Writings
Let me start with a disclaimer of sorts. I am not a grandfather. Neither do I sleep with a grandmother. Kris and I have two children. Our son, Bill, died nine years ago. Our daughter, Julie, presently lives and works in California. We often tell her that grandchildren would be nice. We drop hints about how much fun it would be to take a four-year-old to Disney World.
One of my better friends in the ministry is an African-American colleague (about my age) who once served a congregation that took pride in being as social as it was spiritual. In other words, they knew how to pray. But they also knew how to party. And they invited my friend (their pastor) to many of their parties. But while they expected him to show, they didn’t expect him to stay. Nor did they want him to stay.
Oh there’s no place like home for the holidays,
For no matter how far away you roam,
If you want to be happy in a million ways,
For the holidays, you can’t beat home sweet home.
I simply don’t remember how old I was the first time I saw Atlantic City. But I remember, as if it were yesterday, the thing that surprised me above all others. No, it wasn’t the Boardwalk (which, by the time I saw it, was a shabby reflection of its former glory). And it wasn’t the casinos (because that was so long ago, there weren’t any).
