All Posts By: Byron McCoy

                I believe in miracles, in intercessions and the power of prayer.  I write not to convince another but to speak in testament of my own faith.                 For four days, my daughter has been ill.  Her stomach hurts.  She runs in and out of fever.  Her throat aches.  She makes movement in improvement, then […]

                I shared a story with a friend.  Growing up, we were best friends, but we are all changed in time and life-experience.  We find purpose, or fall into fold with directioned masses, and as we proceed in life—molded, shaped, and directed in experience—people, places, spirits intimate in past become strangers when revisited in the […]

        Do we owe others explanation for our words?  Should we be ready and willing to say more than what stories state and express?         Should we, or have right to, tell when another serves as catalyst or inspiration to a thought; or is such intrusion and offense?  Without invitation, are we wrong […]

                I wrote two letters this morning.  Before beginning, I reflected on how little I’ve invested into friendships and people that hold meaning in my life.  In distractions of the immanent, the more important fell away—never pressing, always there but forgotten in the background—until purposeful consideration returns such back to front and sight.                 This […]

                I’ve returned to an old practice: writing letters.  There were times and years in my life when I lived distant and apart from many that I loved.  I never said much over a phone, and the emotions, thoughts, and affinities I held within never seemed to speak—unless I wrote them down.  Back then, I […]