Within hours of the infamous event now known as the “Las Vegas Shooting,” the perpetrator’s life became an open book: his hapless girlfriend, his financial record, his criminal dad, his clueless brother, his social media activity (none), his neighbors, his hard drive. His organic hard drive—that is, his brain—was removed during the autopsy and shipped to a specialized lab to probe for defects.

Years ago I was caught in the crosshairs of a church-discipline situation. Two confessing members, and dear friends, wished to marry. The elders had determined they should not. After soul-searching and prayer I declined their wedding invitation out of deference to the elders’ lawful authority. My decision was clearly influenced by Scripture (1 Peter 5:5, for one), but also by this: Of the three realms ordained by God to order human affairs—family, civil government, and church—the church was the only one that survived the grave.

That may be true for you . . . 
Hey, whatever floats your boat . . . 
My reality isn’t necessarily yours . . .

On May 22, 2011, a multiple-vortex EF5 tornado ripped up Joplin, Mo., leaving 149 corpses and a city of rubble in its wake. The following July, I spent three days there as a volunteer. I wasn’t sure what one woman could do without muscle or power tools, and honestly it didn’t seem like much. The first day I picked up trash on a couple of city streets, but the next two days I confronted piles of used clothing, canned goods, and stuffed toys to pick through. It felt like one of those fairy tales where the heroine has one night to sort a pile of rice and barley into separate bins.

Europeans, I hear, have some very distinct opinions about Americans. We’re brash, overconfident, self-indulgent, and often rude. And we speak only English. So whenever we find a European who also speaks English, we’re too inquisitive. And after engaging in conversation for as little as five minutes with a native, we’re likely to ask, “What do you do?” Meaning, of course, how do you earn a living?

Have you bought your eclipse glasses yet? Since I live about 100 miles from the path of totality, I’m calculating how to get maximum viewing with minimum traffic headaches (and praying for a cloudless day). Aug. 21 will be a once-in-a-lifetime, special-matinee-showing of one of God’s heavenly splendors.

The 1950s was a religious decade, especially if you grew up in the South, as I did. In many ways that was a blessing: low crime, friendly neighborhoods, stable homes. In other ways, not so much—at least in certain denominations where the Word was weaponized and flaming darts of doctrine hurled from one True Church at another. Religion, among the faithful, seemed to be a matter of following the rules—after getting the rules right, of course. Imagine, after a childhood of dueling dogma, how refreshing it was to discover Jesus Himself under all the strictures. And what was He holding out?