One of the things I love about Kate Campbell is she has Elvis songs: not covers, but songs in which he makes an appearance of some sort. She’s not the first to do it, but he does seem to enjoy showing up in her songs. One of her songs
I went to hear Kate Campbell sing Friday night, which is a good thing to do when she comes to your town, or anywhere in driving distance. Her songs are full of faith and food, hope and history – both national and personal, making listening to her a reflective and thoughtful
It has rained all day what snow was left has lost its frozen self in the moisture saturating the soil at every step I am walking down to my car with questions lining up like sparrows on the lines of my mind waiting for you to answer as you do
I love being married to a good preacher. Sunday, she knocked it out of the park – or at least knocked me around a little bit, prophetically speaking. My musings tonight owe much to what she had to say yesterday. I knew going in to church that her sermon was based
take the umbrella, she said but I was not going to be gone for long and I don’t mind getting a little wet I dry off rather quickly the rain lasted most all day a background of soft applause to a thoughtful day and I must say I concur
I’m watching midnight come and go the same way I do most nights, sitting at the keyboard with a glass of wine wondering what to write and listening to some old friend sing me into the solitude that sows some sort of word play. some nights I know the
I was getting ready for work yesterday morning when I heard the teaser on NPR about a story to play that afternoon asking, “Why does time fly when you get older?” I smiled, one, because I knew I would have to find the story later to hear what they said
Since we can't get to church this morning because of the snow and ice, I've put together a service of poems, songs, and a film clip. So, having gathered, let us prepare our hearts for worship.Our call to worship is "Morning Poem" by
for Ginger It doesn’t matter how long it has been. Most any night, I can pick up my guitar and my fingers will find their way to fret and strings, and my voice meet the melody, so familiar: “People smile and tell me I’m the lucky one . . .” The
It’s been close to ten years since I taught high school English, and yet this week I’ve had two occasions to go back to the Reading List and two occasions to mention Robert Burns. Three nights ago, I wrote about Of Mice and Men , thanks to Burns’ Night.
After a busy night at the Duke restaurant, I went over to watch what was left of the State of the Union address with friends at the same house where we had gathered to watch the debates and the election night returns, which meant I was even later than usual
Tonight is Burns’ Night. Two hundred and fifty one years ago, on this night, the Scottish poet Robert Burns was born. Though I have a wee bit o’ Scottish blood in me, I’ve never been an avid celebrator of the anniversary, which Garrison Keillor describes as an evening when,