and tricked ourselves into believing these moments would never end—mornings sugared in simplicity and love.

Yesterday, I reached tippy-toe, to the highest shelf, and retrieved a few precious remnants from the depths of my keepsake box. The children’s handwriting has endured, four unique slants winking at me—precious curves I would recognize anywhere. The faded red and pink scraps of paper take me back to a season hushed by the annals of time.

Do you remember? the cards whisper.

I remember.

//

As a young mother, I determined to keep up the tradition of valentining—Forever! Until the end of time! or so I dreamt in a flair of she-bear instinct: wild, ferocious, tender: My precious cubs!

As the hourglass sands trickled like a soft and gentle snowfall, February celebrations waned. Little boys grew tall and chiseled, our daughter spun into a fair maiden, and in a blink all four waltzed into adulthood, some marrying Valentines all their own.

While my bone-strong devotion never dimmed—perish the thought—Valentine’s Day celebrations with our children breathed a quiet and natural exhale, rather than a sudden death. My husband and I exchange gifts and dine out, with conversation unapologetically circling back to our growing family.

Do you remember?

I remember.

//

During my elementary school days, come February, Miss White lined us up—coats on, my dears! Zip-zip your zippers up to your chin!—and marched us outside—no talking! straight line!—leading us to art class. Across the icy sidewalk, down the brick steps, and inside the poorly lit, musty halls of the primitive brown building. The air was frosty but never mind, we were New England children, accustomed to winter’s frigidity and accouterments—snowsuits, scarves, mittens-on-a-string, and enormous pompom hats—children most eager to decorate our Valentine boxes.

Mrs. Gorss, our art instructor, a teensy woman, wore a silky brown blouse and a floral scarf wound and knotted tightly around her aging neck. She floated about the classroom with her chipped, almond-colored coffee mug in hand, edges smeared by salmon lipstick, a horrid shade. These sights gave me the shivers, both the choking scarf and the lip-stained mug, so much so that I longed to race back to my tidy second-grade classroom and Miss White with her icy Nordic eyes, a teacher who chewed minty gum and smelled as clean as a bar of soap.

Mrs. Gorss was kind though, as she passed out cardboard boxes, placing them alongside bottles of paste, scissors, dixie cups full of glitter, and thick construction paper: red, pink, and white. We spent the next hour hard at work, cutting, pasting, sprinkling, and copying each other’s artsy ideas, pretending they were our own.

Put your names on the box, Mrs. Gorss reminded, smiling, a streak of salmon dotting her front teeth as she unsheathed her exacto knife and snipped a rectangular opening atop each one of our boxes.

When Valentine’s Day officially arrived, we raced from the bus and into our brick school, straight down the shiny-floored corridor, unzipping our snowsuits and slinging our hats and mittens over pegs, smoothing the static from our untamed hair. Cheeks red from being thrust from freezing temperatures into the overheated classroom, we hurried to our desks and studied our finished boxes. Soon we dropped our Valentine’s cards into each box. Instructions had been firmly issued to parents, making clear the path of inclusion. No student was to be left out. Period.

It was such a happy day given that everyone was included, even those who were sometimes forsaken. Classmates like Roger, a quiet boy who stood hunched, wearing the same shaggy brown cords everyday, Melissa with a lisp who was ushered off to speech therapy three times per week while the rest of us met in reading groups, and Jason who had a disease that left him forever the size of a three-year-old, with a squeaky voice and mottled skin.

But on Valentine’s Day, all of us were on our best behavior, and generous in spirit. I remember walking up and down the aisles wearing my cherry red turtleneck, slipping cards into each of my classmates’ boxes. We had a fancy party complete with ruby punch, pink frosted cookies, and chewy cinnamon hearts that turned my tongue scarlet. But our favorite were the boxes of Sweethearts, candies with stamped messages that made us giggle: True Love, Kiss Me, Sweet Pea, Love You, Marry Me, XOXO.

//

Valentine’s Day in high school proved nerve-wracking. One of the clubs held its fundraiser on February 14th, and for two dollars, students could purchase a rose to be delivered to any student’s homeroom. Red for love, pink for friendship, and white for secret admirer.

I remember the popular girls (who blazed through boyfriends at lightning speed) smiling as their tangle of long-stemmed roses grew higher and covered their desks, the scent filling homeroom.

The social outcasts, wearing chiefly black and gray on this day of love, cracked open their textbooks during homeroom, supposedly reading without once turning a page. The rest of us, feeling vulnerable and terribly average were relieved to receive a pink rose or two, from one kind friend or another who understood the pain of a vacant Valentine’s desktop.

