Sunday, November 19, 2023


Sedona was on my bucket list for years. I finally got there in November of 2023. It was everything and nothing like I expected.

I am not a fan of the desert, so I was wholly unimpressed with the dry, flat, barren area surrounding Phoenix. As I disembarked my plane and headed toward the hotel, I asked myself: "Who could live here?" "Where are the mountains?" "Is there any grass here?" Way off in the distance I noticed a jutting rugged mountain sized red rock, but that was about it. Everywhere I looked it was flat and desolate. Housing tracks and shopping centers provided the only elevation change. Luckily, it was November so it wasn't hot. The weather was pleasant as I unloaded my car and settled in for the night in Scottsdale, just down the road from the Phoenix airport.

The next day I would head to Sedona. I had done a little research and read that the Sedona sunrise was second to none so I decided to leave at 5AM to try to catch the 7AM sunrise. I threw on a sweater and headed out into the dark desert night.

Getting there was a whole adventure in itself. It started with a nearly straight shot out of town until I hit the winding highway 17 over the northern Arizona mountains. My headlights shone on nothing except the black tar road and the occasional sign that said "Stay in Lane" warning me to think twice before I veered off into the desert to do some nighttime off-roading with the coyotes and lizards. There was construction being done on the road, but no one was working this early, so cones and reflectors were my only guides around many twists and turns. The road was 2 lanes each way, and I passed no more than four or five cars for over and hour. When the road peaked at the top of the mountain, I noticed a perfect crescent moon hanging in the sky above the darkness. I could tell exactly where the sun was because it shone so brightly on one side of the moon. I found it comforting. Off in the distance beneath the moon, the perfectly straight horizon had a blue glow. The sun was headed up to greet the desert. I better hurry.

After a downhill drop of over 15 miles, I hit the endless rotaries. Round and out. Round and out...about every mile or so for what seems like 10 miles. Then I started down another highway until a road sign popped up to tell me that Sedona was only a few miles away. I grew excited, peering down the road for any sign of the town I had longed to see for so many years. The sun slipped up higher on the horizon making it light enough to see without headlights.

And then there it was.

In all it's red rock glory.


This was Arizona? Where did all these colorful mountains come from? The mountains were large and looming and had layered rock striations - black, cream, brown --with their tops almost always red. Some shot up like spires, others looked like they had been shaped with human hands, like lumps of clay. And trees! Big beautiful trees in all shapes and sizes showed off their yellow and orange fall leaves over green lawns and old west style buildings. Large saguaros popped up on rocky cliffs and along roadsides, sometimes alone, sometimes in groups. As I drove through town, I noticed some mountains were lighting up with the sunrise while others were still in the early morning shadows. I drove to the first trail head I could find and hopped out. 

Wow! Was it cold!

Quite a temperature drop from Scottsdale. I discovered later I had climbed over 4,000 feet in elevation. That explained the cold crisp air that bit my nose and fingertips. I had only a sweater to cover me, but it didn't matter. I was here. I walked down the dusty red trail and looked up at the jagged rocky mountains. The colors were starting to become more vibrant as the shadows faded. I heard a whooshing sound out in the distance. What was that? Over a hedge of trees in front of me, a giant hot air balloon began to rise, like a carnival moon. It had yellow, red and orange stripes and the whooshing sound was the hot air being released into the balloon. I stood in awe as it lifted less than 50 yards in front of me, the orange flame appearing and disappearing above the basket as the balloon rose above the tree tops and drifted away. I heard the muffled sound of happy tourists chirping like birds in their rising nest. What a view they must have, I thought.

I popped out of that trail and drove a half mile down the road to another trail that looked like it would have a great view of the red rock mountains. As I headed up the hill, I could see the hot air balloons off in the distance. They seemed to be stationary in the air, hanging in place, in the shimmering light blue morning sky. After a few hundred feet the path dropped back down and became very rocky. As I descended, my shoes covered in red dust, I thought: "My dog Cali would have loved this!" and my eyes welled up with tears. Cali had passed away just a few months before this trip. Losing her was like a heavy backpack I carried with me everywhere. I could see her happy face as she walked the trail with me--long pink tongue out, floppy ears dancing as she looked back at me with a wide eyes and an even wider frothy smile. I could hear her collar tags jingle, hear her panting. I could feel her pulling on the leash. The memory was so vivid, I started sobbing. But I didn't stop walking; I kept going, letting the tears fall, wiping them away with my sleeve, and taking deep breaths. Her presence was so strong there; I can't explain it. 

