Page 233 – Guideposts Articles

Best Friends Forever

Posted on March 11, 2026April 10, 2026 by Jana Ford Muntsinger

Allyson Pimentil and I met freshman year at Baylor University 28 years ago. She was a Houston girl; I was from small-town Lubbock. But right away, I knew she was my kind of person.

She had big hair too (hey, it was the eighties) and was an amazing listener. She had the most beautiful dorm room, with a few Bible verses strategically posted on the walls. “I do the same thing,” I said.

She grinned. “Good reminder that God’s with us in all things, right?” We roomed together our last two years, our fridge and mirrors covered with inspiring passages.

After graduation, Allyson went back to Houston. I moved to D.C. Phone calls kept us connected. We were bridesmaids for each other, flew to help with new babies. Still, I wished we could see each other more often.

In 2007, my husband, Dave, landed an interview for a senior pastor position in Houston. We flew down and I visited my old Baylor roomie.

While our kids played (we have seven between us) we talked about everything in our lives–except the possibility of my family moving to Houston. But Allyson heard the hopes I didn’t dare to voice, and prayed for them to come true.

Dave got the job. Every Thursday now, Allyson and I meet halfway between our houses for lunch. We share, we laugh, we cry. Most of all, we give thanks for a friendship that, unlike our big hair, has stood the test of time.

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Being a Godparent

Posted on March 11, 2026April 10, 2026 by Kathryn Slattery

It all happened so fast. My best friend Sandy telephoned from Florida to ask if I would consider being godmother to her second child, a son.

Godmother! I was honored. I was flattered. I’d never been asked to be a godmother before.

“Sure,” I replied easily.

“You don’t have to answer right away,” Sandy said. “Being a godparent is a serious responsibility. Maybe you’d like to think it over for a few days, maybe even pray about it.”

“Don’t be silly,” I laughed. “I’d love to be Josh’s godmother.”

With some unease I sensed that through one simple phone call, my identity had taken on a new, uncertain dimension. As mother of two, I was familiar with plain old garden-variety motherhood. But godmother—this was different. This was…

And then it hit me. I hadn’t the foggiest idea what being a godparent meant. What was it Sandy had said about god-parenting being a “serious responsibility?” They way she talked, her request had more to do with Josh than with honoring me. Clearly her expectations were high. But what exactly did she expect?

I thought of my own godmother, my mother’s best friend from her college days. Growing up, our families lived a thousand miles apart. On the few occasions our paths crossed, I remembered her as a warm and friendly woman.

When I was very young she sent me Christmas presents—sometimes a doll, sometimes a book. Still, I couldn’t recall that she had ever done anything that set her apart as a godmother.

Well, there was no turning back now. For better or worse, I’d impulsively said yes to Sandy’s request.

I said a simple prayer: Father, please teach me what it means to be a godparent.

Over the next several weeks I set out to discover everything I could about god-parenting. I’m an Anglican, my friend Sandy is Roman Catholic, so I talked to a number of pastors and priests. Books on the subject are surprisingly hard to find. I also talked to friends, godparents and godchildren alike, to learn from their experiences. And what I discovered was fascinating.

The tradition of god-parenting among Christians is an ancient one going back to the days of the early church, when believers were persecuted—and when life expectancies in general were much shorter than they are today.

While modern-day believers in America are not persecuted as the early church once was, it could be said that the healthy growth and development of our children’s faith is threatened as never before by the cumulative effect of society’s ills: widespread divorce; broken homes; rampant materialism; both parents working out of economic necessity rather than choice; lack of parental supervision; parental mental illness; alcohol and drug abuse; parental physical, sexual and emotional abuse; and the desensitization of our children to violence and sex via unsupervised viewing of inappropriate television, videos, movies and the internet.

In other words, kids today need all the help they can get! Over and over I was astonished to hear from clergy and laypeople alike that good god-parenting could make a powerful difference.

In the New Testament, in the Book of Acts, I read about whole households being baptized into faith, including infants, children and servants. Traditionally, the godparent acts as a steward of faith for the newly baptized child, serving as an added assurance (in addition to the parents’ efforts) that the child will be raised to understand fully his or her relationship to God and involvement in the church.

Today many godparents work to achieve this same blessed goal. Unfortunately, others still wrongly perceive the role as a purely social convention, a way for new parents to honor a family member or friend.

With that viewpoint, they lose the extra spiritual dimension to the relationship that grants a godparent license to reach out and be something more to the child than an aunt, uncle or “Mom’s best friend.” In fact, I learned of several cases in which it was the godparent who made the difference in a child’s coming to faith.

As a godmother, I learned that it would be my right (and responsibility!) over the years to pray for Josh, to introduce him to Christian concepts and to encourage any questions he might have about our faith. When a person becomes a godparent at a child’s baptism, many churches provide a certificate that includes helpful suggestions and prayers.

Much of this is very basic: Pray for your godchild daily; remember your godchild with a gift on his birthday, and—even more important—on the anniversary of his baptism; see that your godchild attends Sunday school and owns an age-appropriate Bible, and so on.

But it was the stories that people shared about their personal experiences as godchildren and godparents that really got to the heart of the task at hand.

One couple, over the course of two decades, had become something of experts when it came to gift-giving to their two godchildren, a boy and girl. Seeking to emphasize the unique spiritual dimension of their relationship to the children, they made a special effort to select gifts that had a specifically religious or inspirational content.

Bible storybooks and Noah’s ark toys gave way to tiny gold-cross jewelry and the classic children’s books by C.S. Lewis. When the children entered their teens they received diary-like prayer journals, faith-based rock and pop music CDs and video games.

