Page 204 – Guideposts Articles

The Dreams That Drew Her Closer to Her Adult Daughter

Posted on March 11, 2026April 10, 2026 by Marion Bond West

Wide awake, I sat up in bed before a hint of light entered the room. I’d had another dream about Jennifer, my middle child. She’s 38 now, a wife and a mother of three. Usually in my dreams she’s still a little girl—shy, freckle-faced and with a brightly colored headband holding back her shiny auburn hair. I loved her hair. I’d brush it into a ponytail and kiss the tiny hollow at the back of her neck before she left for school.

Jennifer was a mama’s girl. I never minded being called in the middle of the night to rescue her from a slumber party. “I have a stomachache, Mama,” she would complain, but we both knew she was homesick. I loved having her snuggle next to me as we drove home at 2 a.m. We fit together like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.

Jennifer had been five years old and her older sister, Julie, seven, when the twins were born. Everything changed. The boys demanded so much of my time and energy, I hardly had any left for their older sisters. I was constantly exhausted—and short-tempered. Writing became my only escape. In retrospect, I saw it so clearly. Sweet, quiet Jennifer, sandwiched between the others, required almost nothing from me.

One afternoon Jennifer made a chocolate cake for a school bake sale. She did it all by herself, carefully spreading the icing between the layers, covering the cake with chocolate frosting. I stood there admiring it, when somehow she bumped the plate and the cake fell to the floor. The layers slid apart, seemingly in slow motion. We both stared in shock. Then Jennifer sucked in her breath and said softly, “I’ll have to make another one—and there’s no more cocoa.”

I glanced at my watch. Was there any way I could possibly run to the store before I picked up the boys at school and dropped them at their various practices? I was on a tight deadline for an article that was due. Before I could come up with a solution, Jennifer did. “It’s okay, Mama. I know you’re busy,” she said matter-of- factly. “The top layer is fine. I’ll just take that to school.”

And I let her.

While she was in college, her father battled brain cancer. One day Jennifer and I stood outside his hospital room. “He’s not going to be here to give me away when I get married, is he?”

I shook my head sadly, absorbed in my own pain. A year later, her twin brothers walked her down the aisle. I couldn’t help wishing that she and I had spent more time together before she started life on her own.

Eventually Jennifer had three children of her own, two boys and a little girl who looked amazingly like her. They lived about an hour and a half away. Sometimes it seemed as though she were worlds away. I often dreamed about her—dreamed that we were close again, like we were when she was small. But this dream was different.

I got out of bed and went to the kitchen, going over the details. No wonder I’d been jolted awake. Unlike my usual dreams about Jennifer, in this one she was a grown woman and mixed in with a crowd some distance away. I stood on my tiptoes and waved and hollered, “Jennifer! Over here! I’m over here!” But she didn’t notice me.

Was it too early in the morning to call her now? I longed to hear my daughter’s voice. Often when I phoned, she wasn’t home and I ended up speaking to an answering machine. She was busy with the children or playing tennis or substitute teaching. When we did talk, our conversations floundered as if we were talking through a wall. That morning as the sky filled with light, I dialed her number. She answered on the second ring.

“Hey,” I said, trying to sound lighthearted. “I had a dream about you last night.”

“You did?”

I could picture her in her kitchen, her long hair darker than it was when she was a child but still lustrous and beautiful. I wished I could reach out and touch it.

Then Jennifer surprised me. “I dreamed about you too. But it was terrible. I won’t even tell you.”

“You can’t help what you dream, Jen. Go on, tell.”

Her words tumbled out. “We were walking to a wedding, and we took a shortcut through a vegetable garden. I was in the wedding, so I had to be on time, but a farmer hollered that I’d stepped on one of his tomatoes. I offered to pay for it. He said, ‘Okay, 43 cents.’

“That’s when I realized I didn’t have any money and asked you for a loan. You said no, and I started crying. Your purse was a black box with a lock on it. I somehow managed to pry it open. Inside you had lots of money. ‘Please, Mother,’ I begged. You said I had stepped on the tomato and so I would have to pay for it. I ran all the way home, got the money, ran back and paid the farmer. But by the time I got to the church, the wedding was over. I woke up in tears.”

The pain in her voice almost cut my breath off. My purse, a locked black box. Was I that far out of reach?

Jennifer attempted a laugh. “Wasn’t that ridiculous, Mother?”

Dry-mouthed, I replied, “No, not at all. There were so many things I should have done for you….”

“Well, you could have gotten up from your typewriter sometimes,” she said. “You were always writing.”

I couldn’t undo the past, but I loved that she was being honest and open. This was my chance.

“Jennifer, you’re right,” I said. “I overlooked you. You seemed so capable. I forgot you were just a child.”

There was silence on her end of the line. The communication seemed broken again. That was as far as we got. God, please bring Jennifer back to me.

I thought about her all morning. Finally I called an old friend. I told her about Jennifer’s dream and our awkward attempt to connect. “You know,” she said, “your relationship probably broke down over a lot of little things, like that cocoa you told me about. It’ll take little things to mend it.”

Little things, like the cocoa. Little things that stood for bigger things. Like the 43-cent tomato? I had read in the Bible how God spoke to people in dreams. Was my dream God’s way of prompting me to try again with Jen?

From my desk drawer, I pulled out a note card. “Dear Jen,” I wrote on it, “this is what I should have done in the dream.”

I found a small, golden mesh bag with a drawstring, something I’d been saving for years. I dropped 43 cents into it, then stuck the bag and the note into an envelope and addressed it to Jennifer. I barely made it to the post office before that day’s mail went out.

The next day, the phone rang while I was at my typewriter.

“Mama, I got the 43 cents!”

“That was quick!” I said. “I wish I could have been just as quick to reach out to you when you were growing up, Jen. Can I ever make it up to you?”

“Forty-three cents is a start,” she said.

We were talking. I was tremendously encouraged. “Bet you can’t guess what I’m doing,” I said.

“Bet I can.” Jen laughed.

“What?”

“Writing about 43 cents.” That was my Jen. She knew me like a book. We both laughed. We still had a way to go, but we’d begun. The whole thing started with a dream. Two dreams really. They had given Jen and me an opening, a lead to follow. So what if it meant doing something that seemed a little foolish—Jen telling me about her dream and me sending her some change. Nothing’s too foolish if it’s done out of love. And nothing is too foolish to restore love.

