“I don’t get it. Why do people go to church twice a year?” one of my co-workers blurted out this week in a brazen workplace violation of the holy trinity of taboo topics: politics, religion, and will-you-cover-for-me-while-I’m-on-vacation. No one spoke. Crickets. Just, thud. He rescued himself from his own pregnant pause by continuing, “That’s like
Years ago, my magazine editor sent me to solve a mystery about the best-selling single of all time. You might have heard the tune. Everyone from U2 to T-Swift, from Elvis to Alvin (and the Chipmunks) has recorded it. And who could ever forget Bing Crosby crooning it? White Christmas. My assignment was to find
The call sheet on my breakfast bar put the indisputable facts in black and white. Talent — that would be me — was to report hair- and makeup-ready by 7 a.m. It was my big break. My 15 seconds of fame. My first role in a real-live video production. I’d shopped, ironed five outfits, and
The entirety of the Christian experience hurtles toward this week. And I want to write today to those who feel like you’re missing it. Oh, this Easter Sunday, you’ll put a little extra poof in your hair, wear your Sunday best and smile at everyone you see – because if you’re not smiling on Easter
I’d like to thank my friends on social media for last weekend’s cinematic reconnaissance. No mascara, check. Tissues, check. Prepare to love Amy Grant more than I already do, check. But Oh. My. Goodness. By the time I saw “I Can Only Imagine” Sunday I was primed, but still unprepared. I paid $9.75 for a
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