Yes, ninth grade was oceans apart from the stuffed boxes of elementary school.

//

Life has come full circle, and now I have another Valentine.

He is three-and-a-half years old, handsome, bright, and fun.

His newest pastime is telling jokes, and I am completely undone.

Last Saturday, my husband and I awakened before dawn and drove to cheer on his early morning basketball game. It was a time. Our grandson scored his first game basket ever and it was better than any Super Bowl, which is saying something, at least in our family. My husband and I went wild.

At one point during the game, our little fellow ran out of steam and made for the sideline, shoulders drooping, telling me he was so, so hungry. I opened up a packet of gummies, and he revived, returning to the court, a lump of gummies in his cheek, plus a few more tucked in his fist while his other hand held the basketball.

Our visit ended all too soon, but not before I handed our daughter-in-law our little man’s Valentine’s Day present, plus a package of gummies, just in case.

I picked him up and twirled him, humming our Valentine’s song that we enjoy singing year-round. I told him how much I loved him and then kissed the sweetest, most magical spot right beneath his ear.

He giggled, grabbed my neck, and said: I love you!

And then:

Can I go to your house now?

Well not today but soon, I said.

His eyes started to fill so I told him a joke and he smiled and in turn, made up his own joke.

My funny Valentine.

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Love one another with brotherly affection. Outdo one another in showing honor.

Romans 12:10

(This post is from last year’s archives)

The small-spirited woman was in a mood. A creature with a spiteful obsession to demean anyone in her path, grumbling toward each customer in her line.

As I finally stepped to the counter to pay for fuel, I was prepared to address her rudeness toward the elderly, hard-of-hearing man, the frazzled mother with a fussy infant on her hip, and the waif of a teenager in her oversized hoodie and chewed-down nails. They had done nothing to deserve her disrespect, and I felt inclined to defend these strangers.

But the Spirit held my tongue.

Hello. Thirty dollars on pump three with a receipt, please, I said, willing myself to smile, before adding: How are you doing today?

She glared. Another day living the dream in this (expletive).

I am sorry to hear that, I said. What’s your name?

She rolled her eyes.

Well, thank you for ringing up my bill. I said. I’m going to pray for you today, as I imagine this must be a difficult job. Life isn’t easy, is it?

She paused, studying my face before handing me my change and receipt.

I pray you find comfort in the Lord, I said, meaning it.

Was it my imagination, or did her eyes soften?

Thank you, she said quietly as I left.

***

Years ago, one of our sons worked in a fast-food establishment, a means to an end as he paid for college. Despite the kitchen being a greasy inferno and the work being stressfully fast-paced, Marcus made a point of befriending fellow employees, who knew he was a Christian. As the crew cooked chicken, they discussed theology, namely, how to live in this world and honor God.

One employee named Aiden acted like a class clown. He was wildly insecure and desperately vied for attention, regardless of the cost to others. This included ridiculing our son and another Christian fellow as they shared their faith.

Marcus never laughed at Aiden’s crass humor but quietly and firmly told him that he was unwilling to participate in these conversations, a sentiment which led to increasing derision. Marcus carried on with his gospel conversations, and Aiden ramped up his taunting and berating.

One day, this season ended, as seasons do. Marcus completed his last shift, punched the time clock one final time, got married, graduated, and moved into adulthood.

The end of the story?

Not by a long shot.

Years passed, and one ordinary day, Marcus received a phone call.

It was Aiden, calling to apologize and thank our son for sharing his faith.

God had captured Aiden’s heart, and he was now a born-again Christian. The Bible conversations in the hot kitchen years before? The humble words that fueled Aiden’s contempt? The Bible-driven, gospel-saturated sentences that increased our son’s suffering and persecution?

They had fallen softly to the ground and germinated. Small seeds planted by the Spirit.

It is profitable to remember two things: God’s Word never returns void, and our suffering for Christ’s sake is never in vain.

Praise God.

Our son’s soft tongue had broken a bone.

With patience a ruler may be persuaded, and a soft tongue will break a bone. (Proverbs 25:15)

---

Dear Little One,

Last fall, your mother and I planned to meet in the middle, at Two Sisters, one of our favorite consignment shops that lies halfway between our homes.

I was on the phone as I wheeled into the parking lot when I spotted your pretty Mama, holding your sister on her hip. Judging from your mother’s countenance, something was amiss; this I knew. I tried, as graciously as possible, to end the phone call because guess what?

Your Mama is my baby.

I opened the truck door and tumbled out.

What’s wrong? I asked, reaching for your big sister, who at that time was not even five months old.

