Page 272 – Guideposts Articles

How National Parks Make Positive Family Memories

Posted on March 11, 2026April 10, 2026 by Holly Lebowitz Rossi

My dad retired three years ago, and to celebrate, he took my sister and me on a father-daughters trip to the Grand Canyon and two other national parks in Arizona and the Navajo Nation. We had such a wonderful time that we decided to make it an annual tradition. Last year, we went to Mesa Verde National Park; last month, we visited to Death Valley National Park. We’ve already started brainstorming next year’s adventure.

The national parks are famous for their majestic natural beauty—and also for their ability to bring families together in a positive, memory-making way. Different from other types of family vacations, the parks tend to leave an impression on visitors’ hearts. Here are three of the many reasons for that:

1. They are truly “away” places.
Most of the national parks we’ve visited are difficult to reach, and wi-fi is spotty at best once there. This is a very good thing. Life rarely affords parents and grown children the opportunity to be together in a special place without any distractions or demands from work or family. I can easily look past the inconvenience of limited communication with the outside world and embrace the pleasure of spending uninterrupted—and uninterruptable—time with my dad and sister.

2. They pair new memories with old ones.
Our initial Grand Canyon trip was a re-creation of a trip we had done together in the late 1980s, when I was a young teenager. My dad brought along a stack of photos from that earlier trip, and we delighted in re-enacting poses and making fun of our acid-washed jeans and other dated fashions. The Grand Canyon is a natural wonder—returning there with the memories of the impression it made on our younger selves only enhanced the already-spectacular experience.

3. They enrich our view of the world.
Each visit to a national park renews my wonder over how immense and powerful the natural world is, from the star-speckled sky over Death Valley to the river-etched depths of the Grand Canyon. These places are alive. They are still being made. They deserve our respect and protection. Their history is our responsibility to learn and process. To behold this enormity with my dad and sister only deepens the meaning of our time together, making it profoundly thought-provoking…alongside being just plain fun.

Have you visited national parks with your family? What positive memories do you have from your trips?

How Mr. Rogers Spread God’s Love Everywhere

Posted on March 11, 2026April 10, 2026 by Joanne Rogers

The first time I set eyes on Fred Rogers was in 1947. I was a student at Rollins College in Florida, and he was a freshman at Dartmouth College in New Hampshire, who decided that he wanted to major in music. Dartmouth did not have a music degree program at that time. A music professor there suggested he come down to Winter Park to see Rollins. Our music composition teacher said we should all go greet him, so we piled into a very big, elderly Franklin car to meet this new prospect at the airport. And so it was that this unhappy Dartmouth student was welcomed by a dozen happy Rollins music students!

It must have worked because he decided to transfer to Rollins. We became good friends, then a couple. He impressed us because he could sit at the piano and play all kinds of music by ear that none of us could play without the score. After I graduated in 1950, I went to Florida State University for a master’s degree in music. After Fred graduated in 1951, he moved to New York City to do an apprenticeship at NBC in this new thing called television. I got a letter from him in late spring proposing marriage! I felt he deserved a quick response, quicker than writing back, so I went to a phone booth on campus…. I must have put in a million dimes! “Yes!” I said. “Yes.”

The wedding was July 9, 1952. Fred and I spent our first year together in New York, and Fred continued at NBC. In 1953, he heard from his father about plans for an educational TV station in Pittsburgh—near their home in Latrobe. Fred landed a job with this brave group and joined the first community educational television station, WQED. And so we settled in Pittsburgh.

He worked behind the scenes at first, then in front of the camera. He launched a children’s show in Canada that was called Misterogers—all one word like that—and developed a lot of the characters he would use in Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood, which he produced back in Pittsburgh. People ask if I helped him create any of it or collaborated with him. I have to confess that I was too busy.

I taught piano, gave recitals and was soon preoccupied with raising our two young sons, Jim and John. Sometimes the three of us would go to the studio and see Fred at work, which we loved. When the boys were young, running around the house, and the show would come on, they would point to the TV and the man in the cardigan sweater and say, “Other Daddy.” Their daddy was a father figure for children all over the United States.

That zippered sweater became his trademark on camera. Off camera he was more likely to wear a bow tie. That bow tie once led to an amusing case of mistaken identity. Fred came home from a trip one day with a big smile on his face. “What are you smiling about?” I asked.

“Something that just happened on the trip home,” Fred said.

“What was it?”

“I was getting on the plane, going up the ramp, and the flight attendant kept staring at me. You could almost see the wheels going around. She knew she knew me but was trying to remember how. When I came up to her, I smiled and she said, ‘I just love your popcorn!” They called him Orville (Redenbacher) at the office for a week after that!

Fred was a lot more patient than I ever was, especially with our children. The boys would tell you he never once raised his voice. I’m afraid that wasn’t always true for me. One day, my mother was visiting and the boys were horsing around. They were making such a ruckus that I just let them have it! My mother looked shocked. How could I yell at my own darling children? John saw she was upset and crawled up on the couch, whispering, “Never mind, Nana. It just goes in one ear and out the other.” The boys got their father’s patience and sense of humor.

Fred would get up early in the morning to read the Bible and pray. He was much stronger in his faith than I was, although we prayed together every night at dinner. He’s been gone now for almost 17 years—he died of stomach cancer in 2003—but we still say that prayer when we gather as a family at Thanksgiving:

Come, Lord Jesus, be thou our guest,
Our morning joy, our evening rest.
And with thy daily bread impart,
Thy love and peace to every heart.

Fred gave wonderful presents. The nicest present he gave me was a double piano bench for our Steinway, so that I could play duets on it. My piano partner and I loved it. Fred liked to talk about that bench and liked me to mention it. He was like a child that way, enjoying his own generosity.

He named one of his puppets after me, Queen Sara Saturday. Sara is my first name, though I usually go by Joanne. He used McFeely, his middle name, for another character. Of all the characters he created and all the puppets he made, my favorite is Daniel Tiger. Daniel Tiger reminds me so much of Fred. His sensitivity, his thoughtfulness and kindness. That was the most important value of all for Fred. He wanted to spread kindness in the world.

