Page 304 – Guideposts Articles

A Fun, Easy Craft that Will Reduce Your Plastic Bag Use

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

Single-use plastic bags are harder than we might think to banish from our daily lives. Even if we bring bags into the grocery store, we’re still likely to gather produce in plastic sacks, plus pick up a loaf of bread, frozen vegetables or any number of other items that are kept fresh inside plastic bags.

If you’re like me, you have a bag full of these plastic bags stashed somewhere in your pantry or garage. These can come in handy when you need to transport something and don’t want to bring a new bag into the world. But each of us can and should do more, at a time when oceanic scientists tell us that as many as 5.25 trillion macro and microplastic pieces are currently floating in the open ocean. Though these plastics do degrade, they do not biodegrade—they are here to stay.

My town’s cultural council has partnered with an artist-in-residence who is teaching us as a community to collect single-use plastic bags and create “plarn,” or plastic yarn with them. The plarn can be crocheted into artistic sculptures….but also into highly practical items like sleeping mats for the homeless, and, in a delicious twist, shopping bags.

Plarn is easy and fun to make. Here’s how.

Simply take a clean plastic bag and smooth it out flat. Fold it the long way in half and in half again. Cut off any handles plus the seam along the bottom of the bag—you should have a tube-shaped object in front of you. Now cut the tube into one-inch strips, each of which is a loop. When you’ve cut a pile of loops, link them end-to-end as you would with rubber bands. You can watch a 2-minute video like this one for easy-to-follow instructions.

Once you’ve created yarn, you can get out your crochet hook! You can make shopping bags, sleeping mats, rugs and other decorative treasures.

A craft project that can help protect the oceans? I’m on board. Are you?

A Faith Fueled by Forgiveness Bonds Victim and Assailant

Posted on March 10, 2026April 10, 2026 by Stephen Watt

I shifted on the couch, searching for some way to sit without my legs and back aching. I’d lived—if that was even the word—with this constant pain for four years now. But that was only part of what was bothering me tonight. I sat for an hour, pen poised above a sheet of white notebook paper inside a binder. I needed to write this letter, wanted to believe it could make a difference. But the words wouldn’t come.

It was Marian, my wife, who had urged me to do this. “You can’t go on keeping this inside of you,” she told me. There was plenty I wanted to say. I wanted the slimeball who did this to me to know my agony. I wanted to tell him what he’d taken from me—my job as a Wyoming state trooper, my self-worth, my very will to live.

But the worst was the anger, a raw, festering hatred that smoldered inside of me. If only I’d killed Mark Farnham when I’d had the chance. At least I’d have that satisfaction. So many times I’d asked God to take this burden from me. Instead, nearly every waking hour, and then at night in my dreams, I relived that day.

I was eating lunch at the Country Kitchen in Rock Springs, taking a break from working the fender benders occasioned by a March snow. I hadn’t bothered wearing my bulletproof vest. I knew I’d be spending most of the day writing accident reports.

My radio crackled: bank robber in a tan vehicle possibly headed up Highway 430. I swallowed the last bite of my chiliburger, extra onions, left my money on the table and rushed out.

Just past milepost 13 I saw a car matching the description and pulled it over. I hit the mike to call dispatch with my badge number: “Rock Springs, 105, a tan Mercu—”

BOOM! A bullet pierced the windshield and tore into my eye. It felt like it was on fire. I opened my door for cover, only to slump onto the passenger seat, my service revolver underneath me. “Shots fired! Officer down,” I screamed into the radio. I looked up. There was a man standing over me. Mostly I saw the barrel of his pistol. He pumped four more bullets into me, then ran.

Somehow I lurched out of the cruiser and emptied my .357 Magnum into the back of his car as it sped away. Blood was everywhere. Stay calm, I told myself, lowering myself to the pavement. I’d never been one to pray, but now I begged God to look after me and Marian. We’d been married only six months. We were just kids in our twenties. Let her know I love her, I prayed. I felt as if I were drifting away from myself. Then the world went dark.

I woke the next morning in intensive care. My father was holding my hand, Marian next to him. They told me the doctors had removed my eye, part of my liver and most of my intestines. One of the bullets was lodged against my spine and couldn’t be safely removed.

“It’s a miracle you’re alive, Stephen,” Marian said.

At first that’s how I saw it too. Two months later I was back on the force. A few bullets weren’t gonna keep me down. I came from tough Wyoming stock. I could take care of myself. But inside something was wrong. Something I didn’t know how to fix. Patrolling filled me with dread. My hands trembled when I pulled someone over. I’d never known such fear. It was overwhelming.

And so was the physical pain. I took pain pills to get through the day. At night I drank beer until I fell asleep. That’s when the night terrors would come: blood raining down on me. Every night I woke screaming and crying, Marian holding me. “I’m right here,” she’d say. “It’s going to be okay.” But I knew better.

Four months after he’d left me for dead on that highway, I sat in a courtroom and watched that bank robber, Mark Farnham, plead guilty to attempted second-degree murder in exchange for a life sentence. I started shaking with rage. A life sentence! Wasn’t that what he had given me? He deserved to die for what he’d done! One of my shots had hit him in the shoulder. If only I’d had more time to aim…

One evening I pulled over a motorist for speeding. I went to the car and asked for his license. He reached behind him and I was sure I saw a .44 Magnum in his hand. I drew my weapon. “Get out of the car,” I ordered, my revolver inches from his head. I looked again. Not a gun, a wallet. He’d simply done what I’d ordered him to do.

That was it. I went on disability. I wasn’t up to being a cop, physically or mentally. Day after day I hobbled around the house, mostly to get another beer from the fridge. What good was I to anyone like this? I started asking myself. Why hadn’t God just let me die that day? I was desperately depressed. I met with the police chaplain. I told him about the anger and the pain and how hopeless my life seemed. “Have you forgiven Mark Farnham?” he asked.

Forgiven? He had to be kidding. Forgiveness wasn’t even on the table. I could only hope that somehow Farnham was suffering as much as I was.

The chaplain’s eyes searched mine. “I don’t mean with words,” he continued. “You need to forgive him in your heart. That’s when you’ll find the healing you’re looking for.”

That evening I told Marian the chaplain’s advice. “Forgive that guy? Have you ever heard anything more ridiculous?” I said.

She looked at me for a long moment. “All I know is you’ve got to do something,” she finally said. “This isn’t getting any easier.”

Then, out of the blue, Marian joined a church. “I want to meet some people,” she said. “I love you, Stephen, but we can’t go through this alone.” Every Sunday she would come home and tell me what the minister had said about God’s love and the power of prayer. “I wish you’d come with me,” she said. Why not? It’s not like I had anything else to do. And I wanted to be with my wife.

