Presidents Corner & Notes

April 21, 2026 You would never have known by his car that he was a wealthy man. He drove a plain gold Crown Vic, nothing flashy, just a solid sedan that looked like it belonged to any regular working man in Tuscaloosa. But the man behind the wheel was Jim Harrison, founder and president of Harco Drug Incorporated, the company that grew from a handful of family stores into a chain of roughly 155 pharmacies across Alabama, Mississippi, and Florida. While living in Tuscaloosa an

Any day I find myself back in Southside, I make it a point to stop by and see Mrs. Jerrie; Miller’s Mimi. And without fail, there is never a dull moment at her place. People complain about how long they have to campaign for Congress. Two years feels like a lifetime to them. But running a nonprofit for veterans is its own kind of calling. It is not seasonal. It is daily. You wake up and go again. Fundraising, planning, troubleshooting, encouraging, building. It never really st

April 10, 2026 Morning Light on the Road to Pinedale: Lord, Empty Me, Fill Me, Use Me This morning at 8:07 a.m., I walked the familiar path from my gate to Pinedale Road, the same route I have traveled hundreds of times. Yet today felt different. Early light filtered through the tall pines on the left and the graceful crepe myrtles on the right, turning an ordinary dirt lane into something quietly sacred. Puddles from last night’s rain caught the sun like scattered mirrors,

April 7, 2026 I am standing in the middle of my estate, looking up at the tops of the pine trees. The Georgia pines sway in the spring breeze. You can actually hear them. The trunks crack under the strain of the wind, and some even break. As I walk the grounds of my estate, I cannot help but notice that the problem here is not the fire ants. They are not what must be dealt with. It is not the ticks in the woods that the deer and other creatures carry. That is not the problem

March 30, 2026. I’m standing on the Fuhrman land in Etowah County where the wind is so breezy today it’s literally bending the bushy bluestem. The tall, silvery plumes sway like they’re waving at old ghosts. Tomorrow is Palm Sunday, the day we remember Jesus riding into Jerusalem on a donkey, welcomed with palm branches and shouts of “Hosanna.” Standing here the day before feels especially sacred to me—a quiet reminder of humility, roots, and the things that endure even as th

Breaking Barriers in the Classroom: Faith, History, and the First Alabama Football Player in Dr. Hugh Ragsdale’s Russian History Course In the fall of 1985, I stepped into University of Alabama as something of a novelty, the first Crimson Tide football player, as far as anyone knew, ever to enroll in Hugh Ragsdale’s Russian history course. It was the height of the season under Ray Perkins, and our days revolved around weight rooms, film study, and the relentless demands of Br

This is very personal for me. From 1976 to 1979, when I was just 12 years old starting out, I attended Lyman Ward Military Academy, a small Southern military school in Alabama. That was the first time in my life I came into real, day-to-dayntact with the Persian mindset, Iranian cadets who were there as international students under the Shah’s regime. Iran has always been a complicated place, full of many factions, ethnic groups, and tensions. Like many who’ve studied it close

The 7th Annual One Yard at a Time Gala, hosted by Lettermen of the USA (LotUSA) on Friday, February 27, 2026, at The Club in Birmingham, Alabama, stands as our organization’s flagship fundraiser. The event supports the critical programs we care so deeply about for our veterans: home modifications, mobility aids, and Shelters for Heroes—a program that provides temporary, safe, and warm shelter (typically 3–7 days) for homeless veterans while connecting them to VA care, HUD-VAS

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