I think about what the show did for the children—and their parents—who watched it over the years. It gave them a safe place, a nurturing place. It reminded me of sitting on my grandmother’s lap. I knew I was loved and cared for. Young children are always going to need that, whether it’s today or a hundred years from now. They need to know they are safe and loved.

A new movie has just come out about Fred, A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood, the title coming from the song he sang on every show. Tom Hanks acts the part of Fred, and I was grateful to have a chance to talk with him. I found him gracious, outgoing, easy to be with. He did have one question about my husband: Did Fred always talk that slowly?

Yes, I had to say, he did. On TV and off. He wanted to be sure he was understood. I’ve had people come up to me, people who came to this country and didn’t know English, and say they learned our language by watching Fred’s show.

Fred was an ordained Presbyterian minister and a man of great faith, but he rarely talked about it. It was more important to show it. To his family, to the people he worked with, to audiences through the characters he created and the stories he told. That’s what mattered most. He spread God’s love in everything he did. His life was his sermon.

A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood is now available via streaming services.

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How Love Found Me in Sugarcreek

Posted on March 11, 2026April 10, 2026 by Serena B. Miller

I didn’t know what to say when my literary agent called that summer day a few years ago. It certainly was an interesting proposition. But it didn’t sound like something I could actually pull off.

“We’re looking for someone to write an Amish romance set in Ohio,” she said. “What do you think?”

I lived in Ohio, 30 minutes away from a small Amish community. That hardly made me an expert. If anything, the Amish confused me.

Just the other day, I’d seen a horse and buggy pulling out of the parking lot at Walmart. There was a Jeff Gordon bumper sticker on the back of the buggy. Here was this young Amish guy moving down the road at a sedate 10 miles per hour. In his heart, though, he was a NASCAR racer!

I could relate to wanting a simpler, more faithful way of life. After all, I was the wife of a minister and lived on a farm in Minford–population 693.

But I couldn’t see the harm in going to the beauty salon or having a cell phone. Weren’t the Amish taking it too far? Surely it was possible to connect to God without being stuck in the 1800s.

Still, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity. I’d waited till my sons were grown to pursue my dream of being a novelist. I’d written three books–none published. Was I really meant to be a writer? What was the point if no one could read my books?

“I’ll do it,” I told my agent, eager to prove myself.

I settled on the real-life town of Sugarcreek as the setting for the novel. Not only was the name evocative, but it was at the center of the largest Old Order Amish community in the world. I’d need to connect with real Amish folks, get the inside scoop.

So I booked a weeklong stay at a bed-and-breakfast, wrote a long list of questions in my notebook and tried not to freak out. From what I could tell, the Amish were a severe, closed-off people. Would they even talk to an “Englisch” outsider like me?

Arriving in Sugarcreek was like stepping into an episode of Little House on the Prairie. Rolling green hills. Fat cows. Old-fashioned farm wagons, tepee-shaped corn shocks and children running through the grass barefoot. I could feel it right away–a sense of abundance. Life was full here.

I checked into my room at Oak Haven Bed & Breakfast and chatted with the owners, Joyanne and Clay. Not Amish, they were originally from Texas and had transformed the 127-year-old farmhouse into a charming B and B.

Like everything I’d seen in Sugarcreek so far, the property was tidy and meticulously kept. Intentionally removed from the outside world. No TVs, phones or–heaven forbid!–Wi-Fi.

Clay had started praying for me the moment I booked my stay. He did that for every guest, and his prayer list was updated daily. On the wall near the kitchen was a wooden plaque with Hebrews 13:2 on it: “Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.”

I scribbled the verse in my notebook–something for my novel, perhaps.

On the side, Joyanne and Clay also “hauled the Amish,” driving them on errands, shopping trips and doctor’s appointments in their two 15-passenger vans. They knew the community well.

I was thrilled when Joyanne invited me to dinner with Naomi and Luke, an Amish couple she’d befriended, and their family.

“I’ll get permission for you to attend,” she said. “You can ask questions.”

“That’d be great!” I said, thankful for the “in” to the Amish world.

Until then, I took in the sights and sounds and tastes of Sugarcreek. Many of the original Amish and Mennonite settlers had German and Swiss roots. That influence was everywhere, from the street names–like Edelweiss and Basel–to the chalet-style architecture.

There was even a giant cuckoo clock at the center of town. Every half hour, little mechanical wooden men with instruments popped out. I stopped for lunch at Beachy’s Country Chalet.

The Amish certainly didn’t cut corners. Everything was made by hand, even the wooden booths and the colorful quilts that lined the walls. And the food. Piecrust, thick and flaky. Slow-cooked beef. Creamy mashed potatoes. Gooey apple dumplings. I could actually smell the fresh-churned butter.

I was enjoying myself. But I hadn’t made any progress connecting with the Amish folk in town. At one point, I spotted a little boy manning a produce stand with his father. “How old are you?” I asked, crouching down so I was at his eye level. He didn’t answer.

His father whispered something to him in Pennsylvania German, then turned to me. “He doesn’t speak English,” he explained. “Not yet.” Like many of the Amish I’d met so far, he was polite, but reserved. I imagined he got a lot of questions from the thousands of tourists who visited Sugarcreek every year.

I hoped my dinner with Joyanne at Naomi and Luke’s house would go better. It was my only chance to sit down and talk with a real Old Order Amish family.

Dinner was set up outside on the lawn, since the house had no air-conditioning and would be too stuffy. All the guests were dressed formally in plain suits and dresses. I felt out of place in my blue jeans…and also a little envious.

The women around the table were so lovely even without makeup. Plus they could whip up a dress in one evening. I could barely sew on buttons.

We all bowed our heads and prayed silently. That was new. I was so used to praising God for all to hear. The food was, of course, delicious–I’d really have to get a cow for our farm in Minford, for the fresh milk and cream–and conversation flowed easily.

No picky eaters. The kids cleaned their plates. Best of all, there were no distractions. How long had it been since I’d sat down to dinner without someone’s cell phone buzzing?

After dinner, the adults sat in lawn chairs and watched the kids play volleyball. It was surreal. The girls in simple pastel dresses with their hair pinned up in kerchiefs, the boys with cloth suspenders, all of them running around the backyard and spiking the ball.

