The presidency of Donald Trump divided my family the way it has many others.[1] The day before the 2020 election, when we were still able to have candid conversations about Trump, I mentioned what I would be thinking and what I would have wanted Trump to do (or, not to do) to conduct a successful campaign and win the presidency. For some reason, this came off as critical of Trump. Indeed, I was being critical in that it seemed Trump had made plain and obvious missteps which could (and did) l...

The story is told of Fanny Crosby, that sweet hymnist of our country, of how it was that she wrote the lyrics to My Savior First of All. One summer night at a Christian camp in Western New York near Lake Erie, an aged Fanny was enjoying a summer evening on the porch in a rocking chair, when she was joined by one John Sweney, who was himself also musician and song writer. 

After sharing their love of hymns and Christian music together, Sweney lamented how such a fine Christian had been born...

Grandpa was a simple man, to be sure. A man of a bygone era. We call it the Greatest Generation, but we do not mean it for a second! For not one of their values do we continue to hold; not one of their morals do we continue to esteem; not one of their ethics do we continue to regard. Grandpa is a relic and his memory but a fossil; they are simply reminders of things from long ago which no longer have any consequence. His life was a vapor, and all the whisps have vanished. The preacher was dea...

An old hymn came to mind the other day, and as I listened to the words, I couldn’t help but be transported back in time. There I was in my grandpa’s church; everyone was there. Grandma was at the piano playing the song as only she could; Grandpa was standing on the platform singing away as the song leader waved his hand with the tempo of Fanny Crosby’s “To the Work.” My aunts and uncles and cousins were there, along with my own family. During the chorus I can hear the echo of grandp...