It felt good to get out of the house. The congregation was welcoming. No funny looks at the man with the eye patch and the limp. I wanted to believe the minister when he said we could turn our cares over to God. But even me? Surely he meant people who hadn’t been shot five times and had their future stripped away from them.

I went back, mainly for Marian. One Sunday she walked to the front to get baptized. I was stunned. I saw a change in her. She was stronger, more hopeful. “We’re going to get through this,” she told me so many nights. “God isn’t through with you.” So that Easter I got baptized too. It couldn’t hurt, right? But by that afternoon my body was aching, my stomach still churning with emotions I couldn’t handle.

One Sunday the minister preached on the redeeming power of forgiveness. “Don’t do it for the other person. Do it for God, who forgives all men.”

After church Marian asked me, “Do you think you’ll ever be able to forgive Mark Farnham?”

“How can I,” I snapped, “when I always feel like this?”

But deep inside a feeling took hold, as if God himself had just thrown me a lifeline in that sermon. “What happened to you that day was a crime,” Marian said. “What’s happened to you since is a tragedy. God made sure those bullets didn’t kill you. But your anger is going to do what those bullets didn’t.”

She got me a binder, a piece of paper and a pen. “Put it in words,” she said. “Let it all go. Give it up to God. He’s the only one who can handle it.”

But what to say to Mark Farnham that I hadn’t already said a million times in my head—that I hated him and blamed him for everything that had gone wrong in my life. All at once I was back on that highway, bleeding, rolling on my back, asking God for help. But was I willing to accept it now when I needed it as much—no, even more—than that day I nearly died? Physically surviving was just the beginning. Now it was my spiritual survival that was in critical condition.

My pen poised above the paper, I felt the most incredible sensation, the anger leaving, a transfusion of… Dear Mark, I just want to share my joy with you, I wrote, the words coming fast. If you haven’t already, won’t you join me in Christ’s love?

That was it. That was the secret! The way to defeat hate is with love. It was as if by extending a hand I’d loosened the grip inside me. My body hurt, but there was inner peace, a comfort in knowing God was still helping and had always been even in my darkest struggles.

I dropped my note in the mail. I didn’t expect to hear anything back. That wasn’t the point. The world seemed a different place. That morning I marveled at the beauty of the sunrise and the power of the good Wyoming wind. Felt the soothing touch of my wife’s hand and heard the melody of her laugh. God’s blessings too numerous to count.

A few days later a thick envelope arrived from the state penitentiary, an 18-page letter from Mark Farnham. He told me how at the age of 24 he’d moved west, lured by the prospect of good money in the Wyoming oil fields. But he’d gotten addicted to cocaine and soon owed twenty-five thousand dollars to drug dealers. He panicked, bought a pistol at a pawnshop and robbed a bank. Something snapped when I pulled him over. Fury and fear took over. He would live with the guilt of that day until he died, he said. “I don’t deserve the gift you’ve given me, Stephen.”

Later that year I went to a revival at the prison. Mark was wearing blue jeans and a white T-shirt. Standard prison gear. He looked up at me, squinting in the sun from behind glasses. Not a monster at all. Just a guy who’d struggled on his own, gotten scared and didn’t know where to turn. Like me.

We wrapped each other in a huge bear hug, the hatred I’d once felt now gone, vanquished by the love of a God who doesn’t give up on us even when we give up on ourselves. “I’m glad I didn’t kill you,” I said.

“Not half as glad as I am that you’re alive,” he said.

That was nearly 30 years ago. I’m proud to count Mark as one of my best friends. I visit him often. Every year I go before the parole board and ask for his release. I don’t know that it will ever happen. But I’m forever thankful for the reprieve we’ve already been granted. I’ve learned that only God holds the key to the prison in our hearts.

Download your FREE ebook, Mysterious Ways: 9 Inspiring Stories that Show Evidence of God’s Love.

Advice from a Waffle House

Posted on March 10, 2026April 10, 2026 by Barbara McCurry

A few minutes before nine Saturday morning. I straighten my apron and scan the table.

Two tubs of butter? Three bottles of maple syrup? A 10-cup coffee pot? Yup, all set.

I turn over the sign on the front door: “Barb’s Best Ever Waffles, Open.” Soon, folks will be arriving for an all-you-can-eat breakfast.

A waitress at a waffle house, I’m not. But each Saturday morning I welcome friends, family and neighbors into my kitchen for coffee, conversation and all the crispy, buttery waffles they can eat.

It all goes back to when my husband, Gil, and I were raising our four children in Van Nuys, California. Oh, how we cherished Saturday mornings! It seemed like the only time we weren’t rushing off somewhere.

Weekday mornings were hectic, making a quick breakfast for our two boys and two girls, packing their lunches, getting them off to school on time. Sunday mornings were for church.

Saturday mornings, though, were all about long, leisurely breakfasts. The kids only wanted one thing: waffles. Extra time in the morning meant I could play with different ingredients like Bisquick, millet flour and buttermilk.

One morning I set a plate of waffles down only to look up and see four sets of hands grabbing for the last one. That’s when I knew my recipe had turned out just right. We’d linger at the table, laughing, sharing stories—the kids with syrup dripping from their chins.

“They look like hummingbirds,” Gil and I would joke. Time seemed to stand still. There was no sense of urgency, nowhere to be except with each other.

Over the years, though, a lot of things changed. The children grew up, moved out and started their own families. Then, in my fifties, I lost my beloved Gil to cancer. The house seemed so lonely without him.

I knew I had to get out, so I joined nearly every club in town: the women’s golf team, the welcome wagon, the church choir. Anything to get me around people. I made an effort to chat more with my neighbors. And I never stopped making waffles. Sometimes my kids or grandkids would join me; other times, I’d whip up a batch just for me. That’s how Saturdays were for a while.

Then, one day it hit me: Maybe I should invite some of these new friends over for waffles. What better way to not feel so alone? I asked several women from the choir. We had a great time that Saturday. That gave me the courage to invite a few more members of my church the following week.

Well, word of mouth must’ve spread, because more and more folks turned up each Saturday.

“I’ve heard you make the best waffles in town,” they’d say. It opened the door (literally) to a Saturday morning neighborhood tradition, one that my new husband, Ernie, happily joined in too. Six years ago I moved to a new part of town, and it’s followed me here too.

I never know how many people to expect (record attendance is 27), but I like surprises. The regulars choose their favorite mugs and help themselves to coffee or juice, and the newcomers seem to make themselves at home pretty quickly.

So far, I’ve worn out three waffle irons. Most folks eat two waffles. The record is seven, held by my athletic grandson, Will, who usually follows breakfast with surfing (it’s a wonder he doesn’t sink out there!).