Aside from the clothes, something else was odd–the kids were content. No complaints or eye-rolling, not even from the teenagers.

I was so caught up in the game that I hadn’t realized Luke was staring at me. Had I done something wrong?

“Joyanne tells me you are writing a book on the Amish,” he said. His smile put me at ease. “Ask me anything. Nothing is forbidden.”

So I did. We covered the spiritual stuff and the everyday stuff too. The group talked about how Amish dress united the community. How parents measured everything, especially technology, against how it would affect the family.

And how shunning–banishment of members from the Amish community–was actually extremely rare. By question 50 or 60, everyone was starting to get a little goofy.

“When I have trouble getting to sleep, I don’t bother to count sheep,” one of the older men at the table said. “I just try to remember the names of all my seventy-three grandchildren!”

I laughed. The Amish in Sugarcreek weren’t at all what I’d expected. They were warm, welcoming, kind and funny. Reserved, sure, but relaxed and confident in their way of life.

It was almost as if they’d stumbled upon the secret to happiness a long time ago and would do anything to protect it. But they also had to live out their faith in the real world, just as I did.

And their concerns were no different from mine. They too worried about their kids, whether they’d find the paths God meant for them. I could relate.

I went home to Minford changed, somehow. That’s not to say I was going to give up my car for a horse and buggy. But I found myself enjoying quiet time with God more. Taking that extra hour to make piecrust from scratch–and keeping my cell phone turned off while I did it.

And I was inspired. When I sat down to work on my book–Love Finds You in Sugarcreek, Ohio–the words flowed. I owed it to the Amish to portray both their virtues and their shortcomings accurately. Not as outsiders. But as a wonderfully humble and spiritual people. My friends.

Download your FREE ebook, Rediscover the Power of Positive Thinking, with Norman Vincent Peale.

How Kevin Downes Is Pioneering Christian Filmmaking

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

Kevin Downes probably won’t have another year like 2015.

The actor/director/producer who’s responsible for popular faith-based films like Courageous and Mom’s Night Out says putting out two films in one year – both Faith of our Fathers and the highly-anticipated Woodlawn hit theaters recently – wouldn’t sit well with one important person in his life.

“I don’t think my wife would let me do it again,” Downes jokes with Guideposts.org.

Downes, who strolls into our interview tousled and a bit tired, is promoting Woodlawn – a film that chronicles the life of star Alabama athlete Tony Nathan.

It’s a big movie with a big budget and even bigger expectations. It’s something Downes admits he never thought he’d be able to create when he began making films nearly 20 years ago.

The California native grew up three hours north of Los Angeles and moved to LA after college to pursue acting. It was there – after joining a Bible study through his church — that he met friend and producing partner David A.R. White.

The two men bonded instantly, even going on auditions together. One of those auditions proved to be pivotal. “We ended up getting the two lead roles in this Christian youth film,” Downes explains. “It was like ‘Wow, stuff like this exists?’ I was blown away. If you could do this for a living, I’d totally do this! Both of us had that same thought process but those films didn’t exist at the time.”

So Downes and White decided to create them.

For Downes, whose dream was acting, making the shift to producer was challenging.

“We didn’t know how to produce a movie,” Downes admits. “We were just actors acting in our own movies. We brought on friends that were directors and tried to figure it out. It was like going to school and our school was those first few movies we made. We didn’t know what would work, what wouldn’t work or even what people really wanted because we didn’t know there was an audience for it.”

Downes chats with Tony Nathan on the set of Woodlawn.

Before Downes and White, most faith-based films weren’t made with the intention of being released in theaters.

“Back in the 60s you had some Old Testament movies and an occasional Billy Graham film, but other than that, nothing,” Downes says. “I remember after our first film – I went door to door for a year to Christian bookstores talking to their book buyers, hoping they’d take our movie. It seems crazy but that’s what you do.”

Pioneering in any frontier presents obstacles, but venturing into the wild west of Christian filmmaking meant facing doubts about the path and purpose of his life.

“If somebody had told us back then ‘Hey, if you stick to it, one day, Christian movies will be released in theaters all across the country on a regular basis’ then both of us would’ve said ‘Ok, great. We’ll keep going.’ But we didn’t have that. We had people telling us that we were crazy. It was hard.”

Fifteen years later, Downes finds himself behind a project that touts one of the biggest budgets of any faith-based film up to this point and a star-studded cast.

Woodlawn is based on the true story of high-school star running back Tony Nathan – a man who would play in two Super Bowls for the Miami Dolphins. Nathan’s story became legend in the South after the young athlete attended a desegregated Woodlawn High School in Birmingham.

Downes joined the project thanks to the Erwin brothers – the directing duo he worked with during Mom’s Night Out.

The film – whose timing has been a topic of conversation thanks to its focus on racial issues – had been put on hold so the brothers could try their hand at comedy with Mom’s Night Out. When the Erwins and Downes returned to the movie, they did not expect it would be ready for audiences after only 14 months of production.

“The timing is all God,” Downes says. “We should’ve waited another year to make this film. We didn’t have the script finished. We didn’t have all the pieces you’d typically have going into a movie. But we went into this with a lot of prayer and counsel and we just sought out God’s wisdom on whether we should try and do something we’d never done before or wait. The word that we got was ‘Go now.’”

As Downes’ extraordinary year winds down, Woodlawn has been released, but ticket sales and reviews won’t change the way he feels about the film.

“The goal is that you have an impact on people,” Downes says. “You want to make sure that God is honored and that people actually see Him in the work that you do. When you finish a film, you have to release it. You have to give it up to God and let Him do whatever he wants.”

As for the future of Christian filmmaking, Downes remains optimistic.

“We’re having films that are competing with everything else,” he says mentioning hits like God’s Not Dead and War Room. “I think that’s a win. The next step is to continue with those kinds of dramas and maybe take it a step further where you see Bible epics done from a Christian viewpoint. We haven’t quite gotten here yet. Hollywood’s tried it but it hasn’t connected. Once we figure that out, then you’ll see box office results that mirror the comic book stuff. It will take talented Christians to produce and develop those types of movies. You have to invest a lot in it. We’re close to that right now.”

