The Rustic Hideaway

“It’s just a crockpot,” my husband said as I stood glassy-eyed at the kitchen sink. Staring down at the dented appliance, I knew this was...

The face cloth was folded. Not rolled. Not tossed. Not crumpled like the other burial linens. Folded. Left in the place where it had once...

It was a customary pardon. A gift, if you will, before the feast of Passover. Standing before a crowd of angry, screaming faces were two...

He loved them to the very end. Taking a basin of water, he washed their feet. What seemed as though a simple act of humble submission was...