My guests are like family. One neighbor who comes with her son, says, “You know, my son and I talk more during your waffle breakfast than we do all week.”

Another couple and their gardener patched up their differences in my kitchen and parted as friends. Guests have traveled from as far away as Germany, Japan, Bhutan.

A new family just moved in down the block. I found their two young sons on my doorstep one Saturday. “Are you the lady who gives out free waffles?” they asked. I couldn’t help but smile.

Everyone washes their own dishes, and some stay and sit a spell. They share their aches and pains, their joys and sorrows, their prayers. Every now and then, I stop and listen. To the voices floating through the kitchen, the laughter, the young voices mixed with old. Brings back memories of those sweet, unhurried Saturdays when my children were small.

Come noon time, I turn over the “Barb’s Best Ever Waffles” sign on the door and say a prayer of thanks. For Saturdays, for waffles and for the fellowship they provide.

I just turned 94, and serving others really keeps me going. When you open your heart and your home, you make room for more than just guests. You let the blessings in too.

Try making Barb’s Best Waffles yourself!

Advice for Success: Kick!

Posted on March 10, 2026April 10, 2026 by alarson

Ten years ago, Jimmy Walicek and David Lowry were out with their friends one night and got to wondering if there was a fun way they could meet new people. Most of the guys had made close friends in college through their coed fraternity, but in the working world the only social outlet seemed to be softball, which often turned super-competitive and excluded non-jocks.

Then somebody mentioned kickball, “and the idea went around like a blazing fire,” recalls Jimmy. “We tested it out with friends and found it was just as fun as we remembered.” In just a month, 150 people were playing. “Apparently we hit a nerve,” says David. “Turns out a lot of people wanted an inclusive post-collegiate social group.”

At first they managed the club during off-hours from their jobs—information technology for Jimmy and public administration for David. After three years, though, “a lot of people” had ballooned to 400. So the pair, along with pal Johnny LeHane, decided to organize and run the World Adult Kickball Association full-time.

While there’s “Adult” in the organization’s name, there are decidedly kid-like aspects to the game that they’ve maintained. For instance, do-overs are allowed if both teams agree. The founders try to keep the competition low-key and foster fun by making post-game parties part of the package.

Leaving good jobs to play kickball might seem crazy to most people, but for David and Jimmy, it has made a lot of sense. Now WAKA has a staff of 70 to organize the 32,000 registered players in 23 states and is even gaining popularity in the Middle East, thanks to a couple of kickballs the guys sent over to our troops in Iraq to help boost morale. WAKA supports kids too—each division picks a children’s charity to donate time and money to throughout the season. To date, WAKA teams have contributed more than $135,000 to nonprofits.

Besides making friends, getting exercise and giving, there’s something else happening on the kickball fields of America. Dating! David says he’s been to at least a dozen kickball weddings and is now hearing about their kickball babies.

“For me it’s been the ability to do something I’m passionate about,” says David, WAKA’s executive director. “Making a difference in people’s lives, knowing this organization helps people socialize, network and sometimes even get married. It’s the modern-day version of golf. It’s relaxed. The whole thing is funny to begin with.”

David and Jimmy’s Tips

1. Realize there are many ways to achieve your goals.
We wanted to help make people’s lives better, easier and more enjoyable. We never envisioned kickball would be the way to do it.

2. Determine what you want as an end result.
Doing so will open your eyes to the many roads that can take you there.

3. Impossible is an opinion.
You’re the one who decides what’s possible.

A Different Kind of Thanksgiving

Posted on March 10, 2026April 10, 2026 by Debra McKay

“I think you should pick up Daniel from play school,” my husband said to me over the phone. “There’s a storm on the way.”

I didn’t see any signs of a storm. But since Dennis had insisted, I drove to pick up three-year-old Daniel, taking along eight-year-old Drew. By the time we got back home, 10-year-old David was doing his homework. Although the sky was gray, the weather wasn’t looking all that threatening. What had Dennis been so alarmed about?

I had some phone calls to make before dinner, to remind women of a meeting at my house the next morning. As I dialed, I looked about contentedly. The antique dining table and chairs had been polished to a fine glow. I’d taken out our best china, crystal and holiday napkins, and arranged them on the orange linen tablecloth. I felt proud of our nice house and all our fine possessions. Thanksgiving was one week away. How much I had to be thankful for!

As my first call was answered, the lights began to flicker. On the other end of the line my friend said, “Debby, the storm is here. We should get off the phone.” We hung up quickly, and I called the boys to help me go through the house and turn off lights and unplug appliances.

Suddenly the power went off. The house was plunged into darkness.

I took two candles from my Thanksgiving centerpiece, lit them and herded the boys into the den. But as we stepped in the doorway, both candles abruptly went out.

And then I heard a terrible roaring outside, a thumping, like a high-speed train thundering over joints in the tracks. A tornado!

“Run to the bathroom,” I told the boys. “Run!”

David took off, and I stumbled after him, shoving the two younger boys ahead of me. By the time I got to the bathroom, David was already facedown in the tub. I rushed to open the window, as I’d been told to do if a tornado struck, and as I shoved it up, the wind sucked the slatted blinds completely out through the opening. Now the noise was unbearable.

Drew and Daniel had run back out into the hall in a panic. I went after them, pushed them down and threw myself over them. “Pray, kids,” I cried. “Ask God to protect us.”

There was a deafening explosion. My long hair was lifted upward. Pellets of some hard substance stung my body, and my mouth was filled with the taste of dirt. A strong smell of pine burned my nostrils.

And then everything was quiet. We lay there, too frightened to move, until I dared to open my eyes and look. Over my head the sky was filled with wild slices of lightning. The roof was gone.

Daniel and Drew squirmed beneath me. “Help me get up,” I said, hugging them both. There were three doors just over our heads, and in a flash of lightning I saw that a big bureau from one of the bedrooms was now next to us in the hall. We kicked and dislodged the doors enough to crawl out.

“David!” I called out. “Where are you?”

No answer.

In the bathroom, all I could make out was a mound of bricks, ceiling tile and insulation. David could have been sucked out through the window just the way the blinds had been! I screamed his name.

There was a rustle, then a crash of plaster. Under all the junk moved a leg in red jogging pants. “Mom, I’m okay,” a voice called.

All that remained of our house was the small uncovered space, about 8 by 10 feet, whose walls surrounded me and my children. We’d been shielded from the flying debris by the doors that had fallen over us.

Through the driving rain I could see that other houses were still standing. Electric wires hung like spiderwebs. But no one was stirring.

We picked our way through chunks of brick and pieces of wood, across the street to the home of our neighbors, the O’Donnells. With both fists I beat on the door.