Another friend, who was musical, had a grand time singing hymns and playing the piano with his godson.

Another woman stressed the importance of not only praying for but with her goddaughter. The first time she did this she admitted she felt a little bit embarrassed and shy. But she persisted, convinced that the simple act of praying—or as she put it, “talking to God”—had a profound effect.

It demonstrated that praying is something that she, a grown-up, did, and something that the child could do too. Later she was deeply moved when one afternoon the goddaughter, now grown and in the midst of grave marital problems, called her on the phone. “Oh, Nana,” the troubled girl said, “will you pray with me? I need someone to pray with, and I knew you would understand.”

Faith… prayer… comfort… make a difference… I kept hearing those words again and again. Being a godparent really was a serious responsibility, as Sandy had said. And yes, now I definitely wanted to do it.

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Bearing Each Other’s Burdens

Posted on March 11, 2026April 10, 2026 by Shawnelle Eliasen

“I’m watching for palm trees,” Isaiah said. He and two of his brothers had been in the backseat of the van for hours as we drove down Illinois, across Kentucky and through Tennessee and Georgia on our way to Florida. I was going to attend a Guideposts workshop in Florida, and my husband Lonny and the boys were going to the ocean to play.

We weren’t far into Florida when we saw them. The first palm trees stood along the interstate in a straight line. They were slender-tall and reached toward a sun-streaked sky.

“The trunks look like lattice!” Samuel said.

“No,” Isaiah said. “It’s like armor. Criss-crossed armor and shields.” My Midwest boys were captivated by the beauty of warm-climate trees.

But I noticed something else: Each tree was encircled by a ring of wooden slats to hold them steady against high winds and strong storms.

As we drove along, I thought, what a beautiful reminder of how we’re called to support one another as believers in Christ. After all, we’re dear to the Lord. Made in His very own image. But like these beautiful trees, even as God’s most prized creation, people sometimes need to withstand trials. We also need to be girded against life’s storms.

And sometimes there are burdens that are too much for a single soul.

It reminded me of how a few weeks ago, when Lonny and I were working through a tough issue, my sweet friend instinctively sent me a text at midnight to say, “I’m up tonight. I know you are, too. I’m taking over the prayer shift. You go to bed.”

My dear sister in the Lord was willing to shoulder my burden, just as the Lord commands: “Bear one another’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ,” Galatians 6:2.

Every single one of us is precious in God’s sight. So when we carry each other’s life-weight, we’re even closer to the heart of Christ.

Bart Millard Opens up about His Experience with Chronic Illness

Posted on March 11, 2026April 10, 2026 by Jessica Toomer

In two decades, Grammy-nominated Christian music band MercyMe has had 28 songs reach the top of the Billboard charts. The band has crafted a musical legacy that revolves around their willingness to get personal with their fans, and their latest single, “Even If,” off the band’s ninth studio album Lifer, is no exception.

Lead singer Bart Millard says that the song emerged from his journey caring for his 15-year-old son, Sam, who was diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes at two years old. The opening lyrics of the tune — I’ve stood on this stage night after night/ Reminding the broken it’ll be alright/ But right now, oh right now I just can’t — encapsulate the helplessness he felt caring for a child with a chronic illness.

“It was one of those days,” Millard tells Guideposts.org of why he wrote “Even If.”“We had his six month checkup and the checkup may have gone fine, I don’t remember. I just know that it’s like going to the principal’s office, it’s never really good,” Millard says. “It’s just a harsh reminder that our life revolves around this… disease.”

He and his wife recently calculated how many insulin shots they’ve given their son: “Over 37,000 shots in his life so far,” Millard says. “Whenever food goes in his mouth, a shot goes in his arm or his leg. We call it the new normal.”

Though the family has developed a routine over the past 13 years, Millard says that as a parent, managing a child’s chronic illness can lead to feelings of guilt and shame.

“[Sam’s] had it since he was two, so he doesn’t really remember anything other than this. This is all he’s known, and for the most part, he’s felt great, but as a mom and a dad, it’s crucifying us daily,” he says.

“You always have the enemy saying, ‘You’re not a good enough parent. You could’ve done something better,” Millard explains. He started the non-profit organization Imagine A Cure when his son was first diagnosed to help combat juvenile diabetes— and those feelings.

“When you first find out, part of that is what gets you through — you want to fight back and you want to put your effort into a worthy cause,” Millard says. “I remember when we were diagnosed, we were like, ‘We’re going to find a cure, we’re going to find a cure.’”

After talking with his son, however, Millard reevaluated the need for a charity with his son as the focus.

“After years, you’re like, ‘You know what? I do not doubt there’ll be a cure, but I realize that we’re going to enjoy every second of life and make our kid feel normal.’ Sam didn’t want to be a poster child, he didn’t want to be an agenda, and it really hit me as a dad, it was, ‘You know what? Then we’re not going to do it anymore.’ We’re just going to be parents; you’re going to be our son.”

Instead, Millard decided to use his platform to do something just as important as raising money and creating awareness for the disease.

“When I say get the message out, it’s not to create awareness of diabetes,” Millard says. “If you don’t know what diabetes is, or some form of it, you’ve been under a rock. But what we’ve learned is that God’s given us a voice to help people who have kids or have diabetes have this sense of not being alone. With a chronic illness, sometimes there’s nothing that makes you feel more alone than thinking you’re the only one wrestling with this.”

Millard insists on sharing the journey with fans because of all the advice and support people have given to him over the years, including his friend and fellow Christian artist, Tim Timmons.

