The young man pulled up to my house looking for a place to bunk. He wore long hair, sunglasses and a tank top. His beat-up car was crammed—dashboard to hatchback— with clothes, boots, sleeping bags, coolers and a Coleman stove. I would have sworn he was homeless if a friend of mine hadn’t called to tell me that his nephew, a river guide from ...

by Fr. Matthias I pound the last tent stake into the hardpan and toss the rock-turned-hammer down the hill. I pull a knife and a jar of peanut butter from my bag. Digging into the golden spread, I realize that I’m the one being carved—cut and chiseled—by the beauty that surrounds me: an evening sun that sends its Midas touch to golden the ...

From a distance, the cloth patch on my shirt—vaunting the Lone Star of Texas—looks like a badge. The two-way radio on my belt commands respect. Mounted on my steed with a Stetson pulled low over my brow, I’m tempted to introduce myself as Fr. Walker, Texas Ranger. Actually, the uniform is only that of a safety volunteer at a local state pa...