I grabbed a big breakfast of sweet potato pancakes at Jose Cafe and headed for uptown Sedona in the morning sun. A "Monster Sale" sign caught my eye and I followed it to a house that was tucked away in an older, but very well manicured neighborhood. It was Saturday and there were only a few people there, not the usual madness I am used to at California yard sales. Sedona has only about 10,000 people so there isn't as much competition. This was a house sale, not a yard sale. Each room was full of vintage maps, blankets, dolls, doilies, glassware, sheet music, books and costume jewelry. Prices were circa 1970 and the senior ladies running the sale were well organized, polite and cheerful. They were dressed up for the occasion in colorful blouses and pressed slacks. Hair pins held their gray hair back in strands and their wrists were covered in metal bracelets. They said they were cleaning house because "They had too much stuff." "Time flies!" they said. "Jim used to love these old maps." "I remember reading Swiss Family Robinson as a child." The nostalgic chatter continued. I got a small bag full of CDs and antique books for $1. I hoped I could fit it in my backpack and get it all home.

A short walk from the house was a small history museum highlighting local Sedona founders and their contributions to ranching, the movie industry and chuck wagon slop. The Daughters of the American Revolution were there to help honor veterans with music and sandwiches. Four large American flags, staked in the ground, blew in the wind next to an old telegram office. I walked through the museum and signed the guest book. Then I got in the car and headed to Chapel of the Holy Cross. This large Catholic church appears to be cut out of the red rock mountains and is perched way up high, so high you have to either walk or drive a long steep road that winds to it. Luckily, I caught a golf-cart style shuttle which took me to the top. The church was very busy. People were taking pictures of the surrounding scenery including the "Mother and Child" rock and other amazing desert formations surrounding the chapel. Inside the church it was smoky from all the lit candles and incense. People were quiet as Jesus hung over us on a large cross that leaned out from the front of the church. Behind him were giant rectangular windows that looked out on to the bright blue sky. People sat in the wooden pews and prayed. Mass was still held here and I thought of the people who had to walk up and down the hill every Sunday. Better wear comfortable shoes! I took a shuttle down and headed for another part of Sedona, called Tlaquepaque. T-Paq is a shopping center full of locally made art, jewelry and sculptures. The Spanish architecture makes the place feel like it is from another country--maybe Spain or Portugal? I loved the rust colored plaster archways beckoning me into the plaza, draping green ivy plants overhead, and the variety of gray stones that formed fountains, walls and walkways. You had to watch your step and head everywhere you went. The velvet ash trees gave plenty of shade; their bright yellow leaves shimmering in the afternoon sun. I didn't buy anything, but enjoyed walking around this Spanish stye paradise.

While I wanted to see the sunset in Sedona, I did not want to drive back in the dark. The twists and turns around flashy construction signs had been enough excitement this morning. Plus, I had an early flight to catch the next morning to head home. So after stopping to walk on one more red dust trail that featured pocket gophers and a winding crystal clear creek, I headed back to Scottsdale. It takes about two and a half hours to make the journey and I was glad I still had plenty of sunlight and would not have to depend on the light of the moon and the tiny high beams of my rental car. 

About an hour into the drive on highway 17, traffic stopped quickly in front of me. I slammed on my brakes and wondered what was going on. On google maps there was no sign of traffic. Something must have just happened. Cars began to move forward slowly and then pull over to the left lane. After we crawled forward a few hundred feet, I noticed debris in the right lane next to me and in the dirt alongside the road. Pieces of plastic maybe? I heard a siren coming up behind me and saw flashing lights in the rear view mirror. As my eyes returned to the car in front of me slowly rolling forward, I saw the handlebars of a motorcycle lying in the roadway to my right. Then, a broken helmet. Chrome and metal pieces I could not identify were scattered around. A few cars were parked off the roadway. Standing on a dirt berm near the side of the road were two women. One woman reached out to hug the other woman as they looked down into the canyon. A man a few yards away from them was frantically gesturing, waving his arms at the cop. Come here! Over here! Another man behind him was pointing down into the canyon. The cop pulled up, jumped out of his car and ran down the hill out of sight as the man continued to point. The women hung on to each other tightly, not able to look.

Oh no. I said. Someone just died here.

I knew by what I had seen on the road and on the faces of those at the scene that it was very, very bad. Frantic horror is the best way I can describe the contortion of their faces. I began to cry and pray. "Help this person survive God and if they can't survive, please help their family."