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The Do’s and Don’ts of Decluttering as a Family

Posted on March 11, 2026April 10, 2026 by Mari Pack

You’ve put it off for months, maybe years, but the dawn has arrived, and it’s time to thoroughly clean and declutter your house. Not alone, of course. Even better—with your family!

Whether you parent young kiddos to young adults, if your children live with you (or have recently moved back home) it’s time to declutter together. Get your husband or wife involved, too.

You made the mess together, and decluttering is a family affair.

Set Communal Goals and Deadlines

You didn’t create the clutter in one day, and you likely won’t conquer it in a single day either. Clutter, especially the kind accumulated over a number of years, requires strategy. Sit down with your family and, together, decide what you want to accomplish by when. Set reasonable goals and deadlines that work with everyone’s schedule.

Maybe agree to make the kitchen tidy by next week, but donating old clothes gets until the end of the month? Whatever you decide, establish deadlines so is working toward the same ends.

Schedule Special Decluttering Dates or Times

You’ll be surprised what you can clean in fifteen minutes! If the prospect of getting started with the whole house sets your family ablaze with arguments, create designated times to tidy. Think of these tidy times as sprints, not marathons.

Set your phone timer (or kitchen timer!) for fifteen to twenty minutes every other day. While the timer is counting down, declutter. All hands on deck! Scrub corners, do dishes, toss things in the trash. When the timer stops, you and your family stop. Even if the decluttering isn’t finished, make the rule and stick to it. You’re in it for the long haul.

Organize New Storage Systems

Part of the problem might be storage—you don’t have enough! Baskets, shelves, and plastic tubs are your new best friends. Discuss with your family what they want the house to look like. A super clean Swedish flat? And old English manor with many shelves? Figuring out how exactly you want the house to look can help guide your storage decisions.

Getting things out of the house is the ultimate good, but if you truly can’t bear to part with something, a new storage system is a good compromise.

Apologize for Whatever Was Said in Anger

Remember to be gentle, with yourself and each other. Decluttering might feel overwhelming, even impossible. The fact that you and your family are working together to clear the house is cause for celebration. You’re doing your best. There may be disagreements, and it’s important to apologize, but you’re all in this together. Take pride in what you’ve accomplished.

The Door of Hope

Posted on March 11, 2026April 10, 2026 by Robin Dias

Eight o’clock, Sunday morning. I pushed open the door to Scottsdale Bible Church and the familiar sounds of the orchestra rehearsing brought back a rush of sweet memories.

For years I had played the cello in that orchestra. I loved playing for the congregation every week—the fellowship, the praise music, even the rehearsals—everything about it. Back then I was happy and fulfilled. A wife and stay-at-home mom.

Now, after living in California for two years, I was back here in Arizona. Divorced. My daughters were away at college. For the first time in my life I felt truly alone.

I slumped onto the empty back pew and reached for a tissue in my purse. Lately, I carried them everywhere. I never knew when the tears might start up again.

I wanted so badly to play in the orchestra again, to go back to something that had brought me so much joy, but I just couldn’t face anyone. What if they asked me how things were? What would I tell them? That my 29-year marriage was a failure? That my world had imploded? That I was alone?

If only Emily were here, I thought. She would understand.

Emily and I met my fifth year with the orchestra. We sat next to each other—she, the only violist and me, the only cellist among a sea of violinists. The first few weeks we made small talk and it seemed like the orchestra was all we had in common.

Emily, a single mom, was a busy accountant. I came to rehearsals in jeans and a T-shirt; Emily was usually decked out in a smart tailored suit, having come straight from her office or a meeting with clients.

But one day I noticed that her cheeks were wet with tears. What could make this beautiful, strong woman so sad? I wondered. Suddenly I felt the strangest urging in my heart.

“Do you want to go to breakfast tomorrow before work?” I asked, thinking she could use someone to talk to.

“I’d like that,” she said. The next day we met up at a café. We talked about the orchestra, our kids, nothing too deep. We really hit it off. Soon we were meeting at the café every week, sharing our lives over oatmeal and mugs of steaming coffee—black, no sugar, just the way we both liked it.

One day I got brave enough to get a little more personal. I finally asked Emily what had made her cry that day at practice. “A few years ago my husband left me and our four children,” she said. “Not long after that, he died.”

I was floored. All this time she had been carrying around a deep, private pain. I marveled again at how different her life was from mine. I couldn’t imagine being a single mom with such heavy responsibilities. “How do you do it all?” I asked her.

“At first, things were really, really hard, but there wasn’t time to stop and think about it all,” Emily said. “I just had to move forward. Tears became a fact of my life. I know someday they will stop, but in the meantime I always have a tissue handy.” Then she smiled in spite of herself.

Her honesty made me open up too. I told her how my husband had been out of work for several months. That the stress was taking a toll on our marriage and that we might have to move.

“Give your worries to God,” she said confidently. “He’s there to guide you.”

From there, we talked about our faith, shared Bible verses and prayer requests. We kept up with our weekly breakfasts and shared news of other things in our lives—her latest hikes, my volunteer work.

Then my husband found a job in California. Although we’d moved many times throughout our marriage, change was never easy for me. And with both of our daughters away in college, I wondered how I would fill my days without my good friend. I met Emily at our café to tell her the news.

“Don’t worry, Robin,” she said. “You’ll find new friends. And we’ll stay close. God will make a way for you and be with you every step. He always has been.”

In the midst of packing up to move, I worked on another project—a gift to leave with Emily.

I’d been reading through the Bible, from Genesis to Revelation, and I remembered one of my favorite verses, from Hosea 2:15: “Here I will give back her vineyards to her, and transform her valley of troubles into a door of hope. She will respond to me there, singing with joy…”

I found a photo of a door online and superimposed the verse over it, printed it and put it in a simple silver frame. At our last breakfast, I presented it to Emily.

“I hope this reminds you that although you have faced hard things in your life, you are going to walk through that door of hope one day. I just know it.” I hugged her tightly and said goodbye.

Once in California, I struggled to find a rhythm. My husband was consumed by his work and I spent most of my time alone. I planted flowers in our garden, joined a health club, eventually made some new friends. But there was a heaviness in my heart that I just couldn’t shake.

I e-mailed Emily about it. “I’m praying for you,” she wrote back. “You’re going to be just fine.”

