I was sitting in the backyard of my own house one day when I got a text from Thomas, who was away at college. Attached was a rough version of a song he’d written. He called it Indiana. It was about me, my parents, my hometown, and Karen. Without knowing, he’d drilled down and opened the vent.

Karen’s mother, Jean, whom we affectionately called “Mopsy,” (her choice from her Girl Scout Leader days) was a wonderful woman. She passed away in March. This blog is my tribute to her.

I was caught up in his mystique. The British name. The colorful outfits. The enormous shoes and glasses. But I had never actually seen him. I had never heard him perform or speak. My obsession needed satisfaction, and tonight was the night.

In defense of baldness—and in defense of good comedy sorely lacking in today’s youth—I present my celebrity-verified proof that bald is not funny, but instead is the epitome of cool. Check this out:

Thomas was sitting at the piano. He stopped there briefly to play a song before heading out with some friends to go bowling. Some kids waste a few minutes watching TV. Others waste it playing video games. Thomas does both of those things. But the thing he does best is play and sing.

I know my own fragility, and I know that I need time to unplug. My sabbatical provided the time needed to completely disengage from the demands of ministry. .