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Fifty years ago today, I stood with a stadium filled with excited people to observe the birth of a new nation: Northern Rhodesia, a British colony, became Zambia, a free country. We had practiced the new national anthem for months in school, learned about the new currency. We were ready.
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This has been an important week in North Carolina, and our church has been at the center of things here in Durham. Here is a story that ran on our local NPR station, WUNC. Peace, Milton
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I wish you could have been with me this weekend. It was end-of-summer-trying-to-be-fall weather in our little City of Encouragement, and it was the thirtieth North Carolina Pride Festival, which Durham has hosted for all three decades. One of the roles our church plays
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I am old enough to remember when it was fun to fly, which, of course, makes me old. The experience of getting in and out of an airport, much less the time spent on board the airplane have not been very enjoyable for a long, long time. The “legacy carriers,
poetry
There is no them. Only us: across the table, behind the wall, sharing coffee, passing the green beans, throwing stones, breaking curfew; armed to the teeth biting back with rubber bullets, cheering for little leaguers, praying for peace, marching in the night, hiding behind official jargon; joining in song, crying
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My friend John moved to Okinawa for a year. He’s on an academic sabbatical. He is also a master meat smoker. When he left he gave me a whole frozen packer brisket, ready for me to try my hand at smoking it. My friend Roberto, who owns Old Havana
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For almost as many years as we have been married Thursday Night Dinner has been a significant ritual in our lives. We invite folks over for dinner, I cook, and then we sit around and talk until we get tired. Over the past couple of years, thanks to Facebook and
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. . . from Norman Jameson for Associated Baptist Press. ‘Don’t eat alone’ is metaphor for healthy Christian life, says minister-chef By Norman Jameson Forty-two years ago Milton Brasher-Cunningham first heard the words that rescued him, like a strong arm lifting a drowning person to safety. He was 16
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It's been a while since I did a music post. Tonight, at the end of a hot summer day, I thought I might offer some of the songs that have been the soundtrack of my summer -- mostly old friends, and certainly worth a listen. First is Mark Knopfler
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After my father died last year, Ginger and I were at my mother’s apartment and we saw two or three bags of little white powdered donuts in the pantry. When we asked about them,my mother said, “Every morning we got up and I made a pot of coffee
poetry
I can see them coming over the tops of the trees the lights at the old ball park the roof tops of the old warehouses the clouds pile up some white as anger behind them a grey wall as deep as darkness here comes the rain again falling on my
poetry
I am dreaming these days, but not in a language I remember; I wake up with some sense of where I've been . . . of stories I've been told . . . . In the resonance of my ruminations, I feel at home riding strange trains with Schanuzers who now live only