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Guideposts Classics: Eddie Albert on Letting God Lead

Posted on March 11, 2026April 10, 2026 by Eddie Albert

Someday, Maria, someone is going to say a silly thing to you. “Maria,” he’ll say, and he’ll be very solemn, “you must always be grateful to Mr. Albert for choosing you out of all those children.”

And the trouble is, Maria, that you just might believe him. Because you are beautiful, because I adore you, because your hair is long and your eyes enormous, because you are seven years old and have me completely wrapped around your finger, you might actually believe that I stepped into that orphanage, looked around at all the children, and selected you.

But I didn’t, Maria. I wasn’t the one who chose you at all.

It was three years ago that I had dinner in Paris with Art Buchwald. It was the first time I’d been away from Margo and young Edward and I missed them terribly. Only one thing cast a shadow when I thought of my family: there wasn’t enough of it!

Margo and I never dreamed of having just one child. After Edward’s birth, when no brothers or sisters came, we placed our name with adoption agencies all over the country. Years went by, but no child.

That evening in Paris I was sounding off to Art on the slow pace of adoption. He lay down his fork. “We have three adopted kids,” he said, “and we didn’t wait years and years to get them. We found one in England, one in France, and one in Spain–and you couldn’t ask for finer youngsters.”

He leaned across the table. “It would break your heart to see some of those orphanages. Why, we saw one in Spain that had over 2,000 children.”

It was one of those strange moments when everything seems to make sense: even the language. Margo was born in Mexico and speaks Spanish fluently. I went to the telephone and talked to her in California. The next day I was bound for Madrid and the orphanage with 2,000 children.

Once on the plane, the enormity of what I was doing swept over me. How was I going to pick the right child from 2,000?

Psychiatry, I thought. I’d pick a child that looked healthy and bright and then take him to a psychiatrist for tests. I lowered the seat-back, I was tired.

But sleep wouldn’t come. Suddenly I realized that psychiatry could not really define the special magic that makes one person belong with another.

I remembered what I’d long ago learned, that the only valid position for viewing a decision is eternity, that the only One who sees from there is God. I’d asked Him to guide me in lesser matters, why not in this one?

Did I really have more confidence in myself than in Him? The children in the orphanage were His children, just as Margo, and Edward, and I were. He knew which one belonged with us.

But how would I know? How would I be shown His choice for our family? As soon as I asked the question I knew the answer too: God’s choice would be the first child I saw.

There in the plane seat I bowed my head. “Lord,” I said, “I’ll take that first child.”

This time, I got to sleep.

Early next morning I was sitting in the office of the director of the great gray-walled orphanage.

“And what kind of child do you have in mind?” he asked in English.

“I would not be so impertinent as to say,” I told him.

The director stared at me, then at the paper he’d been writing on. “You have one son, age seven. So I suppose you would like a girl?”

“A girl would be fine.”

The director scrutinized me for a moment. Abruptly he picked up the phone and spoke a few words in Spanish. I wondered if he heard my heart pounding as we waited.

The door opened and a nun led in a little girl. I stared at her, gulped, and closed my eyes.

“Lord!” I prayed. “You don’t mean it!”

For there in front of me you stood—the toughest, most defiant, dirtiest four-year-old I had ever seen. You stood with your feet planted wide apart, your eyes on the floor.

I looked from you to the director. He was watching me nervously, apologetically, retaining the nun to whisk you away when the American exploded. I suddenly knew that this was not the first time you had been shown to a prospective parent. Suspicions stabbed me. You might be a behavior problem…

“How do we go about adopting her?” My words came quickly.

The director stared at me as if he hadn’t heard right. Then he sprang from his chair so hastily he almost knocked it over and plunked you into my lap. And so, with your feather-weight on my knee, I heard the director outline procedures: the Spanish government required certain papers, the United States, others.

I hardly listened. For—was I imagining it or—was there a gentle pressure against my chest? I leaned forward half an inch: the tiny pressure increased.

My proud Maria, before you responded to me you were testing me to see if I would respond to you. It was a kind of unspoken proposition with no loss of face: “I could love you if you loved me.” My brave Maria!

I didn’t see you again for two whole weeks, while the slow, legal part of the adoption got started. My first job was to telephone Margo that we had a daughter. I’d talk about mechanics: she would have to deal with the immigration authorities, find a welfare agency to sponsor us…

Then there was Margo’s voice from California, asking the one question I’d been pretending she wouldn’t ask.

“Oh, Eddie, describe her to me!”

I suppose that was the longest pause ever run up on a trans-Atlantic phone call. Then I remembered a photograph I’d once seen of Margo as a child: She was all skinny arms and legs.

“Honey,” I said, “she reminds me a lot of you.”

One day, while we were waiting for final papers, the orphanage gave me permission to take you out for lunch. At the restaurant you scraped your plate clean while I was unfolding my napkin. Then you ate my lunch too.

In the taxi going back you sat close to me, studying my face. That is why you didn’t see the orphanage until we had stopped in front of it. You looked out at the gray walls, then back at me.

Maria! How could I have known? How could I have guessed? Somehow no one in the orphanage had explained to you that this was only a visit, only out to lunch. So many children, overworked Sisters, and no one to read in your eyes that you thought this was the day of adoption, the final leave-taking.

And now I had brought you back!

You flung yourself, shrieking, to the sidewalk. And I, with my miserable lack of Spanish, could not explain. I knelt beside you, begging you to believe in me. “I’m coming back! Manana, Maria! Tomorrow!” When a nun came out to get you, we were both sitting in the middle of the sidewalk, crying our eyes out.

I did come back, the next day, and the next, until the unbelievable day when you were ours.

It was 24 hours from Madrid to Los Angeles. You sat on my lap the entire plane trip, you would not sleep.

We were a pretty groggy pair when we stumbled off the plane in California and into Margo’s arms. She let loose a machine-gun volley of Spanish, the only word of which I understood was “Mama.”

Going home in the airport car you sat in her lap, and for weeks afterward I was a lucky man if I got so much as a glance.

At home Margo tucked you into bed. And still you would not close your eyes. You’d been without sleep 36 hours, but you didn’t want to let Margo out of your sight. At last you pointed to her wedding band.

“Give me your ring,” you said.

Margo slipped off the ring and placed it in your hand. “Now you can’t leave me,” you said. A second later you were asleep.

And Edward–how did he feel about this possible competition for our love? We soon found out. You had lungs that could summon the fire department, but whenever I asked you to speak more quietly, Edward would give me a look of deep reproach.

“Papa! Of course she shouts! There were 2,000 kids making a racket; she had to yell to be heard.”

Any correction you received had to be while Edward was out of the room. And you felt the same way about him. I’ll never forget the day the school bully knocked Edward down and you knocked down the bully. They tell me you were banging his head on the floor when a teacher pulled you off.

I love the toughness in you. I love your loyalty. I love your quick mind. I even love your noise (but not while Papa’s napping, all right, honey?).

I think you are the most beautiful little girl in the world and sometimes, watching you, I think: “How in all the world did I find you?”

Then I remember: I didn’t find you. I didn’t do it at all.

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Guideposts Classics: Dick Van Patten on Fatherhood

Posted on March 11, 2026April 10, 2026 by Dick Van Patten

I felt a small tug at my shirtsleeve.