It took me almost a half hour to stop the tears as I continued to wind down the desert mountain road toward Scottsdale. The farther I got from Sedona, the more the earth seemed to flatten out, get dryer, more barren and harsh. The autumn colored ash and juniper trees were replaced with prickly, scarred saguaros and rolling tumbleweeds. Red dust turned gray. A reminder that we will all face the barren darkness. No one escapes. Like a desert moon though, we will rise again.

-Hope A. Horner, Copyright 2023

To use, report or print article contact author on Twitter (X) @HopeNote.

Tuesday, July 18, 2023

$25 Bundle of Love

I always wanted a Whippet. They're hard to come by in America, but in Europe they are like Golden Retrievers. You see them everywhere.When I stopped by the West Valley Animal Shelter in December of 2013, I hardly expected to find one. As I stepped into the large main lobby, an employee greeted me and asked if there was a specific dog I was looking for. I told him. He said: "Oh, you mean like this one?" And beckoned me to follow him down the long hallway. My heart beat sped up. They actually have a whippet? The shelter was typically full of Pitbulls, Huskies, German Shepherds and Chihuahuas. What was I about to see?

We walked into the long kennel where they kept the dogs. It was cold, dark and noisy. Dogs barked and howled. Metal bowls clanged. I followed him to one of the last cages on the left side. As I walked up to look into the cage, I was greeted by a leaping, licking, happy, little "Whippet." As I stuck my fingers through the cage, I looked at her card. It said "stray" and "Whippet" and that she had a week to go in the shelter before she could be adopted. The man explained she had been running the streets of the west valley when she was caught by the dog catcher. I thought to myself, "And no one has came looking for her?" She was frantically licking my fingers as I leaned down to look through the metal bars and into her eyes.

It was love at first sight.

She had dark brown olive eyes to match her dark brown seal-smooth coat. A white stripe divided her dark chocolate face and ran all the way to her belly, spotted along the way with dark brown freckles in various shapes and sizes. She had the cutest upright--but floppy at the tips--ears. She had the slender build of a whippet  with the slightly arched back and thin legs but she also had a barrel chest - not a large barrel like a dog that would rescue you in the snow, but one that meant business. She was muscular but trim, probably from running in the streets and jumping up and down, which she continued to do. I tickled her forehead between the bars. I HAD to have her. 

"So I can come back Saturday for her?" I asked the man still standing behind me.

"Yea, she'll be up for adoption first thing in the morning. I do expect there to be an auction for her though. We hardly ever get dogs like this, so get here early. If no one else shows up and wants her then there won't be a bidding war and she's yours. You know what..." His voice trailed off as he motioned once again for me to follow him. He led me back to the main office where he printed out Cali's intake card and handed it to me. 

"Here," he said. "Bring this in and take it straight to the first employee you see when you come in on Saturday and say you want this dog. They'll go get her. Once you pay, she's yours." I thanked him numerous times and promised I'd be back on Saturday.

On Saturday morning, I showed up a half hour before the shelter opened. It was raining and miserable and my nervous anticipation was making me nauseous. Every car that pulled up I thought: "Are you going to be bidding on the dog I want? Are you? Are you?" I started to try to figure out how much I would be willing to bid for her. 150? 200? No you would hate to lose her for that...$300, $500? I settled at somewhere around $400 and tried to stay calm.

The front doors opened at 8 and I jumped out of my car. I went inside with several other folks who were also hustling toward the kennels and the front desk. I saw an employee standing between the lobby and the kennels. Like a kid on a pool deck, I speed walked over to him, handed him the shelter card and said I wanted to adopt this dog. He said he would go get her and that I could stand in line at the front desk to pay for her. I got in the line. I listened carefully to the few people in front of me wondering if they were interested in the same dog I was. Would there be an auction? A few minutes later, the employee came back with the dog on a leash and handed me her official kennel card. She was all hops, wiggles and kisses. She took short prance-y, happy steps as he took her behind the counter and out of site. I was on egg shells waiting to pay for her. I finally made it to the front counter and handed the lady the kennel card.

"Driver's license please?" she said. I handed it to her. What else do you need? I thought to myself. Birth certificate? AAA card? Proof of home ownership? I got it.

"That will be $25." She said. 

$25? That's it?! Turns out it was a December special they were running. Adopt any shelter dog for $25 which included spaying and neutering.

I handed her my credit card and she processed the transaction.

The Whippet was mine!

