Once again I’m getting to read “Daughter of Jerusalem” to an enthusiastic group of listeners–this time to an interfaith group at a nearby assisted-living complex. I can’t think of a happier way to spend three Monday mornings. I love seeing their faces as they respond to a first hearing of this story that is now so familiar to me. It makes it new again.

I’ve been told authors generally want little or nothing to do with their books once they’ve been published. But somehow I don’t share that feeling. Perhaps it’s because my books have always felt more like a gift that came to me rather than a creative act of my own. I see the Father’s hand on every page. And that never gets old.