“Dadd-eee!” The exasperated tone in my son’s voice told me it was probably his third or fourth attempt to get attention. Seated at the dining-room table of our home in Bellrose Village, Long Island, I’d been absorbed in theater trade papers, desperately searching for an acting job. It was summer, 1963, and I hadn’t worked for three months.

“What is it?” I asked irritably.

“Daddy,” he said, hopefully, “let’s go play catch, okay?”

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Nels was eight, blond, blue-eyed, the eldest of our three sons. Suddenly, from out of nowhere, his brothers appeared—surrounding me like a band of Indians.

“Yeah, Daddy,” said seven-year-old Jimmy, “let’s go out and play!”

“Come on, Daddy,” piped six-yearold Vincent, “Please!”

“Daddy’s busy,” I heard my wife, Pat, say, shepherding the kids toward the kitchen.

I returned to the papers, but couldn’t concentrate. My work had always meant everything to me. Everything. Besides, my idea of being a good husband and father was based upon being a good provider. I felt like a failure.

I stood up and walked over to the living-room window. Outside, the setting sun cast long shadows over the neat green lawns and white frame houses.

With sadness, I recalled how happy Pat and I had been when we moved here as a young couple six years ago. When I met Pat, she had her own successful career as a professional dancer; she’d given it all up to marry me and raise our family.

Back then I was still riding high on the wave of success following my long-running role as Nels on the popular I Remember Mama TV series, sure I’d go on to be a star. After all, I’d been acting since childhood.

I still recalled vividly my first audition. I was seven years old. My grandmother accompanied me to the neighborhood theater in Queens, where MGM Studios was sponsoring a child personality contest. Grandma Van Patten had lived with us for as long as I could remember. I guess at that time she was just about my best friend.

Now she remained by my side until I was called before the judges to recite my poem. “You can do it,” she whispered, squeezing my shoulder reassuringly.

When I won the contest, which resulted in a four-month contract, Grandma was the one who moved with me to Hollywood. I was 15 when she died. By then, I’d acted in numerous Broadway shows and was working and studying under Alfred Lunt and Lynn Fontanne.

I was always glad that Grandma had lived to see my success. But, I thought ruefully, good thing she isn’t around to see me now…

In recent years, I’d found myself having to accept smaller and smaller parts. There was no good explanation why, and I didn’t know what to do about it. Not even in church could I find comfort or guidance. My own prayers seemed flat, vague. As I grew increasingly irritable and impatient, my behavior was taking its toll on my family—especially my sons.

I felt the gentle touch of my wife’s hand on my shoulder. “Dick,” she said softly, “don’t worry.”

I gave her the same annoyed look I had earlier given my son. But Pat’s concerned expression remained unchanged. “Honey,” she said, “I think maybe we should pray about this.”

“Pray? Don’t you think I do?”

“I mean,” she said quietly, “let’s pray together. Let’s pray specifically. You know you’ve always said you’ve never prayed without receiving an answer.”

Pat was right. I did have faith in a personal God, and strong belief in the power of prayer. But this problem of a declining career and no money coming in was so big—I didn’t know how to pray about it.

Pat seemed to sense my thoughts.

“God knows what’s best for us,” she said. “Let’s simply ask Him to get us through this summer according to His will.” She paused. “Okay?”

“Yes,” I said dully. “Okay.”

Holding hands, we stood by the window and prayed.

I didn’t feel any better.

A few more weeks passed. Nothing changed. Pat asked if I would mind if she tried auditioning for some local dance productions. I wasn’t crazy about the idea. But, reluctantly, I agreed. We needed the money.

One muggy morning, I was seated at the dining-room table, scanning the trade papers, when Pat rushed in, breathless and smiling. She had just auditioned for a summer production of Hit the Deck, at Jones Beach.

“Guess what!” she gasped. “I got the job! They want me in the chorus! And the pay’s not bad!”

Instead of being pleased, I felt my stomach tighten into a knot.

“That’s great,” I said tersely. “That’s real nice, Pat.”

She came over and hugged me. “Rehearsals begin tomorrow.” she said. “I’ll be gone a lot during the days. You’ll be all right taking care of the kids, won’t you?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Fine.”

By this time, the three boys had found places around the table and were listening with rapt attention.

“Don’t you see?” Pat continued. “This is the answer to our prayer.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Right.” It was an answer, all right, but it sure wasn’t the one I’d been hoping for.

When Pat was working, I didn’t really mind taking care of the kids. That is, I didn’t mind the duties involved: fixing meals, doing dishes, enforcing naps and bedroom clean-ups.

What bothered me was the way God had chosen to answer our prayers. True, thanks to Pat’s income, we were “getting through the summer.” But what long-term good could ever come from this situation? It sure wasn’t helping my career.

One hot afternoon as I was putting away the last of the lunch dishes, Jimmy entered the kitchen.

“Daddy? …”

I stiffened, feeling a request coming on. I was in no mood for requests.

“Daddy, can we go to Greenwood?”

“Greenwood” was Brooklyn’s Greenwood Cemetery, where my grandmother was buried. The kids loved visiting Greenwood; with six square miles of wooded grounds, four lakes, lots of wildlife and great shady trees to climb, it was more like a park.

Only 20 minutes away, it was, for our family, a place of good times and happy memories. Why not? I thought. We haven’t been to Greenwood in ages.

“That’s not a bad idea,” I said. “Get your brothers, and let’s go.”

Once at Greenwood, we walked the familiar hilly path to Great-Grandma Van Patten’s grave. We talked a little about what a wise, loving lady Great-Grandma had been, about how happy she must be up in Heaven and watching us down here on earth. As we talked, I felt myself relaxing, forgetting the tensions of unemployment.

Then we sat cross-legged on the soft green grass and decided what game we’d play. “How about looking for the oldest marker?” I suggested.

“Yeah!” The boys agreed. The game was a family favorite.

“Remember the rules?” I asked.

Big brother Nels was quick to remind us. “Ten minutes to search; report back here when we hear Daddy whistle; then we see who wins.”

“That’s right,” I said, and we set boundaries for our area of play.

“Ready?” I asked. Three heads nodded. “On your mark—Get set—Go!”

A mad scramble, and we were off-running and stopping, peering and bobbing, as we hunted for epitaphs of long ago. Caught up in the game, I felt like a kid myself. The sun was warm and friendly on my back. The breeze rustled the leaves of the trees in soothing whispers.

Before I knew it, I was daydreaming about my own childhood—and about Grandma Van Patten. She was always there…her steady blue eyes shining, her voice encouraging, her gentle touch conveying her trust and love for a little boy.

I found a tall, leafy tree and leaned against its massive trunk. In the distance, I heard the whoops and hollers of my kids having a good time.

“1890! Here’s one from 1890!”

“Aw, that’s nothing. I found one from 1865!”

I shut my eyes, allowing my thoughts to drift…

Why, I wondered, had Grandma spent so many hours with me? Surely she must have had better things to do. But she’d always been so selfless, so generous with her time—as though being with me was genuinely important to her. Our times together had meant so much to me.

I’d been so self-absorbed lately—so wrapped up in worry about my career. Perhaps—I felt a twinge of guilt at the idea—perhaps, there was more to being a good father than simply being a good provider. Could it be that God was trying to tell me that my sons might need and benefit from the same kind of love and attention that Grandma had given me?

