Coasting the Van Gogh hills of southern Iowa, I could have been Rip Van Winkle in the blink of an eye. I had chosen to drive home at night from Des Moines to Tulsa. I ended one class Wednesday afternoon and planned to teach another on Thursday morning. There are no direct flights—everything goes through
<em>Tag</em> trusting God
Pain leaves our ears ringing. Words of love, shouted, seem a challenge. 102 people shot, nearly half killed, and everything anyone said made somebody mad. Helplessness makes you want to grab a pitchfork and posse up, but then who do we jab? I couldn’t write Sunday. I had no blog to release Monday. The seams