A Texas version of the Pentecostal Dove?

"Is this the way to Amarillo? Every night I've been hugging my pillow, dreaming dreams of Amarillo...."

Some folks consider church work women's work. But men pull their weight.

I elbowed my way past a stage that held a long-haired strummer and a skinny drummer. At the back of the bar, a young couple waited for me to join them at their table.

A line of inmates files pass. Tattoos swirl down their arms: crosses, moons, stars, hearts and breasts.

I set the alarm late in order to sleep in, but my internal alarm harbors other intentions.

Her spine had acquired an infection. Cincy was in pain and she was not going to get better.

Did the memory of bells ringing from our parish church echo amid the trees of the great forest she so loved?

The colt reared, landed a hoof on my chest and sent me flying!

"May the angels come to meet you."

Children see things that adults overlook. What looks like gravel to us, looks like a miracle to them.

Morning light roses the gaps between the slats of a wooden blind. Ice crystals cluster on the window pane.

“Where you work?” The cowboy holds up a swollen wrist. “Randall Feedlot. My horse slipped in the soup.”

When I drive by the abandoned Midway Drive-in, I imagine Hollywood films featuring beautiful women, brave soldiers, rugged cowboys...and happy families.

Jorge loved his work, yet he love his Savior even more.

“Standby!” I raise my arm, ready to cue the news announcer the second that we go on air.

Twenty years of chomping tumbleweed and flinging stones the size of baseballs. Yep, Tuff was one tough machine.

A man came into the store who looked homeless. He emptied the contents of his bag and took out a needle.

In the side room of a church, a silent picture sings the song of a young woman standing at an easel, pencil in hand.

The taste of desperation.