“Daddy!”

I opened my eyes to see my three sons standing over me with puzzled expressions.

“Daddy, we’ve been waiting for your whistle!”

“Daddy, it’s been over ten minutes!”

“Daddy,” said Vincent, accusingly. “you’ve been sleeping!”

“Come on, you guys,” I said gruffly, “I was just resting. Now, who found the oldest marker?”

But in the minutes that had passed, something had happened to me. Surrounded by my happily chattering boys, I felt my heart melting. How precious my sons were…how short was our time together…how much I loved them!

For the first time, I fully appreciated that, next to God, my family had to be the most important thing in my life—even more important than my career. And with that realization, a great imbalance was corrected in my heart. The weight of worry about getting work had lifted; God, I knew, would take care of that in His own time.

I was also beginning to understand a little better how God works. By keeping me home for the summer, He had shown me how to appreciate and love my family in a new way that otherwise would have been impossible.

This was a lesson worth more than all the jobs in the world. It was the kind of lesson—I smiled to myself—that Grandma Van Patten would be pleased to know I’d learned.

After that sunny afternoon in Greenwood, I considered each day an opportunity to grow closer to my family. My sons and I did everything together. Before summer’s end, neighborhood kids were coming to the door and asking if Mr. Van Patten could come out and play.

The rock-solid foundation of love and trust that was established proved to be invaluable later. In 1970, we moved to Hollywood, where the stresses and strains of show-biz careers have been known to destroy the strongest ties.

Today, we remain as close as ever. Nels still lives at home with Pat and me. Jimmy and Vincent live across the street. Nearly every morning we still manage to get together for breakfast. On Sundays when everyone’s in town, we enjoy going to church together.

Thousands of years ago it was written, “And he will turn the hearts of fathers to their children and the hearts of children to their fathers…” (Malachi 4:6). I’m convinced that even in this rapidly changing world, the family can work—that it remains God’s will for His children. It’s up to us to live in accordance with that plan.

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Guideposts Classics: Dale Evans on Finding Time for God

Posted on March 11, 2026April 10, 2026 by Dale Evans Rogers

The front door slammed as Cheryl ran for the high-school bus. “Three children off,” I made a mental note. “Four to go.”

In the bedroom I had finished the first braid in Dodie’s hair and was reaching for the rubber band when a shriek from the bathroom sent me running there. Debbie had cut her lip against the washstand.

I was still dabbing with a wad of cotton when Sandy appeared in the doorway in his pajama pants.

“Mama, make Dusty stop throwing my socks!” he demanded.

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“Dale!” This was Roy from our bedroom. “The recording session’s at ten, you know!”

I dashed for the kitchen and started cracking eggs into a bowl. “After the kids are off, I’ll just have time to get that laundry sorted,” I promised myself. For two days my washing machine had been out of order and the soiled-clothes heap was now a mountain.

The phone rang and I jerked the skillet of eggs off the fire.

“Mrs. Rogers?” The lady’s voice was apologetic. “Could you and Mr. Rogers be at the studio at nine instead of ten this morning?” An especially hectic beginning to a day? No—just a very average morning at the Rogers’ house.

If you have children and a busy husband, it probably sounds a little like mornings at your house, too. And not only the mornings, but all day long the noise and the rush and the thousand little crises go on.

Most of us can rise to the really big emergencies; the problem we mothers share is how to get through a normal day.

And actually, I sometimes think my day is easier than other mothers’. I do have Mrs. Ordono to get most of our meals and to be with the children while I’m working. And a lady comes in to do the laundry.

People ask me how I manage to raise a family and at the same time keep up with the fast pace of Hollywood. I tell them the pace of Hollywood is a vacation after the pace of a home with seven children in it.

I’ll never forget one perfectly run-of-the-mill Saturday when Mrs. Ordono was away for the weekend and the children had been yelling since dawn. If I can’t get off by myself for a moment, I thought, I’m going to be yelling too. I needed to sit down, compose myself, and ask God for a little patience.

But to talk to God, I believed, you needed silence—and there certainly wasn’t any of that in the house.

So I ducked a small plastic plane that was sailing through the air and headed for the big rocks in back of the barn. And there, I tried to concentrate on a prayer for strength.

But all I could think about was the children. Why didn’t Linda finish her lunch? Should I have left the boys alone with that rope? What was Dodie getting into? …

“It’s no use,” I said aloud. Prayer wouldn’t come and I walked slowly back to the mayhem in the house with the feeling that not even God had any help for mothers.

I felt the same sense of failure when I tried to read the Bible. I had the feeling that Bible reading had to be a thing set apart. So I put aside a special time for it: half an hour first thing in the morning.

But if your house is anything like ours, there isn’t really any “first thing” in the morning. You open your eyes, and the next thing you know, one child feels sick, another has lost his homework, and you’re snatched up into the whirl of the day. Then I wondered why I didn’t get my Bible read!

At last I decided I had to get away for a few days of peace. And so, with four other women from our church, I joined a three-day retreat at an Episcopal convent high in the hills near here. For three days none of us was allowed to speak a word.

And up there in the silence, I learned something about our noisy home in the valley. It was such a simple discovery I am almost ashamed to repeat it, but it’s made all the difference to me. I learned that our home is not a convent!

The orderly life that those holy women lead up there is the most beautiful and selfless in the world, but I suddenly knew it was not my life. I was a wife and a mother, and my religion had to be like my life—as spontaneous and spur of the moment as the little crises that keep me jumping.

I still think Bible-reading is the best way to start the day. But now in my kitchen I keep a little box shaped like a loaf of bread. It’s called the “Bread Of Life” and in it are tiny cards with scripture verses on them.

Now, instead of trying to find an imaginary free hour, I need only a free second. While I’m waiting for the cereal water to boil, I have time to pick up one of the cards and learn it by heart.

The Bible itself I save now till the end of the day when the children are in bed and there are no—well, not so many—interruptions.

And I’ve found a wonderful place to pray, once I realized I didn’t need total silence in which to do it. It’s my car. Our ranch is so far from everything that I have lots of driving to do.

It’s a long way to the grocery store or the dry cleaner’s, and when one of the children makes a friend at school, he’s sure to live at the other end of the valley.

I used to fret over the wasted time I spent at the wheel. Now I drive just as slowly as I dare. I have time to think about each child and to pray for understanding and patience with him.

Bible lessons are different now too. We have a family altar in our living room—actually an old radio cabinet with a dresser scarf and candles on it—and our original plan was to gather around it each evening for prayers and a brief lesson.

But it was club night for one child or choir practice for another and somehow we didn’t get the lessons in very often.

Today, instead of having a set hour for religious teaching, I try to introduce my children to Jesus Christ in the little day-to-day things that happen all the time. Dodie has always been painfully afraid of the dark. One night she began to cry as I tucked her into bed.

“Don’t turn the light out, Mama,” she begged.

“Would you be afraid if I were here with you?” I asked.

“Of course not,” said Dodie.

“Well, I can’t always be with you, of course. But, Dodie—the Lord can.”

