The Pika Song

We cannot WAIT to get back up in the mountains this summer!

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His Name is David...

His name is David. I only knew him for two and a half hours. And I miss him. He came over four months earlier than he should have. Mom was taxed beyond her physical limits, fighting a horrific combination of pain and infection from a burst appendix. Her body decided that it could not fight this battle and still continue to grow this child. And so, at 5:30 Saturday morning, amid great pain and horror, we had a baby. The nurse asked me, right there in the midst of battle, if I wanted to see him. I told her I didn't know. I was crying, but I could see lots of blood; I could hear my wife screaming in pain, and I had a mental image of those pre-term babies you sometimes see...the ones that look sort of like deformed fish. I did not want to remember him as anything other than a baby. Better not to remember at all. But I could see movement out of the corner of my eye. I could see these nurses--these beautiful, beautiful nurses--carefully cleaning the baby, wrapping hi
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Same-Sex Marriage: A Few Thoughts from an American Christian

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A Ruined Painting

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The Lord will accomplish what concerns me; Your lovingkindness, O Lord, is everlasting. You will not forsake the works of Your hands. Psalm 138   Note:   I carried this lesson around with me for almost two years before I was ready to put it into words.   Thanks to Mara for letting us enjoy and learn from her art. I would like to share with you a parable of sorts. I have a friend in Sheridan named Mara Schasteen .   Among other things, Mara is a painter who creates still-lifes, landscapes, and portraits.   Her most magnificent work, in my opinion, involves aspen trees and chickens.   Yes, I said chickens.   Now, anyone who can make a chicken look magnificent (Really.   I mean it.   Stop that snickering . ) has some phenomenal talent and dedication.   Mara is becoming "kind of a big deal" in the art world.   She is also a wife and the mother of four children; her youngest, Emme, loves to play in the studio and watch Mom work. And finally, Mara
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Aut Pax Aut Bellum

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Being a meditation on a Scottish Clan, a Wyoming Distance Race, and the Deeper Meanings Thereof In the extreme northeast corner of Scotland, there is an area of quiet farms and ranches, towering sea cliffs, and tiny fishing towns, where the sea is a constant presence and the wind is more a part of the landscape than a mere meteorological phenomenon.  These hills and coast-lands were once the home of a rather fierce group of Norse-Celtic people who called themselves clan Gunn.  And descended from that clan is a family called the Wilsons. My connection the Gunn clan is sketchy at best, more a matter of choice than historical certainty.  Even my brother, the history teacher, has been thwarted in his efforts to trace our ancestry:  "Wilson" is an absurdly common name, and there are simply too many on the books to sort them all out.  For all this, the Gunn lands felt like home when I visited years ago.  The story of the clan --from its Viking origins, to the grad
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Why I am Not Pro-Choice

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