Tears sprang to your Mama’s eyes, and when she told me I might want to sit down, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that there was reason to rejoice.

Just like that, my heart expanded, adding another room.

A room just for you.

God is always good and never surprised, I said as I hugged her, simultaneously performing a bit of feverish math. You and your big sister will be a smidgen over one year apart: Irish twins, as they say, and soon to be the best of friends.

Welcome to the family, third grandbaby of mine. God has knit you together.

By the way, I have been doing some knitting, too.

***

Wouldn’t it be a fantastic story if this baby is a girl? I laughed, nudging your Mama. Two sisters? The name of the shop where you told me that I would be a grandmother again?

She smiled.

I think it’s a boy, she said, happily.

A month or two later, I bought you a soft teddy bear, a little white Gund, the brand my grandfather once bought for me.

At your Mama’s request, I knit two tiny scarves: pale pink and soft blue.

The plan?

Your Daddy would open your sonogram results, with your Mama’s back turned. He would then tie the appropriate scarf on the little fellow’s neck and ask your mother to spin around.

So I knit those miniature scarves and prayed for you as I went, just as I prayed for our first grandbaby and our second: that God would draw you to himself at a young age. As the scarves took shape, I wondered what God had in store.

Would it be two sisters? Or a sister and a brother?

I cannot wait to hold you come May, sweet grandson of mine.

You are a gift from God, who has crowned me again.

Thank you, Lord.

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I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.
Wonderful are your works;
    my soul knows it very well.

Psalm 139:14

I was enjoying a bowl of steaming potato soup in a friend’s home, and as we dined, she shared memories from her childhood.

Many decades ago, she said, my beloved father hatched a plan to curb his children’s complaining.

How? I asked.

By introducing “The Gripe Jar.”

From that point forward, she explained, all bellyaching was met with a monetary fine, sans lecture. The money was due as soon as the infraction was committed. As my friend expounded, I could almost hear those coins plinking as they were begrudgingly deposited inside the glass jar with an exaggerated sigh.

Did your father’s plan work? I asked, reaching for a slice of cheese.

She smiled. It certainly did.

I thought about “The Gripe Jar” as I drove home, and pondered how often I pass off small complaints, viewing them as harmless and, quite frankly, acceptable, given extenuating circumstances.

This is poor, unbiblical thinking, is it not?

All complaining is sin, a raging against God.

Thomas Watson said it well:

Murmuring is the rising up of oneself against God. It sets oneself against God as if I am wiser than he.

If I truly embrace God’s sovereignty, which I do, then I must shun complaining about anything the Lord has chosen to give me. In fact, my heart must play catch-up and fight to grasp what my mind already knows: there are no accidents in God’s economy. Every situation has been sifted through his omniscient hands.

A proper heart posture never grouses, only kneels.

How comforting to preach this truth to myself during life’s trials, sorrows, inconveniences, and petty annoyances. When my heart is blanketed with trust and gratitude, I will bow and sing rather than rage and moan.

No one is holding “The Gripe Jar” beneath my nose when I choose to fuss. Nevertheless, the thought of displeasing my Heavenly Father should grieve me far more than any monetary fine.

Have you noticed?

This world is chock-full of egregious complainers: men, women, and children who are championed and cheered as they protest, grumble, and bellyache at every turn.

But as Christians, we have the finest reason to replace our complaining with singing and rejoicing: we are God’s pilgrims, a redeemed people on our way to heaven with Christ.

//

I was exercising on an underwater treadmill yesterday, while a nearby cluster of women gabbed as they floated atop their fluorescent pool noodles. One began to complain — griping about the impending snowstorm, the skyrocketing cost of groceries, the gloom of tax season, her sore, arthritic shoulder, and, oh yes! her husband’s dental fiasco.

A few others nodded and proceeded to chime in with a beef or two. (Or three.) A chorus of complaints. Suddenly, the chlorinated air felt thickly oppressive. I wished for earbuds.

But there was no stopping her now! She was revved up, on a roll.

And to top it off, ladies, I can never get a treadmill reservation! The signup app is ridiculous, and—

You can have mine, dear, said the lady next to me, on coveted treadmill # 1, her eyes kind and smile warm as she deserted her reserved equipment.

God is good, she said softly, shining as a star, pure and blameless.

The chorus of complainers?

Silenced.

¹⁴ Do everything without grumbling or arguing, ¹⁵ so that you may become blameless and pure, “children of God without fault in a warped and crooked generation.” Then you will shine among them like stars in the sky. (Philippians 2:14-15)

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Over two decades ago, I received an email from a college friend, telling me of a woman I will call Audrey, who, at the tender age of thirty-three, had started a blog, keeping people updated on her husband.