Timmons was diagnosed with a terminal form of cancer over 15 years ago and Millard sought out his advice.

“I ended up unloading on him like, ‘Man, I’m done with this. I can’t play this ‘God is good all the time’ crap anymore, honestly, because I don’t feel like that right now,’” Millard recalls. “I mean, I don’t know what the thorn in Paul’s side was, but mine is believing that God can heal my son but won’t. So it was just a tough day.”

Timmons was able to give Millard some words of wisdom from his own experience.

“I was going off like, ‘You don’t even know what it’s like to have a chronic illness!’ and he’s just grinning at me. He’s like playing piano like he’s Liberace over there, like a lounge singer. I thought he was mocking me,” Millard says.

After Millard left the singer’s house, Timmons sent him what would become the base of the first verse in “Even If.” He had been writing down everything Millard told him and crafting it into a song. He also shared two lines that would become the chorus — I know you’re able/ I know you can – words Timmons had written when he was coming to terms with his own illness years ago.
Millard knew he had to use it to sing about his own journey and he wanted the song to have a hopeful vibe – regardless of how defeated he was feeling.

“It’s got a theme of victory,” Millard says. Despite still having hard days, it’s that sense of optimism and faith that’s helped him accept and embrace his son’s illness and he hopes his music will lift up others going through their own dark days.

“The good news is my relationship with Christ is not based on how I feel,” Millard says. “He’s got really broad shoulders, so I have this amazing ability to cling to him and gripe the whole way sometimes. With songs like Even If,’ we’ve had so many people say, ‘I’ve got an uncle, I’ve got a son, I’ve got a parent,’ whatever. Anytime you find community and a chance to relate and just kind of let it roll off your chest a little bit, it’s a good thing. That’s the way we’ve gotten through is community. It’s what the body of Christ is supposed to do.”

A Veteran with PTSD Rescues Adorable 30-Pound Cat

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

When military veteran Steve Gusman was looking for a therapy animal to help him with his PTSD, he never thought he’d find just what he needed in a 30-pound rescue cat named Meatloaf.

Meatloaf was given to King’s Harvest Animal Shelter in Davenport, Iowa after his previous owners became unable to care for him. Workers at the shelter were shocked by his weight—he clocked in at more than 20 pounds over the average cat’s weight. It was even more surprising given that he was twelve years old, and cats typically lose weight as they age.

“He’s a majesty just to look at. If you were here and you could see him, it’s wonderful,” Rochelle Dougall, assistant director of the shelter told The Des Moines Register. “It’s kind of wild and crazy—how did he get to 30 pounds in the first place?”

The shelter posted a picture of Meatloaf on Facebook and the cat became a viral sensation. The Des Moines Register reports that the shelter was inundated with calls and visits—but no one was the right fit. Meatloaf loves humans, but doesn’t get along well with other cats and dogs. He needed a calm, pet and child-free environment.

Enter Gusman. He needed an animal that was calm and wouldn’t startle him by dashing to and fro. An older cat like Meatloaf, who needed physical activity, but wasn’t hyperactive, seemed like a perfect fit.

Gusman saw a news story about Meatloaf and felt a connection, so he decided to meet the cat in person.

“They got along perfectly well,” Mary Armstrong, Gusman’s fiancé, told KWQC. “They both just sat on the floor and paid attention to each other.”

Gusman’s application for adoption was accepted, and he took Meatloaf home in a dog carrier.

The vet isn’t the only one to benefit from Meatloaf’s adoption. Visits to the shelter increased while he was there and employees are hopeful even more animals will be adopted because of this cuddly cat.

A Tribute to His Late Nature-Loving Mother

Posted on March 11, 2026April 10, 2026 by Robert Boggs

Dear Mom…

It’s been three years, Mom, and your old neighbors still don’t understand your garden in Greenville: lush southern magnolia; evergreen gordonia; dirt brimming with native pollinators, snakes and bees. You made it an Eden. I’ve done my best to care for the plants and animals you left behind, but folks here think it’s overgrown, too wild. Then again, I’ve always felt safe in wild places.

When I was a boy growing up in the house Dad built in the Blue Ridge Mountains, we’d hike through the deep woods together. You’d say, “Look, a robin’s nest,” or “Robert, up there! That’s a Carolina wren.” You knew everything about the outdoors—which birds called to one another through the trees, how to turn creeping vines into baskets. You were a country girl, through and through.

Your family—Swedish immigrants who’d learned to coax wheat stalks from the earth—learned everything they could about South Carolina, but even to them, you were peculiar. Maybe because you always believed that nature didn’t just serve us, but was part of us.

From you, I learned to never take more than I needed. You’d take an umbrella and hang ornaments on it before you’d cut down a healthy pine in December. I like to think that at four foot eleven, closer to the earth than most of us, you felt things that we didn’t.

Remember that New York transplant, the former college athlete who bought the house next door? I still laugh about how you caught him clinging to the lowest branch of a tree, pointing in horror at a snake. You pulled white opera gloves over your elbows—your thick gardening gloves had gone missing—and carried the snake to your yard. “This snake is welcome in my garden,” you said to our new neighbor. He clearly didn’t know the difference between a venomous cottonmouth and a harmless kingsnake. “He’ll be useful in recycling my moles and voles.”

Robert holds Crisco

Animals knew they could trust you, like the injured chipmunk you rescued and all the stray and feral cats that would follow you out of the woods and into our home. I shouldn’t have been surprised when you saved Crisco the groundhog from a pack of dogs in our yard, back when we lived in the mountains, clanging pots until they dispersed. He knew you were on his side—even when he gobbled up all the lettuce you’d grown to make Swedish soup.

