Inspirational Christian writing

This site is about inspirational Christian writing and self-reflection. It is meant to inspire the chosen and the ones who will be. It’s about everyday life and situations and things we all encounter, and how we react to them or perceive them. I like to write from a biblical perspective. We can all relate to a good story, especially one’s we all have things in common with. Click through, read some posts, and please… Join in the discussion and share your thoughts and experiences! You can even get a FREE book of quotes just for subscribing!


Conclusion to the intro to my latest manuscript… My dad didn’t abide any person making sport of anyone, and no reason was acceptable. That’s what landed me in the hot seat. I guess I made two mistakes. The biggest one was being caught by a salty and sour school teacher by the name of Mr. Stroker. The other one was making fun of another kid at school.

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My dad sat beside me on the bed, his elbows bent, hands on his thighs, his head down, eyes shifting, as if he was searching for a brown spider in the thread bare carpet of the same color. His belt was resting between his mighty thumb and fingers, his light green eyes faded. Then he told me he was disappointed in me. I was thinking that I could live with that, especially since I was getting ready to get a beating. But he didn’t move, his serious green eyes were in search of brown spiders, and he told me a story.

My dad gave me a glimpse into his life as a child. He told me about how kids at school made fun of him ‘cause he didn’t have no shoes to wear to school. That’s when I got a knot in my throat. He went on to tell me that he never would have thought that one of his own kids could ever make fun of another person. I hung my head and cried. “Great,” I thought to myself, “Now I get to hurt on the inside and the outside too.”

But my dad stood up, grabbed me by the chin with his thumb and forefinger, pulled my chin up to look him in the eyes that had come back to the moment. He told me that he better never, ever, hear of me makin’ fun of no one ever again, said we were made by God to protect the weak, the ones that couldn’t protect themselves. Then my dad, who was bent on teaching me to be a proper man, turned and walked out, threading his belt back into his patched and faded work jeans.


I can’t say for sure when I first heard the old adage, but it was early on. It was one of those sayings that sticks in your head. “You can’t outrun your past,” I heard someone say. Being naturally contrary, I set out to prove them wrong.

The most reckless of days are fading in my memory like paint in the Arizona desert. I’m okay with it. There are some things I’ve done I really don’t want to remember.

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With ignorant choices beginning to fade like a vapor, it sometimes feels like I’ve outrun my past. But then something happens that jogs my memory. The painful side of free will returns with a vengeance.

About a hundred feet from the airport screening area I realized I forgot to leave my knife at home. I took off back to the far, far away long-term economy parking with loping strides.

I ran through the massive airport like O.J. Simpson before his fall from grace. My lower back was reminding me of the surgery it had earlier this year.

By the time I got to my truck, that was a quarter-mile from the tram to stash my switch blade, I was huffing and puffing like the Big Bad Wolf.

I’m in fairly good shape, but it’s been 40 plus years since I ran a marathon as a kid. Not to mention I wasn’t pacing myself.

I was about half way back to the tram after stashing my knife when, without warning, my left calf tore. The first thing that flooded my mind was the ridiculous weight that tore it the first time.

That was just the beginning of the plethora of my life’s re-runs that began to play without the luxury of an off switch.

I hobbled toward the tram – pulling my left leg that looked like it weighed a hundred pounds. As I one-legged it for the tram I saw one of the tram cars whiz out toward the terminals. I knew I had three minutes to get to the high-rise people mover before the next one left.

I magically forgot about my searing back pain as I tried to jog with a torn muscle, my left heel taking the brunt of the abuse.

Everybody makes mistakes – guys more than girls in majority. Forgiveness is sweet. Pure forgiveness I don’t think we’ll fully grasp this side of heaven. I’m humbled and grateful for forgiveness. I’ve got extra portions.

As supernatural as Divine forgiveness is, it doesn’t change the past. And time machines only exist in the movies and funny papers.

It’s a wise person that learns from their mistakes. And makes less of them as time and life goes on.

Without our memories, some of us would touch the hot pot on the stove all the days of our lives.

“Blessed are those who believe and have not seen.”

After days of hobbling, icing, Ibuprofen, and stripping the nasty knot in my leg, it dawned on me how apropos the lesson. I thought of the old adage, “You can’t outrun your past.” Of course I got a reminder… while I was running.


Twas the day after Thanksgiving and out in the garage
Were the Christmas boxes stuffed behind my old Dodge
I began to unpack them yet again with dread
There were no sugar plums dancing around in my head

I knew the massive fake tree would test my patience
Along with my poor patched up back’s endurance
Each box has gotta weigh at least a hundred pounds
No holiday cheer here, just my straining and grunting sounds

It takes half a day to get the tree up and in place
And there’s always a short in the lights to trace
That’s when I make my first trip to the hardware store
I’ve learned the hard way that there will be more

With the heavy part over, now comes the dangerous part
By that time I have the same attitude and the Grinch’s heart
With the tall extension ladder leaned against the wall
It’s carefully and ever so slowly up the rungs I crawl

I wince and am quickly reminded that I have bad knees
Till a thorn sinks deep into me from the bougainvillea trees
The neighbors stop by, I keep working till they feel ill at ease
When I’m putting up lights I’m never in the mood to shoot the breeze

