sin

At some point during most summers I go back in my mind to a time when I am eleven years old.  It’s just after sunset on the fourth of July.  I’m standing on the back porch of Grandpa and Grandma Weise’s house near Omaha, Nebraska.  Earlier that day Dad went into town and bought a cellophane-wrapped box filled with fireworks.  We’re circled around the box shooting the fireworks off in the yard.  It’s my turn.  Naturally, I grab the biggest firework in the box.  I don’t want my twin brother Craig getting it.  It’s a Roman Candle—the kind you hold after lighting.  The instructions say you should hold the Roman Candle away from you so that it is perpendicular to your body; light one end; and watch the colored balls of fire shoot from the other end.  But I am eleven years old.  I don’t need directions.  It’s just a Roman Candle.  Nothing’s going to happen.  So, in my arrogance I get careless.  I pick up the Roman Candle, light one end, and hold it at arm’s length.  But the unlit end is pointing towards my stomach.  I am not watching what I’m doing.  Nothing’s going to happen.  I am eleven years old.  But before I know it, the Roman Candle launches its ammunition into my stomach.  I scream in pain. Read More »Take The Other Street (1 Cor. 10:1-13)