I was raised essentially fatherless.
I was nine years old when I met my biological father for the first time. I only remember speaking to my father on two occasions. Then, he died in prison when I was twelve.
“You’re the worst father I’ve ever seen!”
Our friend Helen went on to say, “Bo, you’re so consumed by your business that you don’t know your kids or what they’re doing.
My father passed away last year. I think of him constantly, his enveloping smile, his unqualified acceptance, his understanding. What he taught me by example still shapes my life.
It’s a beautiful, lazy San Diego Saturday and I’m alone in my living room with the ATV remote braced against my leg.
We bring the entire history of our parenting experiences into every encounter we share with our adult children, and while delightful memories of distant events remain alive in our hearts—inevitably provoking a smile, o
A few months ago, I visited my daughter’s high school during a regular Thursday morning chapel.
I was ambushed. By my family and by God.
I don’t like change. I like routine, predictability, schedules.
When Katie drove off for the first day of her summer job on the afternoon of May 31, 2008, none of us knew an aneurysm lurked deep in her brain.
As we mere mortals go through the monotonous tasks of motherhood, we fulfill several important necessities at once.
We provide for our children, who themselves are created, known, and valued by God.
