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Forgive Your Parents

Forgiveness is freedom When I was twelve-years-old, I was lying in a hospital bed in excruciating pain. I was about to be wheeled in for an emergency fifth surgery on my broken arm. The screw doctors drilled into my elbow a few days earlier came out, spilling blood and bone on to the floor. It was horrifying. My mom leaned over my bed and began to cry. I asked, “What are YOU crying about? She said, “I know this hurts you, but it kills me.” I thought she was crazy. Then I had kids. It cannot be described; it must be lived. When my children hurt, I hurt. The night of my surgery, my dad ignored nurse Ratched and hospital …

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What God’s Teaching Me Right Now

Not only are people not perfect; they’re in varying degrees of pain. Without thinking, those words poured from my fingertips. I stared at the screen for a long time. I was impressed by what was there. That’s how I know it didn’t come from me. Have you ever struggled with people? Ever wonder why they do what they do? Ever hope people just text you so you don’t actually have to talk to them? Me too. But that’s not why we’re here. It’s not healthy. We should find ways to look each other in the eye and connect. People will disappoint you. They’ll fall short of your expectations. They’ll lie to you and treat you or people you love poorly. …

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The Tool Room

All men die; few men ever really live. ~ John Eldredge It’s mildly morbid, but for years when my 95-year old father-in-law sent me to his basement tool room for a screw driver or something, I knew one day I’d be down there after he was gone organizing the mess. I’m sure he had a system of some kind, but seriously this room made Fred Sanford look like Martha Stewart. Several weeks after his passing, there I was surrounded by saw dust on the concrete floor of a poorly lit room tucked away deep in the corner of his home. I organized everything from his screws, nails and washers to his power tools, hammers and wrenches. His drill is recharging …

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…And Just Like That

Life forever changes. One second I’m watching TV with my wife on a quiet Sunday night. The next, I’m sprinting down the road toward a woman kneeling on the concrete with her husband’s badly injured body resting on her lap. There’s a strong smell of gasoline coming from the mangled motorcycle in the grass a few yards away. The woman is pleading to God, “Jesus, please. I can’t live without him. Robert, can you hear me? He’s not breathing! He’s not breathing!” Even in the darkness, it’s easy to piece together what happened. He skidded off the road and slammed into a concrete culvert and a brick mailbox. His wife, riding with him on a separate bike, probably watched it …

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Clear The Runway

On an unseasonably warm night last October, I sat up with my ninety-four-year-old father-in-law at his Northern Michigan home. The window next to my chair was cracked open just enough where Dad wouldn’t question me about it. His health had slowly deteriorated over the past year and it was not easy to watch him struggle with everyday tasks. He was a fit, proud and ruggedly handsome man who still had a full head of thick, silver hair. He was seated sideways on the adjustable bed that was recently placed in the living room in front of the fireplace. I was exhausted from the thirteen-hour drive to come and see him, but it was clear he wasn’t about to sleep. He …