The lights were working just fine when I put them away last year
How a lot of them don’t work from year to year is never clear
So it’s down the ladder and back in my truck
They’ll still have my color if I have any luck

With the lights finally done it’s on to the yard
It’s a lot lighter but still way too hard
The trees are fairly easy, but not so with the deer
Takes a genius to put them together, or darn near

As it is with the lights so it is with the extension cord
How they always go missing drives me outta my gourd
So it’s back yet again to the hardware store
They know me by name, smile and hold the door

sometimes the gift is the gratification from the work

It’s easy to get caught up in the moment
And forget even these gifts are heaven sent
We gaze at the lights as the sun goes down
And my weak flesh lets go of the frown

It’s a gift to have a task at hand
A wise person begins to understand
This is a blessed and glorious season
And the gift of God and His Son is the reason


The airline I frequently use has three boarding groups; the A’s, B’s, and the C’s. The young man was loitering in the front of the line of the A group long before the boarding call.

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I’ve been in the front of the line or the A group more than a few times. It’s reserved for the person that is the most unorganized, has a last minute emergency, or spends the most money, or all the above.

I landed a seat right by the gateway that gave me an up-close look at the young man at the front of the A-line. You had to look closely to see him, ’cause he was wearing all sorts of distractions.

He had a dark, but thin, mustache and goatee on his innocent young face. He looked like he could have been a relative of Johnny Depp… but he didn’t dress like it.

The man’s mud-colored boots were the cowboy kind. Not the sharp-toed stab-the-stirrup kind of boot. They were the “Roper” kind of shoe wear that let everybody know that he was country.

His jeans were faded but without holes. The legs crinkled around the boots and hung halfway down the wooden two-inch heels. You couldn’t seem much of his button up shirt that was hidden by his midnight blue zip-up jacket covering it.

The jacket had patches all over it, but the biggest and most prominent ones were the famous logo for NASCAR on both sides of the zipper, about chest high. The young man’s bandana worn like a tight scarf matched the color of his NASCAR jacket, a few brown locks peeked out from underneath in the back.

His cowboy hat was white, or it used to be. It was more of a cream color with hints of yellow from the sweat. It was a real cowboy hat, not the ten-gallon type, but the kind with the front and back brim curled down to protect the neck and face from the sun.

I notice characters. But too often I prematurely judge them.

There are plenty of places in the world where the young man probably wouldn’t stand out in the crowd – like a NASCAR race.

It’s a fallen human nature that begins to judge without thinking. That’s when we have a lapse in wisdom.

When they called the A boarding group the kid just stood in the way. By the time they got to my group I had to step around the kid. I didn’t say anything, but I was perturbed. I was in my seat by the time the kid and his C group boarded.

Nothing worse than a middle-aged person who’s been shown mercy and grace not using it on others.

Before I felt bad for the kid I felt bad about myself. Who is a dude with hair too long, that wears T-shirts with either workout or beach logos, to point an invisible finger?

Regret and repentance followed. “The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak.” Being in the A group that really counts is a matter of grace.


Hillbilly Storm Watch – A REPOST from August 2012

“The clouds are rollin’ in,” I noted the obvious.

“Looks like a storm,” she agreed.

“Might cool it off,” I mumbled.

“Mmm hmm,” she replied

I realized we sounded like something straight out of a Hee Haw rerun – a couple of hillbillies using just enough sounds to get our unneeded point across. A hillbilly storm watch.

Hillbilly Storm Watch

Some storms you can see coming for miles away, others, well, they can sneak up on ya’. Storms don’t sneak up on a person so easy in west Texas… but that’s another story… Some of the bad storms bring danger, but even when we know there’s a possibility of danger, we see the majestic beauty in a distant storm.

As we watched the threatening dark sky bear down on us, I thought about the other kind of storms; those storms that blow in just like the storm we were watching, but don’t have anything to do with the weather. If the storms of life could be compared to the real live ones, then it’s been hurricane season around here for the last five years or so… no sign of letting up neither…

“Maybe it’ll skirt around us?” I wondered aloud.

“Maybe?” my wife mumbled back.

“The desert could use some rain,” I spouted another unneeded observation. My wife didn’t even bother to respond to that one… She’s not much of a hillbilly anyway…

Interesting how the physical storms bring danger but sometimes needed turmoil that cleans and provides the basics of things needed for life, just in abundance. That’s easy to see in the physical reality of this world, but not so easy regarding our spiritual lives.

All the stormy seasons of life have left us with things we use in our lives… I don’t believe in bad luck. Period. I believe there are consequences to our actions or lack thereof, and for the choices we make. Sometimes the biggest blessings come from rebuilding after the big storms of our lives have blown through.

The cleanup process can take time, but we don’t leave the mess, we always clean it up and we become a little more prepared for the next time a storm blows through.

“You ready?” I asked.

“Yep,” my wife pushed out of her chair. She is sounding more like a hillbilly every day. “Think the dogs’ll be alright?”

“They’re dogs,” I answered. “They’ll be fine…”

Maybe we need to start looking for the beauty in those spiritual storms like we do the weather ones. It could very well be that the season of our storms won’t pass until our perspective does…