Pray for our Kids

One snowy morning in a small Pennsylvania town, a high-speed train came thundering down the rails from Boston en route to Washington. It swiftly cut through the cold air reaching speeds upwards of 110 mph. 16-year-old Gina and her best friend, 15-year-old Vanessa, hurried onto the tracks as the speeding train quickly approached. The whistle frantically sounded and the girls didn’t move. They hugged. And that was it. This morning, I watched as my daughters left for school on their bikes. “Bye daddy!” they yelled as they slowly rode off, their little legs gradually picking up speed. I stood in the driveway. My eyes never left them as they grew smaller and smaller in the distance. I have never loved …

Life Song

On my neighbor’s small porch there sets a small bench. I never paid too much attention to it before. It faded into the background of life’s canvas like so many things do. But today, I’m thinking a lot about that bench. It’s quiet today; especially today. My neighbor’s name is Bill; perfect really, a simple name for a simple man. Bill is almost 80 years old. He speaks with a southern drawl that’s as thick as his glasses. Like that old small bench, he’s a bit weathered but still strong. His laugh is contagious. I liked him right away. He’s the neighbor everyone should have. Need a wrench, an extension cord, a screwdriver? Check with Bill. For years I have …

Fiddler Beneath The Roof

A man never stands so tall as when he leans over to help a child. ~Abraham Lincoln I was signing my children’s book at a little music festival in our Tennessee town last weekend. It was a beautiful day until, seemingly out of nowhere, black clouds darkened the sky. The ensuing rain forced us (and several others) to take cover underneath a pavilion. It was there that we met a simple hero—a hero who made an impact on a child; my child. His name is Jim…an 81-year old Arkansas farm boy who grew up plowing cotton fields behind a mule and later became a United States Air Force Major. Now retired, Jim travels around to these kinds of festivals to …

Everyday Hero

Are there heroes anymore? On a small porch, in front of small house, there is a small bench. I never paid too much attention to it before. It faded into the background of life’s canvas like so many things do. It’s quiet today. It’s quiet every day. My neighbor Bill lives here. Of course his name is Bill. Perfect really; a simple name for a simple man. Bill is almost 80. He speaks with a southern drawl that’s as thick as his glasses. He has thinning, snow-white hair. His leathery skin suggests that he has spent his share of time on the golf course. Like that old small bench, he’s a bit weathered but still strong. His laugh is contagious. …

That Was My Friend

I was a radio reporter working the sidelines at the Detroit Lions training camp with my friend Al Schafer, a.k.a. Big Al at my side. He was such a huge Lions fan that I pinned a press pass on him and told him I could sneak him on to the field. So there we were, just inches from Barry Sanders, Luther Elliss, and his favorite… Robert Porcher. Suddenly the play came directly toward us; some of the world’s largest athletes speeding head first in our direction. I scrambled like a school girl to get out of the way. Big Al didn’t flinch. After the whistle I said, “Dude, you’re going to get killed!” He smiled and replied, “I think it …