I had just bought the utility knife from Home Depot. It was brand-new and razor sharp. Combine that with my inexperience with cutting old carpet from an even older flight of stairs, and you’ve got a recipe for disaster. Always cut away from your body, never toward it, I’d been told. Especially with a knife that’s that sharp. But I forgot. Or wasn’t listening, as sometimes the case may be. The accident happened in a flash. It was so quick, I’m not even sure how I did it. But the cut on the side of my hand was deep, the wound resembling two lips with plenty of blood oozing in between. The cut didn’t even hurt, but I instantly knew this was no Band-Aid-variety wound. Light-headedness prompted by the shock of what I’d just done descended on me for a few minutes. “I’m so sorry,” I said to Kim, my…
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Over the last week or so, I had the awesome privilege of literally unplugging, grabbing some suitcases, hopping on an Amtrak (California Zephyr) for a first-class family trip to Grand Junction, Colorado, and spending three days touring southwestern Colorado in a rented van. We had a once-in-a-lifetime experience: I got away from my computer for a while; spent some quality time and conversation with my wife, daughters, and in-laws; and enjoyed God’s amazing handiwork manifested in ice-capped mountaintops, plunging canyons, raging rivers, and the stunning genius of His creation. I’ll never forget it. The train was amazing. We ate steak in the dining car (completely spoiled!) and even had a family bedroom (it was tiny but workable). One feature that made the train trip especially memorable was the sightseeing car. This car featured lots of oversize windows (even on the ceiling) and comfy seats facing the windows to afford the most…
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What do you do—where do you go—when you reach that point in your life when you simply need rest? I’m not referring to physical rest after a long day of raking your lawn. I’m referring to mental rest. Perhaps so many thoughts are rushing through your head that you can’t grab them quickly enough before they go slithering down the drain and are gone forever. This has happened to me. Sometimes I reach the point when I feel like a deer trapped in the headlights. I’m paralyzed. Family commitments. Church responsibilities. Editing pressures. Fathering challenges. Financial stresses. Marriage duties. Publishing frustrations. The failure of achieving personal goals. They all pile up, don’t they? I’ve had bursts of creative illumination about future stories, about future goals, about things to add to my to-do list. And I mean to write them down before they vanish, but . . . then what happens?…
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The notion of lost memories and the mysteries of the brain have always fascinated me. Even more so when my dad was diagnosed with stage-4 brain cancer (glioblastoma multiforme) in January 2009. Because my parents moved to my town for Dad’s cancer treatments and I sometimes helped out as caregiver, I got to see the ravages of brain cancer up close and personal. Sometimes when my mom needed to get groceries or run other errands, I sat with my dad and worked on my laptop (rather like I’m doing now) while he slept in a reclined wheelchair. Usually Dad slept soundly, but other times he mumbled words. Names. A smattering of mumbled speech. Something garbled from a dream. Normally, the soliloquy made little sense, but sometimes I recognized a name. Roger. Wayne. (Those are the names of two of my dad’s four brothers.) I heard only an occasional word, but Mom…
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