The doe lies on a bed of chaff, her notched ear twitching against the splintered wood.

My brother stood up and started jumping like a grasshopper!

Have you heard the new song by Cody Johnson about a girl on a swing with a pink ribbon in her hair?

The treasure that Ignatius encountered while nursing a wounded leg contained a batch of good medicine.

We touch the Word of God with our hands, our own rough and calloused hands.

The crowd cheers! A cloud of dust erupts! Crazed cows and crazy cowpokes dart in and out of billows of dirt.

My sharpest memories of swimming lessons are of being thrown into the water when I refused to jump in on my own.

Through the coolness of curved metal, I sense the warmth of wine. I peer inside the cup...

"Do you give the horse its strength? Do you clothe its neck with flowing mane?"

My brother and I brace our legs on a hay wagon. Shirtless, chests heaving, we stack bales beneath the summer sun.

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."