Citizen Writers Fighting Censorship by Helping Americans Understand Issues Affecting the Republic.
Today is National Puzzle Day. So, I bought a jigsaw puzzle at the grocery store. The box features an ornate cathedral with red roses and blossoming foliage. The cathedral is in Germany. The puzzle cost $9 bucks. I almost choked on my gum.
The transmission of her car has given out. Every day, she hitches a ride to work because she is broke.
She works hard. Too hard. And when she’s not cooking in the kitchen of the medical rehab, delivering trays to patients, she’s a full-time single mother.
In light of all the negative headlines, civil unrest, and the international political upheavals, I know many of you are anxious to know what I did for National Kiss a Ginger Day. Or maybe you missed this particular holiday.
When you’re having a bad day, think of her. She was born in Agawam, Massachusetts. One year after the Civil War. The daughter of Irish immigrants.
Help us to love one another. Help us to find beauty in each fellow human being. Beauty within each soul who crosses our path today. Teach us to find beauty in our enemies.
The old timers in my childhood used a word I never understood. The word was “Providence.” The old timers couldn’t give me an exact definition of this word. Probably because it had more than two syllables.
In the elevator is a little boy and his mother. They are both carrying overnight bags. Mom looks like she hasn’t slept in eight years. The boy looks worried. He’s so serious. “Mom?” the boy asks. “Do you think Caleb’s surgery worked?”
Carole’s mother was young. Twenty-two years old. She was married and pregnant with her second child. The year was 1945.
The War was freshly over. The Depression was still a recent memory. Carole’s mother wanted to buy her husband a gift for his birthday. He was turning 25.
This church is 115 years old. It’s small. Impossibly small, only able to fit 25 people—30 people if they are scrawny. The church is nestled in Appalachia, and looks like a postcard.
You are special. You are infinitely, unbelievably, once-in-a-septillion-years special. That’s right, I’m talking to you, one of the nine-point-two people reading this.
If you’ve tried everything else, try the one thing that isn’t just another version of you trying harder. Try grace. Try the One who actually knows you.
She was a foster kid. Grew up in a group home. A place where you basically lived in a bunk. If you were lucky, you got to shower before the other kids drained the hot water tank.
Dennis had a LOT of personality. He was fearless, as it turned out. It wasn’t long before he was charging into new environments, bumping around until he learned the layout of each room. Dennis loved to play. Also, he learned to walk, which was something he could barely do before.
George wanted to be a musician. He was born to a working-class family. His mom was the daughter of a minister. His dad was a barber. His mom supported her son’s passion, but his dad was deadset against it.
It was quite a day. Not the kind of day you’d expect to have inside a prison. The holidays were fast approaching when the inmates walked into the prison’s Bible college room and were swallowed by pink.
Tony had become urban wallpaper. Almost invisible to civilized eyes. You see Tonys all the time. Standing at a stoplight. Asking for handouts. Most drivers just keep driving.
The Little League team was good. Really good. The nine mop-haired, lanky boys, clad in classic ‘70s harvest-gold uniforms, were undefeated this season. They had a shot at the pennant. But then, devastation.
The Sentinel There exists a chamber in the garret where all the secrets dwell, slumbering beneath the dusty shrouds meant to conceal them for eternity. The passage, a narrow one, remains barricaded, padlocked and bolted, defended with the strength and stamina, the fervor and fortitude, the power and potency, the brawn and bravado of a …
The following is a true story. The little girl was walking with her mother. They were taking a stroll through the hospital garden, bathed in the dappled sunlight of early afternoon, looking at all the flowers in bloom.
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 …