It’s our fourth time and it isn’t getting any easier.

I’m walking in downtown Houston when a sign gets all in my business.

If change is inevitable, why is it so painful?

My daughter and I are gawking at a mushroom that is small, shiny and gaudy purple.

As the captain scans the watery expanse for feeding birds, I am distracted by thoughts of Simon Peter.

The long balloon is quickly transforming in my brother’s hands.

I have found a sure-fire way to connect to the greatness of God.

My grandson has cars on his mind.

The coin, heavy in my hand, is quite a find.

The taste of the berries, each one a burst of sweetness, is an extravagance.

Why do we equate blue with sadness? Two other descriptors fit better.

How do we describe a sound as familiar as the surf?