You tended to everyone, Mom, but especially Dad and me. When Dad lost his mobility and had trouble moving around the house in the mountains, you convinced him to move to Greenville. Were you heartbroken to leave those woods? You didn’t show it. You woke up every morning at five to tend to your new garden. Your faith held you steady, wherever you were, God always present as you watered your plants. “He talks to me,” you’d say.

You know I’ve led a winding life. Boarding school to college to graduate school in Massachusetts. I was a banker, a Methodist minister and now a university professor. You never made me feel as if I had to know exactly what I wanted to do. You wanted me to be free, to explore what was out there—much like your animal companions.

Melree Boggs and Josie

Then Dad died, my marriage ended and my dog died, all within six months. You didn’t tell me to move on but let me grieve, remaining close in case I needed you. Just like Josie, our rescue mix, did for you when your dementia took over.

You were ninety-nine and three months when you passed into the next world. Perhaps the earth held onto you for so long because you understood each other.

I couldn’t bring myself to sell the Greenville house and have made it my job to care for the property, throwing myself into the cycle of nature. Every autumn, I’m reminded of how you’d delight in the changing colors and all the birds that come and go. I sit and watch them build their nests and smile to myself thinking about how you’d look out for the mama birds returning to their babies.

I miss you, Mom. But in a way, you return to me through the moles and voles, snakes and groundhogs. I’ve been caring for them all, observing and celebrating the beauty and purpose of all God’s creatures. And, of course, tending your misunderstood garden.

Love, Robert.

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A Therapy Dog Named Gabriel

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

In the November 2014 issue of Guideposts, I wrote about my husband’s serious hospitalization. So serious, the doctors weren’t sure he was going to make it.

One thing I didn’t mention in that article was as I was sitting in the darkened ICU, praying for Mike to survive–and for me to survive–I heard the patter of paws down the tile hallway. There in the doorway stood the largest, fluffiest dog you’d ever want to see.

Gabriel.

I threw my arms around him and buried my face in his fur. Then I went to my husband’s bedside, lowered the rail and helped guide Mike’s hand to Gabriel’s soft neck. Gabriel sat still, head resting lightly on the mattress. I’m convinced Gabriel knew what he was there for. I could feel the power of his gentle spirit.

I want to tell you the rest of Gabriel’s story. He lives with his human mom and handler, a wonderful woman named Sally. God had prepared Sally for the experience, long before Gabriel was even born!

Several years earlier, Sally had lost her beloved German shepherd, and after some time felt ready to find a new dog to join the family. As she was searching, she felt a quiet whisper on her heart. Bernese Mountain dog.

“Oh no,” Sally argued. “I want a German shepherd.”

Bernese Mountain dog.

Sally didn’t even know what a Bernese Mountain dog was. She had to go look it up. “Oh no, that dog is all wrong. Too big. Too furry. I want a German Shepherd.”

Shortly thereafter, a repairman came to do some work. As they chatted, before long, the subject got around to dogs. “What kind of dogs do you have?” Sally asked.

“Oh, I doubt you’ve even heard of them,” the repairman laughed. “I’ve got Bernese Mountain Dogs.”

There it was again! Having a hard time ignoring it, Sally did a little research and discovered that a Bernese Mountain dog could be the right match for her. So, she began searching for a breeder. At the same time, the name of her new puppy formed in her mind. Gabriel. His name would be Gabriel.

Finding a Bernese Mountain dog puppy isn’t exactly easy. When Sally found a breeder with a female dog named Angel, everything seemed meant-to-be. She called the breeder. “When Angel has a litter, I’d like one of her puppies.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” the woman on the phone replied. “We’ve tried to breed Angel for years. It just hasn’t worked.”

Sally hung up, disappointed. She kept searching, but no puppies turned up. Then, the next spring the phone rang. It was the same breeder. “Are you still looking for a puppy?” she asked. “Angel’s pregnant!”

So, that’s how Sally and Gabriel came together. Gabriel wears a cross medallion attached to his collar. When patients ask about it, they open a door for Sally to share a little about God. Sometimes they ask her to pray for them.

Sally and I, and Gabriel, are now friends. Gabriel has ministered to me through two of Mike’s surgeries, and the loss of our beloved golden retriever, Brooks. That’s because before he was even born, Gabriel was destined to be an angel dog, sent to comfort and care for those who are hurting.

A Thanksgiving Prayer, Answered

Posted on March 11, 2026April 10, 2026 by Patty Kirk

Jesus increased in wisdom and in stature and in favor with God and man. —Luke 2:52 (ESV)

As a lifelong cook, I’ve always loved Thanksgiving. At age 12, I proudly took over from Dad the cooking of our meal: turkey with bread stuffing, mashed potatoes, giblet gravy, cranberry-orangeapple-walnut relish, a gratin of little onions, marshmallow yams, rolls and pies.

My Thanksgiving prayer is one I pray all year—that my girls will grow up to love others and God.

Cooking bored the girls as kids, but when they turned 12, I gave them each a task: Charlotte the stuffing and Lulu the cranberry relish. As they got older, they took charge of the pies, first deciding what kinds but eventually weaving dough lattices and making leaf-shaped decorations gritty with sugar sparkles. We even bought half-size pans so the girls could make six different pies and not have any of them go uneaten.

