Presidents Corner & Notes

Almost a year ago, in the spring, my 94-year-old mother, Mrs. Jerrie, known and loved throughout our Southside community, watched her three female cats give birth to more than twenty-one kittens.

We all have moments in life when the cost is not measured in dollars, nor even in time alone, but in years, in lifetimes of relationships that cannot survive the ascent. Scripture reminds us, “For which of you, wanting to build a tower, doesn’t first sit down and calculate the cost” in Luke 14:28. I believed I had counted the cost. I did not understand that the heaviest price would eventually be paid in love.

A Small Candle on Allerton Hill February 10, 2026 by the Founder & President of Lettermen of the U.S.A. I stood on Allerton Hill in Plymouth, Massachusetts, under a sky so blue it looked painted by a divine artist whose ability to create beauty is boundless. The glowing sun warmed the granite, sharpening every carved letter and fold in the statues’ robes. Before me rose the National Monument to the Forefathers. It is 81 feet of solid stone, quiet and hidden among trees, yet i

On the Edge of Eternity A Meditation from Cedar Bend Road Darryl Miller Fuhrman November 8, 2025 I was driving down Cedar Bend Road this evening—5.3 miles of familiar blacktop—to check on Mother, the way I do every single day, either by phone or, like tonight, by pulling up in person. The sun had already slipped behind the pines, leaving the sky the color of a bruised peach, and the headlights of Old Blue caught the first fireflies blinking on like tiny lanterns. The world to

November 29, 2025 The Miracle of the 701 Footballs: A Divine Text and the Overflow of God’s Provision Introduction: A Mission on the Brink Since its founding in October 2012, Autographs for Heroes has transformed the signatures of football legends into lifelines for wounded veterans, military families, and those who bear the cost of service. More than 701 footballs—each one a small ark of hope—have been placed into the hands of heroes, channeling funding toward therapies, pro

I ate breakfast standing at the counter this morning, the same way I do every morning now: two eggs folded over spicy pimento cheese, half an avocado mashed onto Ezekiel bread, Texas Pete running through it like red-clay rivers back home. Simple. Cheap. Enough.

November 1, 2025  Eight acres is not a yard; it is a living archive. Pines stand guard along the western line, their trunks straight as fence posts, needles thick enough to hush a whisper. On the northwest, the Coosa River curves like a slow brown ribbon, its current sliding past cypress knees and the old pier that juts into it like a finger pointing to what was. Between those borders lies a rectangle of grass gone gold at the edges, a pond that doubles the heavens, and one c

In 2012, I was at the end of myself. My marriage in Atlanta had collapsed under the weight of my own poor decisions. The consequences were swift and humbling. I was, for a season, without a home—sleeping on couches, in my truck, wherever night overtook me. I was spiritually dry, physically exhausted, and emotionally broken. And yet—even in that valley—God had placed something in my heart. In the aftermath of the 2011 tornadoes, the Lord had given me a vision called Lettermen

The more I read about Saint Augustine, the more I see my own reflection staring back from the pages of history. Born in 354 AD in Roman North Africa, Augustine was a man torn between worlds—pagan upbringing, Christian mother, intellectual glory, Manichaeism, and a long, anguished entanglement with the female flesh. His Confessions open with a boyhood theft: pears stolen not from hunger, but from the sheer thrill of sin. “I loved the evil in the deed,” he admits, “and the plea

Hey there, folks—pull up a chair and let me spin you a tale that’s as much about heart as it is about helmets. As I sit here reflecting on it, it’s on Monday, September 1, 2025, with the college football season just kicking off, and I’ve got these two old black-and-white photos—and a couple of newer ones—that

Forty years have passed since the summer of 1985, when I prepared to transfer to The University of Alabama—marking the start of a transformative chapter shaped by an extraordinary man, Professor Bill Russo. On this quiet evening, August 10, 2025, at 9:30 PM , I find myself reflecting on that moment: leaving behind the familiar hills and culture of New England, the vibrant pulse of Boston, and stepping into the unknown. It was under Professor Russo’s guidance that I first disc

