The following is a true story. The little girl was walking with her mother. They were taking a stroll through the hospital garden, bathed in the dappled sunlight of early afternoon, looking at all the flowers in bloom.

“Mama,” said the child, “who planted all these flowers?”

Mother replied, “The gardener, I guess.”

The mother wore chemo headwear. She was frail, and much younger than she appeared. Her hands were puffy. Her vision was going bad. She had lost her tastebuds.

According to recent news, she would not be long for this world.

As they walked through the garden, they could see the landscaper, working in the soil, planting new flowers. He was on his knees, digging in the beds.

“Why does the gardener dig in the dirt like that?” the child asked.

“Because that’s how you plant flowers.”

“You mean he LIKES getting dirty?”

“I don’t know,” said Mom. “I mean, I guess so. Why else would anyone be a gardener?”

The little girl was silent, taking it all in.

The girl pointed to another grouping of yellow flowers. She didn’t know what kind they were. The

gardener noticed her pointing. He said they were Asiatic lilies.

“They’re pretty, aren’t they?” said the gardener. “I just love Asiatic lilies.”

“Did you plant those, too?” the girl asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, with a note of personal pride. “I planted all the flowers you see in this garden.”

“The whole garden?” the girl replied.

“Yes’m. Everything.”

“And the trees, too?” the child asked.

“Yes, I planted the trees, too. The crepe myrtles, the tea olives…”

“What about the bushes?” asked the little girl, gesturing to the shrubs.

The gardener looked at the hydrangeas and the rhododendrons. “Yeah, those too. I planted everything you see out here. Both big and small.”

The little girl approached the man. “Why?”

The man had to laugh.

Then he shrugged. “Don’t know. Because I love…

Happy National Redhead Day. I’d like to tell you about a redhead I admire.

Her name is Morgan Love. She is 20. Her hair is Little-Orphan-Annie red. Her countenance is Saint Mother Teresa.

She has spent more of her life in a hospital than outside. And yet, I have never seen her complain. She has been on life support more than once. She has cheated death more than anyone I know.

She is a medical student. A Delta Gamma sorority sister (Anchors up!). But because of her health, her life is filled with obstacles.

She receives nutrition via feeding tube, carrying the feeding apparatus in a backpack. And yet, she rarely misses a class. She made the president’s list. She aces every test. If she ever earned a B grade, it would probably kill her.

There is a lot I could tell you about Morgan, but I’ve said it all before. I’ve written about her a lot. There are people all over the nation praying for her.

And each time they pray, their prayers work. Each

time she goes into the hospital, the doctors gaze at Morgan and get this serious tone. They prepare her for the worst. They let her know that this hospital stint could be the final curtain.

Then everyone in the room gets quiet, exchanging looks.

Whereas Morgan just smiles and tells the doctor, “Let’s just take it one step at a time.”

She’s frequently out of the hospital in another few days, riding various waterslides, trick-or-treating, or going on National Epilepsy Walks.

My favorite memory of Morgan is when we visited the Tennessee Aquarium. Morgan really wanted to go to the aquarium with us, even though it was against her doctor’s orders.

Her family decided that it was okay, and so Morgan disconnected her feeding tube so she could accompany us on our road trip.

Which meant she would go days without nutrition. But the…

LAVINA, Calif.—It was an average day. A sunny September morning, with highs approaching the 100s. Hot enough to melt commercial truck tires and sauté small woodland creatures on the pavement. (But it’s a dry heat.)

It was a rural area. Hundreds of acres of almond trees. The scent of organic fertilizer filling the air.

Two farmworkers were repairing a broken tractor near Avenue 8 and Road 23 ½ in Madera County. That’s when they noticed something.

The men saw a school bus on fire.

There it was. A big yellow vehicle sitting in the nearby intersection. A Madera United School District school bus, emitting massive plumes of black smoke.

There were children aboard.

The two workmen dropped their tools and rushed toward the bus. They charged aboard, fighting through billows of dark smoke to reach the final children who sat in the back rows.

They removed all the children from the bus only moments before the vehicle burst into flames.

Within minutes, the yellow school bus was completely engulfed. And as the vehicle’s steel frame

creaked and groaned beneath high heat, and as tongues of fire consumed the body of the vehicle, 20 school children waited on the shoulder of the highway. Alive. And safe.

Miraculously, nobody was hurt.

Recently, the two men were honored by Madera County board of supervisors, along with a crowd of people who gathered to recognize them.

The two workers showed up in jeans, boots, work shirts, and ball caps. The uniform of the American farmer.

The men were quiet, unassuming, meek. They gently accepted their certificates, posed with county officials for photo opps, and even gave a few interviews to local news stations.

But beneath the celebrative activities, you could tell these men were uncomfortable in the spotlight. Most real heroes are.

Even so, the whole story seems remarkably unreal. Think about it. A bus catches fire in a remote area, surrounded by farmland,…

On Interstate 71, just outside Carrollton, Kentucky, stands a lone highway sign. It’s a small sign, DOT-green, no frills. Easy to miss.