Dodie was silent, so I tiptoed out, leaving the light on. In a few minutes—oh miracle of miracles—I heard the light click off. And, just audible, I heard Dodie’s little voice speak two words. She said to the dark, “Hello, Jesus.”

A week of lessons couldn’t have taught her—or me—as much!

Another time I was walking with Debbie on a lonely corner of the ranch when two vicious-looking dogs rushed at us. The little girl screamed.

Debbie had come to us from Korea where dogs were trained to kill during the war. She wouldn’t even come near our gentle old Bullet, and these dogs were really savage.

Then I remembered the lesson I’d read to the children about love casting out fear. I held out my hands to the dogs and put every bit of love I could into my “Nice dog!” The dogs slowed down, puzzled.

I kept on telling them what good dogs they were until they stopped growling and started sniffing my hands instead. Then suddenly they both tried to lick my face!

Never was a lesson in love so swiftly taught!

So I’m not trying to get away anymore to ask God’s help. I’m inviting God right in, to the most commonplace, troublesome times of the day—and finding that He makes them brighter.

Take bickering at the dinner-table, for instance. The children used to come clamoring to the table bringing the afternoon’s quarrels with them and Roy and I would spend mealtime as an unwilling court of appeals.

Then a while ago I had an idea. During meals at the convent, the Mother Superior read aloud from the Bible. What if I read aloud at the dinner table, just long enough for the ruckus to quiet down?

The Bible itself, of course, was a little difficult for the five-year-olds. Then I discovered The Moody Bible Story Book, simple enough for Dodie and Debbie but complete enough for our teen-agers.

Each chapter takes about ten minutes to read, long enough for quarrels to be forgotten. And if my own potatoes are a little cold by then—why, the Bible has help for that too:

Better a morsel of dry bread,
and peace with it,
Than a house full of feasting,
with strife!

Proverbs 17:1 (Goodspeed Bible)

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Guideposts Classics: Art Carney on Friendship and Faith

Posted on March 11, 2026April 10, 2026 by Art Carney

Under a glass dome on my dresser is a gold pocket watch, not expensive, but very precious. It belonged to Rich. Whenever I look at it I see him, and I hear him. And I remember how he filled my youth with love and wonder and the special magic of hero worship.

His name was Philip Richardson. He was once the mayor of Woburn, a small Massachusetts city; he was an editor, and gave my father his first newspaper job. He and Dad became firm and life-long friends with an enduring affection for each other. My mother loved Rich, too. Everybody did.

Rich had an unhappy and childless marriage, and when he was about 50 he was alone. Naturally he came to live with us. My parents wouldn’t have it any other way. He quit newspapering and, until he retired on a pension at 65, worked for the American Telephone and Telegraph Company.

Meanwhile, Rich gave all the love he wasn’t able to give elsewhere to the six Carney sons. I was the youngest, so the relationship between Rich and me was the longest, and I like to think, the deepest.

My parents were unstinting in their love for us but Rich added a new dimension to that love. My parents were the security, the authority, the insurance. Rich was the hero, the friend, the reassurance.

Our house was always full of frantic people. Any minor event could quickly reach the proportions of a major crisis. But Rich had this wonderful calm that always punctured any crisis. Once, after eating a lot of junk, I got a fierce stomach-ache. I yelped. My brothers yelped at me to stop yelping.

Amid the bedlam my mother and father sternly ordered me to take some milk of magnesia. That was for babies. Stubbornly I yelped back: “No! No! Never!” They appealed to Rich.

He silenced the din with his smile, then swallowed a spoonful himself, filled the spoon again, and held it out to me. It was the gesture of an equal to an equal. I took it without a word.

He had a way of leaving anyone, young or old, with his dignity intact.

You were never conscious of his age. He was never older than the person he was talking to. He looked like a medium-sized, gray-haired General MacArthur without the severe face, but with the same meticulous air of distinction.

Even when he played marbles with me he never lost that air. We had a crazy rug in our dining room with big colored squares in it and almost every day before dinner we’d play marbles on it. Then he’d go into the living room to read his paper.

While he read I’d comb his hair into weird hairdos, pulling it up to points from every part of his head. He’d just go on reading the paper until I asked him to look at the hairdo in the mirror.

Rich would get up, look, smile his approval, or frown his disapproval, then return to his paper. And I’d start another weird hair comb.

Rich got me my first ball, my first baseball mitt, my first two-wheeler, and my first dog. He was always at the games when we boys played baseball. He also took me to see the Woolworth Building. But mostly I remember walking with him. Long walks, in a lot of silence and always feeling his love.

It seemed that Rich never had any problems of his own. He did. Plenty. But he never burdened anyone with them. I suspect he eased his problems by being with kids, especially me. Or maybe with painting.

He was a good artist. He used oils, charcoal, water colors, or pen. And sometimes on our walks, we’d stop in a nice spot and sit, and we’d both paint or sketch.

Those walks. They were great. Every Friday we’d take a special long walk to Aunt Mabel’s, a cousin of my father. Once, on the way there, I thought I smelled gas coming from the ground. I yelled “Gas! Gas!” Rich didn’t think I was crazy. Anybody else would have. Not him.

He went over, bent down, sniffed very seriously. Sure enough, there was part of an old gas pipe there with a strong gas smell. From then on, every Friday night, when we got to that spot we’d both stop, bend down, sniff, look up knowingly, and walk on happily, sharing our great, dark secret.

Then, coming to the hedges before Aunt Mabel’s house, I’d duck behind one, then dash up the steps before Rich would catch me. I don’t know if he started that or if I did. But like the gas-smelling it became a regular ritual on the Friday night walks to Aunt Mabel.

When I got older, much older, near 13, the walks got longer, much longer. I mapped them out to pass the house of the girl I was madly in love with at the time. Rich never protested. I knew that he knew, but he never let on.

He was at the heart of my world, really, but once, when I got articulate enough to tell him he was, he said: “I’m not the center of your universe or any universe. God is.”

And whenever there was any trouble, big or small, his calm hovered over us, and we’d hear him say: “God and time will take care of it. Just ask, ‘Lord Jesus, help me,’ and if you really mean it, He will.”

At school I spent more time in the principal’s office than in my classes because of this irreverent urge I had to mimic my teachers. In one class, off in a corner, there was this bust of Beethoven, very severe-looking, very cold.

One day I just couldn’t resist: I rushed up, pulled out my handkerchief, and blew Beethoven’s nose. The class broke up.

The principal didn’t. “Arthur William Matthew Carney,” she said, “you will never amount to anything.”

I believed her. Rich didn’t. Under his auspices I gave my first professional performance. I was nine when one day I got the idea of a one-man show.

It was Rich who promptly sat down and wrote 12 invitations in his own beautiful script, mostly to relatives: “You are invited to a special evening of entertainment by Mr. Arthur Carney called ‘Art by Art.’”

I danced and had funny disguises, doodled on the piano as my father had taught me, and I got by on drums, slide whistle, and flexitone, a kind of musical saw.

I always wondered if I would make it in show business. Sometimes I still wonder. Rich never did. He was always there, through the years, even when out of sight, when I was knocking about the country with Horace Heidt, in night clubs, in vaudeville, when I couldn’t get work of any kind.

He was there in the early days of radio, and he was there when, as an infantryman, I set up my machine gun on one of the Normandy beaches and got a piece of shrapnel in my right leg before I could fire it.