My best friend drapes clouds around His shoulders, a celestial robe spun from the breath of dawn. "He wraps Himself in light as with a garment; He stretches out the heavens like a tent" (Psalm 104:2). With scarred hands, He carries galaxies upon galaxies—hands forever marked by the ink of grace, bearing the wounds of a world that scorned Him.  "See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands" (Isaiah 49:16). Yet He loved them still, His love breaking shackles and mending wh

Hey there, folks—pull up a chair and let me spin you a tale that’s as much about heart as it is about helmets. As I sit here reflecting on it, it’s 8:58 PM  on Monday, September 1, 2025, with the college football season just kicking off, and I’ve got these two old black-and-white photos—and a couple of newer ones—that bookend my football story.

On this November night—the day after Thanksgiving—a pale moon rises like a lantern in the inky sky beyond my study’s French doors. The world outside is hushed, wrapped in the velvet chill of early winter. Thanksgiving’s warmth is now a memory of crowded tables and lingering pie crusts, giving way to the solitary clarity of the season’s first true cold. Bare branches claw at the moon’s glow, their silhouettes etched sharply against the faint mist that softens the horizon, as i

Daddy raised me War Eagle. Every Saturday, the doors of his yellow-and-white ’70 Dodge stood open like a country cathedral, Jim Fyffe shouting “Auburn!” across the pasture while we mended bobwire and slung feed. Nine years older, David sat sixteen books high on my hero shelf. He’d roll home in his ’74 Caprice and drop the week’s treasures on my bed: • plastic Alabama cups, • pom-pom shakers, • game programs still warm with stadium breath. I’d wash up in the old wash house, de

To the Lettermen of the USA veterans community and our loyal patrons, This Thanksgiving, my heart is overflowing with gratitude for you. Your steadfast support and sponsorship of our work—through President’s Corner, Notes, our social media platforms, videos, and website—gives us the privilege of serving America’s veterans full-time. It is an honor we never take lightly. As my family and I gather around the table this year, you—our Lettermen of the USA family—are at the very t

The dream opens with me planning to fly to Boston. I step outside the airport’s passenger loading area, expecting to board a plane, but instead, I find my mom’s old blue 1991 Ford pickup truck parked there. I realize it couldn’t possibly get me to Boston, yet somehow, I’ve already arrived at my destination. The scene shifts to my parents’ farm, with its familiar pasture, barnyard, and a long gravel driveway lined with crepe myrtles, stretching several hundred yards. I’ve invi

As a history major with a lifelong passion for the stories that bind us—those tales of courage, betrayal, and unyielding resolve—few invitations stir the soul quite like one from a true American legend. On Wednesday, November 5, 2025, I had the profound honor of attending the Youth Leadership Development Program Luncheon at the Birmingham Botanical Gardens in Mountain Brook, Alabama, as the guest of retired Major General David P. Burford—our 2023 Military Honoree from the  On

Birmingham, AL — November 7, 2025 — The Lettermen of the USA proudly released a tribute video commemorating the 250th anniversary of the United States Marine Corps, celebrating a legacy of courage, sacrifice, and unwavering service that has defined America’s history since 1775.   A Legacy Forged in History The video opens with a powerful salute to what it calls “the greatest fighting force the world has ever known”—the U.S. Marine Corps. Viewers are reminded that since its fo

I returned the black Mazda SUV to Enterprise in Rainbow City with ten minutes to spare before closing, the fuel gauge sitting above the mark it had when I picked it up two days earlier. The odometer read 1,100.3. The clerk raised an eyebrow. “You drive for a living?” he asked. “No,” I said, handing over the keys. “Just for the ones who can’t.” That was Thursday, October 23. The journey had begun only forty-eight hours earlier, but it felt like a season. Two days. Five cities.