Her mom’s tears were dripping on her neck when she noticed it. The grey, almost blue when touched by sunlight, handprint on the side of the car. It hadn’t been there before, and it couldn’t belong to either of them. It was too big. Its fingers spread far and wide along the side of the passenger door. It was cool out there in the mountain woodland. For her, this place always felt like the edge of the world. For her father, it might as well have been the only place left in the

If you ask my wife, she will say that I’m very patient with people. That’s a good thing, I guess, but I’m not patient while waiting, and waiting is the hard part. I know that we must wait for God’s timing and do our best not to rush things. I mean, if we look at history, rushing into something that God promised has never worked out. It’s always best to wait for His timing.    I’m working on it. I know that in His presence, the only time I have is the present. John C. Maxwell

The sight of it was comical. One you had to actually see to appreciate. With the sun reflecting off the curled and twisted brass, it just about resembled a small sun snaking through the water. It took the instrument a few tries to slide up the sand, but eventually it made it ashore where it rested close enough to touch his big toe all he had to do was reach out for it.   It was a peculiar find. Unexpected, if not incredibly unlikely. Of all things, the ocean had rejected a so

Memories are odd things. They rise from the mists of our minds, often not summoned, triggered by some outside stimuli. Some are like sunshine, bringing a smile and warm fuzzies to our souls. Some are old scars, rent open, feeling fresh and raw. It happens to everyone at some point. But for a writer, at least for me, they in turn become fodder for stories; a fresh twist to a plot, a deeper look into the inner workings of a character, settings - I could rattle off a host of use