But things only went from bad to worse. My brother-in-law died unexpectedly, my husband’s company was sold, leaving him unemployed once again, and the pressure built up in our marriage. I stopped writing to Emily or even talking much to anyone.

I thought marriage counseling would help. We gave it a try. A few months later, though, my husband announced that he would not continue the counseling—or the marriage. He would stay in California and I would return to Arizona. Alone.

Numbly, I began the arduous task of trying to move forward and start over.

Sitting in the back pew that Sunday morning clutching a tissue, I thought about the last two years. The heartache, the unknowns of my future, my constant tears. And I thought of Emily. I’d lost track of her. How ironic, I thought. Now I’m the one crying.

After the service, I mustered up my courage and went backstage. I saw a violinist I’d once played with. “Do you know where Emily is?” I asked.

“Oh, didn’t you hear?” she asked, looking surprised.

“Hear what?”

“Emily reconnected with her high school sweetheart sometime last year,” she said. “They got married and she moved to New Jersey. I’ve got her new e-mail. And, say, you should come back to the orchestra. We can always use another cello.”

I mumbled thanks, scribbled down Emily’s new address and hurried off before anyone could ask me any more questions.

Back home I typed out a short e-mail to Emily, congratulating her on her new life and wishing her every happiness. I told her that my life had also changed—but not for the better.

“Emily, when we first met, I wanted to encourage you,” I wrote. “Now, it seems that our circumstances have completely reversed. Any advice you might have for me would be so helpful. Love, Robin.” I ended the note and hit send.

The next day I checked my e-mail—there was a message from Emily!

“Robin, thank you for your note. I am sorry that there is so much pain in your life right now, but you will survive this and thrive in the end. I can’t say how you will do this, but I know you will. Please write when you can. I am always here for you.”

Instead of face-to-face breakfasts, Emily and I reconnected computer-to-computer.

Emily was right. I did make progress, slowly. I found part-time work, began volunteering at a hospital and rejoined the orchestra at church. My tears subsided just like Emily’s had. It was a happy milestone the day I realized that none of my pockets had any tissues in them.

One afternoon I came home from work and found a package leaning against my door, a New Jersey return address in the corner. There was a note tucked inside. “I’m still unpacking a few boxes and found this. I thought perhaps it might be your turn to have it. Love, Emily.”

I carefully unwrapped the layers of tissue paper and smiled at what was inside—a plain silver frame, showcasing a photo of a door, with a simple verse superimposed over it: “Here I will give back her vineyards to her, and transform her valley of troubles into a door of hope. She will respond to me there, singing with joy.”

I’d wanted those words to give hope to Emily in the days of her tears. Now they were here for me.

I still don’t know exactly what prompted me to ask Emily to meet for breakfast that long-ago day. Or maybe I do. An urging from the One who’s been guiding our steps along a path of dear friendship. Guiding our steps right through that door of hope.

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The Dog Who Opened His Heart

Posted on March 11, 2026April 10, 2026 by David Wheaton

April 10, 1998. Tokyo. I sat on the bed in my tiny hotel room, getting ready to head off to practice for the Japan Open, with one thing on my mind.

For the last 10 years I’d competed all over the world on the professional tennis tour. I’d reached the semifinals at Wimbledon and been ranked as high as twelfth in the world. Tennis was my life.

I’m a praying guy, so you’d think I’d be asking God to help me get my serve right before my first match. But my mind was on something else. It was time to give up my dream. The dream I’d been holding on to for the past two years—one that had nothing to do with tennis.

My dream was to get a dog. A yellow Lab, to be exact.

The life of a professional tennis player—nine months of the year on the road—was not a recipe for responsible dog ownership. But ever since my fitness coach took me pheasant hunting for the first time with his friends and their dogs, I’d been obsessed.

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I couldn’t stop thinking about how intelligent and well-trained the dogs were. How they were like teammates to their owners.

They reminded me of the dogs I’d grown up with on Lake Minnetonka in Minnesota. I was the youngest of four, nearly nine years behind my next oldest sibling. By the time I was in fourth grade, I was the only child at home.

My closest companions were our two Siberian huskies. They were outside dogs and loved running around in the cold. My parents gave me a wooden dog sled one Christmas, and many a winter day I’d hitch the huskies to the sled, jump on and take off across the frozen lake like I was in the Iditarod.

Maybe that’s why I was drawn to Labs. Not only were they excellent companions, they served a solid purpose. That was the odd part of my dream. Even though we lived on a lake famous for great fishing, my family wasn’t into fishing or hunting. We were sports-centered.

My mom’s father taught her and my older siblings to play tennis. So when I came along, it was no surprise that I picked up a racket when I was four. By nine I was playing at Nationals. Later, I received a tennis scholarship to Stanford and left after one year to turn pro. I’d been competing on the tour ever since.

After that outing with my fitness coach, I was set on finding a Lab to be a hunting companion.

There was a big stumbling block, though: Who would take care of my dog while I was away on tour? I was single and lived alone. My siblings had their own lives. My parents lived nearby, but they were nearing 70.

“David, we don’t want that kind of responsibility at our age,” Mom told me. “We have had enough dogs to know we have had enough of dogs!”

It was time to let go of my dream. I felt like a little kid who’d just found out the Christmas gift he’d prayed for all year wasn’t under the tree.

Then a paper slipped under the door of my hotel room. A fax, from Mom.

This wasn’t unusual. She often sent faxes with news and encouragement from home, with some tennis tips and Bible verses mixed in.

What was unusual was how she began: “I came across a beautiful yellow Lab on my morning walk through the neighborhood,” she wrote. “His owner lives a few blocks from us. But I’ve never seen his dog before.” That’s odd, I thought.

She described the dog’s beautiful coat, big brown eyes, cheerful personality. “If I ever got a dog,” she closed with, “I would get one just like that.”

If she ever got a dog? Was this really my mom? Hadn’t she told me that she was done with dogs? What had gotten into her?

The next day, there was another fax from Mom, this one even more bewildering. “I called the dog’s breeder to find out more about her dogs and breeding philosophy.”

The day after that, another fax arrived with this previously unimaginable statement: “I sent the breeder a down payment on a puppy today.”

What?! You could’ve knocked me over with a feather.

I wish I could say the news inspired me to swashbuckle my way through the Japan Open, but I lost in the early rounds and flew home.

