About eight years ago, when my five children were between the ages of 9 and 18, I had my first opportunity to go with my husband to the Dominican Republic on a medical mission. It was a little scary to leave the children, because we would be incommunicado for a while. We also knew there was some per

More than we imagine, probably. Hallmark. Fashion gurus. Purveyors of sentimental gifts. And I, too, once prayed to him.

She stuck her head into the van as soon as the door opened. She had dimples and a gap-toothed grin announcing 7-year-old status, recognizable in any culture. She engaged him in conversation and he laughed heartily. What did she say?, some of us asked. She said, Give me some money. You have the face

It was after working hours, but I was still in the prison clinic, reviewing lab work, reading X-ray reports and noting recommendations from specialists to whom I had referred patients. From the clinic officer’s radio I heard a call to officers assigned to the emergency response teamthey were b

During the first few years I spent in the choir of St. Mary’s Orthodox Church, I wrestled mightily with the intricacies of Byzantine chant. When I had a couple of other basses surrounding me I could follow along all right, but when I had to hold up the part on my own it was usually a disaster.

Our neighborhood on the west side of San Antonio was an impenetrable Tex-Mex barrioisolated by culture, religion, language and educationuntil Old Doc Stein came along. He was a feisty, stocky man with dark, compassionate eyes, thick lips, wiry white hair, and he spoke massacred Spanish. Ambling into