December Birthdays
Mama asks if I’m having a good birthday. I nod. But I don’t mean it. I’m quiet. I’m always quiet. Ever since my father died several years ago, I just stay quiet. I don’t know why. Not much to say, I guess.
Citizen Writers Fighting Censorship by Helping Americans Understand Issues Affecting the Republic.
Mama asks if I’m having a good birthday. I nod. But I don’t mean it. I’m quiet. I’m always quiet. Ever since my father died several years ago, I just stay quiet. I don’t know why. Not much to say, I guess.
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.
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.
It was January, 1906. The S.S. Valencia was being tossed upon the ice-cold Pacific like a rubber ducky. Two days earlier, the ship had set out from San Francisco to Seattle. It was a bad trip.
The Bible tells us not to worry about anything, but to pray about everything (Philippians 4:6). Is that even possible? YES, if we cling to the cross!
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 …
Anna and her four young daughters were on a trip to England on the SS Ville du Havre. It was a French steamship. All iron. Built like a tank. Except, of course, tanks weren’t around yet. This was 1873.
Maybe it’s not fair, but bad things do happen to good people. And while it makes no sense to us, we can trust that God has a plan for our hope and future.
Sean Dietrich receives a poignant letter of abject grief, and answers as only one of our great American writers and sages is able to do.