How KB is Changing the Narrative of Christian Rap

Posted on March 11, 2026April 10, 2026 by jtoomer

Trying to pigeonhole hip-hop artist KB is a lot like trying to box in his music: impossible. The 26-year-old Tampa native is a husband, a father, a boxer, and a Christian — who raps.

KB uses his mic to share the message of redemption and hope in Christ, pouring out his imperfections, insecurities and deepest desires all over a dope beat. That winning combination has produced critical acclaim for the young rapper, whose sophomore studio album Tomorrow We Live, released in April, hit the top of Billboard’s Christian Albums. It also made the top 10 on Digital Albums (#3), Independent Albums (#2), and Top Rap Albums (#4) and #18 on the Billboard 200 charts.

Following in the footsteps of his mentor and founder of his label, Reach Records’ Lecrae (the Grammy Award-winning rapper credited with revolutionizing Christian hip hop), KB is flooding the mainstream music industry with the Gospel.

But the artist is very clear: “I’m not the Christian Kanye West.” He tells Guideposts.org of his Reach Records crew, “We’re our own artists and when we come into the industry, we have to deal with [being dismissed as copies of secular rappers]. We have something [original] to say, we have a style of music that isn’t just reproducing.”

“We’re changing the narrative of Christian rap. As opposed to trying to divorce ourselves from Christian rap — because people are going to call you what they’re going to call you. It’s not what they’re used to. We’ve been able to really redeem it. So now, moving forward, people are going to say, ‘No, Christian rap is good, because these guys are killing it.’ I think we’re going to be earning the name.”

Critics across the industry agree and have praised KB for his ability to push the envelope stylistically and break out of the traditional boundaries of Christian hip hop. His second single, the conviction-stirring, soul-level cry to God, “Crowns and Thorns” is a layers-deep confession of someone who, like Paul, longs to do God’s will but wrestles with sin:

“I want to make music about the kinds of things that keep me up at night,” the artist says of his new album. Influenced by his love for history and the early church and recorded in South Africa, Tomorrow is an album for the oppressed and his latest single, the high-energy “I Believe” is its anthem. With its war cry, “I believe that we will win!” KB speaks to people facing impossible circumstances—cancer, institutional racism, suicide and poverty, to name a few—and provides them with a new hope in Christ. It’s a raw look at what makes the man and the artist tick; what inspires him, what motivates him and what pains him.

Even more revealing than the lyrics on his new album is the short documentary he filmed to accompany his sophomore release. In it, KB gives his fans a look inside his own closet, pulling out his skeletons to introduce his music and his life’s purpose to others who may draw strength from sharing in the journey.

KB was born Kevin Burgess. The artist’s parents divorced when he was a child and his father abandoned the family. KB and his mother had to live in an unsafe community on the south side of St. Petersburg, Florida.

“It does things to you psychologically [when you are not] trying to live but [just] trying to survive. When you think of life all through the lens of survival as opposed to trying to build a life, it does something to you,” he says.

The artist has also been open about the impact his broken relationship with his father had on him and his documentary expands on that, revealing details about his long search for his dad. He hired a private investigator–and discovered that the man who created and abandoned him had died just a few years earlier.

“The challenge is talking about him in a way that’s honest but also honoring,” KB says of the on-camera search for his dad. “I didn’t realize that a piece of my identity was missing in not knowing who my real father was. I almost immediately felt healing when I found out what he was and what he was about.”

Through it all, his pain and struggles have shaped both him and his craft. “I think the most beautiful thing is that it’s really given me a heart of compassion. I wouldn’t change it for the world,” KB says of his difficult childhood.

“Even living in fear and in an under-resourced environment, it opened my heart. I feel so much compassion towards people who are there. I want my life’s work to empower and help people who are there. Everybody is fighting a battle that is deeper than you could ever imagine, so be kind to them, be patient with them. They’re hurting just like you.”

Thanks to a kind, patient and encouraging mother, he excelled in school and was accepted into an accelerated college program, though he was just a junior in high school. But more than just his life changed as a result—his soul changed too.

“I got into this program—such an amazing program—and it didn’t satisfy me,” KB says. “It wasn’t enough. The American dream isn’t enough. It was at that point when I was introduced to Jesus, that I was able to find purpose.”

A friend handed him a Christian rapper’s CD of at lunch one day on campus and he heard the Gospel presented on wax; that began his love affair with Christ and hip hop. He graduated from Trinity College with a degree in theology and wound up forming an alliance of creatives and missionaries called HGA (His Glory Alone).

Flash forward a few years and KB is now one of the most exciting artists to watch in the hip-hop world, making healing music from which those struggling with their own issues can draw encouragement and motivation. It’s the purpose behind his new record and, more important, the reason he believes God put him on this planet.

“Tomorrow We Live expands on the idea that God hasn’t forgot about us,” KB said. “It may be difficult today, we may not have a lot to sing about today, but we can always look forward to where He’s taking us; where we will be, how things will be and use that to fuel what we’re doing today. Tomorrow We Live isn’t about forgetting about today and waiting for something to happen, it’s about being encouraged because we know we will win. We know things are settled. We know we’re moving towards a better existence; therefore, we care about fighting hard to bring that into today’s reality.”

How Justin Baldoni Found His Calling and Made the Movie ‘Five Feet Apart’

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

These days, Justin Baldoni is perhaps best known for playing Rafael on the television show Jane the Virgin. But less than a decade ago—when he was in his mid-twenties—he felt lost and had decided to give up acting.

“I realized that I was talking a lot, but I wasn’t doing a lot,” Baldoni told Guideposts.org. “I was focused on…trying to make it as an actor, and letting my happiness be dictated by my material success.”

Baldoni decided to find a better way to be of service.

“It was about shifting the way that I fundamentally viewed what I did,” he said. “Was it about me, or was it about using my profession to say something [meaningful] and [be] a light?”

Faith has always been important to Baldoni, who is Baha’i, a religion that emphasizes unity: unity with God, with religion and with human kind.