From inside I heard a muffled voice, then Martha swung the door open and we grabbed each other and clung together. She and her children had been huddled in a closet. We stared in disbelief at our neighborhood. Many homes were damaged, but mine was completely destroyed.

Slowly other neighbors came out. Rescue vehicles arrived. Dennis drove up and rushed to throw his arms around me and the boys. Together we surveyed our property—what was left of it. In the debris I could see the shattered remains of crystal and china, the splintered remnants of antique furniture. I was devastated. “Dennis, there’s nothing left!” I wailed, bursting into tears.

Still in shock, we went to Wal-Mart to buy some dry clothes, and I got a look at myself in a mirror. My hair was matted and almost gray from the insulation, glass fragments and pine needles that had blown into it. (Before hitting us, the tornado had roared through a grove of evergreen trees.) Dirt was ground into the pores of my skin.

“We were in the tornado,” I explained to the cashier. “Will you take a check?”

“Sure,” she smiled. “Why don’t you make it out for a little extra? You folks can probably use the cash right now.”

We were dirty and wet, but the clerks could not have been nicer. The manager kept the store open past closing—and gave us a discount on all we bought.

From there we went to Days Inn, the first motel we found that still had electricity. The desk clerk promptly advised us that we would be their guests at no charge.

From the motel I telephoned Charles Freeman, our pastor, and told him of our plight. His first words were, “What can we do for you? What do you need?”

“We need people to help us go through the ruins to see what we can salvage . . .” I told him, my voice breaking.

“We’ll be there,” he promised.

By 8:15 the next morning our friends from church had arrived, along with my husband’s coworkers. Soon some three dozen volunteers were sifting through the mess that had once been our home.

The women at church cooked us a hot dinner and arranged a place for us to stay, stocking an out-of-town friend’s house with everything we’d need. They outfitted us with clothes and purchased backpacks so the children could go back to school.

Strangers came with fruit baskets, casseroles and cookies, pans and kitchen utensils. They brought us clothes and even remembered to bring hangers. A friend, knowing of my love for cooking, gave me a complete set of pots. One brought me a purse. “Every woman needs a purse,” she said. In it she put a pair of earrings, a lipstick, a scarf, and a handkerchief attached to a note that said, “Debby, this is for all those tears.”

As friends and neighbors came forth to lend and give us plates and eating utensils, even the simplest cracked dish looked wonderful. One family even gave us a dinette set they were no longer using. I looked at our beautiful antique dining room furniture lying in splinters and thought how grateful we were to have that dinette set.

We all went to my father’s for Thanksgiving that year. It wasn’t the kind of big to-do I’d been planning the week before, but it was the best Thanksgiving we’d ever had. How much I had to be thankful for!

A Different Kind of Strong

Posted on March 10, 2026April 10, 2026 by Cory Procter

I squeezed my 300-pound frame into the seat at Texas Stadium. Far below me my Dallas Cowboys teammates were on the field warming up to face the Kansas City Chiefs, a critical mid-December game. It killed me not to be down there.

I glanced at the guy to my left, frail, thin, a cane resting against his leg. He put out a bony, calloused hand that vanished in mine. “Ryan Odens,” he said. “You look like you’ve played some ball.”

“Actually, I’m an offensive lineman for the Cowboys,” I said. “Just on the practice squad. Coach doesn’t even let us on the sideline on game day.”

“Man, wait’ll I tell everybody back in Iowa I sat next to a Cowboy,” he said.

I forced a smile. His enthusiasm only reminded me how far I had to climb. Fourteen weeks into my rookie season, I hadn’t played a single down. I knew what I had to do: get stronger, hit harder, read the blitz quicker.

I tried not to lose hope. But already I was on my second team. Dallas had just picked me up from Detroit. If I failed here, next season I’d be watching the games on TV with Mom and Dad in Gig Harbor, Washington. Would I ever get to start in the NFL?

Dallas got the ball first. The Cowboys QB that day, Drew Bledsoe, took the snap and threw a bullet to a wide receiver streaking downfield. Ryan struggled to his feet with his cane and pumped his free hand in the air. “All right!” he yelled.

Man, Ryan was a big-time fan. He’d hop up and yell every time the Cowboys made a big play. Whatever had happened with his legs didn’t keep him from showing his spirit. We talked between downs. Finally, I said, “Do you mind my asking what happened to you?”

“Rolled my truck five years ago going around a curve,” he said. “Broke my spine, five vertebrae. The doctors said I’d never walk again. Turned out it was the best thing that ever happened to me.”

Just then a Dallas running back broke free for the big first down and we never got back to the accident. The Cowboys scored the winning TD with 26 seconds to go. We stood to leave.

“Let me give you my number,” Ryan said. “If you’re ever in Iowa give me a call. I’d love to show you my farm.”

“Sure,” I said, giving him my number. Iowa? I didn’t expect I’d be passing through there anytime real soon.

Day after day I put in extra hours in the weight room, Alabama blasting on my iPod. Then I’d go back to my apartment and pore over the playbook until I fell asleep exhausted.

Was I making any headway? I was going up against the best of the best. Even my prayers seemed to fall short of the mark.

The Cowboys lost two of the last three games and missed the playoffs, not that I had anything to do with it. I flew back to Detroit to clean out the apartment I’d rented there. I’d just tossed the last box in my car when my cell phone rang.

“Hey man,” a voice on the other end said, “it’s Ryan Odens. From Iowa. We met at the Cowboys-Chiefs game. I figure you’re heading home soon. Why don’t you swing by here on the way?”

“Uh, well, I guess I could,” I said. “Just for the night.”

I was bleary-eyed when I pulled up to his house in Sibley, Iowa, after 12 hours on the road. Ryan met me out on the porch. “I hope you’re hungry,” he said. “We’re going to my mom’s for dinner.”

He hobbled down the stairs to his truck, his cane barely enough to support his wobbly legs. But he just kept at it. I climbed in the passenger side. “What do you grow here?” I asked.

“Corn and beans,” he said. “My brother and I farm about twelve hundred acres. I couldn’t have done it without Easter Seals. They paid for a hoist so I could get back on my tractor.”

He popped a CD in the player. Alabama’s “Can’t Keep a Good Man Down” pulsed through the speakers—one of the songs I lifted weights to. I thought about how difficult it was to push myself day after day. Where does this guy find the strength?

We got to his mom’s house. Ryan opened the front door to a living room full of people. His mom came in from the kitchen. “We’re so glad you could make it,” she said. “I hope you like roast beef and mashed potatoes.”

“How’d you know?” I said.

We sat down and Ryan said grace. I took some meat from the platter, then took a bite. It practically melted in my mouth.

“So what’s it like being on the Cowboys?” someone asked. It felt odd, being the center of attention. Who knew if I’d even make the team next year?

