MSI Press Blog

    Chris Richards' book, Nothing So Broken , reached #142 in Vietnam War biographies. Book description:  In the shadow of loss, a path to healing begins. Chris Richards grew up in a small New England mill town, where life was tough and loyalty ran deep. At just 19, his world was shaken when a close friend was left permanently disabled by a devastating accident. At the same time, Chris’s father began to show troubling symptoms linked to his service in the Vietnam War—unseen wounds that would slowly unravel the man he once knew. The weight of watching two people he loved unravel under the strain of trauma and physical decline left deep scars—ones Chris carried silently into adulthood. For years, he buried his grief and fear, never imagining that one day, facing his own crisis, he would turn to their stories for strength. This powerful and moving memoir explores the enduring impact of trauma, the quiet power of resilience, and how even the most broken lives can become sour...

  Children don’t learn responsibility from lectures — they learn it from observation. They watch how adults handle mistakes, commitments, and follow‑through. Accountability isn’t taught; it’s demonstrated. 1. Model Accountability Openly When you make a mistake, name it calmly and repair it visibly. Say things like: “I forgot to send that email — I’ll do it now.” “I promised to water the plants and didn’t. I’ll take care of it before dinner.” These small admissions show children that errors are normal and fixable. They learn that responsibility isn’t about perfection; it’s about honesty and action. 2. Narrate Your Own Repairs Children absorb the process of accountability when they hear it spoken aloud. Narrating your choices helps them connect cause and effect: “I spilled the juice, so I’m wiping it up.” “I was late picking you up, and I know that made you wait. I’ll plan better tomorrow.” This kind of modeling teaches emotional intelligence alongside responsibility — it shows that...

We live in a world that loves definition. We name, categorize, and measure everything—from galaxies to emotions. Even our spiritual lives often follow this pattern: we imagine the Divine as something we can understand, predict, or contain. Yet the truth is far more humbling. The Divine is larger than our expectations—larger than our theology, our imagination, and our capacity to comprehend. 1. The Limits of Expectation Expectation is a human reflex. We build it from experience, culture, and desire. We expect God to act in ways that make sense to us—to reward goodness, to punish evil, to answer prayer in recognizable form. But the Divine does not operate within our logic. It moves through paradox, silence, and surprise. When we expect the sacred to appear only in holy places, we miss its presence in ordinary ones. When we expect revelation to sound like thunder, we overlook the whisper. When we expect love to look like comfort, we fail to see it in challenge. Expectation narrows the ape...

  There are moments when life divides itself into before and after . The day a child is seriously injured is one of those moments. It is the kind of day that rearranges the soul — not just the schedule, not just the plans, but the very architecture of hope. 1. The Shock That Silences At first, everything feels unreal. The hospital lights, the monitors, the sterile air — they blur together into a single, unbearable question: How did this happen? Shock is the body’s way of protecting the heart from what it cannot yet bear. But even in that numbness, love is working quietly. It keeps you breathing. It keeps you showing up. 2. The Drama Beneath the Surface The word drama feels too small for what unfolds — the rush of doctors, the waiting for updates, the fragile balance between hope and fear. Yet the real drama is internal. It’s the struggle to stay composed when your world is unraveling. You learn that strength is not the absence of tears; it’s the ability to keep loving through ...

  The question cuts deep: Where is your God? It’s the question that rises when prayers seem unanswered, when the world feels indifferent, when grief or injustice silence the easy words of faith. It’s not a question of geography — it’s a question of presence. We often look for God in the visible: in miracles, in victories, in moments that make sense. But Scripture and experience both remind us that God is not confined to the obvious. He is not only in the light — He is also in the shadow. God is in the waiting. In the ache that refuses to numb. In the courage to keep loving when love costs. In the quiet persistence of hope that survives disappointment. When the psalmist asks, “Where is your God?” the answer is not a location but a relationship. He is where the heart still turns toward mercy. He is where forgiveness is chosen over bitterness. He is where compassion rises in the face of cruelty. He is where the broken still bless. Faith does not erase the question; it transforms it...