Every defensive line has a weak player or two. Mine is a wide receiver who runs for the sideline to avoid getting tackled. I’m referring to my tendency to avoid conflict at all costs.

Mid-November finds me in the Midwest. Hunkered inside a cabin , I watch hickory boughs outside the window sway in the wind. Flurries swirl. Swaths of snow, thin as muslin, drape the ground.

We live in a time of division and the priesthood is not exempt: young vs. old; tradition vs. innovation; social justice vs. prayer and fasting.

Mighty grain elevators once stood guard over Texas farm towns. Today, less than a third of the aged watchmen report for duty.

For this priest, the ill-defined term, “retirement,” has come to mean a well-chiseled silence in which to hear the whispering of God.

I loaded up my mare and hit the road before dawn, my dog, Guapo, in the cab next to me. It had been a while since I helped work cattle. Today’s job would take me to the Lazy J. We’d wrap up by Noon and a grilled steak would be our payment. Guapo could hardly wait.

If we neighborhood kids were lucky, we’d be playing ball when Fr. Clem’s plane would swoop low over the pitcher’s mound and land in the outfield.

Sure enough, silhouetted against the wall—above a hunting bow and a bovine skull—loomed the shadow of a robed figure flanked by two wings.

Adam was created in the outback, whereas Eve was created in the garden. It’s the Bible’s way of explaining a man’s innate drive to explore the wild, swim the rivers and climb the mountains.

Deep Well, TX: A Place where Hope defeats Despair

Players rush the line with fearless grit. Cheerleaders sparkle and twirl. On a Friday night beneath the lights, it’s impossible not to catch the thrill of it all.

The soon-to-be husband leads me into the basement of the old house. He points to a boulder in the south wall. “Just look at the size of it!” He rubs his hand across the pocked surface. “It’d take four men to shove this in place.”

A boy with a deer-hunting uncle will occasionally hear that uncle mention “buck rubs," a term that refers to gouges left on tree trunks by bucks rubbing velvet off their antlers.

It is my first time attending a meeting of the local historical society. It is also the first time I’ve heard of Grey Mule, a former town not far from where I live.

Agriculture is one of the deadliest jobs in America: twice as deadly as law enforcement, five times deadlier than firefighting.

The prison guard weighed the small plastic bottle in the palm of her hand. “It’s not grape juice?” “No, ma’am.” She held the three ounces of rose-colored liquid up to the light. “Not permitted,” she said.

I grew up on a farm, and spent twenty-four years of my adult life farming. I still can’t help but do a little “windshield farming” as I drive along.

Sometimes God pays me back for smart-aleck remarks.

My cup runneth over.

Children occasionally wander off, casting parents into a state of anxiety and panic. As a celibate, I can only imagine how that experience must feel.