She told me that the dog would need to be spayed and that I could pick her up later that day. She gave me the address to the pet hospital where the dog would be having surgery, just a few miles away. As I stood waiting for her to process everything I had just signed, I tried to think of what I was going to name my new pooch.

It came to me in an instant. I'll name my favorite dog after my favorite state.


Somehow, I just knew she would be my favorite dog of all time. Turned out I was right.

I took Cali home later that afternoon. She was tender from surgery but still full of kisses and energy. She was 10 months old. Her tongue was too big for her mouth and her right eye was slightly smaller and not quite in alignment with the other--It was the only thing lazy about her. She had three white "sock" paws. Clearly, she had lost one sock while running the streets of the valley.

After she got her strength, I proudly took her to the dog park in her purple sparkle collar and purple harness. Someone was coming out of the park as I was going in and asked me "What kind of dog is that?" "Whippet" I said. "At least I think so. She's a puppy." He didn't say anything. Just looked at her a bit confused. Maybe he didn't know what a whippet was.

Once inside Cali challenged every dog to a race. Big dogs, little dogs, dogs that didn't want to race. Some gave chase and she left most of them in the dust. She wasn't just fast, she could turn on a dime. People would stop and make comments about her speed and agility and say she must be some kind of a greyhound breed. I told them her kennel card said she was a whippet. They would just nod. I was thrilled to have her, but curious if she would grow a bit more; if her back would arch a bit more; like a Whippet, but no matter what, I would love her, however she turned out.

Awhile later, I posted pictures of her on Facebook and asked people to tell me what kind of dog they thought she was. I kept getting the same responses: "I see Staffordshire Terrier" "I see staffie plus maybe a greyhound breed of some type in there?' "Pocket Pittie?" Turns out they were right. I had her DNA analyzed through one of the doggie test kits and sure enough she was NOT a whippet.

She was 50% Italian Greyhound, 25% Pitbull (Staffordshire Terrier) and 25% Jack Russell.

Or in short, she was a Jack Pit Russel. Or an Italian Jack Pit. Or a Italian Bull Russell.

She wasn't a Whippet. She was a "Jippit." I didn't care. 

She was the best dog I had ever had. Pure joy on a leash. Pure bliss off. My constant companion. A well-behaved eye-catcher with a heart of gold. She was friendly to other dogs, loved everyone and easy to train. She learned sit, come, and stay in ten minutes. She walked perfectly on a leash without classes. She was fun and energetic. She wasn't destructive and rarely peed in the house. She slept in her crate that first night at home without a peep. She was a love bug, with endless kisses and leg hugs to give even to strangers who stepped into her radius, especially if they were wearing black pants. She'd roll over so you could rub her freckled belly. She had a face that could melt butter and looked good in every picture. I called her "Sears photo puppy" for that reason. She was my "bestie."

I took her on early morning runs with me-- in fact, there was a time this dog ran 3-5 miles a day with me 4-5 days a week. She didn't stop to sniff when we were running, just trotted alongside me like she knew the drill. Many times I had to pick her up and carry her as coyotes would cross our paths or chase us as the sun was coming up on the horizon. I've run over a half mile with her in my arms until I felt it was safe enough to put her down. She'd take care of me during the morning runs, too. The one time I heard her bark on our run was when a stranger stepped out from behind a bush into our path and she thought she had to protect me. Her bark was strangely aggressive. I didn't know she had it in her. I used to say: "You protect me from the bad people; I'll protect you from bad animals." She has been on trails all over California. She has run off leash on a few beaches and parks because she always came back when I called. I'll never forget her off leash time at Peter Strauss Park in Agoura Hills. No one else was there and she ran free in between the oak trees, scraggly bushes and shallow creek, sniffing and leaping and trotting and running as free and happy as I had ever seen her. I remember thinking "She is in heaven." Her overt joy brought me to tears. 

OK, she wasn't always perfect, but as biased as I am, I thought even her flaws were cute. She only brought balls back half way. She was PETRIFIED of referee whistles so I could never watch sports on TV. She hated the rain. Even in a rain coat, she wouldn't go outside without a lot of coaxing, or in some cases--carrying. She would lick any exposed skin on your legs, face, arms--which not every guest in my house appreciated. But she was only an aggressive kisser - I could trust her with anyone because I knew she did not have a mean bone in her body. She never growled at anyone or tried to bite. She was a total sweetheart to her core. She knew when I was sick or sad and would sit with me to comfort me, not just with me, but on me. She would lean in and look up at me with those dark olive eyes. The ones that looked in to your soul. She's seen me through eye surgeries, sprained ankles, stressful days, sad goodbyes and COVID. It's hard to describe, but she wasn't just a dog living in a dog's world that overlapped with mine, she was actually in this world with me--she really looked at me, really looked at others, paid attention to people and emotions and moments in the human world and reacted to them--in a way I had never noticed a dog do before. She was present and interested- not just a fur ball lying on a couch or under the kitchen table. I know everyone says this about their dog, but Cali was special. I have never known another dog like her.