“I had a very honest, real conversation with God where I got on my knees and I asked God to come and use me,” Baldoni said. “I said, ‘Please use me in a way that will benefit Your creation. Use me as a tool. I don’t care what it is, just help me find my way, and use me as a tool.’”

It was through prayer and listening that Baldoni began to get a sense of his true calling: telling meaningful stories that would inspire hope and joy.

“I believe at the end of our lives we’re going to be asked what we did with our time, and did we leave this world better than we found it. Were we of service to each other?” Baldoni said.

Baldoni started a production company in the living room of his house as it was going into foreclosure. He was inspired by the Baha’i teaching, “I’ve made death a messenger of joy for thee, wherefore dost thou grieve?” He decided to find out how joy could be part of death.

The result was My Last Days, a documentary series about people living with terminal illness and finding hope and joy in the midst of unimaginable circumstances. While making the series, Baldoni met Claire Wineland, who was living with cystic fibrosis and became “like a little sister” to him. It was Claire who told Baldoni that people with cystic fibrosis have to stay six feet apart from other people with the disease.

Seven years later, Baldoni is releasing his feature directorial debut, Five Feet Apart, about two teens (played by Haley Lu Richardson and Cole Sprouse) living with cystic fibrosis who meet in a hospital and fall in love despite the risks. For Baldoni, accurately portraying the disease was of prime importance. Wineland was a consultant on the film and a cystic fibrosis nurse was present on set.

“From the location of the scars, to the g-tube, to the ports, which most cystic fibrosis patients have never seen on screen before, it was so important for me to get it all right,” Baldoni said.

He also wanted to raise awareness of the disease.

“Only three percent of Americans even knew what [cystic fibrosis] was before we released the very first trailer,” Baldoni said. “I’m really proud to say that new numbers just came out, and we increased cystic fibrosis Google search queries by 110% in just the three-and-a-half months we’ve been promoting this movie.”

For Baldoni, the movie is about more than cystic fibrosis, though. It’s about what it means to be alive.

“It comes back to my faith,” Baldoni said. “This idea that we’re only here for a short time, and if we allow it in… the recognition of our mortality can actually be the thing that inspires us.”

He’s come a long way from the self-interested man he was in his twenties.

Wineland passed away in 2018, just before Baldoni completed the first cut of the movie. Five Feet Apart is dedicated to her. Baldoni hopes the movie inspires people to reach out to their loved ones—and to learn more about cystic fibrosis and consider donating to Wineland’s nonprofit Claire’s Place Foundation.

“I hope people walk away with a new sense of appreciation for their life,” Baldoni said. “I learned so much spending the last six years with people who have chronic and terminal illnesses. They’ve taught me how to live. They’ve taught me how to love.”

How Guideposts Readers Can Spread the Love

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

This morning was surprisingly cool for early August in the Berkshires, ideal for a hike in the hills before the workday began. I leashed up Gracie, filled our water bottle and headed for the nearby Appalachian Trail, hiking north towards Benedict Pond and Beartown State Forest.

Leashed because I don’t trust her. Not that she’ll run off but that she’ll find mud. I made that mistake last week and look what happened. (See Exhibit 1, right.) I had to take the rest of the day off just to get her clean. It wasn’t going to happen again.

The first mile or so is a slog, equivalent to climbing 50 flights of stairs according to my iPhone. Then the trail flattens out as it winds through the forest and runs along a farmer’s field. The cows weren’t out this morning for Gracie to bark hello to. We pressed on. We hit a patch where the air was scented by wildflowers and the birds were in full song. Yes, a God-given morning for sure.

Finally, we came to a section that had been washed out by last night’s thunderstorms. Mud. Stinky mud. Gracie stared longingly. “We’re turning around,” I said. I had to induce her with bits of dried bison treats.

On the way down we passed a young couple huffing and puffing their way up, loaded down with camping gear. I nodded. “You only have about a half mile to go,” I said. A second later the man turned around.

“Hey,” he said. “Are you that guy?”

I stopped. “What guy would that be?”

“You know, the guy in that little magazine.”

I’m rarely recognized, especially in the East, so this was a shock.

“You mean Guideposts?” I said.

“Yeah,” the woman said. “I recognize your dog. You’re even prettier in person!” (This was addressed to Gracie, not me.)

“You read the magazine?”

“Last night we pitched our tent on a platform at the shelter on East Mountain,” the woman said.

“I know it,” I said.

“Someone left some magazines in the hut, and we grabbed a couple to read in our tent. It was raining.”

“We’re not churchgoers or anything like that,” the man added, “but we enjoyed some of the stories.”

I smiled. “I always ask if there was one you especially liked,” I said.

“Yes,” said the woman. “The one by Michelle Williams about her depression. My sister has depression. I have that issue in my pack to give to her.”

“That’s great. You can always send her a link to the story from our site.”

“Maybe I’ll do that. Coverage isn’t great out here, though.”

With that they were on their way. “Watch out for the mud!” I called.

I imagine a lot of you are vacationing this month and bringing your Guideposts along. I know some readers like to save their issues but if you’re not one, why not leave your magazine behind? Maybe whoever picks it up might not be a churchgoer or anything like that but they may enjoy the stories. And that’s a start.

Do you leave your Guideposts where others can read them? Let me know by emailing me here. Safe travels!

How Ginger Zee Learned to Manage Her Depression

Posted on March 11, 2026April 10, 2026 by Ginger Zee

As a meteorologist on TV, I’ve covered every natural disaster from Katrina on. Hurricanes, floods, tornadoes, wildfires—I’ve reported on them all, and one thing I’ve seen firsthand is how people rebound, no matter the devastation. They take stock, draw on their faith, rebuild and grow because they’ve faced the worst. Often they are the first people to reach out and help when others are suffering.

In my own life, I’ve struggled with a different sort of natural disaster—devastating bouts of depression. The first struck when I was 22, a recent college grad looking for a job in television meteorology. I know now that transitions can be a trigger for major depression. Back then I couldn’t understand why I felt life wasn’t worth living. As if I were a prisoner in a strange dark room without even a hint of light.

For a long time, I ran away from depression. I’d try to escape by throwing myself into a relationship with the wrong guy or telling myself that a few glasses of wine were all I needed to cheer up. I saw therapists, but they didn’t help much because I wasn’t willing to be completely honest with myself or them.

