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Golden Apples
Heaven Bound
Just Between Men
Ripe for the Harvest
Take it to Heart
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From the Editor -
Darlene Hight
Golden Apples
Featured Article
MorningDaddy Dance
By Darlene Hight

When I was a little girl, I loved to wrap my arms around my Daddy’s waist and stand on top of his big shoes. He would walk around the house with my little feet moving in sync with his Daddy-sized steps. My only part in the game was to hold on tight. Life was fun, good and safe. Oh, I had little upsets that seemed larger than life for a young girl, but mostly my life hummed along with carefree ease.

As an adult, life wasn’t always a "Daddy Dance", but I know how fortunate I am to have memories of a happy, simple childhood. This is a blessing that I never forget. Many children don’t grow up in a safe, free and easy home.

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Evangelizing at Eighty Plus
A Testimony from Brenda K. Blakely

The visit from these eighty plus-year-old evangelists forever changed the direction of our lives. It must have taken the three of them twenty minutes or so to get up the makeshift stairs of our trailer and supper was burning on the stove.

Preparation for supper was well underway when I noticed a car that had ventured the 800 feet down our gravel driveway, negotiated the turn on the way and parked close by our trailer. Three aging southern ladies were working their way toward the makeshift steps leading to the doorway of our trailer.

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MomsGiving from the Feet
By Gary Sims

The people, dressed in an odd assortment of drab and dirty, lined up along the sidewalk waiting for the noon day feeding to begin. Their stories were filled with lost opportunities, sadness, drug and alcohol abuse, neglect, mental illness, and despair. The warmth from the late morning sun held promise and yet never quite broke through to the chill that had settled into their bones from endless nights of concrete beds and alleyway spas. Broken teeth and broken dreams united them as one. Sores, neglected and infected, boiled up on their skin and in their hearts. Hope never surfaced; peace never came; and joy was lost for ever.

The meal was more of a habit than a relief of emptiness. Comfort food that lost its warmth before it found its destination. Flavor wasted on tongues numbed by the abuse that the daily street-borne smorgasbord had to offer. Sustenance lost in the bowels of dysentery dysfunction. It was food only by name.

As the people on the other side of the closed door made their final preparations, a man walked among the gathering crowd. He too, was wearing clothes that had seen better days. The shoes he wore had held other feet of a different size. His coat, provided the previous evening by the shelter, held more in its pockets than heat in its threads. He was one of them; but there was something different…a smile.

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