Many of my non-liturgical friends might be unaware that today is Ash Wednesday. If you read last year’s post about this time (“Fat Wednesday and Other Irreverent Ideas”), then you’d know we just began observing this day on the church calendar.

It’s ironic that we would dream of moving out of the country when for the past decade or so we’ve pondered little else than moving back closer to family in Arizona. …
Lately we’ve been thinking more pragmatically about a move, though the least pragmatic reasoning involves a contest we entered online daily for more than a month.

The letter was to Bruce Hornsby, whose PO Box address was listed in the liner notes of his Spirit Trail. Mostly I thanked him for his music and said he was an inspiration for my playing. He returned the letter with brief comments in the margins. I was absolutely thrilled. I might still have that letter in a box of other nostalgia. I recently received an email response that excited me as much.

I used to write a sort of annual review letter that we’d tuck into Christmas cards. Writing those letters inspired me to write more, and SWYW is just one result. I don’t write the letter anymore or send out Christmas cards. If you’ve read a lot of SWYW all year, then you don’t need much of a review. But I haven’t written about something that affected our family dramatically this year. We’ve told you who asked and also our family and close friends. But I feel I owe you, my devoted readers, a little explanation, considering I brought you along our journey.

I’m postponing my normal First Century Pastor post today to tell you about a little Mexican girl I loved in second grade. Her name was Veronica Rodriguez, and she had tan skin and dark hair that ran the length of her back. … Back then I was no more Mexican than my Gringo mother and stepfather.

A couple weeks ago Cindy went out of town for a few days. She took Micah with her, so it was just me and the girls. There are several things you realize when your wife is gone for a while. Now, I’m a pretty good cook, so it wasn’t like we’d starve.

At 2 years old, Micah’s depth perception is a tad off. Allow me to explain. He likes it when I tuck him in bed at night, but it wasn’t always this way. He only ever wanted Cindy to take him up to bed, but one night several months ago when Cindy was gone for the evening, I took him up.

I learned my backhand incorrectly. Just as I learned to hold my pencil wrong. But does it matter how you get your results? I started playing tennis when I was about 11 or 12, but my brothers relegated me to the backboard, instead of allowing me to hit with them. The backboard is a formidable opponent that never lets you win and forces you to develop agile feet. It is not, however, a good coach. It’ll keep returning the ball but won’t help you with your form.

Something wonderful happened earlier this month, allowing me relive my junior high days. I’m not sure why I would want to, though. Netflix informed me of new TV arrivals, including a show I hadn’t seen in years: “The Wonder Years.”

This weekend was a difficult one for our family. I won’t go into the details now or here. Suffice it to say that we have incurred a great loss. But it’s times like these that become opportunities for us to grow individually and together as a family.