I’m a people pleaser, and it was as if I had to please even the therapists. I’d tell them what I thought they wanted to hear. I’m sure it looked like I was a big success as a broadcaster, going straight from college to one job after another, moving to bigger markets, from Grand Rapids to Chicago and now New York. ABC News had just hired me to be the weekend meteorologist on Good Morning America. It was all I’d dreamed of and prayed for, all that I’d worked so hard to achieve. Yet I felt empty inside.

Worse than that, I could feel myself plunging into that dark room I’d tried so hard to avoid. It had happened before. Things would be going well, and then the darkness would descend like a fast-rolling fog. I’d find myself trapped in a small, cold place with the blinds all the way down.

This time it hit me in a hotel room in Washington, D.C., where I had a meeting, when I was far from my family and friends in Michigan. I was in deep trouble, and I didn’t want to run away from it, not this time. There was too much at stake.

I called my mom back in Michigan and my cousin and, with their help, came up with a plan. I would check into a mental health hospital in New York for a weeklong, inpatient therapy program before I started my job at Good Morning America. I’d confront this monster once and for all.

Of course, the minute I checked in, I wanted to check myself out. I don’t belong here, I told myself. The other patients seemed really sick compared with me. They had serious mental illnesses, not my garden-variety depression. Some of these people, like my roommate, could barely speak. I wanted her to like me (I wanted everyone to like me), and she just ignored me, didn’t even say a word.

Then I had my first one-on-one session with my therapist, Dr. Wilson. He was clinical, matter-of-fact, not trying to be my parent or best friend. He wanted to get me out of this place, which I wanted too, and for the first time someone helped me connect the dots.

What was it about me that got me sucked into such emotional turmoil? Why did I feel that when anyone was angry or frustrated or sad, it was my fault and I needed to fix it? Why did I always end up going out with the wrong man while running away from men who weren’t natural disasters themselves? Therapists always make you talk about your childhood, and with Dr. Wilson I thought, Oh, here we go again. But he pushed me to untangle the feelings and needs buried deep inside me, and I came to a profound understanding I’d never had before.

My father and mother are wonderful people, and I’ve always felt loved by them, but their marriage didn’t work out. They got divorced when my brother and I were young, and both remarried. He and I spent most of our childhood bouncing from one household to the other with stepparents and half brothers and sisters added to the mix—no wonder I felt compelled to change apartments four times in the five years I lived in Chicago. Chaos felt normal.

The one source of stability was my father’s mother, Hilda Zuidgeest. My Oma (Dutch for “grandmother”). She and my grandfather had emigrated from Holland in the 1950s, after enduring the brutal Nazi occupation during WWII. What she suffered was horrendous, much of which she never talked about, yet she and my grandfather had come through the experience somehow stronger (like I said, I’ve seen this time and again with people who have suffered terrible loss).

She had a thick accent and a great sense of humor. “If you’re not Dutch, you’re not much,” she’d say with a smile. We went to her house for Sunday dinner. She would say grace, thanking God for the good food and our family. She usually put in a joke that made us chuckle, then we would eat. Roast chicken, mashed potatoes, cauliflower with cheese, salad, crepes, an apple pie that she got at the diner where she bused tables, all served on blue-and-white Dutch plates in her dining room with blue-and-white curtains, the cuckoo clock on the wall singing out the hours.

She was tall, strong, with curly white hair and a taste for craft-show sweatshirts with colorful appliqués. Most of all she was honest—intensely honest—with others, with herself, with me.

In my early twenties, I was engaged to a guy I knew I shouldn’t marry. I tried to stop the wedding once. I’d put all the stamped and addressed invitations in the mail, only to go back to the mailbox hours later and plead with the postman to let me have them back—God bless him, he did. Then my fiancé urged me to reconsider. I agreed to go ahead with the wedding, mostly because I didn’t want to hurt his feelings.

Three weeks before the wedding, Oma and I went cherry picking. We were going to use the cherries to make jam as favors for a wedding that I knew shouldn’t happen.

After an hour, Oma grabbed my basket with her weathered hands. “Let’s rest for a moment,” she said. We paused, then she looked at me, her blue eyes piercing. “If you don’t want to get married, you don’t have to,” she said.

Long past when any guests could fully refund their airfare or the bridesmaids could cancel their dresses or we could get the caterer’s deposit back, Oma spoke the truth. And that allowed me to recognize it. As much pain as it would cause others—I still can’t bear to recount the tearful conversation I had with my soon-to-be ex-fiancé—it was more important to be honest.

This was the message that Dr. Wilson tried to convey to me in the intense sessions that we had. Finally I understood. I would never get myself out of that dark, gloomy room of depression if I kept running away from any possible conflict, if I didn’t separate other people’s feelings from my own, if I insisted on pleasing others without paying attention to how I felt.

By the time I finished that inpatient hospital stay and started my new job at Good Morning America, I was a different person. There was a lot more work to do, and I met regularly with Dr. Wilson, learning how to look more deeply at my inner life, how to track emotional storms as closely as I did meteorological storms, how to be likable by liking myself first, following the Golden Rule, to love your neighbor as yourself.

Finally when the right man came around, I was ready—okay, I got scared off a couple times because Ben was so easygoing and joyful and loving and not given to chaos of any kind. We married in June 2014. We had our first child, our son Adrian, named for my Dutch grandfather, in December 2015. When he put his cheek against mine for the first time in the delivery room, I felt this deep and instant love.

One thing I want to do for Adrian and his baby brother is re-create those Sunday dinners at Oma’s. Not just the food—although I wish I could make those crepes like Oma did!—but the warmth, the trust, the dependability, the good humor and the gratitude in everything she said, everything she did.

Oma is no longer with us, but every evening I do something that I think she would understand. I make a list in my head of all the things that I’m grateful for. If there was a dark note in the day, I pay attention to it. If I’m angry or upset or frustrated in some way, I try to articulate why.