We went to visit the litter of puppies. One of them, a male, looked straight out of a dog show. He had an athletic build, a beautiful buff-colored coat and almond-shaped brown eyes. He walked over to me and fell asleep with his little head resting on my shoe.

He was the one. I knew it. Dad was soon building a run outside their house in anticipation of his arrival.

It didn’t take long for me to see that Ben was no ordinary dog. His puppy misbehavior—chewed shoes, accidents, nipping—was minimal. He learned basic commands quickly. He was intelligent, gentle and thoughtful.

That dog run? Ben never spent a night in it. He just seemed to belong right with us, wherever we were. When I was on the road for tournaments, Mom and Dad were happy to dog-sit. I called home and got updates every day.

Soon I started Ben’s training. That turned our walks into an adventure. “Fetch it, Ben!” I’d shout, throwing his rubber retrieving dummy into the marsh that bordered a street in my neighborhood. He’d disappear into the cattails…then burst out with the dummy in his mouth and tail wagging.

“Atta boy,” I’d say, patting his head. Sometimes I would hide. He’d always find me too.

If I knocked a tennis ball over the fence while practicing, Ben would run into the trees to find it, sifting through the dozens of balls that had landed there. Minutes later, he’d trot out proudly with the exact ball that I had hit—never anyone else’s—in his mouth.

Everywhere I went, Ben went too. Now I knew why Jacob in the Bible named his son Benjamin, meaning “son of my right hand.” That’s what Ben was to me. I loved him dearly and deeply. Ben brought something to my life that I never knew a dog could.

The year Ben was three, 2001, was a time of change. I’d been dating Brodie, a girl I’d known for most of my life, but that year we broke up. I retired from the professional tennis tour.

I was in my early thirties, and injuries had taken their toll. I continued to play parttime in senior’s tournaments as I set out to discover the answer to the question What’s next after tennis?

One thing made the transition easier: Ben. God brought Ben to me at just the right time, I thought. So I’ve got to trust that he has new and good plans in store for me.

I was driving with my parents one day, listening to the radio, when out of the blue Mom posed a question that was more like an answer: “David, have you ever thought about getting into radio?”

I hadn’t. But a few weeks later I got an unlikely phone call from a radio station, asking if I’d like to host one of their programs. Soon I was producing and hosting The Christian Worldview every week…with Ben at my feet in the studio.

After recording, it was time for The David and Ben Show. We loved heading up to Lake Superior for fun. “Careful, boy!” I’d say, before tossing his dummy into the rough, freezing surf. No matter how high the waves were, Ben dove in with his signature resolve.

Soon after he turned eight, Ben got sick. At first I thought it might just be fatigue, but when he stopped eating I took him straight to the vet. The diagnosis was devastating: prostate cancer.

I was heartbroken. I cried out to God, “Why did you bring Ben into my life only to take him away so soon?”

Treatment failed. I couldn’t bear to see him suffer anymore. Mom and Dad couldn’t either. We called the vet, who came to the house. She assured us that we were making the right decision to put him down.

Ben was lying on the couch, nodding in and out of sleep. He’d lost a lot of weight, but his face still had that look of serenity and nobility. I put my arm around him and buried my head in his neck. “That’s my boy,” I whispered. “You’ll always be my boy.”

The vet found a vein in Ben’s rear leg and administered the injection. He turned his head to look, then rested it back on the couch and closed his eyes.

“His heart has stopped,” the vet said quietly. “He’s gone.”

I remained slumped over him, gently stroking his side.

It wasn’t until I watched the vet leave with my beloved Ben that a dam inside me broke. Mom and Dad wept for hours with me. “I’m so grateful to have had Ben,” I said. “I just don’t understand why he had to leave so soon.”

I remembered how Ben had come into my life right when I was about to give up my dream of getting a dog. And yet God moved to make my dream come true. He even changed my parents’ minds.

He knew Ben would teach me how to live more fully and love more deeply. In the midst of my grief, God expanded my understanding of his higher plans for us, and his grace.

Remember Brodie? We got back together and we’ve been married for five years. We have a son, Tommy, and—this probably won’t surprise you—not one but two Labs, Gracie and Billy.

All because my boy Ben opened my heart.

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The Dog That Brought Them Together

Posted on March 11, 2026April 10, 2026 by Edward Grinnan

I was introduced to my wife, Julee, by her dog, Rudy, a rather corpulent cocker spaniel. I was walking on West 72nd Street in Manhattan on a seemingly ordinary May evening when along came Rudy, trundling at a measured but determined pace, completely undeterred in his stately progress along the busy sidewalk by his fellow New Yorkers, who were using their two legs to try and get past him. On the other end of his leash was a dazzling blonde with massive green eyes. I could almost feel a breeze when she batted her lashes.

“That’s the fattest cocker spaniel I’ve ever seen,” I blurted out, thinking this might be a good way to strike up a conversation. I was met with an annoyed look for my efforts. Julee tried to keep moving, but Rudy suddenly became obstinate. He stopped, looked at me, woofed perfunctorily, and bulldozed his way over, dragging a scowling Julee behind him and nearly pulling her off her pumps. She was an actress and singer, I was soon to learn, rushing home from an audition to walk her dog.

We walked around the block together while I tried to smooth-talk my way out of my opening conversational salvo.

“Rudy has the most magnificent ears I’ve ever seen,” I offered.

That got me another turn around the block and Rudy, in what I surmised to be an effort to impress me (or perhaps to help me impress his owner), tried to pick a fight with a much larger and younger dog, and I was able to help extricate him from the conflict. By the time I walked Julee and Rudy to their building, I felt I was coming close to redeeming myself. Julee showed lukewarm interest in my offer of Chinese food later that week, scribbled her phone number on a taxi receipt pulled from her purse almost as an afterthought, and disappeared into the elevator, Rudy giving me a final look over his shoulder as he slipped past the closing door. Upstairs on the twelfth floor, Julee let herself into her apartment, tossed Rudy a treat, and then dialed her mother in Iowa. “Mom,” she said, “I just met the man I’m going to marry.”

Me? I was just hoping to get to see her again. On the way home I ducked into a pet store. Usually you get the girl a gift. I got Rudy a little something, planning to drop it off with Julee’s doorman in the morning. An inner voice told me it would be a good idea.

Sometimes God shouts, sometimes he whispers, and sometimes he sends a woof.