One year, only Lulu came home. Charlotte had gotten a puppy and immediately arranged her days around Milo’s nap times and meals. In mid-November, she texted she couldn’t leave Milo, so she wasn’t coming home.

Thanksgiving with just Lulu was enjoyable but not the same. Lulu made her cranberry relish—opting for less sugar, a good move—but I made everything else. This is how it will be now, I lamented. The girls off somewhere, cooking their own Thanksgiving meals.

Then I realized that too would answer my Thanksgiving prayer: my girls grown up, nurturing others.

Thank you, Father, for making us in your image, so we can grow, love and become more like you.

Walking in Grace (formerly Daily Guideposts) is a book of uplifting devotions. To order the 2024 edition, visit shopguideposts.org/wig24, write to Guideposts, P.O. Box 5815, Harlan, IA 51593-1315 or call (800) 932-2145. The book is available in a hardcover version for $16.95 or in a softcover large-print version for $17.95, plus shipping and processing.

A Teacher Shares Lessons Her Students Have Taught Her

Posted on March 11, 2026April 10, 2026 by Louanne Ward Trueblood

“What is this class anyway?” The question came from a freshman on the third day of a new school year. The class was Beginning Journalism, as I patiently explained to him while other students snickered. Some other teachers might be insulted, but I thought, “At least he’s asking questions!”

“I think I’m supposed to be in Phys. Ed.,” he said, so I sent him on his way to the counselor for a schedule change, and that was that. I wish I could remember his name. I’d like to know where life has led him.

You see, one of my favorite pursuits over the last 20 years has been reconnecting with hundreds of former students and hearing of their memories, accomplishments and even their disappointments. I search Facebook and other social media looking for familiar names and making an effort to track former students down.

READ MORE: A CINDERELLA STORY

I began teaching high school English in 1964 and then taught journalism while advising the school newspaper and yearbook. I left teaching in 1979 to continue a career in publishing, but I never lost my love of teaching nor my fondness for my “kids,” some of whom are now grandparents.

Most summers find me attending several class reunions, in an effort to catch up with former students.

There are those who have achieved significant careers—a prominent staff member of The New York Times; the first female anchorwoman for a TV station in Oklahoma City; a justice on the Oklahoma State Supreme Court, the former mayor of Tulsa, the owner of a well-known musical venue, a TV newsman in Dallas—while there are others whose stories might not seem as impressive…except to me.

Guiding a student through the process of writing a story for the school newspaper and seeing his or her name in print for the first time was fulfilling, but hearing, years later, of that same student’s courage in the aftermath of a serious auto accident or her battle to overcome a life-threatening disease is more than just fulfilling—it’s heartwarming and inspiring. And in discussing the paths their lives have followed, many of these former students—now my friends—share their faith journeys with me.

I’m grateful to have had the opportunity to share some important lessons with my students, but they have taught me some valuable things, too:

Don’t judge anything by your first impression. Some students who were “stars” in high school have not had it so easy as adults, and others, who were just beginning to find out who they were, have risen to unexpected heights in their chosen professions.
You won’t always know the impact what you say and do might have. Occasionally I am surprised at what my students remember. One girl said to me, “I’ll never forget how you hugged all of us on the morning that one of our cheerleaders was killed in an auto accident on the way to school.” I hope that my words and my actions were more often kind than not.
It’s invigorating to have friends of another generation. Having contact with my “kids” helps keep me engaged with life. When they share the lessons life has taught them across the lunch table, I’m even more thankful to have them in my life.
Hard work is worth it. Most teachers don’t teach for the money but for the rewards that come from having a positive impact on others. I’m sure my students grew tired at times of having me nag them about meeting deadlines, but they tell me that it was a valuable experience that they’ve used later in life.
It’s worth growing your prayer life. I have a prayer list from my church and my own family for whom I pray regularly, but I also have a much larger family in my former students. I’ve shared times of grief and times of great joy with them, and when they ask me to pray for them, I am honored.

I’m grateful that the sharing of lessons with my students has been a two-way street. And even though I can’t remember that young freshman’s name who was flummoxed to find himself in a journalism class, I still think of him occasionally, as I do all my former students. I hope that his life has taken him to good places.

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A Super Dog

Posted on March 11, 2026April 10, 2026 by Claudia Stinchi

I punched off the alarm and lingered in bed, feeling the warmth of our dachshund curled on top of the blanket.

Lance always slept on the bed when my husband, Caio, was away in Brazil on business. Four and a half years old, Lance was intelligent, playful, affectionate, with a slender tail that never stopped wagging.

But for Caio and me, he was more than just good company. We’d been unable to have kids, and Lance filled a big place in our lives.

I climbed out of bed and set him on the floor. “Maybe you’ll come to the office today,” I said. The ad agency where I worked was dog friendly. Halfway to the kitchen I realized there was no patter of paws behind me. I went back to the bedroom. Lance was in the same place.

“Come on, let’s go for a walk!” I said. Even this magic word failed to budge him. He stared at me with a strange pleading look in his brown eyes. I went to the kitchen and came back with a treat.

“Ground turkey, Lance!” He heaved himself up on his front legs and lurched toward me, dragging his rear legs. How had they suddenly become useless?

Frightened, I wrapped him in his blanket and took him to the animal hospital. The whole way there, Lance kept that imploring gaze on me. The vet made the diagnosis.

“It’s a ruptured disc pressing on the spinal cord,” he said. A common condition with dachshunds, usually correctable with surgery. “The sooner it’s done, the better his chances will be.”

The vet added that there was a 25 percent chance the operation would fail, but I was certain that between surgery and prayers, our dog would be healed.

