Month: April 2015

My maternal grandmother was named Lily Jane Perkins Adams. We called her Mee Maw most of the time, but when we (or she) felt feisty, we’d call her Lily Jane. She was, in that wonderfully descriptive Southern colloquialism, a pistol. Her husband, our Paw Paw, was named Olive Grover Adams. That’s probably why everybody in Buford called him O.G. Back then, it seems, all the men went by their initials. Calling people to the table at family reunions sounded like a spelling bee. O.G. was a pistol, too. They were a high caliber couple. Lily Jane used to pick at … Read more…

I’ve probably read the phrase, “after his suffering . . . ” a thousand times. It’s in Acts (1:3) and I’m church of Christ, so, it’s not like I haven’t rummaged around in that part of the Bible. But I don’t think I ever noticed it until this week. Like the way you don’t notice a crack in the sidewalk that leads to your front porch. You know it’s there, but you don’t see it anymore. You just step over it. Maybe you’re in a hurry to get out to the mailbox or back into the house. Maybe you don’t want to mess with trying to fix it — how … Read more…

I believe the Bible is the inspired, infallible Word of God. It is God-breathed. It is trustworthy. I don’t know exactly how He did it, but one way or another, God got Moses and Matthew, Peter and Paul, James, John and the other 34 or so writers to accurately put into words His will for human beings. And just to remove all doubt, I believe that the inspired volume contains — and is limited to — the 66 canonical books containing what Christians call the Old and New Testaments. Genesis to Revelation. Now that my theologically conservative bone fides are forever … Read more…

Hello friends and readers. Faithful followers of the blog will note an absence of activity of late — a veritable famine of words. The Vickerys are currently up to our elbows in boxes and, for the last week and the rest of this, in transition from Atlanta to Huntsville. Hopefully, we’ll be settled enough by the weekend to renew our Sunday morning and mid-week posts. Thank you for your patience and we request your prayers — both of praise for this amazing opportunity and protection as we lift, load and travel. Blessing to you all. JV

I believe that Jesus rose from the dead. I believe the cross killed him deader than a rock and that the disciples buried him in a borrowed tomb on a Friday. On the following Sunday, I believe his heart started beating again, pumping blood through his veins. I believe his lungs filled with air, his nose smelled the musty odors of the tomb, his body felt the chill of that awful place, his ears heard the stony silence. I believe the stone rolled away from the entrance to the tomb, that he sat up, unwrapped himself from the burial clothes, … Read more…

Genesis tells the story dispassionately.   When they reached the place God had told him about, Abraham built an altar there and arranged the wood on it. He bound his son Isaac and laid him on the altar, on top of the wood.  Then he reached out his hand and took the knife to slay his son,(Genesis 22:9, 10). I don’t know whether bitter cold bit into Abraham’s bones there on Mt. Moriah, or the sun blistered the back of his neck. Either way, sweat beaded up on his forehead and trickled into his eyes. Or maybe that was tears. His hand, the one holding … Read more…