The Dog of My Dreams

Posted on March 11, 2026April 10, 2026 by Mary Steenburgen

My 12-year-old dog Lucy was lying under the kitchen table, one of her favorite spots.

She looked up at me with those intelligent eyes of hers—one blue, one brown—but I knew when she didn’t get up to greet me that the day I’d been dreading had come. I called the veterinarian, who’d taken good care of Lucy ever since I’d adopted her, and asked her to come over one last time.

I sat down on the floor next to her to wait for the vet, stroking her fur and thinking back on everything we’d been through together. Lucy was part Australian shepherd, part Queensland heeler. A rescue, so you could say I saved her life. Really, though, she saved mine. That’s why I thought of her as my angel here on earth.

When I met Lucy at the Humane Society, I was living with my two children in an old farmhouse in Ojai, a laid-back California town with paths made for strolling, gorgeous sunsets and mountains all around. Although I worked in Hollywood, I didn’t want my kids to grow up there. I wanted my daughter and son to have an upbringing more like my own back in Arkansas.

The farmhouse had a curvy staircase and on Christmas morning, I insisted the kids come down it with their hands over their eyes. “Okay, everybody, open your eyes!” I’d say. I loved to see them take in the presents, the tree, the lights…the wonder of Christmas.

It didn’t take Lucy long to fit into our family. She decided her job was to watch over us, like any good herding dog. She claimed certain spots—a particular section of the sofa, under the kitchen table, outside by the lavender, places where she could keep an eye on things. She snapped at bees and occasionally got stung. She even took part in our rituals, like coming down the stairs with the kids on Christmas morning (though she didn’t put her paw over her eyes).

One day I got home from grocery shopping and Lucy trotted out to the driveway to greet me. I walked slowly on the gravel because I couldn’t quite see around the bags I was carrying. All of a sudden Lucy blocked my way. I moved to the right to go around her. She blocked me again.

“C’mon, these bags are heavy,” I said. But she wouldn’t let me pass. In fact, she started barking at me—which she never did—forcing me to back up. I lowered the bags. That’s when I saw it. Right where I was about to step was an angry coiled rattlesnake. “Good girl!” I told Lucy. We made our way around the rattler and into the house.

I gave Lucy a hug—and an extra-large helping of treats, of course. And I thanked God for giving her to me. Not only because she’d saved me from the rattler, but also because she was saving me from being overwhelmed by the tough stuff I was coping with.

My father, whom I adored, had recently passed away. And although the divorce I’d just been through had been amicable, I was still learning to adjust to life as a single mom. Lucy was there for my kids and me day in and day out, which made me feel incredibly protected and loved—and hopeful that things would work out.

Eventually they did. When Lucy was middle-aged I got another amazing and unexpected gift from God. I fell in love with and married Ted Danson, who is my dream friend and husband. There’s never anything so wrong with me that he can’t make me laugh. Our family blended amazingly well, and his two girls and my kids are hilarious and adorable and the lights of our lives.

Ted and Lucy, of course, fell madly in love. The only time she put up a fuss was when he and I started dancing around the living room. Something must have triggered Lucy’s herding instincts (maybe we were moving like unruly sheep!) because she tried to tackle us and knock us over. Did I mention how she made us laugh?

Now I couldn’t hold back my tears. The vet was here. I stood to talk to her. Lucy slowly got up too and walked over to the doctor. Then she sat down and looked at me, her gaze steady and serene, guiding me through this moment as she had so many others. She was telling me, It’s time to say goodbye.

I knew she was right, but that didn’t make losing her any easier. Every day for weeks afterward, I’d glance at the sofa or under the kitchen table, expecting Lucy to be there. We still had a dog in the house—Roxy, the pug we’d given my son for his fourteenth birthday. She was funny and quirky and had quite the talent for hypnotizing us into thinking we hadn’t fed her. I loved her, but there wasn’t that soul-deep connection I’d had with Lucy.

Ted could tell how much I missed her. “Maybe we should get another dog,” he said. “I’m not ready,” I said. I didn’t know what I was waiting for. Some sign, maybe, that it was okay to move on.

Three months after Lucy died, Ted and I took a trip to Todos Santos, Mexico. One night the image of Lucy came to me in a dream, looking right at me. I got a message: You’ll meet your new dog tomorrow. As soon as I woke up the next morning, I told Ted, “Lucy’s going to help find us a dog today.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “But it’s going to happen.” I was sure of it. We saw dozens of dogs that day—napping in doorways, roaming the streets. Each time I wondered, Is this the one? But none gave me the certainty my dream had.

We ate at a restaurant and were driving back to the hotel when I saw a little white head pop up from a hole in a crumbling wall. A terrier mix. Her eyes locked on mine for a moment before she dropped out of sight.

“Stop!” I shouted. “That’s the dog!” We got out and tracked her down. She was with a pack of street dogs. She was scruffy, malnourished, covered with fleas and ticks—the most pitiful-looking dog I’d seen all day. Maybe ever. If it had been up to me, I wouldn’t have chosen her. I like bigger dogs. And she didn’t seem healthy. But the choice wasn’t mine. I was being guided. This dog needed me.

I approached her slowly, not wanting to scare her. When I got close, she sat down and gave me a look that said, I know you’ve come to get me. I’ve been waiting. She let me pick her up and put her in my beach bag. “You’re coming home with us,” I told her.

She lay absolutely still as if she understood. That’s how I was able to sneak her through the hotel into our room. We had a patio with an outdoor shower. It took me two hours to clean her up and get all the fleas and ticks off her. “We’re naming you Lulu,” I said, “after Lucy.”

The next day I took Lulu to a local vet. He was bewildered. Of all the strays to adopt, why this one? He said she wouldn’t have lasted another week, she was so weak from starvation.
To me, that was another sign that this little dog was meant for us. Lucy had come to me when I needed her most, and we’d come for Lulu when she needed us most. There was a wonderful spiritual symmetry to the whole thing.

We brought Lulu home to Ojai, and she hadn’t been with us long when I noticed something amazing. She was drawn to the exact places where Lucy used to hang out, places that our pug totally ignored. I’d find Lulu lying under the kitchen table, sleeping in that same spot on the sofa and outside by the lavender, snapping at the bees and sometimes getting stung.

