“Let us go then, you and I, to the place our Rabbi lies.”

I spied a mother and her two little boys pushing a loaded cart toward the exit.

We all want God’s help, but something deeper in our hearts must happen to us to be able to want God’s hold.

I spied a mother and her two little boys pushing a loaded cart toward the exit.

“Look at me. Here I am burdening you with my troubles and spoiling your morning joy.”

How frequently do we find ourselves akin to shattered pieces in need of reconstruction?

In the same way my daughter tirelessly sets up her toys every day, I go through the motions of being with, feeding, reading to, and playing with my kids.

His net starts to break under the weight of the madly squirming fish. Are his blessings about to become curses?

With those four words, my son sent me on a journey of self-reflection.

“When you talk about God, you’re talking about something transcendent. So we spend a lot of time exploring mystery and the unknown.”

They demolished the Christian school building next door to our church.

His gaunt, cancer-ridden, AIDS-diseased body testified to the truth: he was dying. There was no doubt about it.

As a 6-year-old, I depended on God and his angels to help me across the ice.

Christian, oh Christian … What lies are you believing?

Disgruntled already about the annual hoopla surrounding the birth of the Savior, Santa really did it. This was simply outrageous.

Perhaps because grief weighed me down, every day seemed cold and rainy.

During our drive to church, I peeked at the picture a few times. It brought a smile to my face each time.

So, if the Son sets you free, you will be free indeed.

She offered the sparkling gold ring one last time before getting into the car.

I tested positive for sin.

Suddenly a young woman ran in front of my car and started beating on the hood. She ran to the passenger door, screaming, “Let me in! Let me in!”

After a few years of this, it occurred to me that maybe Vern thought Jesus was getting tortured and crucified every year—and rising from the dead every year.

What’s in a name? Something very important, it seems.