On the day my father died I was 1,200 miles away.
When my oldest son, Jamin, was moving out of the toddler years, I started to have a difficult time hugging and kissing him.
More than the primaries, general election, board meetings, or the budget fight on Capitol Hill, this past week was a high-intensity roller coaster for me. It was Little League playoffs.
If you give a man a fish, you feed him for a day. If you teach a man to fish, you feed him for a lifetime. If you teach his wife how to fish, you feed the whole family for a lifetime.
One of the everyday things Vasco has enjoyed most since arriving in Chicago from Malawi five weeks ago is being able to go into the kitchen and pour a cool glass of crystal clear water, from the si
Raising one half-African son and one of mixed European descent posed both ordinary and unique parenting challenges for my husband and me.
Is it possible that we as Christians just aren't angry enough about injustices like human trafficking and slavery? Perhaps we've grown too desensitized, domesticated, and docile.
The year was 1988. I was 11 years old and my younger brother Paul was 7 years old.
We were in Masisi, a small town in the endless rolling green mountains of eastern Democratic Republic of Congo.