Like her predecessor, Lulu is very smart and loyal and watches over our family, which now includes an Australian shepherd named Arthur. She charges ahead of him on our hikes, as if she’s blazing trail for him. She and Arthur walk down the stairs in front of our pug, who’s elderly now, guiding her so she doesn’t fall. She hasn’t had to rescue me from a rattler, but if anyone tried to hurt me, it would be Lulu who’d protect me.

She sets the tone for our other dogs and shows them how to behave. I like to think of her as an elegant Spanish lady. You have to take care not to offend her dignity. If she’s trying to jump onto our bed, I won’t lift her up. She’s perfectly capable and doesn’t like to be helped.

Yet Lulu always knows when I need help. If I’m feeling out of sorts, she’s there in a heartbeat, letting me know how deeply I am loved. Of all the gifts our four-legged angels bring us, I think that may be the greatest.

The Courage to Forgive a Friend

Posted on March 11, 2026April 10, 2026 by Michelle Medlock Adams

A friend loves at all times… (Proverbs 17:17, ESV)

I had just finished writing the last few heartfelt lines on the cute friendship card I’d purchased earlier that day, and as I was addressing the envelope, I heard that still small Voice speak to me.

Don’t send it.

I tried to ignore His Voice, but then as I headed to the Post Office to mail the card to a person who had been my best friend for many years but not since our falling out the year before, I heard Him again.

Don’t send it. She’s not ready. I’m working on it.

Though I wanted to mail the card and hope for the best, I knew my previous attempts to make things right with my friend had not turned out well. In fact, they’d been met with rejection, reopening the wounds in my heart that I thought were already healed.

READ MORE: DESTINED TO BE FRIENDS

So, I sat in the parking lot of the local post office and cried for a bit, ripping the card into several pieces so I wouldn’t be tempted to mail it later.

It was time to let God work. It was time for me to stop trying to “work it” on my own and truly give God all of my hurts, regrets, and hopeful expectations where she was concerned. You see, she was the one friend I felt I would grow old with; the one who was a sister to me; the one who supported me no matter what; and the one I’d missed every single day since we’d gone our separate ways.

I’d long forgiven her and hoped we could move past the fight that had separated our families, but that hasn’t yet happened. So, I continue to trust God. But, here’s what I’ve learned through this ordeal.

Just because you’ve forgiven someone doesn’t mean that person has or will ever forgive you, and that shouldn’t matter. You are only responsible for your heart, and by forgiving that person, you’ve chosen to live. There’s an old expression that says holding onto unforgiveness is like taking poison and wanting the other person to die. It doesn’t affect that person, but it will destroy you.

Bottom line: it doesn’t matter who was at fault or who said what—it only matters what God’s Word says, and it says to forgive. His Word says to believe the best in others. And, His Word says that a friend loves at all times.

All means all.

So if you’re on either side of this situation—hoping to be forgiven or needing to offer forgiveness—I hope you’ll push past the pain and enter into God’s overwhelming love and grace. Let Him heal your broken heart.

Don’t dwell on the “would’ves, could’ves or should’ves” but rather meditate on the goodness of God. And, remember, it’s all in God’s hands and in His timing. Forgiveness may come, but even if it doesn’t, keep your heart right and choose to love. And, ask God to help you forgive yourself.

He will.

The late Maya Angelou said it best: “You can’t forgive without loving. And I don’t mean sentimentality. I don’t mean mush. I mean having enough courage to stand up and say, ‘I forgive. I’m finished with it.’”

It’s time to forgive and choose to live.

The Christmas Card List

Posted on March 11, 2026April 10, 2026 by Susan Sarver

Six states and 12 cities. That’s how many I’ve visited in the last few years. I’m not a travel agent either. Just someone who was inspired by, of all things, her Christmas card list. Let me explain.

For over 30 years now I’ve been sending letters along with my Christmas cards to family and friends—just little updates on me, my husband Ted and our sons, Matt and Joseph. Some folks are new additions to the list, and others have been there since the beginning.

Like Jana. She and I met on my first day at Illinois State University and hit it off. We both came from families with six children and loved pop music and going to the movies. After school we promised to keep in touch—and we did, for a while, short visits here and there.

But life got in the way. Still, we never missed sending Christmas cards.

Four years ago I didn’t get a card from Jana. I called her. “Sue, I have terminal cancer,” she told me. The news hit me like a ton of bricks. A month later, Jana was dead. I wish I had visited her more, I thought, heartbroken.

When it came time to put together my Christmas card list later that year an idea hit me: Why not do more than just send people a card? Why not visit them?

First up? My 85-year-old godmother, Betty Jane, in Littleton, Colorado. Betty Jane doesn’t have children and always treated my siblings and me like her own. We write letters all the time. In fact, she still sends me a card with ten dollars for my birthday each year.

But it had been 10 years since we’d seen each other. Ted and I already had a summer trip planned to Rocky Mountain National Park—our first vacation as empty nesters. Why not combine it with a visit to Betty Jane?

“Thank you for coming all this way!” she exclaimed when we arrived, wrapping me in her arms. Seeing Betty Jane brought us both so much joy that I knew I couldn’t stop there.

In December 2009, I took another look at my Christmas list. College friends, church friends, people from other states where we’d lived, former coworkers—so many folks to see! One name jumped off my list: Carol.

Carol and I met in college, in the same dorm where I met Jana. She was the city mouse and I was the country mouse. She grew up in Chicago and had never been to a farm. I grew up on a farm and had never been to a big city. Oh, how we loved to compare our childhoods!

Our last visit was 27 years earlier, back when she was pregnant with twins. Had that many years gone by? Really?

I logged onto Facebook and searched for her name. Up came her profile! I’d recognize that smile and blonde hair anywhere. “I know it’s been a while,” I wrote. “But do you think I could visit you this summer? I’d love to catch up.”

Three days later, she responded. I nervously opened the message. She probably thinks I’m crazy, I thought. “Sue! Wow! Yes, I’d love to see you!” she wrote.

It was just three hours by Amtrak to Naperville, Illinois. But as I stepped off the train, my worries came back. What if we didn’t have anything in common anymore?

“There you are!” shouted Carol. “I could never forget your laugh.” The years instantly melted away. We promised not to wait another 27 years.

During that trip I took another train ride to visit my brother Pat and his wife, Jennifer, in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. “Let’s go to the Santana concert,” Jennifer said. What fun!

