The camp where I am speaking is set under pines at the base of the beautiful Leelanau Peninsula. When I finished my chapel message the other night the campers all headed off to their cabins. The sun was still over the tops of the trees in the western sky. I made a spontaneous decision to watch the sun set on Lake Michigan. I took my Bible to the Lodge where I was staying, changed clothes quickly, and drove strait west to the little village of Empire on the coast.

Working in my study one summer afternoon I found myself struggling to concentrate. At the time my charge was a small country church near a cemetery bordered in back by a stream. I thought a walk would do me some good and refresh my powers of concentration. Picking up my walking stick at the door I started off across the road, through the cemetery and woods. I spent an hour or so watching the water run over smooth stones and listing to the music of water and birdsong. I prayed …

Saturday we spent the day on the West Coast of our beloved peninsula enjoying the sandy beach of our own freshwater inland ocean-Lake Michigan. Driving into the parking lot I noticed some of the cars were from out of state. Others were enjoying our Michigan sand and water.

I used to shepherd a village church in Ohio. There were two churches in the village, about fifty houses, a general store, a township hall, a cemetery, and a park tucked in the crook of a meandering river. I pastored the Baptist Church directly across the road from the Methodist Church. The churches were almost twins in architecture, simple white clapboard and spires pointing heavenward. We had a brick educational wing. They had a basement. The Methodists had no scruples about raising support through strawberry suppers and ice cream socials. …

Our neighborhood is peaceful this evening. It is a cool fall evening and I write at a table in front of the widow of our upstairs bedroom. Occasionally a car purrs by. After it passes the sound of crickets returns.

Memorial Day and Labor Day are the bookends of summer. This morning I found a couple old journal entries I had written about twelve years ago. The first one was written at the end of the day on Memorial Day, the second was written after I put the children to bed on on Labor Day.

The first girl I ever bought a flower for was named Violet. She lived in northern Ohio. I met her at summer camp in Greenfield, Ohio. We exchanged many letters and a few phone calls. I drove north to visit her at Christmas time. For a Christmas gift I bought her a beautiful leather study Bible and a few other things. In the spring we arranged to attend a banquet at my church.

In the third grade we moved to a little School in Quincy, Ohio and I was enrolled in Mrs. Short’s third grade class. She took it upon herself to teach me numbers” Now, I have nothing against numbers, nor did I initially dislike Mrs. Short. (I was an affable sort even in my childhood), but the methods she used with the “normal” children were a little rough on me. I have a relatively logical mind. Arithmetic is not a problem for me unless I have to concentrate on it for …

I was done for the year and I aimed my old Jeep toward home. I loved this stretch of road. I always felt fortunate to live in the country where the hills were flocked with snow in the winter. Soon I had put town behind me and wound east out of Millwood to where the long narrow bridge crossed high over the Kokosing River. I felt warm gratitude in my heart for the goodness of God when I thought about what would be waiting for me at home. A few …

I was named after my father, David Chapman. He was a quiet man with callused hands and a soft smile. He was a farmer. He worked the rocky hills around our house as long as there was daylight. In the evening after supper we would all gather near the fire in the winter or on the porch in the summer. Daddy would read to us from the worn family Bible or play songs on his harmonica. On Sunday he made breakfast and in the fall and winter he would walk …