Dr. Ed Tomlinson is one of the smartest people I know. He is a United Methodist pastor who served a variety of churches in North Georgia and also served as a District Superintendent and the Assistant to the Bishop. As such, the man knows life and he knows church. Ed called me several months ago after I shared that my beloved had been diagnosed with Alzheimer's. He offered me sympathy and support, comfort and concern, and then he shared a little tidbit of wisdom. Most churches

I'm not exactly sure when it started, or how, and I didn't see it ending until it had. People at church would thank me for a card, for remembering their birthday or for a note of gratitude for a gift they'd given. Sometimes it was a word of encouragement they'd received, perhaps a celebration of an anniversary or some life event. Maybe it was a note of sympathy and condolence. "Could you read it?" I'd ask. If their response was that the words were legible, then I'd admit that

The world was different 45 years ago. September 11 was just another day on the calendar. We’d never emailed or texted a message and cars needed mechanics, not computer technicians, to repair them. Phone watches were the things of James Bond movies. And my college of choice, the University of Georgia, ran on the quarter system, not on semesters. That meant classes started about now, in mid-September, when it actually was beginning to look and feel like Summer was passing the

I do not claim to know anything about golf, given the fact that I only play putt-putt and that not very well. I gave real golf a try a few times back in high school and college, but I quickly discovered that I had to make a choice between it and religion. No, I don't mean I grew to love golf so much that it was competing with my faith. To the contrary. I was terrible at the game, and it brought out the worst in me. Close to 50 years later, I'm still embarrassed by my behavior

I'm giving you fair warning. This blog entry is rather gross, and not for the weak of stomach. Were my mother alive today, she'd read it and offer the following succinct review - "That's not very ministerial, Herbie." And, then she would cackle in laughter. First, a little backstory. My father taught me many lessons that I've carried throughout my life. Some were taught through words, others by example. One of those lessons was that we should appreciate buzzards for their rol

In just a couple of weeks, kids in my part of the world, Peach County, Georgia, will celebrate the second best day of the year. Christmas is the best, of course, but the last day of school gives it a run for its money. I remember longing for that last day to arrive. In fact, once I understood that the state of Georgia mandated that the school year last 180 days, I started counting them down. One down, 179 to go. 178, 177, 176 . . . you get the picture. Day 81 meant we had les

A group from our church, Fort Valley Methodist, took a trip this week for lunch at Ciao Bella, an Italian market in Perry, Georgia. And when I say it's an Italian market, I mean it's an Italian market. Seriously Italian. Meaning the menu has a whole bunch of words that Reverend Redneck doesn't recognize, stuff like prosciutto and arugula and stracciatella . That's ham , a leafy green vegetable , and a type of cheese , respectively. I Googled all that. Really. Because I was

Since publishing my most recent entry, Into The Misty Fog , I've wrestled with whether I should make our life with Alzheimer's the focus of this blog. While that may be the case in the future, I've decided not to do so at this time. My reason is rather simple-Regina is more than her Alzheimer's, and so is our life together. That is not to minimize her condition, nor to diminish the impact of it on our lives, but rather to recognize and appreciate the rich blessings we enjoy.

There is nothing like the blunt honesty of a human being who is two months shy of turning six years old. Even if that almost six-year-old is your oldest grandchild. Maybe especially if she is. Recently, I was trying unsuccessfully to explain something or another to Hazel. Whatever it was, she just wasn't getting it, which is unusual because she's a very bright young lady. She was more than happy to explain the miscommunication. "You're speaking Southern, Hubba," she said hel

I spent a little time this past weekend pondering the impact Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Since I was born in 1963, my firsthand memory is only of a post-legal-segregation world. That doesn't mean our world was truly integrated by any measure; it simply means the laws had changed and the courts were forcing compliance. So, I went to integrated public schools, and I, thank God, never remember seeing Colored Only or Whites Only signage. There was still plenty of separation, to