And when someone attacks me on social media, telling me how lame a segment was or how awful my clothes were or how ugly my hair is, I make a point of saying, “I’m sorry that’s how you feel….” I want to let that person know I value their opinion even if I don’t agree with it. And as Dr. Wilson taught me, I don’t absorb all their negativity.

Depression is different for everyone. Some people require more extensive therapy or hospitalization or medication. Some slip into dark places where they are tough to reach. What I appreciate about my journey of depression is that it has made me stronger, more compassionate, more understanding.

That’s what I want to tell anyone who has weathered one of life’s storms. You can get through it and become a better person. Those natural disasters have purpose, and with hard work—emotionally and spiritually—you can find gratitude in each of them. The clouds don’t last forever. They can’t and they won’t. That’s just how the atmosphere—and life—works.

For more inspiring stories, subscribe to Guideposts magazine.

The cover of Natural Disaster by Ginger Zee

Ginger Zee is the author of Natural
Disaster: I Cover Them, I Am One,
available in bookstores everywhere.

How Gary LeVox Learned to Live on Faith

Posted on March 11, 2026April 10, 2026 by Gary LeVo

A faint glow appeared on the dark horizon.

Nashville was close, I could feel it. Goosebumps ran up and down my arms.

I’d made this six-hour drive down I-71 from Columbus, Ohio, so many weekends to sing at karaoke bars with my cousin Jay, who lived in a tiny one-bedroom not far from Music Row.

But this time was different. I was moving to Nashville for good. Every time my truck hit a bump, I heard everything I owned rattle in the back, reminding me of what a huge leap I’d made. The biggest of my life.

I was 27, and knew success in Music City was a long shot. I left behind a job I’d had for 10 years, a job I loved, training the developmentally disabled to work and live independently. Now, nearing that distant glow, I thought about the clients I’d left.

My eyes still felt wet from the tears I’d shared with Ruth, whom I’d worked with for seven years. She’ll be okay. But will she ever understand how much she meant to me?

Music was big in my family. My grandfather taught me to sing my first song when I was seven, “Old Rugged Cross.” I recorded it on a little tape recorder, my high, quiet voice struggling to be heard over my grandfather’s guitar.

I got my first electric guitar for Christmas that year, and learned to play by watching my dad and my grandfather.

The first time I sang in public I was nine, in the Christmas pageant at church. Over the years, my little voice got big. I never took lessons; it was a gift from God. One that I wanted more and more to use.

By high school I knew I wanted to be a singer. Guitar strings and tapes weren’t free, though. Mom suggested I take a summer job where she worked, at the Ohio Department of Mental Retardation. My mom, grandmother and Jay’s mom had all worked there for decades.

“Follow me around, see how you like it,” Mom said.

That first day I watched Mom guide a man down a hallway, pushing a vacuum. She was training him for a janitorial job, but he kept missing spots. They repeated the hallway over and over. He’ll never get this right, I thought. How does Mom do it? But they kept at it.

Finally, at the end of the day, he cleaned the entire floor by himself. He was beaming. He hugged me, hugged Mom. I couldn’t help but smile, his joy was contagious.

I wasn’t finding much to smile about in music. After a stint in college, I played clubs around Columbus, but couldn’t make a living. I was frustrated.

In the meantime, I got a job doing what I’d watched Mom do so well. I trained seven to eight people a day, breaking down, step by step, each part of having a job: punching a time card, packing a lunch, basic conversation.

One of my clients got so nervous in front of people he couldn’t fill up a bottle of cleaning fluid without spilling it. But every day he tried harder. He didn’t let the small stuff get him down.

I didn’t stop dreaming about a music career, but I could see why Mom liked this job. The people are inspiring.

One day I was at the training center when a group of clients came back from the Special Olympics. I was about to turn back to what I was doing. But then I saw my client–the one who’d made all those spills.

That can’t be… He was proudly displaying a medal he’d won racing in front of a stadium full of strangers.

Wow. He’d put aside his fears. Just because he had challenges didn’t mean he would give up. That took a kind of faith I’d never seen before. He took a risk each day, hopeful he’d succeed. I was happy my client had done it. I longed to draw on that kind of courage myself.

At the end of my shift on Fridays, I’d drive to Jay’s place in Nashville. We wrote songs all night and performed them the next day. Often we played to empty rooms.

But one night at a popular karaoke bar, Lonnie’s Western Room in Printers Alley, the crowd was feeling it. I got the loudest applause. It felt good.

A guy in a cowboy hat approached. He offered a weekday gig at his guitar bar down the street. “I’d love to,” I said, “but I don’t live here.”

Jay shook his head at me on our way back to his place. “You have a gift, Gary. Can’t you tell God wants you to use it? You have to move down here.” Yeah, right. Jay had more talent than most, and he’d gotten a few gigs. But he wasn’t making much money at it. Besides, I was helping people.

I left Jay’s place headed back to Ohio, watching the lights of Nashville fade in my rearview mirror. Man, that stage felt good, I thought. Not just the energy from the crowd. It felt like I was in the right place.

Should I turn around? I shook it off. In Ohio I could see success in every person I helped. Who knew what I’d find in Nashville? I prayed for God to lead me.

I was being silly, I figured. God wanted me in Ohio. My clients needed me. Like Ruth. I had been her trainer, helping her be a greeter at Walmart. The first time I met her, she was too shy to even look up at me. Her confidence was shot. She even told me she’d never have anyone fall in love with her.

Over the years, though, I saw her become more comfortable in her own skin. That’s what’s important, not some impossible dream.

One day I met with Ruth, but she seemed distracted, staring off into space. “Is something wrong, Ruth?” I asked. She just shook her head. Was her confidence taking a nosedive again? “See ya tomorrow,” I said at the end of the day, but she darted out without a goodbye. I hoped she was okay.

A few days later, though, she practically bounced into the room. “What’s up, Ruth?” I asked.

“I have a boyfriend!” she shouted gleefully. That was why she’d seemed distracted the other day–it was the day she’d finally had the courage to talk to one of her coworkers, another of our clients. Yesterday he’d asked her out. Way to go, Ruth! I almost shouted.

This wasn’t just about getting a job, I realized. Being a janitor or a greeter–that’s not where my clients’ joy came from. A job was the first step toward living life like anybody else–that was Ruth’s dream. She’d taken a leap, and it paid off.

