Every Litter Bit Hurts

People treat the corner of Northside and West Wesley as their personal trash dump. Drivers toss their garbage out the window while waiting for the traffic light. I’ve picked up an amazing array of refuse in front of the parsonage.  

Past items included Styrofoam cups, plastic straws, fast food wrappers, potato chip bags, soft drink cans, newspaper flyers, metal bars, concrete blocks, and assorted nails and screws. Based on the empty beer bottles and wine coolers, the intersection doubles as a corner bar.

People are pigs.

I apologize for the comparison—it’s unfair to pigs! Hogs earn their stinky-sty reputation, but a porker never tossed Bud Light cans out a truck window.

Genesis records how the Lord appointed humans as co-stewards of creation. Our birthright means we should treasure the world for God’s sake and ours. 

Signs in national parks instruct hikers, “Take nothing but photographs, leave nothing but footprints.”

The people of God say, “Amen” as they pick up others’ trash. Every little bit helps.  


Someone stole 3,600 seconds of my life last weekend. Daylight Saving Time resumed in the wee hours of Sunday morning. Most of the nation sprang forward from 2:00 a.m. to 3:00 a.m.

I love Daylight Saving Time and an “additional” hour of sunlight each evening. I despise the weekends our nation adds or deletes 60 minutes of time.

The US Senate unanimously passed the Sunshine Protection Act in March 2022. The legislation called for permanent Daylight Saving Time. The House of Representatives sadly never voted on the law. The odds don’t look any better this year.   

A critic wrote about a play, “A great way to kill time for those wishing it dead.”

God’s gift of time is a gift too precious to waste—or give away—every spring.

Let’s approve Daylight Saving Time forever and call it something creative like, “Time.”  


I grew up in Cherokee County and never encountered sushi. Back in the day, we called raw fish “bait;” and I never felt a need to change my mind.

Fast forward a handful of decades.

A church member mentioned frequenting a local Japanese restaurant. David claimed his grandchildren enjoyed the California rolls while he dined on sashimi. He invited an associate pastor and me to lunch.

The hostess provided “Fun Chop” helpers for my chopsticks. They’re designed for young children and old gaijin. I managed to manipulate the salad into my mouth without mishap. They thankfully supplied an old-fashioned spoon for the soup.

The appetizers blended rice, avocados, vegetables, and crab. I felt quite cosmopolitan spearing the tapas with my toddler chopsticks. The main entrée plated a variety of raw fish, featuring several types of tuna, salmon, and an unidentified fish that may or may not have been mermaid.

My tentative nibbles turned into appreciative bites as I enjoyed the gastronomical adventure. Only a few morsels remained on the plate by the end of dinner. I thanked my host for the new experience.

Turns out you can teach an old dog new tricks. It just takes a little raw fish. Maybe I’ll try tandem skydiving next.

Good Dog

Sam the Yorkshire Terrier joined our family on Christmas Day 2007. The brown and black puppy wiggled his way into our hearts. He alternated sleeping with our daughter and son before they left home. Then he claimed a permanent spot in the middle of our bed.

We lived with Sammy 24/7/365. He followed us around the house, waiting for people to sit down so that he could snuggle beside them. We never fed the dog from the table, but tasty morsels always seemed to fall on the floor beside him.

Sambo loved road trips. He preferred to drive but begrudgingly sat in the passenger’s seat. The Yorkie barked at every dog or human who dared to use his road.

Sam turned 15 last autumn, and the years showed. The vet diagnosed him with pancreatitis two years ago, and he slowly lost weight. His hips bothered him, and he seldom ventured 25 feet outside the back door.

Our pup took a sudden turn for the worse on the first Saturday of February. We rushed him to the animal hospital, but the vets only could make him comfortable. We tearfully told him goodbye, and Sam left for his forever home.

People who spend years with beloved pets understand. They become precious members of the family and irreplaceable parts of our souls. Parishioners periodically ask if their dogs and cats go to heaven, and I reply, “How can they not?” Their selfless love reminds us of God’s eternal grace.

After all, God is dog spelled backwards. Coincidence? I don’t think so.