From a distance, the cloth patch on my shirt—vaunting the Lone Star of Texas—looks like a badge. The two-way radio on my belt commands respect. Mounted on my steed with a Stetson pulled low over my brow, I’m tempted to introduce myself as Fr. Walker, Texas Ranger...

It was a day of packing straw in a barn. On the fifth load, one of the bales broke and sprayed slabs of straw across the mow. My great-nephew, Patrick, kicked the hunks on the backs of Holsteins in the stable below...

My four-legged companion, Guapo, gazes at the passing countryside with a contented expression. I, on the other hand, am caught up in complicated rumination...

It’s 7 AM. The tent is folded, the cooler packed, and I’m gassing up at a filling station in Doe Run, Missouri. Yesterday, Guapo and I logged over seven hundred miles on our Midwestern road trip...

It’s after midnight and near freezing. My buddy, Carter, and I stand still and peer into the canyon. It has sharp shadows. The moon lights up the flat surfaces of rock. The coyotes start yelping and there is a gentle rumble behind us...

When a teenager attends a religious retreat, a moment arrives when he or she is handed a folder stuffed with letters. These letters of support, written by parents, teachers, coaches and friends, express the love and admiration we often fail to articulate in day-to-day life...

Gian Sardar wrote a book about her father who grew up in Kurdistan. “I saw my father as a boy in fields of blood-red poppies,” she said in an interview. “I imagined the mud huts he lived in, the sound of the call to prayer early in the morning and the howl of the planes that brought destruction to the land..."