Little Lightbulbs

It's an image that has haunted me from my childhood. Growing up in Bossier City, Louisiana, there were quite distinct "good" and "bad" parts of town - the places you just didn't wander into late at night. Just across the river, separated by only 20 miles and a bridge, was Shreveport. White people lived there, but the bulk of the population was - and still is - black and, for the most part, impoverished. My mother worked in Downtown Shreveport and one evening, after picking me up from school, we headed toward the bridge that divided these two vastly different areas of this corner of North Louisiana. That's when I saw the men in white hoods standing on each side of the street, in the "black" part of town, waving their crosses, holding their signs that spewed hatred and intolerance. Even as a little white girl, my bones shivered. Something wasn't right about this. Forty five minutes the other direction lived my grandparents, products of

I'm not a "cool" mom. I don't know whose tops on the Pop charts. I don't have cable (by choice), so I don't really get the whole zombie phenomenon sweeping the nation. I'm not a fashion plate, and not really interested in my kids being one either.  I see no reason for my pre-teen to have a cell phone, so he's not facetiming, texting or tweeting anyone or anything.  Nope. Not a cool mom. And I'm totally fine with that. Here's why:  First, I'm more and more aware of the evils (and I use that word intentionally) of too much too soon.  Our kids are being bombarded like never before with half-naked models peddling everything from perfume to pajamas. People are churning out smartphone apps that make it easy to commit crimes and get away with it (yes, I mean you, Snapchat). And, apparently, TV shows have gone the way of soft porn in many cases.  I simply don't want my young sons growing up thinking that this is the moral standar

I grew up living a double life. As the child of divorced parents, I often found myself splitting weekends with my mother who didn't attend church and my father, who regularly dropped me with my grandmother who practically had a church pew carved for her - she was that devoted. So, I can't say that I had a particular religious fervor in my youth. I never attended church camps or vacation Bible schools. Bible drill? What's that? I knew a few of the hymns, learned how to pray the "Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep" prayer at a young age and heard lots about Hell fire, but that was about it. My true relationship with Christ didn't begin until I was in college. That was also when a benevolent boyfriend, upon learning that I had didn't own my own Bible, bought one for me. It was a sacrifice for him financially, and I still have it stored among my treasures. Today, with our touch-screen technology, it's easy to toss aside our leather-bound scripture for som