A husband, who, with hardly a symptom, had been diagnosed with stage 4 cancer.

Audrey did not set out to be a writer, yet her husband’s health crisis prompted her to put pen to paper. She proved herself to be a shepherdess of words, governing thoughts with exquisite care. Her sentences? Expressions beautifully arranged, overflowing with honesty, taking readers from here to there.

Initially, doctors offered hope for her husband’s survival, but as fall turned to winter, it became clear that Adam would die. 

Her words hit hard, prompting an ache in my throat as she told of glimpsing her distorted image in the reflection of the metal bed frame that hospice had delivered to their home; her firm insistence that it be positioned beneath the window in their modest bedroom, so her husband’s peaked face might be warmed by morning light.

When the pitch of night fell and blanketed their room, Audrey battled fear that clutched her throat, praying and crying softly as she reached for her husband’s hand, bridging the chasm between the bed they once shared and his thin cot.

She told of their three little children, the youngest of whom would never remember his remarkable father, a godly man and freshly ordained pastor. Readers were beckoned into the simple birthday parties she threw for her family of five: silly pillow fights followed by hard-won laughter atop Adam’s bed, random tears of inexorable frustration, pepperoni pizzas, and chocolate cake her husband did not crave yet bravely choked down for the sake of his puckish trio, as he labored to stuff their hearts with happy memories.

Memories to soften the hard edges, someday.

Audrey wrote of their quiet prayers at bedtime; as she studied her husband’s wedding band, so loose on his finger, as she toyed with her own gold ring and remembered their vows. The thumping of her heart jolted her from all reverie as a fresh wave of understanding bore down, unbidden, the gravitas and nearness of eternity, a blanket flooding their little home.

She shared of the morning’s groanings, the desire to sleep and fall into dreams of pleasant days gone by, but instead waking to three active children plus a sea of medicine bottles and suppressed moans of pain she could not assuage for her beloved.

Some of her writings were as brief as a post-it note, yet lovely: the ache of sad kisses and slow endings. The staggering farewells from Adam’s stream of young, robust friends.

It was plain to see through her flowing pen: Audrey’s husband had lived well before the face of God and was now dying in the same vein. It was also plain to see that Audrey was gently held, cradled by God, her words holy and raw, delicate while sturdy.

Eventually, when the doctors could do no more than make Adam comfortable, the elders from the church softly circled his bed as they read Psalms over their exhausted friend. This brotherhood became a chorus, singing Adam’s favorite hymn of all: A Mighty Fortress is Our God.

A Bulwark never failing.

Audrey gave her small readership the cadence to taste death, her sentences a deep, quiet pond of tedious grieving, laced with the confession of the countless ways she already missed her robust, fun, faithful husband, her best friend, now fading, withering, leaving her as a single mother even as he still lived.

Her prayers? Please, God, take him, and then one breath later: Dear Lord, please let him live.

Her melodic words spun with blood and fire, tension and restraint. She wrote from her worn-down knees, too worn for a woman in her prime. The sweetness was this: God was near in her darkest hour, and he was good, always good, and she trusted him.

It has been 22 years since I read Audrey’s words, but do you see? Her writings endure.

Never did she shun the gritty curves of suffering, nor was she guilty of wallowing: her pen spoke the hard truths exquisitely, drawing this reader to a deeper hope of eternity with Christ.

Her final post was the brief announcement of Adam’s death, and then a gracious goodbye. Audrey’s family had diminished as the five became four, the breadwinner now with God.

And then she closed the door of her blog forever; her work finished.

Adam was safely home.

I remember blinking back tears, already missing her.

Those quotidian writings lived on as her words burrowed and nestled their way down into my bones, cooking something warm and savory: an insatiable thirst for God, a hunger for heaven, and a pining to write words that endure.

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I was grieved recently, while listening to an online sermon in which the pastor claimed a person could “get saved,” live exactly as he had before his supposed conversion, bear no fruit, and still go to heaven.

Jesus never once offers assurance to those bent on continuing in sin.

In fact, false conversions show up in fruitless living.

If you are sitting beneath live-however-you-wish-after-you-have-raised-your-hand-and-repeated-this-prayer-after-me type of preaching, run.

Continue reading “Christians Bear Fruit” →

It has been a precious few weeks celebrating Christmas with our family and friends. I will return to my desk next week, but in the meantime, here is my monthly newsletter. (There are a few stories tucked in there, as well.)

Happy New Year!

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