And he was there, out of sight, when I drank. I once was able to drink pretty good as a young man. When I got older and had real responsibility, the remorse was worse than the hang-over. I told myself I was headed for that endless lost week end. I tried to quit.

It wasn’t easy. I could fool a lot of people about it. But when you talk to yourself or to Rich you have to tell the truth. He was gone when I dropped to the depths as a drinker. But at the lowest point I heard him remind me:

“Just ask, ‘Lord Jesus, help me’, and He will—if you really mean it.”

Hearing Rich say that, even when he wasn’t there, I learned to mean it.

I try hard not to drink any more. I don’t beat the temptation every time but, whenever I say “Lord Jesus, help me”, and mean it, I win, and the drink loses.

When Rich was 70 he was still playing tennis with me. When he was 81 he got a blood clot in his heart, and survived it. But he was never really right after that.

For a time he lived with my wife Jean and me, and one night, sitting by his bed, holding his hand, listening to his calm voice, he saw my worried look, and suddenly smiled reassuringly, and asked: “Do you think I’m going to make it?”

“Sure,” I said, “you always will.”

He died shortly after that. But he made it. He made it here, and elsewhere too.

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Guideposts Classics: Arlene Francis on Listening Louder

Posted on March 11, 2026April 10, 2026 by Arlene Francis

Remember What’s My Line?, the TV program in which panelists quizzed a guest to discover his occupation? At the beginning of its 25-year run I couldn’t seem to get on the right track with my questions. Finally, I described the problem to my husband, Martin Gabel.

He nodded thoughtfully. “When I watch you on the show, I get the impression you can’t wait to ask a question,” Martin said. “My suggestion would be to listen carefully to what all the others say.” He grinned. “In other words, Arlene, learn to listen louder.”

Though he put it to me in a joking way, Martin meant me to take his advice seriously. I did—and it worked.

By turning up the volume on my listening power–concentrating on the questions my fellow panelists asked and the answers they got—I became somewhat adept at discovering how guests made their living.

In fact, ever since, the main thing I’ve had on my side in a lifetime of working has been the ability to listen.

But on a deeper level, I found close listening goes beyond the business of taking in information. A stranger in her 70s showed me that it can be a way to “love thy neighbor.”

I met this woman—I’ll call her Mrs. Kline—from time to time when I shopped for groceries near my apartment. Her dark eyes were alert and eager, and always, when she saw me, she chattered away.

Sometimes, busy with my own thoughts, I had to curb a feeling of impatience.

“I’ll be making my trip to Arkansas soon,” Mrs. Kline said one day in her chirpy voice. “The hot springs there are good for arthritis, you know. But I’ll be back before you have a chance to miss me.”

As she reached for a can of food, I noticed for the first time that her fingers were stiff and bent. I wondered if they were very painful.

“Will you go by yourself?” I asked.

“Oh, yes,” she said, matter-of-factly. “I’ve been a widow for a long time. But I’ve found a lot of nice people like you along the way. It’s wonderful to talk with you.”

All at once I felt guilty. She was so cheerful—not the least bit sorry for herself! And she had the courage to brighten her quiet life by picking up conversations with people wherever she went.

All she asked was a chance to talk to hearing ears now and then.

Suddenly mine were much more available than they had been. And ever since, for Mrs. Kline and others like her, I’ve tried to listen louder.

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Guideposts Classics: Archie Manning on Family and Faith

Posted on March 11, 2026April 10, 2026 by Archie Manning

Because I travel a lot and because I have longish hair and am relatively young, I often get into conversations with other young people, many of them strangers. When I met one in a restaurant recently and asked him what he was doing, he said, “My own thing.” When I asked about his family, he told me something that really shook me. “Parents are a drag,” he said. “They just pull you down and tell you off.”

I wondered why this guy and others like him felt so different about life than I do. Maybe the difference had something to do with the way I grew up.

Drew, Mississippi, my home town, is a beautiful little place with the greatest people on earth, but it’s still a town where a kid growing up needs help in making the right choices. I remember one time when I was 12 I found the concession stand at the ball park unlocked. I stuck my, hand in and pulled out several sodas and drank them.

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I never thought about that being wrong, but when I got home and got caught, my mother disciplined me in a way I’ll never forget. It wasn’t a put-down but something to make me think.

“Only the foolish steal and cheat,” she said. “And if you do it again, you’ll be doing it for the rest of your life.”

My parents had other ways of giving advice. When I was 15, I weighed about 130 pounds and stood almost six feet tall. There was no other word to describe me except emaciated. And I developed a complex about it. I never took my shirt off in neighborhood basketball games, and nobody would ever catch me down at the swimming hole.

Because I wanted to be a football player more than anything, I got real hung up about being so skinny. I knew nobody as thin as I was would ever be used as anything—especially a pro quarterback. My dad, Buddy Manning, saw my problem and knew what a finicky eater I was. He didn’t browbeat me into eating, like I’d seen some other parents do. Instead he just told me calmly, “You better step a little closer to the dinner table or you’ll fall between the floor boards.”

I also understood him when he told me, “Nobody’s going to make you bigger except yourself,” and suggested I go out and find a job that would help build me up. That summer I went to work as a bricklayer’s assistant. I pulled mortar and hauled bricks from six in the morning until six at night. It was backbreaking work and there were moments when I kicked myself for ever letting my dad talk me into it. Yet by the time I was a sophomore at Ole Miss, I was almost as big as I am now—six feet four inches and 210 pounds.

My parents also had a way with me at report card time. They never paid me off for good grades or whipped me when I slipped. When I did bring home an “A” they were proud of me and said so. If I brought home something less, they didn’t jump on me; they just asked why I didn’t get an “A” and then I would suddenly know. Too much television or too much fooling around.

My folks would put me on the spot for an explanation, and in doing so there could be very few excuses the next time.

My mom and dad started taking me to church as a small boy and taught me what it meant to be a Christian. I was soon to need those teachings.

At the end of my sophomore year in college, my dad backslid some from his faith, ran into some tough personal problems and as a result took his own life. For a while I was thrown into deep depression. As a Christian, how could my father do such a thing, I asked over and over. But then it gradually came through to me that what I had learned about Christianity from my father had actually prepared me for this blow.

I knew that Christ alone was the perfect Man, that He died for us on the cross, that He forgives us for our mistakes and that His strength can offset our weaknesses. Soon I was able to see Christ’s love and forgiveness in this terrible personal tragedy.

I discovered that sometimes you have to suffer to really know how to depend on the Lord. God helped me accept new responsibilities to my mother and my sister Pam. I came out of the depression, I believe, with my faith stronger than ever.

Even as a football player I have felt my parents’ influence. They never pushed me into the sport but said if I was going to do it, to be the best I could. As a professional player, I’ve known times of discouragement. In my three years with the Saints we haven’t won many ball games.

There was a period last year when week after week we would get clobbered by lopsided scores. After one humiliating defeat I was talking to my mom on the telephone and jokingly mentioned that maybe I should have been a farmer instead of a quarterback.

She laughed and said, “Don’t tell me you’ve never learned anything in all those games you lost?”