But it’s there.

The sign reads, “SITE OF FATAL BUS CRASH—MAY 14, 1988.” That’s all.

Thousands of cars pass this sign on their way to work. Heading toward Cincinnati. Maybe tens of thousands. I wonder how many remember what happened here.

The Carrollton bus collision was one of the deadliest bus crashes in US history. The collision involved a church youth-group bus, and an ‘87 Toyota pickup.

The former school bus was filled with mostly teens. The Radcliff Assembly of God youth group had been returning from King’s Island amusement park. It had been a sunny day.

Just before midnight, a drunk driver’s pickup struck the front of the bus. The bus’s suspension broke, a detached leaf spring rammed into the bus gas tank. The front door was jammed shut. The fire started immediately.

Passengers started evacuating through the narrow emergency door, squeezing through the tiny opening.

But when you have 60-odd teenagers crammed into a 12-inch

aisle, all pressing towards the same miniature exit—the only available exit—you have disaster.

The crush of bodies was too much. The kids were gridlocked, unable to move. Within four minutes, the entire bus was on fire. Children were screaming. Metal was creaking. Smoke everywhere.

Twenty-seven died. Most victims were between ages 13 and 14. Their bodies were recovered facing the rear exit, trying to escape.

But that’s not the story here. The real story is what happened afterwards.

Thirty-six years later, the survivors of this crash are still out there. And they haven’t exactly been sitting on their hands.

I’ll tell you about a few.

There is Harold Dennis, who survived with severe burns, and intense facial scarring. He could’ve given up. He could’ve quit. But he went on to play football for the University of Kentucky. Today, he travels the…

The hotel lobby. Early morning. The dining room is filled with people all eating complimentary breakfasts of plasticized food-like matter.

The demographic is mixed. Lots of middle-aged married couples. You can tell they’re married because they don’t speak except to mutter something random like, “Randy texted.” Then the couple will fall quiet again for another two, maybe three presidential administrations.

Also, there is a group of young professionals in the dining room. They are all dressed sharply. There are heavy cologne fumes emanating from their side of the room.

They are all on their devices, also not speaking. Thumbing away rapidly, like the fate of the Free World depends on whatever they’re doing.

But the real star of our dining room this morning is a young man. Late twenties. He is a big guy, with a bushy beard. He is wearing pajamas. And he has kids.

Two children, to be exact. One of them is a baby in a carrier. The other is a little boy, he is maybe 5.

Everyone in the dining room

is minorly ticked off at the young father. Namely, because his baby is holding a rubber-encased iPad, blasting loud music which features a female voice singing explicit lyrics about what exactly the wheels on a school bus do.

His other child is also holding a device, which is playing some sort of superhero video, at high volume, with lots of yelling, laser sounds, and various explosions.

Now and again, one of the older people looks bitterly at this young man, then clears their throats in such a way that you can almost feel the hate rays coming from their eyeballs.

But the young dad looks too tired to care. He simply eats his breakfast.

Soon, people in the dining room are all exchanging looks.

“This is ridiculous,” I overhear one woman say to her husband.

“How inconsiderate,” murmurs another.

You can practically see what the…

Today is All Saints Day. A holiday that was started during ancient Rome, when Christians were killed for sport.

“Hallows Eve,” was simply a prayer vigil traditionally held on the night before this holiday. A holiday intended for remembering martyrs.

So, I’d like to tell you about a few recent ones.

People like Qamar Zia, a Pakistani woman, born in 1929.

As a young woman, Qamar escaped an arranged marriage by running away. She worked in orphanages and mission hospitals. She lived with American Presbyterian missionaries, attended Bible school, then became a teacher.

She visited poor villages, traveling the countryside by bicycle, preaching love and acceptance.

Qamar broke longstanding Pakistani social norms by teaching women to read. She also worked alongside these women in the cotton fields.

In the end, Qamar pissed off the wrong people. Her death was sudden. In 1960, she was found brutally murdered in her bed.

Today, a statue of Qamar Zia stands over Westminster Abbey.

Then there’s Doctor José Gregorio. Born in 1864 in a small village in Venezuela. He

came from humble means. His mom cleaned houses.

He became a doctor, but never made any money. Namely, because he treated the impoverished for free. He bought everyone’s medicine out of his own pocket.

During the Spanish Flu epidemic of 1918, he treated hundreds, if not thousands. All for free. They called him the “Doctor of the Poor.”

Soon, villagers across the country were seeking him out. Nobody was turned away. He always began his treatment by praying for them. Oftentimes, miracles happened.

One day, while José was delivering medicine to an elderly woman, he was struck by a motorist. He is one of the first recognized saints of Venezuela.

Miguel Pro. In 1927, Mexico was a frightening place to live. Under the presidency of Plutarco Elías Calles, it was practically illegal to practice Christianity.

Churches were burned. Priests were imprisoned. Nuns were killed. This…