But they didn’t seem to care. Soon they had me talking about growing up in Gig Harbor, my dad’s veterinary practice and his creaky old Fleetwood.

It was close to midnight when Ryan and I headed back to his place. I was dragging, and Ryan had to be tired too but he was belting out the words to “Forty Hour Week.” Amazing how he kept going and going. There was something I’d been meaning to ask him…

“That thing you said back in Dallas about the accident being a good thing,” I said. “What did you mean?”

He was quiet for a moment. “I thought if I just pushed myself hard enough I’d walk again,” he said. “But I couldn’t. I wasn’t near strong enough, physically or mentally. It had been three months. I didn’t know where to turn.

"One night I cried out to God. I said, ‘Show me you’re really there.’ The next day I took my first step in the therapy pool. Mom was there, like she’d been all along. My family, so many people in town—they gave me so much support.

"A few months later I was driving a tractor again. It was tough. Still is. But I know I’m not doing it alone.”

I peered out the window into the darkness. All these months I’d been comparing myself to pro football players—huge, powerful behemoths. And yet it was this skinny Iowa farmer that I felt a real connection with.

The next morning I woke early and went out onto the porch. The crisp winter air felt fresh and invigorating, inviting. Before long Ryan came out. “Well, you’ve got a good day for driving.”

“I was thinking I’d stay another night if it’s okay with you,” I said.

Ryan beamed. “That’s great!” he exclaimed. “But I hope you don’t mind me putting you to work later on.”

After breakfast we drove out to a field with a section of broken fencing. Ryan grabbed a bent metal pole, straining to wrestle it out of the ground, his legs bowing painfully. “Let me get that, Ryan,” I said.

“Nah, I can handle it,” he said, grunting. He finally extracted it. “You drive the new one in.” No problem. Then we spliced new barbed wire between the poles. “Ready for another?” Ryan asked, his breathing labored.

I looked at him in wonderment. Everything he did was a struggle, even walking, standing up. Things I took for granted.

Ryan never quit. He had a different kind of strength, a strength that didn’t come from working out and weight lifting, but from faith and determination, the things I needed most. It wasn’t an accident that we’d met.

I ended up spending a week in Sibley. There’s always something to do on a farm. But mostly I just wanted to hang with Ryan, two good old boys with a lot more in common than meets the eye.

I just finished my seventh year in the NFL, the last two with Miami. I missed last season with a knee injury. I have another uphill battle ahead of me.

I’m not worried, though. I love football, but it’s not the most important thing. A year ago I married a woman I met in Dallas. Ryan was at the wedding. He’s my best friend and a constant source of inspiration.

It’s funny. I wasn’t where I wanted to be that day at Texas Stadium. But God put me exactly where I needed to be.

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

A Delightful Moment in the Garden—When to Move On

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

By early July, daffodil season feels like it was eons ago—yet it’s one of my favorite annual moments in my life as the caretaker of a patch of these bright, sunny spring bulbs.

Why?

Because just a few weeks ago, once the blooms had either faded or found their way into cheerful tabletop bouquets, I took a few minutes to knot off my daffodils’ wilting greenery into pleasing little bundles. I was neatening up my garden as early summer plants started to emerge, while also enabling my daffodils to experience their full annual growth-dormancy cycle so they put on a spectacular show next year.

And so, by early July, I get to wander around my garden looking at my knotted daffodil greens, waiting for the right moment for the most satisfying early summer task—removing a fat handful of weeds in one light tug. Once I see slender streaks of brown leaves woven among the pale greenery, I know: it’s time.

Reaching down, I grasp each knot like I would pick up the handle of a purse. Then I pull, firmly but without having to “put my back into it.” When the bundle is ready, it will let go of its parent-bulb with a pleasing pop of release, and I’ll find myself holding a long mane of leaves ready for the yard waste or compost bin. Take a look at the video below to see how it’s done.

Interestingly, even if your daffodil bulbs are all the same variety, not all your bundles will be ready to pull at the same time. If the knots don’t let go easily, gently release your hand, leave the bundles in place and look forward to checking back in after a couple of days.

I always bring a reflective mindset to this annual task. I love the juxtaposition of letting go, removing and clearing away what’s no longer vibrant, while also knowing I’m preserving the health and promise of these beautiful bulbs to experience the rest they need, and then return to full glory when their season comes around again.

As I work my way through my garden, I ask myself, what will I let go of to ensure that I’ll keep growing when a new day dawns?

What will you?

A Delayed Greeting Card Opened Her Eyes to the Blessings of Marriage

Posted on March 10, 2026April 10, 2026 by Pat Butler Dyson

I woke up smiling. On this day, 41 years ago, my husband, Jeff, and I promised to love and cherish each other till death do us part. It was our forty-first wedding anniversary!

Who could forget our wonderful fortieth anniversary celebration last year? The fortieth is the ruby anniversary. Our four children and eight grandchildren gathered at our favorite Italian restaurant. Delicious food, funny and affectionate toasts, a scrumptious cake. Jeff gave me a ruby drop necklace. Just magical.

This morning, I reached for my sweet man to give him an anniversary kiss. He was already out of bed. I smelled coffee. Of course! He was bringing me coffee in bed. I settled back on the pillows and waited.

And waited.

I heard kitchen noises, but they didn’t sound like a china cup and saucer being arranged on a tray next to a croissant and a vase containing a single red rosebud.

I got up and went to the kitchen, just in time for Jeff to brush past me, giving me a quick kiss that landed somewhere between my nose and my eye.

“Gotta run, babe. Big project. Might be late tonight. Happy anniversary!”

With that, my man headed for the other love of his life—his hardware business. Our family owned a regional hardware chain. Our son ran the business now, but Jeff still went to work every day.

I suppose I should be grateful he remembered our anniversary at all. Celebrations were not Jeff’s strong suit. He splurged when it counted, like that ruby necklace. Most of the time, he was a hardware man.

Besides, who cared about a forty-first anniversary? A totally unremarkable number. I poured myself a cup of (now cold) coffee and idly googled “forty-first wedding anniversary.”

That was a mistake. There was no official symbol. Some people said it was land…as in reserving a burial plot?

There was no traditional gift, no flower, no official color. Suggestions for celebrating included “downsizing your home” and “planning for retirement.” Really?

I consoled myself by thinking of past anniversaries. Our tenth anniversary (tin), we were chasing toddlers, changing diapers. We celebrated by reheating cold pizza in tinfoil.

Ten years later, Jeff borrowed a motorboat and took me on a river cruise, complete with picnic lunch. We spent the night at a hotel on the water, and Jeff gave me a pair of earrings with emeralds—the gemstone for twentieth anniversaries.