I had to admit I had. I’d picked up a lot about defenses, formations, staying in the pocket—and most important, that strength can come out of adversity. I knew immediately when I hung up that she thought I was serious and she had come through with some motherly advice.

There were times when I doubted my parents’ wisdom and times when I couldn’t see their way of thinking. But mostly they have been proved right. My parents always put principles behind the things they said and set goals down in front of me—something my wife Olivia and I plan to do with our own kids.

And so I’ve learned that the Bible’s commandment to honor your father and mother has much more meaning than first meets the eye. It’s not just an order that has been set down. It’s been for my own good. By following those words, I’ve come through a lot of troubles and have had something solid to fall back upon.

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Guardian Angel Dog: Bear to the Rescue

Posted on March 11, 2026April 10, 2026 by Jennifer Clark Vihel

My husband, Mike, and I live in a small rustic cabin above a flowing creek framed by California redwoods. An idyllic setting, but I wasn’t feeling at peace, not that winter. It had been unusually long and rainy. I’d been laid up with an injured hip. Mike traveled a lot for work so most of the time I was in the cabin alone with only my devoted dog, Bear, for company.

Now it was March and I was tired of being cooped up, weary of wondering if my hiking days were over. I’d prayed for healing, but despite months of grueling physical therapy, I still wasn’t fully recovered.

Bear wasn’t in the best shape, either. I looked at him stretched across his soft orthopedic bed, conserving his energy for when he really needed to move. I had picked him out of a neighborhood litter 12 years earlier.

Inquisitive and energetic, he had appeared to be all Lab, like his purebred mama. But when he grew to a massive 105 pounds, I was forced to consider the possibility that his papa was a traveling man, an oversized mutt who’d managed to jump my neighbor’s tall fence.

My eager black pup had become a stately old gentleman, hard of hearing, with a silver muzzle and tender joints. Bear used to follow me everywhere and he was still watchful, but lately he’d been keeping an eye on me from his soft bed.

That March day sunshine streamed through the tall trees, warming our back deck perched high above the creek, and filtering into the cabin. The temperature, which had been lodged in the thirties and forties, shot up to 60 degrees. Warm enough for sitting outside with a good book. “What do you think, Bear?” I said. “Time to emerge from hibernation?” I felt his gaze following me as I went into the bedroom to change.

I put on a sundress and sandals and stepped out on the deck, book in hand. The deck was old and the wood was rotted in places, but Mike and I had put off repairs till summer. Carefully avoiding the trouble spots, I pulled a deck chair into the sun and sat down.

Bear must’ve been as starved for sunshine as I was because he rose and followed me outside. When I kicked off my sandals and settled in with my book, he ambled off to the front yard. I read for a while, soaking up the light and warmth.

Then the sun shifted, and I chased it. I pulled the chair to a spot near the deck railing that had always been solid and sat down. Crack! Before I could get to my feet, the planks under me gave way. The chair tipped and I crashed through the deck, the wood splintering around me.

I lunged for the railing. It just tore away. I watched, terrified, as it tumbled down the hill. Was I next?

Thump. My fall ended jarringly, painfully, with the upper third of my body above the deck, held up by broken planks digging into my armpits. My right leg, the one with the injured hip, was also still atop the deck, bent behind me in an awkward half-split, while my left leg dangled through the jagged hole.

I’m one of those people who get oddly calm and quiet in a crisis, so I hadn’t even yelled when I broke through the wood. Not that it would have done any good. Even if the rain-swollen creek hadn’t drowned out my screams, my closest neighbor lived too far away to hear.

I assessed my injuries. First, my left leg, the one dangling. I checked for feeling in my toes, then bent the knee slightly. No problems there. My right leg was a different story. The pressure on it was intense, being bent back like that, and any more twisting would probably damage my hip further. My sides and armpits were scraped and torn. My sundress had bunched up, exposing my hanging leg to the spiders that thrived in the dank dark under the deck. I shuddered. Spiders!

I took a deep breath, pressed hard with my arms and tried to get leverage to drag myself onto the deck. Nothing. My upper body wasn’t strong enough. I was trapped.

Who would rescue me? Mike was traveling and not due home for hours. My cell phone was inside. The occasional car passed on the country road out front, but how would a driver see me behind the cabin? I was alone out here. I had just one recourse. Lord, only you can hear me now. Please send help.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a black blur. Bear! He’d wandered back from the front yard. He padded onto the deck and edged as close to me as he could without falling in the hole. Then he extended his big head and licked my face.

“Aww, Bear, you sweet old dog,” I said. God must have sent him to comfort me. But Bear kept staring at me, concern all over his face. Maybe God sent him to do more, I thought, studying my dog’s thick neck. If I held onto his collar, maybe I could get Bear to pull me up enough so that I could roll onto my side and safely back onto the deck.

The problem was, Bear had never been trained to pull anything. In fact, Mike and I had taught him to stop moving and relax when he felt a tug on his collar. Could I get him to understand what I needed him to do now?
Lord, please help Bear help me.

First, I had to get my dog in front of me, otherwise I might pull him into the hole too. “Bear, come,” I said, patting the deck and coaxing him into position. I slipped my right hand under his collar and closed my fingers around it.

Using my dog’s weight to anchor me, I pushed off with my other arm and maneuvered up an inch. Then Bear relaxed his neck, making me slip back and let go.

“Let’s try again,” I said as much to myself as to my dog. I gripped his collar and slowly levered myself up again.

This time Bear caught on. He braced his legs, all 105 pounds of him rock solid. Inch by agonizing inch, I dragged myself up. His neck must have felt the strain, but Bear didn’t budge. He stood fast and mighty! One more time, I thought. I felt Bear dig in with his paws as I lurched forward and upward. I threw my upper body onto the deck and rolled.

Next thing I knew I was sprawled on the deck on my back, my face wet with tears of relief. Bear licked them away.
Gingerly I sat up. I hugged Bear close. My hero. Neither of us was as young and fit as we used to be, but God saw to it that my dog and I had the strength we needed, both in body and spirit.

“Good dog, Bear. Good dog.”

Bear wagged his tail wildly and gave me his best doggy grin, as if to say, Happy to help, like always.

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Grieving a Pet: How an Animal Chaplain Can Help You Heal

Posted on March 11, 2026April 10, 2026 by Peggy Frezon

The loss of his beloved cat five years ago left Kaleel Sakakeeny reeling. “When Kyro passed away, my world fell apart,” he says. He stumbled through each day, enveloped in grief. Kaleel sought professional help, but most psychologists, he discovered, don’t specialize in dealing with grief related to losing an animal companion. His search led him to the animal chaplain training program—launched by Rev. Dr. Sandra Passmore Byland in 2003—at Emerson Theological Institute, headquartered in Oakhurst, California. “I realized that my broken heart was not a mental health issue, but a spiritual one,” says Kaleel, who wanted to not only heal from his own loss but also help others do the same. He is now an ordained and certified animal chaplain and pet bereavement counselor.

What do pet chaplains do? How did you become one?

Animal chaplains spread the message of kindness and compassion for all animals—both companion and wild—through spiritual outreach and support. They officiate memorial services for pets and visit animals in veterinary hospitals and shelters, as well as offer counseling and support for families undergoing loss and bereavement.

