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The Civil War Bullet That Supposedly Made a Baby | Wait… Is That Actually True?

I have listened to Paul Harvey for as long as I can remember. I loved the voice. The timing. The pause before the reveal. He could take an obscure moment from history and make you feel as though you were being entrusted with something the rest of the world had somehow missed. And if Paul Harvey told the story? I believed it. At least, I did until he told me about the bullet that impregnated a seventeen-year-old girl. That was the first time I remember listening and thinking: There is no damn way that happened. The story we heard According to the story, it happened during the Civil War. A young soldier was struck by a Minié ball. The bullet shattered his leg, ricocheted upward and passed through his scrotum, carrying away one of his testicles. At almost precisely the same moment, a seventeen-year-old girl standing near a house behind the battlefield screamed. The same bullet had supposedly continued across the battlefield and entered her abdomen. She survived. Two hundred seventy-eight ...
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Hope Doesn't Need a Translator | An Organ Donation Educational Moment

AN ORGAN DONATION EDUCATIONAL MOMENT Yesterday, I attended a LifeGift event celebrating Multicultural Awareness Month. One of the speakers said something that stayed with me. I’m paraphrasing, but the thought was essentially: “We come from different cultures. We speak different languages. But hope is the same for all of us.” Think about that in the context of organ donation. A donor and recipient may come from completely different worlds. Different cultures. Different languages. Different traditions. Different beliefs. Different life experiences. They may never have met. And yet, in one extraordinary moment, their stories become forever connected. The person whose heart now beats inside my chest may have experienced the world very differently than I do. I may never know. But I do know this: When my family and I were waiting for a heart, hope didn’t belong to a culture. It didn’t speak a particular language. It didn’t care where I came from. It was simply hope. And somewhere, in the mid...
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REMEMBER: Stories about uncovering what was never really lost.

What Remains The auction lasted most of the afternoon. People wandered through the old farmhouse carrying numbered paddles, pausing at tables covered with the ordinary evidence of a life. A cast-iron skillet. Boxes of Christmas ornaments. Books with someone’s name written inside the cover. A worn leather chair that had settled into the shape of its owner years before. By three o’clock, little colored stickers covered almost everything. SOLD. The furniture disappeared first. Then the dishes. The tools. The quilts. The grandfather clock that had stood in the hallway longer than anyone could remember. By sunset, the house echoed. The rooms looked strangely unfamiliar. As though the walls themselves had forgotten who had lived there. A young man stood alone in the empty living room. He had flown home for the auction after his grandmother died. He hadn’t expected to buy anything. He wasn’t really sure why he came. The auctioneer walked past him carrying a clipboard. “Looks like that’s about...
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REMEMBER: Stories about uncovering what was never really lost.

The Things We Carry Every morning, just after sunrise, the old man walked through the town with the same weathered backpack across his shoulders. It was too large for a daypack. Too worn to be new. Too full to belong to someone who was traveling. Children often wondered where he was going. The adults stopped wondering years ago. Some assumed he was homeless. Others thought he simply liked to walk. No one ever asked what was inside. One afternoon, a young woman sitting outside a café notices how carefully he lowers the pack before sitting on a nearby bench. Almost reverently. She eventually asks, “Is there something valuable in there?” He smiles. “Everything.” Curious, she asks if she’ll ever get to see it. He hesitates. Then slowly opens it. Inside... Nothing expensive. Just ordinary objects. A cracked coffee mug. An old report card. A rusted house key. A folded letter. A child’s drawing. A broken watch. A faded photograph. Each object represents something he couldn’t stop carrying. Wo...
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