When I was young, there was a sledding hill behind my home. My mom would bundle us up, and my dad would drag the toboggan to the top. He’d pile five of us on, give us a good push, then jump on the back.

I got my Christmas tree at a driving range. No one wants to hit golf balls in the snow, so they lease a corner of the lot to a Christmas Tree man. 
The man approached me. Is there something I can help you find? He said. 

I write from my bedroom tonight. The kids are playing downstairs and their voices are somewhere between having fun and about to hurt each other.

A new child arrived in time for Thanksgiving and Christmas, in moments like these, thanksgiving comes easy. Early on Sunday, Cecilia delivered Ouray (you-ray) Lee—both safe and healthy. Every time we’ve gone into childbirth, I’ve asked God for only two things: “safe mom, safe baby,” and the Lord gave more than I asked—typical.

Lately, we've had trouble getting Routt to sleep in his own room. I started to wonder if maybe we had spoiled him by letting him sleep in ours for too long.

Last night, I sat just outside his bedroom as he stared into the darkness.
“Dad,” he whispered, “look!”

Last February, I sat in the high school gym with my dad, feeling troubled. He noticed and asked if I was okay. I admitted I was bothered. He began reflecting on aging and his life’s work.  

He asked, "Do you ever wonder if anything you’ve done has helped?”

Last February, I sat in the high school gym with my dad, feeling troubled. He noticed and asked if I was okay. I admitted I was bothered. He began reflecting on aging and his life’s work.  

He asked, "Do you ever wonder if anything you’ve done has helped?”

I was asleep, and my wife grabbed my arm and shook me awake. “There is someone on the stairs,” she said. My heart raced and my fear of having to confront a home intruder was now a reality.