I live in Boston and studied through distance learning to receive my certification from Emerson Theological. I was ordained in Phoenix, Arizona, in 2019 as a nondenominational pastor and animal chaplain.

What does your work as a pet grief counselor entail?

Those who complete the animal chaplain program follow various paths—some work in homeless shelters, others work with faith-based organizations. I focus on helping people with the loss of beloved animal companions through online ministry support groups, as well as conducting counseling over the phone. Before Covid, I sometimes met clients in person.

How do you help grieving pet owners?

Everyone grieves in different ways, but there are many common denominators, such as feelings of emptiness, the inability to sleep and a desire to disconnect from other people. It’s important not to try to “fix” grieving pet parents by telling them that “everything is okay” and “this will pass.” Instead, I encourage people to accept their feelings. We are a grief-avoidance society, but grief is a natural response to having loved and lost. This is a natural process.

Once a month I hold a Zoom support group where I set a real table (plates and all!) and ask the onscreen participants to invite their feelings to the table. During the exercise I make place cards for their emotions—Mr. Anger, Miss Heartache, for example. As the grieving parents engage in conversation with each other, they realize those emotions are not their enemies and they begin to relax.

What can we do to help ourselves through the grieving process?

Listen to your feelings. Don’t judge yourself. It’s okay if your brain is fuzzy right now; there is nothing wrong with what you are feeling. I also encourage people to participate in active mourning, which includes crying, dancing, painting, journaling and writing a letter to your deceased pet.

What do you want people to know about pet chaplains and bereavement counselors?

We can help! It doesn’t matter how long your pet lived or how much time has passed since they died. The pain is real. Loss is directly related to the power of your love. You’ve loved this animal companion deeply so their absence will be deeply felt. There’s no time limit on grieving a pet and there’s no rule that says you can’t talk to someone about it.

Kaleel Sakakeeny is an ordained animal chaplain and credentialed pet loss and bereavement counselor with B.A., M.A. and M.S. degrees. He is also certified in animal communication. Connect with him at animaltalksinc.com.

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Gratitude and Grief: When a Loved One Dies on Thanksgiving

Posted on March 11, 2026April 10, 2026 by Barbranda Lumpkins Walls

I walked into the hospice room. Dad was lying in bed—his eyes half-closed, his breathing barely audible. I’d rushed to Cleveland to be by his side. I’d been home in Alexandria, chopping vegetables for Thanksgiving dinner, when my sister, Nan, called.

“I got a call from the hospice,” she said. “Dad doesn’t have much longer.”

Oh, no! Not on Thanksgiving Eve, I thought.

Dad had Alzheimer’s. He’d been relatively stable until a series of infections prompted moves from assisted living to hospitals, rehab facilities, nursing homes and finally hospice in early September. It was agonizing to make the decision to separate him from our mom, who remained in assisted living.

I knew Dad’s life was coming to an end. But did it have to happen so close to Thanksgiving? It seemed tragic to lose a loved one on a holiday, our future celebrations tainted by grief. God’s timing is perfect, I tried to tell myself.

I hung up with Nan. I can make the drive, I thought, hoping Dad could hang on until I got there. I was throwing clothes into a suitcase when something urged me to look up flights. I found two that night with seats. I booked a ticket.

Then there was the matter of getting to the airport. My husband, Hal, and I saw news reports of roads clogged with holiday traffic. But once we got on the road, cars sped along the highway, almost as if willed forward. We got to the Baltimore airport in record time.

Now here I was in dad’s hospice room on Thanksgiving morning. “Hi, Dad. It’s me, Barb,” I said as I leaned over to kiss him. I put on one of his favorite CDs and pulled a chair close to his bed. We listened to the gospel quartet The Jubilee Hummingbirds sing “Free at Last.”

I took Dad’s hand. “Father God, thank you for blessing me with a wonderful father,” I said. “Thank you for his life. Please welcome him into your kingdom.”

I repeated my prayer until Dad opened his eyes. We had been together only 20 minutes. Had the Lord given him a reprieve? “Dad?” I asked. He yawned and took a deep breath before settling back into bed. Then he didn’t breathe again.

I ran into the hall for an aide. Moments later, two nurses were at Dad’s bedside. They checked his heartbeat and pulse. “I’m so sorry,” one nurse said.

I bent over and wailed—in grief yet also in gratitude. “Thank you, Lord, that he was not alone in his passing,” I whispered.

It wasn’t long before Nan and Mom arrived. Tears welled in Mom’s eyes as she stroked Dad’s face. They had been married for more than six decades. I couldn’t imagine the sense of loss she felt.

We drove to Nan’s house. It felt surreal to carry on with Thanksgiving, but we knew Dad would’ve wanted it.

So we roasted the turkey, heated the ham and cooked collard greens. We even made Dad’s favorite dish, “sweet potato stuff”: mashed sweet potatoes with brown sugar, butter, vanilla and cinnamon. Our family gathered around the table, heads bowed. I led us in grace.

“Thank you, Lord, for allowing us to be together at this time. Thank you for Dad’s life and all that he meant to us. Be with us now, and grant us your strength in the days ahead. Thank you for the food and all who prepared it. In Jesus’ name, we pray. Amen.”

We passed the heaping platters of food around the table, from one family member to the next. It made me think of the full and wonderful life my father had lived, surrounded by people he loved—a life Dad had always been grateful for. Yes, it was fitting for God to call him home on Thanksgiving, even making it possible for me to be with Dad at the end. The timing was perfect indeed.

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Grateful for Our Connections

Posted on March 11, 2026April 10, 2026 by Katie Allen Berlandi

I ran into a childhood friend today, one I haven’t seen in about 20 years.

We were in the same class from kindergarten through ninth grade, played on soccer teams together, visited each other’s homes often for play dates. We spent much of the early part of our lives together.

Today we had time to catch up and I am so grateful for that. She shared with me a great deal about herself, her family and the challenging yet gratifying journey she has been on to feel whole as a person, physically, emotionally and spiritually. My take is that she has done a tremendous amount of personal work to be where she is today. I am so pleased for her.

This past week our minister shared the story of the woman at the well. He asked the congregation to think about our dearest friends, those for whom we feel a connection without judgment, strain or competition. A connection that is filled with unconditional love, respect and appreciation, where we can be ourselves completely. Our minister wanted us to consider how those values tied in with Jesus, who showed such concern, love and acceptance for the woman at the well.

I sat in my pew thinking about my friends who truly know me—my good and my not-so-good points, my strengths and my weaknesses, my insecurities and my accomplishments. I treasure these deep connections found in my richest friendships and do my best to nurture them. There are other relationships that might not run so deep, or be so transparent, yet give us energy, direction, focus, strength, pause or simply a good feeling. For example, the connections we have with the mail carrier, the UPS man, an acquaintance at the gym, a new friend from work. These lighter connections matter too. They remind us that we are a part of something bigger than ourselves. Without both of these kinds of connections, we can feel less rooted in our daily lives, less a part of our world around us.

We hope that you feel a connection to Guideposts and to the outreach ministries and inspirational messages we offer. We are grateful for the connection we feel to you. We are all in this together, trying to enrich lives and keep connected through our mission of providing hope, encouragement and inspiration to others.

