Citizen Writers Fighting Censorship by Helping Americans Understand Issues Affecting the Republic.
It was a rural area. Hundreds of acres of almond trees. The scent of organic fertilizer filling the air. Two farmworkers were repairing a broken tractor near Avenue 8 and Road 23 ½ in Madera County. That’s when they noticed something. The men saw a school bus on fire.
On Interstate 71, just outside Carrollton, Kentucky, stands a lone highway sign. It’s a small sign, DOT-green, no frills. Easy to miss. But it’s there. The sign reads, “SITE OF FATAL BUS CRASH—MAY 14, 1988.” That’s all.
The hotel lobby. Early morning. The dining room is filled with people all eating complimentary breakfasts of plasticized food-like matter.
Even in spiritual fog, the Holy Spirit remains–calling us to trust, to stay in His word, and to keep walking until His light returns.
I sort of raised myself. My dad died when I was a kid. He died by suicide, shortly after he’d been released from county lockup on bail. His death was dramatic. It made the papers. On his final night, he almost took my mother to the grave with him.
Natalie Grabow, of Mountain Lakes, New Jersey, has just become the oldest woman to finish the Ironman World Championship Triathlon. Amazingly, Natalie only learned how to swim around age 60. Today, Natalie is 80 years old.
It was late. I pulled into the campus after seven o’clock to attend my last class of the semester. My last college class. Ever. It was a night class. In America, most self-respecting people my age were finishing supper, settling down to watch “Wheel of Fortune.” But I was in school. I had been attending …
American Citizen Writer, Colonel (and Medical Doctor) U.S. Army Retired, offers up an inspirational anecdote about continuation of public service…after service.
Nobody could explain how it happened. But one day, Willy sort of lost his mind. Namely, because Willy walked into the kitchen and declared that he was a chicken. Not a proverbial chicken, mind you. But literal poultry. The kind that go bawk-bawk, cock-a-doodle-doo, and all such manner of clucking.
The year is 1941. The place is Auschwitz. His official name is Prisoner Number 16670. But his real name is Max. Max isn’t old, but he looks ancient. Prison camp will do that to a man. He is here because he was caught sheltering 3,000 Polish refugees—half of whom were Jews.
I’ve spent this entire morning reading letters. They are stories sent to me from people who have seen things bigger than themselves.
When God seems silent and our prayers go unanswered, it’s not indifference but an invitation to trust His greater plan.
Listen, I know we haven’t talked in a long time, but technically, that’s not my fault. You probably don’t remember this, but you quit listening to your inner voice just as soon as you hit the fourth stage of puberty.
Do what you know is right, and start making your professed faith a real, true priority in your lives today. There’s no other way, no magic pill, no quick fix. Either you’re serious, or you’re not.
You know the type: the person who keeps a running tab of every slight, every mistake, every dumb thing somebody said back in 2012. The kind of person who never really lets anything go.
I remember who I was as I walked the ancient trail. I remember those 40 days. Living out of a backpack. Hardly any possessions. Two T-shirts. One pair of boots. I had a fiddle on my back.
A little girl rescued a turtle from a busy highway. This happened yesterday afternoon. Moving a turtle is not a remarkable sight, really. It happens every day, somewhere in the world. Somewhere in the known universe, a rural kid moves a turtle off the highway. I have been that kid myself. Many times. Maybe you …
And so it was, on an average weeknight, somewhere in California, a team of 15 random people volunteered to lift the helicopter. A gaggle of bystanders, both male and female, gathered beneath the belly of the great wreckage. Feet planted. Hands ready.
In the Old Testament, before Moses could come down from his meeting with God on Mount Sinai, the Israelites returned to idol worship. We know better than that today! Or do we?
My friend Morgan Love is in the hospital again. I’ve lost count of how many times she’s been in the hospital. She’s slept in a hospital bed more times than any human I’ve known.