For our pearl anniversary (30), we returned to San Antonio, where we’d spent our honeymoon. We stayed in the same hotel and ate at the same restaurant where we’d eaten our first meal together as man and wife. Once again, Jeff went all out on a gift, a strand of cultured pearls.

I resigned myself to nothing special at all happening on this anniversary. I answered emails and organized items for an upcoming church garage sale. I kept my phone nearby in case one of the kids or someone else called to say congratulations.

No one did. I couldn’t blame them. Like I said, who cares about a forty-first anniversary?

Jeff and I were married on June 14, 1981. That whole first year, Jeff and I gave each other a gift on the fourteenth of each month. So romantic! That stopped when the babies arrived.

I thought about the decades that followed. The joys of family life but also the hardships. Our third child, Blake, died of meningitis when he was three years old. The pain of that loss never went away. Just a few years ago, it was compounded when our daughter-in-law Erin had complications during childbirth and our grandson Welles was stillborn.

Owning a business is hard. Jeff worked constantly, and money was always an issue. We didn’t take expensive vacations or indulge in big purchases. We made our own fun here in our suburban neighborhood.

We nursed parents through old age. Wrangled two teen boys and two teen girls. There were plenty of times when we felt like yoked mules, just trudging along. We had our faith, and we had each other. That sustained us.

Maybe the time for wedding anniversary celebrations was behind Jeff and me. The fortieth was wonderful, and it was up to the good Lord whether we made it to 50. Probably I should let it go.

I went out to fetch the mail, still hoping at the back of my mind that someone had sent us a card.

There was a card! It was from a dear friend in West Virginia. I decided to wait till Jeff got home to open it.

Jeff dragged in the door after dark, tired after a long day. I hadn’t come up with dinner yet, so we sat down and opened the card.

It was beautiful. On the front was a picture of a gift box bursting with flowers, a bottle of champagne and two heart-shaped balloons. Inside was an intricate pop-up of a vintage bicycle, loaded with more flowers and heart balloons.

“Thinking of you!” my friend had written inside.

“I love it,” said Jeff. “Our first date was on bicycles, remember?”

“We rode to Federico’s for Mexican food,” I said. “I thought there would be mariachi music. Instead, Manuel serenaded us with ‘Me and Bobby McGee.’”

“And I bought you a rose,” said Jeff.

“We rode back to my house, and you sat in the yellow rocker and told me your life story. Then I told you mine.”

“That did it for me,” said Jeff. “I was in love.”

“Took me a little longer,” I joked.

“Federico’s closed a long time ago, didn’t it?” Jeff mused.

“I think it’s a laundromat now.”

“Wish we could relive that first date,” said Jeff.

“We can still go out for Mexican food,” I said.

Elena’s, one of our favorites, was packed. We waited 15 minutes before getting a table—by the bathrooms. Crowd chatter was so loud, we could barely hear each other. And no candle in sight.

Jeff reached across the table for my hand, and our eyes met. Just magical.

“What’s been the best part of these past 41 years?” I asked.

“Your cooking,” said Jeff, and we laughed. I’m a terrible cook.

“Your turn,” he said.

“Your predictability,” I answered more seriously. “You’re always the same. I never have to wonder about your mood or how you will be.”

“Sounds dull,” said Jeff.

“The opposite,” I said. “You’re steadfast. I can always count on you, no matter what.”

“I got you a card, but I didn’t get a chance to write in it yet,” said Jeff.

“Same here,” I said. “I was feeling let down that this year’s not special like last year.”

“Feels pretty special to me,” Jeff said. “I can’t imagine living these last 41 years with anyone but you.”

Those words, and everything they represented, were the gift I had been waiting for. God had blessed Jeff and me with a good life together. Our marriage itself was the celebration.

The next day, I called up my friend to thank her for the lovely anniversary card that she’d sent.

“Anniversary card?” she said. “It was just a ‘thinking of you’ card. You know how I like to send cards. I mailed it weeks ago. It must have gotten lost.”

“Lost?” I said. “Nope. It arrived right on time.”

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Acts of Kindness That Only God Sees

Posted on March 10, 2026April 10, 2026 by Julia Attaway

As I left our apartment building, I noticed the planted area in front had gotten a bit weedy. The neighbor who normally tends to the mini-garden is away on vacation. I stopped and pulled a few handfuls of wood sorrel and a bit of encroaching crab grass and went on my way, depositing the plant debris in the trash can around the corner. Chances are no one will notice except me. Well, and God.

I took the dog out that evening and I brought a handful of extra plastic grocery bags. Someone—I don’t know who—put up plastic holders for bags, in case someone walking a dog forgot to bring a poop-scooper. There are no assignments for refilling the containers; it’s something people do because they can. Chances are no one notices except the person doing it. Well, that person and God. And the person who would have been stuck with nothing to clean up after his dog.

It’s been good for me to get in the habit of doing simple, thoughtful acts no one sees. It weakens my need for approval from others, keeps me aware that I can make the world incrementally better and sharpens my eye for seeing the opportunities God puts in my path. It trains my heart in thoughtfulness. And if by chance someone does catch me in the midst of doing a quiet kindness, it may open their eyes to ways they, too, can make the world better.

A Christmas Lesson in Gratitude

Posted on March 10, 2026April 10, 2026 by Jackie Clements-Marenda

She was by far the most beautiful doll I’d ever seen. And she could talk.

“I hope Santa will bring me one for Christmas,” my friend Maryanne whispered. The two of us had our faces pressed up to the toy store window that separated us from the Chatty Cathy doll inside. “She’s the only thing I wrote down on my list.”

Chatty Cathy was on every young girl’s Santa list that Christmas. But I didn’t tell Maryanne what I knew for a fact: Santa wasn’t real. I remembered how disappointed I’d felt when a babysitter spilled the beans, and I didn’t want Maryanne to feel that way too. Knowing the truth about Santa did have one advantage, how-ever. It gave me the idea to search the house for presents that might be hidden away for me until Christmas morning. Between my parents and the relatives who lived with us in our Brooklyn brownstone, there was no shortage of places to look. In fact, deep in the back of Aunt Thecla’s closet I’d found my Chatty Cathy doll. Bingo! On Christmas morning, she would be mine. I could hardly wait. Until then, Chatty Cathy would remain my secret.

“What are y’all looking at?”

Maryanne and I didn’t even have to turn around to know who had come up behind us at the store window. No one else in our neighborhood had an accent like Jenna Lee’s. She and her family had only arrived from South Carolina a few months ago, without her father. I didn’t know the particulars, only that they had relocated under difficult circumstances. Her mother worked long hours as a waitress, which often left Jenna Lee to take care of her four younger sisters.