Just before fall, I went to Bloomington, Illinois, where I’d lived when I was married to my first husband. He walked out on me when Matt was just an infant. I didn’t have anyone to help me. We had no food, no money, and I fell behind on my house and car payments. I’d never felt so alone.

Then three families from the neighborhood stepped in: the Goses, the Hoffmans and the Cottrells. They babysat, fixed my car, handed down kids’ clothes and fed me until I got back on my feet. All this time later they all still lived in the same town!

Carol Gose and I saw a Shakespeare play outdoors, Janet Hoffman and I ate at a fabulous Mexican restaurant and I went to a flea market with Kathy Cottrell. It was like the time never passed.

This past June, Matt got married in Portland, Oregon. Of course, I pulled out my Christmas card list. Who did I want to see near Portland? Jann.

Ted and I had lived in Salem for nine years and I’d worked with Jann at an insurance company. We started on the same day, were the same age and both were new to the area. We became fast friends.

I gave her a call. “Why don’t you and Ted stay with me while you’re in Portland?” she suggested before I could. She even hosted a rehearsal dinner for Matt and his wife, Wendy!

As the summer wound down, I caught up on some cleaning. I was uncluttering a closet when I came across a box of old letters. Something in me just couldn’t throw them away. I opened the first one. “Hi, Susan, Jordan said ‘mama’ for the first time today,” it read.

Terri! Gosh, I hadn’t heard from her in six years. Somehow we’d lost contact. There were more letters from her in that box, so I read them in order. Since she and I had been pregnant at the same time, a wave of nostalgia came over me.

I got out my old address book and dialed the last number I had for her. With many people switching to cell phones, I knew my chances were slim.

“This is Terri,” a voice said. I couldn’t believe it.

“It’s Susan. I’ll be in Bloomington soon,” I said. “Would you want to get together for lunch?

“Are you kidding? Absolutely!”

We met up at Applebee’s and had a great visit. I gave her all of the letters. That night she sent me an e-mail. “I can’t tell you how much it means to me to have a chronicle of Jordan’s first years and of our friendship. To think we were brought back together by your Christmas list!”

Thanks to that list, I’ve been to plays, flea markets, lunches, church and concerts with old friends. We’ve also had good old-fashioned backyard visits with a glass of iced tea. Whenever I’m having a hard day I think about where I will go for my next trip.

It doesn’t always work out—sometimes people are too busy to get together or they live too far away for an easy trip. In those cases, we visit by phone.

Where to next? Florida, Wisconsin, Pennsylvania, or maybe even Japan. Wherever my Christmas card list takes me. It’s one list I hope continues to grow. Friendship is one of God’s greatest gifts to us and I don’t plan to let it go to waste.

Download your FREE ebook, Inspirational Quotes About Life, Love, Faith and Hope

The Book That Bonded Two Brothers

Posted on March 11, 2026April 10, 2026 by Adam Hunter

Today’s guest blogger is assistant editor Daniel Kessel.

I’ve always been close with my older brother Mark, and it’s no exaggeration to say that he impacted my decision to become an editor.

When we were in high school, he often gave me books to read, novels that he loved or philosophy books he was studying in class. We’d spend hours discussing the writers he introduced me to, especially on our car rides to and from school each day.

When I went to college, I knew I wanted to study literature–largely thanks to Mark’s influence.

Now that I live and work in New York, I still feel that influence. I make it a point to attend fiction readings and book launches whenever I have the time. It’s a chance to meet other writers and editors, people who love storytelling as much as I do.

Last week, before heading back to New Jersey for Labor Day weekend, I browsed online for upcoming readings. I noticed an event with an author named Justin Taylor.

I’d never heard of him before, but the title of his first book of short stories, published in 2010, intrigued me: Everything Here is the Best Thing Ever. I jotted down the date of the reading: Tuesday, September 2, right after the long weekend.

When I made it back home later that day, the first thing I noticed when I walked through the front door was a stack of my brother’s books on the living room table. What is Mark reading these days? I wondered.

I took a closer look. The book right on top? Everything Here is the Best Thing Ever.

“How did you hear about this book?” I asked Mark when I saw him.

“Oh, I just found it at the library,” Mark said nonchalantly. He’d never heard of Justin Taylor either, he explained. But just like me, the title grabbed his attention.

Coincidence? Not in my book. Over the long weekend my brother and I took turns reading the stories in the collection, discussing our favorite ones just as we had when we were teenagers.

The book was a great–and completely unexpected–way to renew a much-missed part of our relationship, and when I attended Justin Taylor’s reading on the following Tuesday, Mark’s ideas were still fresh on my mind. Talk about perfect timing!

There’s definitely a mysterious bond that siblings share, that goes beyond being raised in the same household. How else can you account for the story of Isaac Nolting and Dakotah Zimmer, two brothers separated as infants who were drawn to each other more than a decade later?

Or the way Associate Editor Diana Aydin’s twin sisters can physically feel each other’s pain and distress?

It’s a bond that can even transcend death, as Mabel Louise Caringer of Stratford, Connecticut, discovered after her brother passed away. Clear evidence of the special connection between brothers and sisters surrounds us.

What about you? Have you and one of your siblings ever shared a Mysterious Moment? Send it to us!

The Blessings of Family Time

Posted on March 11, 2026April 10, 2026 by Michelle Cox

We just spent some time with a large rodent. Yes, our family just returned home from a week at Disney World. Eighteen of us. In one house. With six children aged six to 20 months. It was so much fun and I ended the week with dozens of new memories to store in my heart.

Friends, life is hectic—and if we don’t watch it, we get caught up in responsibilities and miss the blessings of family time. All my adult children also have busy lives, and we’ve discovered we have to be intentional about making those times together happen. Here are a few things we’ve learned:

Someone has to get the ball rolling.
Start planning way ahead of time, before schedules get overloaded.
Share the responsibilities, but plan the trip together. That’s part of the fun and will provide extra memories and bonding time.

Our Disney trip was special on many levels. There was the excitement of seeing the characters, awesome shows, rides, parades and fireworks. There were oh-so-yummy foods and somebody saying “I want a bite” whenever we bought a croissant, donut or some other delicious treat. There were priceless times of young cousins and adult siblings spending time together.

One moment in particular stuck in my heart while we were at the Festival of the Lion King show. The little ones watched the action with awe as the cast in monkey suits tumbled and somersaulted across the platform.

