I'm Dreaming of a White Elbow

"We're scaredy craps - just made that up!" Steve joked with Matt. We were putting away our brushes and capping our paint buckets. The walls of a once dark and dusty basement had become a brilliant white (along with our elbows, shoulders, foreheads and shoes) and filled with laugher and song in just one hour.

Normally we would be wrapping up a scripture passage with discussion and prayer, but this week was a little different. Matt and Mary needed help painting their basement, especially with Matt's twelve hour shifts, a newborn, and the state of their house when they first moved in. Last week, over food

Kids Like This

My brisk run this morning began and ended much later than I intended. I did set my alarm* correctly  in hopes of getting up early enough, but this morning, largely persuaded by my sleepy wife, I slept in. And once up, I occupied myself with this and that (check email, check weather, etc.) to avoid the cold air outside. After way too long, I mustered up the determination and slipped on my long spandex**, pulled on a sweatshirt, gloves, a beanie and my shoes and jogged out my back door, across my lawn and to the street behind us.

"Hi Spencer!" I shouted across the street as I came upon a familiar figure. It was Carter, Spencer's

Prince of Peace

I am not in grade school. I am not a teacher. I am not from Connecticut. I do not have children. I have never been the victim of a violent crime.

Why, then, do I feel attached to what has happened? Why do I feel sorrow for the families? Why do I feel anger toward the perpetrator? Why do I feel responsibility to know the story and understand what happened? We all share it together, don't we? We are connected by our humanity, connected by the