“We’re looking at Chatty Cathy,” Maryanne said. She moved aside to make space for Jenna Lee to see inside at the window.

“If you pull the string on her neck, she’ll talk to you,” I explained.

Jenna Lee wrapped her coat tightly around her. I could see it was far too thin for the New York winter.

“Chatty Cathy can say 11 things,” Maryanne went on. “Like ‘I love you’ and ‘Tell me a story.’”

“I ain’t never seen anything like her,” Jenna Lee said, stroking the glass window with one finger. “She would be nearly as good as having a real live friend like you two.”

“Maybe you’ll get one for Christmas,” said Maryanne.

Surely, that was impossible. Not as long as there was no Santa in the picture. If her mom had had any money to spare, Jenna Lee would have had more than the two dresses she rotated every day. When she came over to play dolls with me, she’d brought clothespins with eyes drawn on them. I elbowed Maryanne in the ribs, hoping she’d change the subject.

Maryanne didn’t take the hint. “What’s on your list for Santa this year?” she asked.

“We don’t make lists,” said Jenna Lee, her eyes never leaving Chatty Cathy’s face. “We’re grateful for whatever Santa leaves in our stockings. Last year I got five dollars to spend just on myself. I was real careful, so the money lasted a long time.” She wrinkled her brow. “I just hope Santa can find us this year.”

“Santa knows everything,” Maryanne assured her. I didn’t know the half of Jenna Lee’s family situation, but walking home, I thought about what Jenna Lee had said about being grateful. My aunt Thecla always said that’s what Christmas was all about: being grateful for what we have. It was easy to be grateful knowing I had a Chatty Cathy doll in her pink and orange box, just waiting for me to open her up on Christmas morning. I wondered if being grateful was hard for Jenna Lee.

That doll in the store window never left my mind in the coming weeks, busy as I was. I baked cookies with my mom and tried to keep Uncle Edmund’s taste tests to a minimum. I decorated the tree with my dad and wrapped presents with my grandmother and Aunt Thecla.

With family all around every minute of every day, I hardly had time to myself. It wasn’t until I was alone in bed at night that I imagined the conversations Chatty Cathy and I would have once she was mine.

On Christmas morning, we all gathered around the tree. I thought I’d burst with excitement. I scanned the brightly wrapped packages with my name on them, judging which one was the right size to hold the best doll I’d ever seen. Arms handed out presents this way and that. The adults were up and down in their seats. Cousins tumbled around on the floor. Aunt Thecla grabbed the discarded bows to save for next year. I could hardly hear myself think amid the laughter and oohs and ahhs. I unwrapped a new sweater, a set of Nancy Drew books, a Mousetrap game—but no Chatty Cathy.

Maybe it was mislabeled, I thought. Every time someone else opened a gift, I held my breath, looking for that pink and orange box Chatty Cathy came in. But it never appeared. Grandma got her new apron. Mom got a new saucepan. Aunt Thecla got yet another Bible. Everyone, it seemed, got what they wished for but me.

“All those presents made me hungry,” Uncle Edmund announced when the gifts were opened, the floor littered with wrapping paper. “Let’s all go eat!”

The rest of the family moved into the dining room for breakfast. I stayed behind, crawling around, looking for a package that had gotten lost. My doll had to be somewhere!

I was halfway under the sofa when the doorbell rang. Aunt Thecla answered it. Jenna Lee’s familiar accent rang out from the foyer. “Merry Christmas!” she said.

I pulled myself up and went to the door. “I know it’s early,” Jenna Lee was saying, “but I had to come show Jacquelyn what Santa brought me!”

Aunt Thecla clapped her hands. My heart leapt to my throat when I saw what Jenna Lee held in her arms. A Chatty Cathy doll. My Chatty Cathy doll. The one I had seen in Aunt Thecla’s closet. I was sure of it.

“Santa was really good to us,” Jenna Lee said, cuddling my doll in her arms. “And the owner of the restaurant where Mama works invited us for Christmas dinner.” She sighed. “A Christmas farewell dinner. We’re going back to South Carolina.” She stuck out her hand to me. “Thank you for being my friend, Jacquelyn. It’s been real nice knowing you.

”I knew I had to shake her hand, but what I wanted to do was grab that doll out of her arms. I would probably miss Jenna Lee eventually, but in this moment, I was just angry that she’d somehow stolen my doll.

We said goodbye, and Jenna Lee went home. I turned to Aunt Thecla. I didn’t care if she knew that I’d snooped in her closet. I had to know: What had happened to my doll?

Aunt Thecla ushered me into Grandma’s sewing room and shut the door. “I did buy that Chatty Cathy for you,” she admitted. “But two nights ago, I found out that Jenna Lee’s family is going to be separated for a while.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. “Isn’t she going home to South Carolina like she said?”

“Yes, but she and her siblings are going to live in different foster homes for a while. I thought Jenna Lee would need a friend to hold onto until her family is back together.”

Aunt Thecla with all her Bibles must have gotten an inspiration from God himself. “That was exactly what Jenna Lee said about Chatty Cathy,” I told Aunt Thecla. “That she would be like having a real friend, like me and Maryanne.”

Aunt Thecla looked up to the ceiling. “Thank you, Jesus,” she said. “Now let’s get back to the others. I smell those cinnamon rolls.”

My parents were teasing each other over Dad’s new Christmas sweater. Uncle Edmund and Grandma were singing. Everybody else helped themselves to breakfast. I stood quietly amid the chaos. Aunt Thecla stroked my hair. “If you really want that Chatty Cathy doll,” she said, “I’ll start saving for it.”

I looked at my family gathered around the table, laughing, eating, singing. I thought of Jenna Lee alone somewhere without her parents or any of her siblings and only Chatty Cathy to talk to. “I don’t need one,” I said. “I have all of you.”

I never did get a Chatty Cathy doll. But whenever I played with Maryanne’s, I wasn’t a bit jealous. If I could have given Chatty Cathy a twelfth thing to say, it would have been, “I’m grateful for all that I have.” Just like Jenna Lee.

For more angelic stories, subscribe to Angels on Earth magazine.

A Childhood Memory Inspired Him to Become a Gingerbread House Artist

Posted on March 10, 2026April 10, 2026 by Matt Maley

Not many people have thought as much about gingerbread as I have. Making cookies with Mom’s special gingerbread recipe was always a Christmas tradition. One year, for something a little different, she and I made a simple gingerbread house for dessert.

It was the centerpiece of our Christmas table. My cousins eyed it throughout the meal. “We can’t eat that,” my aunt said. “It’s too pretty.” I was the first to help myself to a chunk of roof. Eating it was the whole point.