And I watched the show in front of me, love overwhelming me as I looked at those precious little faces. And, then, as I saw the sweet expressions on the faces of my sons and daughters-in-law, I bit back tears as I watched them watching their children.

So many memories flooded my mind. Wasn’t it just yesterday that Paul and I took our three little boys to Disney World? Wasn’t it just a few years before then that my daddy took me to Orlando to see Mickey and Minnie?

In the midst of all the laughter and acrobatics, I whispered a prayer thanking God for the blessing of family time, for the sweet memories that bind all of us together.

Yes, it’s a lot of work getting ready for a trip like this, and it’s sometimes a sacrifice to come up with the money, but there are so many benefits from trips together as a family.

It’s fun. Family time provides wonderful photos that can be pulled out and enjoyed for years. It makes memories together that only your family will have.

And it provides a unique bonding time that won’t be experienced in any other way. One of my favorite parts of the trip occurred in the mornings when all the grandbabies piled onto my bed to snuggle and talk with me. Moments like that are precious beyond words.

Make time to enjoy the blessings of family. The memories will be like super-glue for all of you, priceless moments that are truly a gift from God.

The Bible’s Most Famous Friendships

Posted on March 11, 2026April 10, 2026 by Alikay Wood

Every year, around February 14, I find myself bombarded with messages about soul mates. It pops up everywhere, from TV commercials to social media. And the takeaway is unavoidable: Soul mates are the main reason to celebrate love.

I’ve never really believed in the whole soul mates thing—that there’s one person we’re destined to meet, fall madly in love with and obsess over for all eternity. What I have found are soul connections, friends who just seem to get you on an almost molecular level. Like my friend Sarah.

We met in the seventh grade…and it was dislike at first sight. We were polar opposites. She was open, earnest and outgoing. I was guarded, rational and reserved. And yet, somehow, we became the best of friends. Nowadays, she lives in California and I live in New York. But we’re so in tune with each other that I still feel connected to her, even thousands of miles apart. When I’m blue, she’ll just happen to call. When she goes through a hard time, I feel the pain as if it were my own. Our link makes me wonder: Could it be we’re not put on this earth simply to find “the one,” but rather several people we’re divinely connected to? Not soul mates but soul friends?

Curious, I took my questions to Rabbi Deborah Bravo, who’s written about spirituality and friendship. According to Rabbi Bravo, God doesn’t just want us to have friends. God made us specifically to be in relationships with other human beings.

“From the very beginning, in the creation story, we learn that we are designed to be in partnership,” she says. “The root of the Hebrew word for friendship is actually chaver, which means ‘to connect.’ And friendship is all about connection.”

There’s a mystical benefit to friendship, Rabbi Bravo says. It aids our spiritual development.

“An ancient Rabbinic text advises people to ‘acquire yourself a companion,’” Rabbi Bravo says. “God created us with the purpose of interacting with others. We need these relationships to lift ourselves to a higher plane spiritually.”

There are several notable friendships in the New Testament, from Jesus and Lazarus to Paul and Timothy. Scripture also says that David and Jonathan were so close, it was as if their souls were knit together. Other religious traditions stress the spiritual importance of friendship. In the Muslim tradition, a good friend is someone “whose appearance reminds you of God, and whose speech increases you in knowledge, and whose actions remind you of the hereafter.”

Friendship isn’t just good for the soul, though. It’s good for your health. Dr. William Chopik, an assistant professor of psychology at Michigan State University, recently published a study that showed friends can be more important to physical health and longevity than family. And, in 2005, research from Flinders University found that people with a large network of friends lived 22 percent longer than those without such a network.

There’s even a correlation between friendship and increased pain tolerance, according to the science journal Nature. When faced with a challenging task, study participants with a strong group of friends released more endorphins, those chemicals in the brain that make you happy and reduce pain.

Friend intuition also appears to be very much a thing. In 2013, researchers at the University of Virginia found that the bond between friends can be so strong that when one friend is threatened, the other’s brain reacts as if under duress. It’s true. When Sarah went through a particularly rough breakup, I felt my anxiety mounting even though everything else in my life was fine.

But what about those aspects of friendship that can’t necessarily be quantified? Can friends really be like platonic soul mates?

Yes, says Stephen Cope, a psychotherapist and author of Soul Friends: The Transforming Power of Deep Human Connection. Cope became interested in the idea of friendship on a more spiritual plane eight years ago. He’d just moved to a new city and didn’t know a soul. He met a man named Brian in a meditation class. Although they had nothing in common, the two quickly became friends. Their connection is what Cope calls a soul friendship.

“A soul friend becomes critical to determining who we become as a person,” Cope says. “They’re people we form deep connections with. Connections that transform us.”

According to Cope, these types of friendships can take a few key forms. Twinship, for instance, occurs when we recognize an essential likeness in another and bond over shared similarities. Mystical friendships happen when we feel an almost otherworldly connection to someone. Meanwhile, mirrors are those people who see us as we truly are and reflect essential truths about ourselves back to us.

“Soul friends evoke, sustain, affirm and unify us,” Cope says. “We recognize something in them; they recognize something in us. With soul mates, we’d call it chemistry. There’s something similar, in an unromantic sense, going on with soul friends.”

Cope’s categories of soul friends confirmed a hunch I’d had for some time. The notion that marriage isn’t the only important intimate relationship that adults have.

“Soul friends call us forth,” Cope says. “They draw out the person in us that we want to be. It’s almost as if an invisible bond of energy connects us with these people.”

That’s how I felt about Sarah. We called forth the best versions of each other. That unique tie called to mind something Rabbi Bravo had told me about—the Judaic concept of bashert, which means “destiny” or something that comes directly from God. The Yiddish word is most commonly used to describe soul mates, but that’s actually an incomplete definition, Rabbi Bravo says.

“The concept of a person’s bashert is really about the people you’re destined to be with in relationships, typically a romantic one,” she says. “But it can also describe what is ‘meant to be’ in life. People can have many bashert encounters, relationships or friendships.”

I thought about the many times I’ve felt inexplicably led or connected to the friends in my life. Like when my friend Bekah and I showed up to an event wearing the same exact outfit. Or the night my roommate and I stayed up talking until 2 a.m., even though we both had early mornings. Or the letter from Sarah that arrived at the very moment I was missing home the most. For the first time, I recognized those friendships for what they really were. Bashert. Destiny.

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