She was also a great travel dog. She loved to go in the car and LOVED being in hotels. I always had to pick hotels where dogs were welcome because there was nothing Cali liked better than running into the room and jumping up on the bed, and spreading out on the comforter like it was hers. She has been to Carmel, Monterey, Solvang, Buellton, Los Olivos, San Diego, Ventura, Carpinteria, Paso Robles, Malibu, Conejo Valley, Pismo, Camarillo, Santa Monica, Newport Beach, Manhattan Beach, Venice, Tehachapi, Palm Springs, San Luis Obispo (allowed inside a record store), Cambria (loved the "chipmunks"), Cayucos, and many, many other places all over California. She's also been on TV. She and and my other pup Denali made the KTLA morning news as the featured pups during the weather segment. She didn't let it go to her head.

Cali endeared herself to everyone she met along the way-- "To know her is to love her" I used to say. She loved and was loved by my family, friends, the MIMs running group, neighbors, sitters, anyone she met, even the staff at the vet's office who saw her regularly the last year of her life. If you met her and didn't love her, well then we probably couldn't be friends. As a result of having so many people who loved her, she had a lot of nicknames:

Cali-Coo and Hard Licker (my sister gave her these names), Coco, Cocolicious, Cocolatte, Coconuts, Coconuts, Cali Girl, CaliCoo, Cal, Calorific, Roo-Roo, Roo-Dog, Nena, Beauty, Pocahontas (don't ask), Lovebug, Skipper....the list goes on an on. 

I even named my online record collection and store after her - Coco's Records. Her picture is on mugs, t-shirts and inside a small charm, a precious gift my sister gave me.

On Monday, July 17, 2023, I had to put her down. After a five year battle with Cushing's Disease, ongoing bouts of pancreatitis, along with liver problems, kidney failure and a heart murmur, she was done. The vet confirmed there was nothing else that could be done after all the meds, IV's, fluids, antibiotics, and everything else that went into keeping up this beautiful girl's quality of life for the past few years. Not a single staff member at the vet's office had a dry eye when they found out it was time to let her go. Cali had touched each of their hearts just like everyone else she crossed paths with, and they called her "part of their family." I will never forget one of the Vet Techs coming in the room to say goodbye to Cali as she lay in her bed on the exam table. She leaned over her, called her "sweet mama" and kissed her forehead with big tear drops falling down her face and on to Cali.

She went peacefully surrounded by people who loved her. I kept the promise I made to her years ago that I would not let her suffer, but it doesn't mean that my heart didn't shatter into a million pieces having to let her go. She was the best $25 I ever spent and a blessing from God.

I will always love you Cali. 

You may not be a whippet, but you're the best dog ever.

2/14/12 - 7/17/23

Saturday, April 1, 2023

Do I Have to Call Myself a Christian?

"Yeah, I believe.  It's just that when I think about calling myself a "Christian" it makes my stomach turn.  It just has bad connotations for me. I guess I could become a Christian, but if I did, I would have to call myself something else. I could call myself a Lutheran, maybe, but not a Christian. I don't like what that word has come to mean."

These are the words I heard this week.
And it broke my heart.
I couldn't argue with this person. Her reasons for not wanting to allow Christ into her life were because she thought she would have to label herself a "Christian" and that was not something she wanted to do.  To her "Christian" meant:

And she didn't want those labels on her.

Now, I know this is going to upset my Lutheran brothers and sisters, but think about this a minute...
The person quoted above would rather be identified with Martin Luther than with Jesus Christ!
Martin Luther was a remarkable, courageous, pillar of the faith. A history changer. The Father of Protestantism. Used by God.

He was also an anti-Semite. 