I phoned my boss I wouldn’t be in and then reached Caio in Brazil. He cancelled his appointments and booked the next flight home, which wouldn’t get him here till the next day.

I was alone in the waiting room. Not a comforting space like the prayer corner I’d set up in our bedroom, but that wasn’t going to stop me from praying fervently for our Lance.

At last the surgery was over and I was allowed to see him. His back was shaved to bare skin, stitches closing a five-inch incision. With every breath came a moan of pain. The next three days Caio and I practically lived at the animal hospital. Lance was miserable, his eyes begging, Take me home!

“Soon you’ll be back in the park again, chasing your ball, making friends with all the kids,” I promised.

At home Lance had to be crated for 45 days. We found a mesh-sided box he could see out of and fitted it with cushions and his favorite toys. Within a few days the pain was gone and Lance was in his customary high spirits, flipping his red ball around with his nose.

But the weeks passed, and he didn’t seem to be regaining the use of his back legs.

I e-mailed other dachshund owners. One of them recommended an animal physical therapist, Dr. Martha Sanchez. She tried herbal medicine, acupuncture and water therapy–to no avail. Lance was still pulling himself forward with his front legs, dragging his hindquarters pathetically behind him.

Since he couldn’t wag his tail, he learned to express his feelings with his floppy ears, wiggling them to signal delight, hunching them back when he was anxious. Every day I knelt in the prayer corner of our bedroom, begging God to heal our dog.

Two months after surgery we learned of the veterinary school at the University of Florida in Gainesville. They had an MRI machine for small animals and a world-famous veterinary neurosurgeon, Dr. Roger Clemmons.

Through the friend of a friend we got an appointment and drove the five hours north.

Dr. Clemmons looked like the mad scientist in Back to the Future, white hair flying, a troop of students at his heels. Six of them crowded about him as he gave us the result of his tests. “The spinal cord is severed,” he told us. “I’m sorry, but your dog is permanently paralyzed.”

Paralyzed…I knew what came next. E-mails, chat rooms, veterinary journals–they all said the kindest thing was to put the dog down. But not Lance! Not our uncomplaining little dog, pulling himself so valiantly along the floor. He seemed so determined to survive.

I went back to my prayer corner, and Lance went back to sessions with Dr. Sanchez to strengthen the front part of his body. Wasn’t there anything more we could do? I asked Dr. Sanchez.

“You could try Eddie’s Wheels,” she said. Ed Grinnell was a mechanical engineer in Maine whose Doberman pinscher had a damaged spine. He’d constructed a metal frame attached to a pair of wheels, which took the place of his dog’s back legs.

Now he manufactured and sold these “wheelchairs for dogs” all over the world.

Caio and I went to the website and filled out the order form: Lance’s weight, length and other measurements. Two months later a little chariot arrived at Dr. Sanchez’s clinic for fitting and final adjustments. The aluminum frame was incredibly light, the wheels on their ball bearings spun at the merest tap.

“It will take Lance a while to get used to it,” the doctor cautioned as she lifted his hindquarters onto the saddle between the wheels. “Some dogs adjust to it in a week or two, others take longer.”

It took Lance all of one second. The moment Dr. Sanchez set him on the floor in the contraption, he was off, circling the clinic, careening around corners with little yips of joy.

Soon Lance was back in the park chasing his red ball. People were intrigued by his wheelchair. Kids loved it and he loved them right back, nuzzling and licking them, yipping and wiggling his ears to express what his tail no longer could.

“He’d make a great therapy dog for kids,” someone said. Caio and I looked at each other. A dog in a wheelchair–what an inspiration in a children’s hospital!

We had to be interviewed by a therapy dog trainer first. Caio and I answered dozens of questions. How well did we control our dog? Could we commit regular hours to this work? Hardest of all: How would we react to being around children in pain?

Lance sailed through tests for obedience, intelligence and gentleness. On “likes children,” he was over the top. During training he was exposed to the smells of a hospital, the shriek of sirens, the rattle of meal carts, the racing feet of an emergency team. None of it fazed him.

Still, we were apprehensive the first time we took him to Miami Children’s Hospital. What I was most concerned about was that he’d greet kids with his happy yipping.

“No barking” was rule one for therapy dogs. But how do you tell an excited dachshund not to bark? We didn’t have to. From the moment we stepped into the hospital lobby, not a sound came from him.

As though he knew exactly what he was there for, he followed the nurses in and out of the young patients’ rooms, silent and chipper–a real pro.

And the faces of those kids when they saw him! In the first room Caio lifted Lance up so the little girl in the bed could pet him. I worried that he’d bestow on her some of his affectionate licks–strictly forbidden in this sanitary setting.

But with that same uncanny sensitivity to the situation, Lance didn’t let so much as the tip of his tongue slip out as the girl stroked him, giggling. Her mother followed us into the corridor. “In the two months she’s been here,” she said, “this is the first time she’s laughed.”

Later that day, a boy in leg braces crossed the room, his gait unsteady but determined. He had eyes only for our dog. The boy reached Lance and gave him a kiss. The nurse told us afterward he’d never before walked alone.

Caio and I put together a booklet telling Lance’s story. An artist drew cartoons of “Super Lance,” a photographer took his picture, another friend designed a connect-the-dots portrait of Lance, a company that worked for the ad agency did the printing free.

We’ve given the booklets to more than 1,000 children. Right before we leave for each hospital visit, I stop at that bedroom corner to thank God for answering our prayers. Not the way Caio and I wanted, but I’m learning that when the answers aren’t what we ask for, these are the times to look for something even better.