Back to my friend this morning… Our chance meeting reminded me of the power of a long-ago connection. Even though we hadn’t seen each other in 20 years, the fact that we knew each other so well as kids allowed us to reconnect deeply today.

May we be mindful and grateful for the connections in our lives and how each and every one contributes to us feeling a part of something bigger than ourselves. We all need this. We all deserve this. This was the gift Jesus gave to the woman at the well.

Oh, and talk about feeling a connection! Last week an envelope arrived at my home with a homemade bumper sticker in it, from someone who’d read my last blog. Thank you to the thoughtful and creative person who gave me this bumper sticker. What a great message to live by! I’m grateful for our connection.

Grandparenting Teens: How to Stay Present and Engaged in Your Grandchild’s Life

Posted on March 11, 2026April 10, 2026 by Daisy Urgiles

Becoming a grandparent can be a fulfilling, often life-changing, role. The relationship between a grandparent and a grandchild has the potential to have great impact on the entire family, with many grandparents offering stability, a sense of security and unwavering support.

But there’s one problem many grandparents eventually come to face: connecting with their teenage grandkids.

Communication barriers, differing cultures and generational gaps become roadblocks between grandparents and their teenage grandchildren. But according to teen behavior expert, Mark Gregston, this challenge can be overcome.

“Wisdom is not prevalent in the culture today’s kids are in,” he told Guideposts.org. “That’s where grandparents get to step in and, most importantly, engage.”

Thanks to his decades-long experience working with teens and their families, first as a youth minister and then as an area director with Young Life, Gregston knows what it takes to bring structure back into families. He and his wife, Jan, who have four grandchildren, started Heartlight Ministry, a residential counseling center for struggling teens and families in crisis, in Hallsville, Texas.

A big issue many teens face today, according to Gregston, is the lack of relationships, which often leads to negative behavioral patterns—such as distancing themselves from their families.

“Kids don’t communicate like they used to,” he said. “They yearn for somebody who will serve as a voice of encouragement and offer a place of rest.” Gregston encourages grandparents to not only become the voice of wisdom in their grandchildren’s lives, but to listen to them.

“I tell grandparents their priority should be to listen to the heart of their grandchild with the intent of understanding—not with the intent of response,” he said. By doing so, grandparents will notice everything else will fall into place, Gregston adds. They’ll eventually have the opportunity to share their perspective because their grandchildren will naturally ask for it.

This ability to connect is a topic Gregston discusses further in his new book, Grandparenting Teens: Leaving a Legacy of Hope, where he offers practical tips and resources that help grandparents genuinely relate and connect with teens.

“The book tells grandparents how God can use them in the life of their grandkids to leave a legacy,” he said. “It’s not about what you put into their bank account but rather, what you deposit in their hearts during their teen years.”

Although Gregston recalls demanding perfection and triumph as a parent, his grandchildren have taught him that the relationship he maintains with them is far more important than their performance in anything.

“They’ve taught me to love differently—to love in a way that affirms who they are,” he said. He’s also learned to support his kids and their parenting methods or techniques, whether he agrees with them or not.

“I’m not going to work against my kids because I don’t want to become somebody who enables a child with constant provision,” he said. He’s committed to family time, which he believes gives grandchildren the chance to “see the example of Christ being fleshed out” in family relationships.

For many grandparents, distance can be a challenge when trying to engage with grandkids. But thanks to technology, relationships can still be maintained. Gregston also believes “old school communication,” such as sending a hand-written letter, still holds significance. Traveling to visit grandkids can also show them their grandparents care and are willing to spend time and effort to see them.

If there’s one thing Gregston wants grandparents to know, it’s that they play an important role in the lives of their grandchildren. “Whether they say it or not, your teen grandchildren need and want you desperately,” he said. “Being present in their lives makes all the difference in the world.”

Grandma’s Depression Cake

Posted on March 11, 2026April 10, 2026 by Rosemary Marbach

The only thing that troubled me more than the pain in my back that morning as I climbed out of the guest bed at my sister’s house was my worries about money, the same worries that I fell asleep thinking about.

I’d been excited to visit Therese and see my nieces and nephews, but all I could think about was how I’d hurt my back and had to cut down on my hours at work. Even with my savings, I wasn’t sure I’d have enough to cover the bills. Slowly I pulled on my robe and limped to the kitchen.

“Are you okay?” Therese asked, handing me a steaming cup of tea.

“Yeah,” I said. “Just wish I could stop worrying about my finances.”

Therese put her hand on my shoulder. “Why don’t we make Grandma’s cake,” she said. “It’ll cheer you up.”

“We’ll help!” my nephews Patrick and Daniel chimed in.

After breakfast, I got the ingredients out of the pantry. Patrick and Daniel grabbed bowls from the cupboard. “My mom used to make this cake for all of us,” I said as I mixed the sugar and oil.

“Even though there wasn’t a lot of money,” Patrick added, having heard the story many times.

“That’s right. Especially then.” Daniel stirred in the raisins and Patrick added the spices. Then we stirred in the flour. I poured the batter into a pan. The boys watched while I slid the pan into the oven. “It’ll be ready in an hour,” I told them. They ran off to play.

I sat in the kitchen with Therese, sipping my tea. “Nothing ever stole Mom’s joy,” I said.

It wasn’t easy being a single mom, raising eight of us kids on a very tight budget, but that couldn’t bring her down. “She’d always say, ‘When you don’t have anything, you make do and the Lord will provide the rest,’” Therese said.

Mom got that spirit from her mother, Grandma Ethel, who never let the hardships of the Depression discourage her.

Mom was also a master at making food stretch. And she always found a way to include a special treat on birthdays or Christmas—a tasty cake with no eggs, milk or butter that Grandma taught her to bake. Eggless, Milkless, Butterless Cake, she called it.

“Remember how we’d all run around the living room chanting, ‘eggless, milkless, butterless cake’ once we caught a whiff of it coming from the kitchen?” Therese asked, laughing.

“Those were good times,” I said. We didn’t have money, but we sure knew how to have fun together. Just thinking about the eight of us gathered around the Formica table in the kitchen waiting for Mom to cut the cake made my worries fade.

Mom made that cake extra special for the Feast of the Epiphany. She’d toss a penny, a nickel, a dime and a quarter into the batter. “Whoever finds the prize (the quarter) in their slice of cake can keep it and they won’t have to do chores for a week,” she’d say. Boy, did we love that tradition!

My siblings and I are now spread out from coast to coast and cities in between. But that cake still connects us.

My brother Peter keeps Mom’s tradition for the Epiphany with his daughter. Therese’s daughter recently moved back home to save money while she finishes grad school. “When Genevieve and I make the cake together,” Therese told me, “it gives us time to sit and talk.”

Patrick sells the cake with his mom, my sister Lucy, at their church bake sales. He loves telling how the story of the cake stretches all the way back to the Great Depression.

“Cake’s done,” Therese said. I pulled it out of the oven then called everyone in. We gathered around the kitchen table, just like old times.

“Feeling better?” Therese asked.

“Much better,” I said. I looked at the faces around the table and breathed in the familiar aroma of cinnamon, nutmeg and cloves, reminded once again that whatever hardships come my way I can do more than simply get through them.

I can find joy in my life, even in a simple cake, and share it with the ones I love.

Try making Eggless, Milkless, Butterless Cake yourself!

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