Years ago, when my three nephews moved from North Carolina to Arizona, they wanted to experience everything the state had to offer, even the dust devils.

The Bible is an endless river of goodness and wisdom. When I was a child, it was a library of compelling stories my parents and Sunday school teachers used to coach me about the perils and evil persuasions of life.

Recently I learned a new term, microaggression, that is being tossed around academic circles.

Paper hearts, cupids and chocolates are scattered once again in the windows and on the shelves of the stores. Thoughts turn to the ones we love, hoping to let them know how much we love them.

The ball has dropped, confetti tossed! The whistles have blown, and the firecrackers and sparklers are sleeping in the rubble.

I heard an old story of a woman who had the habit of cutting both ends off the roast before popping it into the oven to bake. One day her daughter asked her, “Mom, why do we cut the ends off the roast before we cook it?

I’m never quite prepared for the first frost. Everything is green and wonderful one day, and the next day it is brown and wilting. I often think of the pioneers during this season of the year and say a little prayer of thanks that I live today and not a hundred years ago.

I was no stranger to terror when I was a child. I remember shivering in my bed watching the curtains billow into the room under the breath of the night wind.

Recently, the White Mountains in Arizona were in a severe drought. The grass had long since turned brown, and the trees were losing their drooping leaves, even though they were watered by the garden hose almost daily.

The sultry August day my grandfather passed away, I walked up the path under the willow trees. I noticed the group gathered around my grandfather’s lawn chair. I knew he was there. Tears stung my eyes. I couldn’t join the group.