This was God’s answer, for a little girl who couldn’t laugh and a little boy who couldn’t walk and a couple who couldn’t have children of their own. An answer more fulfilling, more creative, more wonderful than anything we could have wished for.

A Strength She Never Knew She Had

Posted on March 11, 2026April 10, 2026 by Lindy Wilson

The phone rang that Tuesday evening, September 12, 2006, and my heart quickened. Maybe Jim was calling to wish me a happy forty-fifth birthday. That would be just like him. Twenty-six years of marriage and we were still as much in love as we’d been back in high school. Maybe even more.

Our youngest had just left for college, and we were looking forward to this time together. Camping trips. Weekends at a B and B. Romantic motorcycle rides, me sitting behind Jim, my arms around his waist, leaning against him, feeling his strength.

I picked up the phone.

“Is this Lindy Wilson?” a woman asked. “I’m a nurse at Santa Rosa Memorial Hospital. I’m calling about your husband. He’s been in a serious accident.”

My mind couldn’t process what she was saying. It had been a beautiful late summer day. Jim had ridden his Yamaha Royal Star over the Sierras to a meeting of fellow electric utility superintendents four hours away.

He’d hated not being home for my birthday. I glanced at the roses he’d left for me to find. “No, that can’t be…”

“His condition is extremely critical,” the nurse said. “You need to come right away. But do not drive yourself.”

I couldn’t think. I called our friends Peter and Debbie, heard myself screaming into the phone, my words jumbled. “We’ll be right over,” Debbie said.

I collapsed on the couch. God, please don’t take Jim. I can’t live without him. I thought of a woman who’d shared her testimony at church recently. Her husband, a police officer, had died in the line of duty. I’d marveled at her strength, her unshakable faith.

“I’m not that kind of woman,” I remembered telling Jim after church. “I don’t think I could hold it together if something happened to you.” Secretly I’d hoped I was wrong. But now I knew.

There was a knock at the door. Peter and Debbie. “We’ll drive you to the hospital,” Debbie said. She found a suitcase and packed it for me. What else did I need? I grabbed my Bible.

The whole four-hour drive to Santa Rosa I sat in the backseat, clutching the Bible while I called the kids, the rest of our family, people from church.

We got to the hospital around midnight. The nurse who’d called met us in the waiting room.

“Your husband is still in surgery,” she told me. “A van crossed into his lane and hit him head-on. He has massive internal injuries, collapsed lungs, a crushed pelvis, a lot of broken bones. We’re doing everything we can, but…I think you should talk with the chaplain.”

The chaplain was able to tell me a little more. Jim had been hit so hard that he flipped over the top of the van, only to have the panic-stricken driver back over him. The chaplain offered consoling prayers, but I knew why he was meeting with me. Jim wasn’t expected to live.

Would I never hear his voice again? Never again feel the warmth of his touch?

At 1:00 A.M. the surgeon came out of the operating room to update me. “At this point, Jim has about a one-percent chance of survival,” he said. “Most of his organs are failing. We’ve brought him back from cardiac arrest twice. I hope your kids can get here in time.” He rushed back to the O.R.

One percent. I tried to pray, but my mind kept going back to that terrifying statistic. I tried to think of the verse I’d heard just that past Sunday, when Jim and I visited my mother’s church. It wouldn’t come to me. Even my Bible felt heavy, my fingers aching from holding onto it so tightly.

Friends trickled into the waiting room. My sister. Our pastor. I told everyone what the surgeon said about Jim’s chances. “One percent,” I repeated, my voice breaking.

Our pastor put his hand on my shoulder. “God doesn’t deal in percentages,” he said. “You’ve got to trust him all the way, one hundred percent.”

Our two daughters and our son arrived. “How’s Dad?” they asked. “When can we see him?”

“He’s still in surgery,” I said. “It doesn’t look good.” I wanted to be strong for our kids, but I couldn’t hold back my tears.

A nurse came up to us. I braced myself.

“He’s still hanging on,” she said. “Keep praying.”

I nodded through my tears. By now the waiting room was filled with friends and family. “Everyone’s praying for Jim,” Debbie said. “And for you. There are prayer chains going all over the country. Anything you need, we’re here.”

Finally, at 5:00 A.M., a nurse took me through a sliding-glass door into the intensive care unit, to a bed surrounded by nurses checking monitors and IVs. The man in the bed had so many tubes and wires connected to him. His body was huge, bloated, nothing like my trim, fit husband. “That’s not Jim,” I said, confused.

“I’m afraid it is,” the nurse said. “He lost a lot of blood. We had to give him seventeen liters of fluid just to keep him alive. We were so busy trying to stop the bleeding, we didn’t have time to clean him up.”

I crept to the side of Jim’s bed. Shards of glass were embedded in his face and arms. There were tire marks across his chest. His right leg was still visibly fractured. The nurse explained that their priority had been the life-threatening injuries. The other ones could wait.

I knew he had to be suffering. It hurt just to look at him. “I love you, Jim,” I whispered. “Hold on tight. Hold on to God, to our love.”

“We’ve put him in a coma,” the nurse said. “The pain would be too intense otherwise, and he’s still extremely weak. We’re replacing fluids, just taking it minute by minute.”

I stayed by Jim’s bedside, praying. Listening to the beep of the monitors, the whoosh of the ventilator, the sounds of nurses hanging new IV bags. Searching my husband’s face for a flicker of awareness. At some point, the kids were allowed in the ICU for a short while. Other family members, friends. Our pastor.

