I was 21. A truck driver during the day and a student at night, I was asked to teach Sunday school at a little rural Alabama church that met only twice a month.

You see, the membership was old and few in number. Many thought the church should be closed. But these ornery old people liked their church and didn’t care what anyone else thought they should or shouldn’t do.

One of the members had heard me speak and asked if I would be their pastor.

Pastor?

I didn’t know anything about that, but I agreed to come every other week to teach Sunday school for a couple of months until they could find someone else. Amused by my youth and energy, they had no intentions of replacing me and two months stretched into two years.

On Christmas Eve of 1988, I did something I had never done before: instead of teaching, I let people share a favorite Christmas memory.

Greetings, Posse!

I stopped in a Colombian cigar shop for a break and guess who was there already?

I am in Colombia, South America. I am once more checking-up on the migrant caravans making their way to the United States.

Good morning, Posse!

I once again write to you from LayLa, my home in the genteel American South.

Greetings Members of the Posse!