When I was fourteen years old, I worked most of the summer for a neighboring farmer. We harvested apricots by the tractor-load in the hot July weather. I loved it—driving the John Deere tractor up and down rows of fruit trees, loading large bins of golden-red apricots for delivery to cold storage.

With barely a second thought, we jogged straight into the west end of the Snoqualmie Tunnel on the John Wayne Trail, our breath syncing to the crunch of gravel underfoot. In the blink of an eye the four of us—Jacob, Gareth, Ben, and me—crossed from the full daylight of a Washington state morning into an instant midnight. The 2.25-mile-long mountain beast swallowed us whole, wrapping us in a wet, dense gloom that felt ripped from some other world. We flicked on our headlamps, meager beams that called for strides of faith, more than a revealed pathway. 

It’s funny the things you remember. Just before one of the most miserable moments of my life, I have a crystal-clear memory of my beautiful surroundings that day. The red-clay hills around Fort Knox, Kentucky, were covered with dogwood and redbud trees in full glorious bloom. Blossoms of pink, ivory, and brilliant purple dancing in the humid air. It was a beauty I’d never known or even imagined back in the dry farmlands of southeastern Washington. All of my senses quickened.

Dear Brothers and Sisters in Christ, As believers, our sacred duty is to pray for and bless the nation, land and people of Israel, anchoring ourselves in the unchanging promises of God’s Word. In a world where self-serving politicians, biased media voices, and hostile ideologies sway opinions, we must stand firm on Scripture, which reveals God’s eternal covenant with His chosen people.

Dawn slipped over the ridgeline far above me, the gray light barely revealing Blue Creek, far below.

Misty shadows rose across the valley as I worked my way up the steep ridge. My son Ryan was somewhere off to my left, perhaps two or three ridges away, clawing his own way up the mountain. I wanted him to experience the kind of adventure I have savored for decades.

I love the story of Edith, a mother of eight. She must have been some gal, full of grit and grace, mothering such a lively brood. One crisp afternoon, the usual clamor of her five youngest children—aged four to ten—fell silent. That was a warning! Setting aside her laundry, Edith peered through the kitchen window and froze. There, in a tight circle, her children knelt around five baby skunks, their fluffy tails twitching innocently. Heart pounding, she flung open the door and shouted, “Quick, children, run!”

Descending Hatley’s Gulch in the Blue Mountains was a daunting thing, even in full daylight.

At night, with snow and wind howling, tearing at the old Willys Jeep, it was a whole different animal.

At 15, I’d faced my share of heart-pounding moments, but that November night was different—etched in my memory as a lesson in misplaced trust.

There was no escape from the dust in Cairo.

That was especially true in Manshiyat Nasser, known to visitors as Cairo’s “Garbage City.” Passing through the tight, narrow streets, I could scarcely believe my eyes—or my sense of smell, as the stench was thick and suffocating.

The dusty streets of Udaipur, India pulsed with life as dawn broke over the city. Women balanced heavy water buckets and bundles of wood on their heads, moving with a graceful resolve through the crowds of people.

Can you sense the approach of a life metaphor? Do you see it coming—or does it overtake you unawares?

As I wander through Corinth, kicking ancient stones beneath my feet, each step stirs unforeseen impressions I can hardly comprehend. Paul, a Jewish rabbi turned apostle of the Messiah Jesus, had actually lived and worked here, in a city immersed in idol worship.

Hauser Lake in North Idaho looked huge through my eight-year-old eyes. The crystal-clear water gave me a view from the edge of the dock down to the bottom. I could see sunfish swimming in tight, seemingly choreographed schools below the surface, with blue, green, and orange shimmering off their sides.

The one we worship is the one we dance with in life, and I like to dance. When I met Jesus, He didn’t ask me to stop dancing; He just asked me to change dance partners. Jesus wants His children to dance, and I’ve since learned that the many dance partners I had in my life were stepping on my toes—and my heart.

“Son, how’s your relationship with the Lord?” He was looking into my eyes, and the question caught me off guard. I stumbled a bit with my reply. “Well, it’s good, Dad. At least—I hope it’s good.” Dad’s earthly journey would end just a few weeks later. He was literally on his deathbed. Coming from my father as it did, the question was especially jarring. Dad had never been one for church or anything approaching “spiritual” discussions.

Prayer, at times, is akin to a 911 call to Jesus. It’s urgent, demanding immediate attention. Consider Numbers 12:13 when Moses cried out to the Lord for his sister, Miriam: “Please, God, heal her!” Or David in Psalm 12:1, “Help, Lord, for the godly are fast disappearing!” Or how about Peter in Matthew 14:30 as he slipped beneath the waves? “Lord, save me!”

Petra’s song, “Not of this World,” boomed across the venue in Pasco, Washington, with hundreds of young people singing with the band, “We are strangers, we are aliens, we are not of this world.” It was the spring of 1985, and I was deeply moved as these kids enthusiastically worshipped and praised Jesus.

Daniel, a Bible hero in the Old Testament, had some really big asks in his prayer time. He believed in God with all his heart, was willing to risk his life for that faith, and prayed before his open window (at least) three times a day.

Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego are like prophets that speak to Christians and churches today. Their dramatic story unfolds in the third chapter of Daniel.

God reminds us to remember. And you know why. When it comes to marking and taking note of all that the Lord has done in us and for us and through us, most of us are notorious forgetters. But when we make the effort to remember God’s deeds and His grace toward us, we reproduce the joy of His goodness. Your memory is a reproducing tool to encourage your faith in Jesus. Is it any wonder Jesus said, “Do this in remembrance of Me,” every time we come around His New Covenant table of communion?

My mind didn’t wander much for the three days that Nancy and I joined friends for a conference on spiritual warfare. Dr. Karl Payne, teaching from his book of that title, had our full attention.

It was July, and even with the summer sun set, it was still boiling hot in our little house. For most of our growing up years, our family didn’t have air conditioning. My brother Jack and I, sleeping in the same bedroom, lay in our beds sweating—sometimes with damp washcloths on our faces. Even after the sun went down, the air was dead and heavy, with nothing stirring except the mosquitos slipping in and out through the hole in the screen.