Seeing her so happy, I felt that pull again, the pull I’d tried to ignore for too long. How many of my clients had I seen get jobs, even when no one thought they could? Every day they put themselves out there, facing obstacles far greater than any I’d ever face.

They’re living their dreams. Is it time to start living mine? Maybe I was at this job for a reason, but not the reason I thought.

I wrestled with my decision for weeks. Telling Jay was easy. He was excited I’d decided to move in with him. I gave my two weeks notice, but telling my clients was the hardest. Finally came the day I knew I couldn’t just say, “See ya tomorrow.” I sat down with Ruth and told her I was leaving.

“When are you coming back?” she asked me.

“I don’t know,” I said. She cried, and I cried too. They were more than clients, I realized. They were friends. I was going to miss them all. “I couldn’t do this if it wasn’t for you,” I told Ruth.

Now, driving to Nashville at last with everything I owned in the back of my truck, I felt a feeling I hadn’t known before. I stopped feeling the bumps of the road as that glow on the dark horizon became speckled with the lights of the city.

The Grand Ole Opry, the Country Music Hall of Fame. I could picture them so clearly. This is where I’m going to make it, I thought. I was finally living on faith, like I’d seen my clients do. I felt like my prayers had been answered.

It was slow going in Nashville at first. We played in places so small, Jay had to set up his keyboard next to the cigarette machine. One night we played from 9 to 3 and left with 27 cents in the tip jar.

I worked two jobs to pay the rent, building swimming pools by day, delivering newspapers after our gigs. Jay and I lived off ramen noodles and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches–minus the jelly.

But my clients back in Ohio stayed in my heart and my mind. Slowly but surely, our shows got a following. One night our guitarist couldn’t make it, and Jay’s friend Joe Don joined in.

By the time we reached the chorus of our first song, “The Church on Cumberland Road,” I knew we had something special.

When we signed our record deal I finally got to feel the joy that my clients felt. I couldn’t have done it without them. I’d spent so much time teaching them how to fulfill their dreams, I hadn’t realized what they were teaching me.

Ruth showed me that sometimes it takes a leap of faith to get where you’re supposed to be.

Download your FREE ebook, The Power of Hope: 7 Inspirational Stories of People Rediscovering Faith, Hope and Love

How Faith and His Best Friend Helped This Husband in His Caregiving Journey

Posted on March 11, 2026April 10, 2026 by Kaylin Kaupish

When his wife, Nicole, was diagnosed with terminal ovarian cancer, Matthew Teague knew he couldn’t handle it all alone. Hospital visits, treatments, medications; Nicole would need consistent support. Plus, they had two young daughters to care for. How could Matthew do it all? Enter Dane Faucheux, a close friend of the couple since their college days.

After Nicole was diagnosed in 2013, Dane left his home in New Orleans to move in with the Teague family in Fairhope, Alabama. He stayed for more than a year.

Matthew Teague, played by Casey Affleck
in Our Friend; photo by Daymon Gardner

Matthew shared the details of their harrowing journey in a 2015 Esquire article which details the incredible sacrifices Dane made to help see them all through this tragic time.

“The medicine was a full-time job,” Matthew said in a recent interview. “The changing of IV bags, administering of pills… For months I didn’t sleep more than 15 minutes at a time. I was lapsing on things, like making sure my kids were brushing their teeth. Dane took that on.”

Dane came along on hospital visits, stayed with their daughters during the late-night hospital trips, did the cleaning, cooking, laundry, and grocery shopping. He was also there for Matthew. Dane would remind him to sleep or to eat and at one point even arranged a hiking trip for the two of them so Matthew wouldn’t burn out.

“Cancer has a way of stripping away your illusions about your abilities and your dignity,” says Matthew. “You are left with nothing but a request for help.”

Not only did Dane help—he went above and beyond. He left his life in New Orleans — his home, his job, his girlfriend, his friends—to help Matthew with the overwhelming tasks of caregiving. And he did it without being asked.

“What Dane did was selfless,” says Matthew. “It gets to the heart of the Christian story. An act of great sacrificial love.”

Yet even Dane couldn’t stop Nicole’s steady decline. No matter how many meals he prepared or late-night talks he engaged in, he couldn’t stop Matthew from losing his wife. In the face of Nicole’s passing, Matthew needed to turn to something else: his faith.

“When I think of my faith, I think about when my daughters were small and when I held them, how they would throw themselves around carelessly, knowing that I had them,” says Matthew. “But when there was a loud noise, they would grip onto me. During that time, I held onto God in that same desperate way.”

In the time before and after Nicole’s death, Matthew studied theology to better understand what his faith could teach him about this experience. In many ways, it was his only lifeline. And it offered something that can be scarce when a loved one has a terminal illness. Hope.

“Without faith, there would only be the prospect of oblivion,” he says. “Through faith, my girls and I have the hope of something on the other side. We have the certainty that their mom is in a place of great joy. Our faith was essential to our survival.”

The trio’s story gets to the heart of what it means to love someone and how faith in each other and God can carry people through even the most difficult times. For Matthew, none of it would have been possible without Dane.

“Every story needs a hero,” he says. “Dane is my hero. He just also happens to be my best friend.”

Since Nicole’s passing in 2014, Dane has returned to New Orleans and Matthew has been working on the movie about their incredible story. The two are close friends to this day. Our Friend, which opened in January, stars Casey Affleck as Matthew, Jason Segel as Dane, and Dakota Johnson as Nicole.

How Comedian Chonda Pierce Is Using Laughter to Heal

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

Comedian Chonda Pierce lives for making others laugh.

The five-time Emmy-nominated performer known for her fierce wit, southern charm and Christian values has spent over two decades on stage, poking fun at herself and connecting with her fans. It came as a surprise then when the star’s heart-breaking documentary Chonda Pierce: Laughing in the Dark released late last year.

A deeply personal, moving look at tragedy, mental illness and the resilience of the human spirit, Pierce’s film followed her family as they dealt with the death of the comedian’s mother, a painful separation with one of her children and the loss of her husband all over the course of three years.

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