Gingerbread house; photo courtesy Matt Maley — One of Matt’s gingerbread creations

Well, eating that one was. When my daughter, Lianna, and I made one of those gingerbread house kits many years later, eating it was definitely not the point. But we had a blast, adding a few touches of our own. Then my wife, Adrienne, mentioned an annual gingerbread house contest held at Mohonk Mountain House resort in the foothills of the Catskills, not far from where we live. “First prize is a two-night stay,” Adrienne said. “Why not enter?”

I’m an artist by trade, mostly graphic design and illustration, but I’ve also done quite a bit of sculpting. And what was a gingerbread house if not a type of sculpture? Only every part of it had to be edible. The challenge! The creativity! The fun!

I considered digging out my mom’s gingerbread recipe, but her cookies were a little too soft for what I had in mind. I needed the industrial strength stuff that would taste like something right out of The Flintstones. My aunt had been on to something with her comment about a house that was too pretty to eat.

In the fall of 2017, I worked feverishly on the project. Educating myself, testing out ingredients—but first I built a cardboard and foam core mock-up of my vision: a spiral staircase and flower tower with a gigantic candy cane as the central load-bearing rod. I worked out the kinks in the model, so rebuilding the whole thing with gingerbread pieces wasn’t that hard. At the end I went nuts with icing for the ivy and flowering vines.

On the day of judging, Adrienne and I walked around the grand hall at Mohonk. More than 100 gingerbread houses were on display amid the Christmas finery. “It’s like the Academy Awards,” Adrienne whispered as the winners were announced. I took first place. I was hooked.

In 2018 I was sure that the candied stained-glass windows on my gingerbread treehouse would give me the winning edge. I nabbed fourth place. In 2019 I crafted a three-story grist mill with a water wheel and a stream. I pulled an all-nighter trying to get the water to look like it was flowing. I woke with a start, surrounded by bits of chocolate and gingerbread crumbs, when Lianna put a steaming cup of coffee in front of me. “Keep going, Dad,” she said. “You’ll figure it out.”

I won third place. But my real reward came when I noticed a little boy carefully studying the mill. “Momma,” he said, “I want to live in there.”

Maybe that’s what my crazy hobby was all about. A way to recreate the wonder I felt the year Mom and I made our first gingerbread house. That, and the camaraderie that comes along with it. Last year, a college friend and I participated in a national gingerbread competition on the Food Network. We didn’t win, but I did get invited to the Gingerfriends Facebook group. (Who knew?)

One late night I posted about my frustration: “The chocolate melts down my fingers faster than I can sculpt it!” Ten minutes later: “Dude, I keep a glove in the freezer for that.” What a game changer! Each year I design and build a different house. None of them last more than a single Christmas. But the gingerbread house tradition is fixed in me forever.

Adrienne recently surprised me with an out-of-season request. “I have a craving for gingerbread,” she said. “Nothing fancy. Maybe some cookies?” We pulled out Mom’s recipe. I really did intend to make only the cookies. But I found myself sculpting a little log cabin to slide into the oven alongside them. Despite the softer texture, that house was as strong as anything I’d ever made. Delicious too. This year, I’ll use Mom’s recipe in competition, and the family tradition will reach a new height.

A Box of Encouragement

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

Last week at the Night of Hope in downtown Los Angeles, Victoria Osteen shared a story about a very special birthday present from a dear friend. It wasn’t expensive jewelry or a designer handbag or her favorite perfume. It was a decorative box. And though it was lovely, the box wasn’t the real gift.

When Victoria’s friend presented it to her, she said some wonderful things about the birthday girl. Then, she acted as if she were putting those compliments into the box and began passing it around to everyone else at the table.

One by one, Victoria’s family and friends said loving things about her, and one by one they “placed” their kind words into the birthday box.

Victoria shared how much that night had meant to her, and that today she has that beautiful box in a place of prominence in her office as a reminder of the sweet words that were put in the box and in her heart.

I relate to that story because I have what I call “an encouragement drawer.” As a writer, I sometimes get rejection letters from editors and publishers.

In fact, over the years I’ve probably received enough rejection letters to wallpaper my entire office, but thankfully there have been acceptance letters, contracts and awards along the way, too.

But you know what means even more? The thank you cards and sweet notes that I’ve received from writers I’ve met at the many writers’ conferences where I’ve been blessed to serve as faculty.

I don’t teach at these conferences for the prestige or the money or the chance to reconnect with some of the most talented writers in the world—I teach because I made God a promise that I would.

Before I was ever on faculty at these events, I was a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed conferee, hoping to sell an article and pitch my picture books to the right children’s editor.

More than 15 years ago, I remember looking forward to one particular conference. I knew the cost of attending really wasn’t in our budget, but I also knew that if I asked my husband to give me the conference for my birthday, he would. And that’s exactly what he did.

We were living in Texas, and the writers’ conference was several thousand miles away. I had researched the editors who were going to be there and the workshops being offered, and I was sure this conference would be life-changing for me.

It was–just not in the way I’d anticipated.

The very first day of the “Writing for Children” class, I sat in the front row. I was so excited that I hardly slept the night before. I couldn’t wait to learn from this prolific children’s book writer–until she greeted us with: “Well, I wish I had better news.

“The children’s market is almost impossible to break into right now. I mean, I am well-published in this genre and even I’m having a tough time making a sale…Honestly, if you’re interested in writing anything else besides children’s, I would try that for now.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing! Some of my fellow conferees got up and left. I stayed until the end, hoping her mood would improve and praying she would offer some words of wisdom.

Neither happened.

I walked back to my room that afternoon defeated, discouraged and downright mad. Later that night, I prayed: “God, if I am ever on the other side of the podium, I promise You that I’ll never miss an opportunity to bless others. I’ll work for You, God, and I will encourage others to write for You, too!”

It was a simple prayer but I meant it, and I’ve never forgotten it.

That’s why when I receive emails, thank you notes and cards saying, “thank you for helping me see that I can really make it as a freelancer,” “thank you for encouraging me to write that devotional proposal–I got a contract!,” or “thank you for being so excited about my children’s manuscript. I was about to give up before meeting with you,” I put them in my encouragement drawer. (I have four!)

And, on those days when I receive three rejection letters or a bad review of a recent book, I’ll sneak into my office, open one of those encouragement drawers and read a few cards.

Like Victoria and her birthday box, I immediately feel uplifted after spending a few moments meditating on the nice things that people have written to me.

Maybe you don’t have a birthday box filled with wonderful compliments or an encouragement drawer filled with thank you cards and notes, but you do have the Word of God, and it’s filled with promises, affirmation and encouragement–just for you.

Spend some time in His Word today and meditate on the good things that God says about you and maybe write a few thank you notes of your own.

Wouldn’t it be nice to fill up somebody else’s encouragement drawer?

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