In his treatise entitled On The Jews & Their Lies (1543), he said he believed Jews to be "an idle and lazy people, such a useless, evil, pernicious people, such blasphemous enemies of God."  This is just one snippet. There are many more. My point is not to beat up on Luther, but to just let you in on where my thoughts went when my friend said she would rather be associated with Luther than Jesus. She would rather be identified with a great man, albeit a flawed one, than with the perfect man, God incarnate, who was without flaw, Jesus Christ.
That saddens me.
And sadder still is her reason why.
It's our fault. We Christians blew it. We made "Christian" a dirty word.  In the book UnChristian by David Kinnaman, he reveals that 16-29 year olds perceive Christianity to be anti-homosexual, judgmental, hypocritical, too political, sheltered, and proselytizing according to Barna Group Research   ( Get Book Here ) I can see why. I've been judgmental, narrow-minded and arrogant at times. (See my blog entry entitled member of the AKC Club for one example.) 
Why is she OK with being called a Lutheran? Because the ones she knows are loving. Open minded. They are service-oriented. Humble. She knows them and would be willing to be called one of them.  Just don't call her a "Christian."
Yesterday, a Christian I love and respect called to tell me that she and her husband are leaving a church because they found out the Sunday School teacher was a Calvinist. (Not the pastor mind you, the Sunday School teacher!) This would be the second church they have left because of "Calivinism." She and her husband believe both pre-determinism (Calvinism) and free will are in the Bible, but lean toward Arminianism (Free will). She said, "You know, most Calvinists say that if you don't believe the way they do that you're not a Christian!"  I said, "Most CHRISTIANS say if you don't believe the way they do you are not a Christian!"  She didn't respond.  During the silence I thought...Oh, all the reasons we divide. And the world is watching.
And while they watch us argue, point, divide and accuse, they are running to identify with someone, something, anything that helps them find their purpose, meaning and hope for living --- money, a career, artistic expression, spiritual healers, individualism, church, love, meditation...none of which are bad, just not enough. None of them can be. They are just reflections of a greater light. Simple shards of the complex, perfect original --the wholly wonderful, beautiful Truth.
Jesus Christ is what they're searching for.
But when they find Him, they don't want Him because of me, because of "Christians."  
That kills me.
And it's killing them, too.
They die lost and hungry while we argue about whether we choose God or God chooses us.
They die in despair while we debate whether or not you have to be baptized to be saved.
They languish away in loneliness without a friend in the world, while we link arms in friendship to take a stand against Prop. 8, abortion, homosexuality, immigration.
They chase a dollar while we chase our tails.
We tell Democrats, Liberals, gays, feminists, heck even divorced women, they can't possibly be Christians.
We yell "Sinners!" and hold "God hates fags!" signs at funerals while families weep.
We build million dollar mega-churches with giant auditoriums and Bose sound systems while just down the street, 6 people sleep on the floor in one small room, curled up in bed-bug infested sheets.
We get caught sleeping with someone who is not our wife, molesting kids, watching porn, stealing money to support our lavish lifestyles. When we get caught, we lie. Then the truth comes out and the jig is up so we shed big fat tears on national TV and ask Jesus to forgive us. But the damage is done. Jesus may forgive, but the world won't. Those who would want to know Jesus, say "not if it means I have to be ONE OF THOSE PEOPLE." Can you give me something else to call myself? Can we invent a new word or something? 
The truth is, there are so many wonderful Christians out there. I know many of them. They don't just throw money at the poor, they sacrafice their time, talent and treasure. They lift the poor from the floor and place them in beds. They get rid of the bed-bugs, build houses, and fill gas tanks and refrigerators for those in need. They repair homes after floods and hurricanes. They take sports equipment, food, job skills training to the far corners of the earth. They dig wells and pass out mosquito nets. They sit with their arm around tearful widows.They buy baby formula and Christmas gifts for immigrants. They adopt kids with special needs born to drug-addicted mothers. They are loving and welcoming and reach out to all with the love of Christ. Their life reflects his love. They are peace-seeking, peace-making and peace-giving. Some call themselves Lutherans.  Some Baptists.  Some Catholics - ALL call themselves Christians.
As do I.
So c'mon Christians, let's take back the name from the ones who stole it away for their own purposes and tarnished it. Let's put an end to the bickering over theology. Let's stop pulling Jesus left and right in the political world for our own selfish purposes. Let's stop judging. Lying. Cheating. Dividing. Let's keep giving, serving, loving, hoping and praying. Let's be loud about our love for Christ and for the world.  Let's drown out the haters. Let's shine like lights in the darkness - like a city on a hill!  Let's answer the prayer of Jesus in John 17 and UNIFY. Not for our causes, but for the cause of Christ who came to seek and to save.  
Let's put CHRIST back in CHRISTian!
  -Hope A. Horner
copyright 2023 - Contact author for publishing authorization on g mail - hopeh1122