Time seemed to stand still. I wasn’t sure if it was day or night. I could barely keep my eyes open. Can’t fall asleep, I thought groggily. Jim needs me.

Finally my daughter Katie came in and said, “We’re getting rooms at a motel. There are people here who can sit with Dad. But we’ve got to get some sleep. You especially. You’ve been up for almost forty-eight hours.”

She took me by the hand and led me out to her car. At the motel, I took a shower. It was the first time in two days I’d been alone. Water rained down on me. I leaned against the cold tile wall and sobbed uncontrollably. I couldn’t take this anymore. I wasn’t strong enough. Why couldn’t God see that?

I got out of the shower, slipped into a nightgown my friend had packed for me and lay on the bed, drained. My sister sat beside me, holding my hand until I drifted off.

I opened my eyes and sat up in bed. Everyone else—my sister, my daughters— was sound asleep, but the room was filled with light. Not bright. Soft and hazy, like a kind of fog. But not disorienting. Oddly comforting. The light enveloped me, an almost physical presence infusing me with a peace I’d never known.

Trust me. It’s going to be okay. It wasn’t a voice, but the message couldn’t have been clearer. God held us in his arms. He was looking after Jim, and he would see me through, no matter what happened.

Later that morning I went back to the ICU. Jim lay in bed, comatose, eyes closed, condition unchanged. I pulled a chair up to his bedside and opened my Bible. But I couldn’t think of anything I should read. Or say. Instead I took his hand and began to sing, “Amazing grace, how sweet the sound…”

I looked at Jim’s face. There was moisture forming around his eyelids. I leaned closer.

Tears.

He can hear me!

I kept singing as tears trickled down Jim’s face, each droplet a tiny miracle. That was what God dealt in—miracles, not percentages.

I didn’t even see the nurse come in. “If you want to choose a Scripture verse to hang over your husband’s bed, I can print it out,” she offered. I stared at my Bible, flustered.

“You don’t have to decide now,” she said. “I can do it anytime.”

I flipped through my Bible and eventually came to Isaiah 40:31. It wasn’t Jim’s favorite Scripture, but the words seemed fitting for him now: “Those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.”

I wanted Jim to walk again, to run, to be renewed.

That verse stayed posted over Jim’s bed the rest of his hospital stay. Eleven months and 20 surgeries after his accident, he was able to come home. In that time, I took on the roles of caregiver and advocate, discovering a fortitude and boldness I never knew I had in me. And Jim and I grew closer than ever.

Our pastor asked us to share our experience with our congregation. That Sunday Jim walked into the sanctuary with me—he was using a walker, but he walked! We went up front and started telling our story.

I saw the wonder in people’s eyes, even before we got to the most mysterious part. I looked at the bulletin in my hand.

I’d come across it while we were getting ready for our talk. It was the bulletin from the week before Jim’s accident, when we’d visited my mother’s church. The key verse for that day’s sermon was printed on it.

Isaiah 40:31. The verse I thought I’d picked out for Jim in the hospital. But it had been chosen as much for me—by God, who was preparing us for the ordeal that was to come, renewing our strength before we even knew we would need it.

Download your FREE ebook, True Inspirational Stories: 9 Real Life Stories of Hope & Faith.

A Spiritual Celebration

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

I am posting this blog a little earlier than usual because I am about to hop on a plane for Akron, Ohio, to celebrate Founders’ Day.

What’s so inspiring about Founders’ Day? For one thing, without it I would not be here talking to you. I wouldn’t be anywhere, in fact.

Founders’ Day celebrates the very first meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous, when a beleaguered and road-weary businessman, William Wilson, newly sober but sorely tempted, picked up the phone instead of a drink in the lobby of his hotel in Akron and called a local minister at random, demanding to talk to another alcoholic as soon as possible. The minister told Bill Wilson that he knew someone who was a good man but a hopeless drunk, Dr. Robert H. Smith.

A wealthy widow named Henrietta Seiberling offered the use of the Gate Lodge on her Stan Hywet Estate for the propitious meeting. The two men talked alone for hours. Bill talked because talking was keeping him sober a minute at a time. Dr. Bob talked because hearing another alcoholic share his story of suffering and recovery, of experience, strength and hope, brought the message of sobriety alive. He had had his last drink. And both men felt the grace of a higher power—whom they understood as God—infusing the Gate Lodge that June day in 1935, the founding of A.A.

Some 77 years later A.A. has brought the miracle of sobriety to millions of men and women, each of those miracles a story of hopelessness and powerlessness yielding to the grace of that higher power.

Every year thousands of grateful, sober drunks flock to Akron on Founders’ Day to pay homage to the site of what would become their redemption, a kind of sacred triangulation between Bill’s hotel, Dr. Bob’s house and the Gate Lodge at Stan Hywet Hall & Gardens. I’m incredibly honored and, frankly, amazed to be one of the speakers this year thanks to the work of great friends of Guideposts and the Stan Hywet Gate Lodge, Akronites Ron and Lily Glosser.

On Saturday at 1 pm, I’ll be at the Gate Lodge signing copies and reading and from my book, The Promise of Hope, about my own struggle with drugs and drink and the improbable path that brought me to Guideposts. Stop by, I’d love to meet you.

Many people don’t know that Bill Wilson and Norman Vincent Peale, the founder of Guideposts and author of The Power of Positive Thinking, were great friends. It’s a natural spiritual alliance, though, once you think about it. Check out Bill W.’s landmark article from a 1947 issue of Guideposts, “Is A.A. for Alcoholics Only?”

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