Scott Killen, a Charleston, South Carolina native, generates 70% of his yearly income between January and April.
When our policyholder backed his milk truck out of the yard, he took a bit of the farmer’s fence with him.
I paint for the same reason I breathe.
What could be taking the jury so long? Hadn’t we put on a solid defense? Was it really that close?
To speak of bookselling, one must first give heed to the library.
One of my joys is connecting volunteers to some of the world’s most vulnerable people.
It started with the numbers, but they ended up telling a story. And I was the narrator.
“How often in your lifetime will the farm right next to yours come up for sale? Not more than once or twice.”
An appreciation for beautiful things is a defining characteristic of a fully lived human life.
My days are spent helping customers cross items off of their home maintenance and repair to-do list.
Our God-crafted identity, flowing through our skills, becomes a kind of holy artistry, whether we're making art, planting a garden, or stocking shelves.
It’s hard to admit, but I am not skilled at quieting my body and mind.
I think of myself not so much as a landscaper, with its nuance of design and control, as one who labors to keep a kind of wild order.
I think it is a normal human response to care deeply about those things we have invested time and energy and talent into creating.
For months, in the afternoons when I had a spare moment at the nurses' station or when I was driving home from work, I'd think about her. And I'd pray.
For all the talk about health care ethics and codes of conduct in physical therapy school, nobody ever taught me to care.
Hard work that, if done well, might ease another's tired soul—not solve anything necessarily, but perhaps unravel, unbind.
"I want to be a poet," I said to the air.
We all know Ms. Smith. As usual, she ignored the fact that I was waiting on someone else.
Roofing is unusually hard work. Second from the bottom on the job list ... one up from shark bait.
Compared to the runner sweating, struggling to keep up with the others, it looks simple: A photographer sitting comfortably in the shade with a cold drink, taking pictures.
I wanted to tell a different story than the one I’d read by hundreds of writers before me.
