Special Thanks to My Mother in Law

My mother-in-law, Annie, (I called her Mom) was not your typical mother-in-law—nor your typical grandmother, for that matter. She had her own quiet sparkle, a kind of spirited gentleness that never faded with age. She kept up with the times in the most unexpected ways. While other women her age were content with crossword puzzles and crocheted blankets, Annie could be found racing around digital corners on Mario Kart, working up a sweat on her cross-country ski machine, or tapping away on her little bitty Mac computer like she was mastering the world.

For many years, she worked as a medical receptionist and transcriptionist for Emory, and she loved every minute of it. She knew those hallways and those physicians, and they knew her. I always admired how proud she was of her work and how much value she found in helping others every day. She wasn’t the loud type, but her presence was steady—dependable like the sunrise.

And oh, those biscuits. If there was ever a love language in Annie’s kitchen, it was flour-dusted. She mixed them by hand in a big bowl, no recipe needed, just instinct and love. Everyone wanted her biscuits; everyone bragged on them. I think they tasted so good because her heart was baked right into them.

Annie never seemed to let anything get her down. Even when she was diagnosed with breast cancer, she took it with grace. She didn’t complain, didn’t crumble—she just kept going, as if illness was simply another appointment on her calendar. Her strength was quiet but fierce.

She and my father-in-law eventually got a little Chihuahua named Liberty, and they adored that tiny dog. Liberty curled up beside them, snuggled through movies, delighted in bits of dropped biscuit dough, and later, when cancer came for my father-in-law too, Liberty brought comfort to Annie in ways words could not.

Time has a way of changing what we want to hold onto. Eventually, we had to move her into assisted living, and while she never complained, I could see how much she missed her own space and her little comforts. Her African violets, especially—those delicate green flowers she nurtured faithfully, like they were family. She always did have a gift for growing things.

Annie was famous for those pink hair rollers. She would never go to bed without them and never let anyone see her without her hair done. It wasn’t vanity—it was pride. A woman who worked hard, loved hard, and lived full deserved to feel put together, even at bedtime.

Today, as Thanksgiving draws near, I think of the meals we shared with her, the laughter, the warmth, the Thanksgiving tables full of love and biscuits, and I miss her. Not because she left a big hole, but because she filled one.

If I could tell her anything today, I’d tell her thank you—for loving me without hesitation, for welcoming me into her family with open arms, for showing me what strength looks like when it wears kindness instead of armor. I’d tell her I hope I’ll grow to be more like her—steady, gentle, hardworking, resilient, and full of love.

And I’d like to think she’d smile, pat her rollers, and say, “Well, go on then. You’ll do just fine.”

Mom's biscuit recipe: 

• 2 cups White Lily Flour + more for work surface
• 1 tablespoon baking powder
• 1/2 teaspoon salt
• 1/2 teaspoon baking soda
• 1 tablespoon granulated sugar
• 1/4 cup butter-flavored shortening cold
• 3 tablespoons unsalted butter + more for brushing cold
• 1 cup buttermilk cold
• 1 Tablespoon mayonnaise, milk or heavy whipping cream cold (for brushing)

Instructions

• Preheat oven to 425 F.
• In a large bowl, sift together flour, baking powder, salt, baking soda and sugar.
• Cut in butter-flavored shortening with a pastry cutter.
• Grate in butter, tossing occasionally.
• Stir in buttermilk until dough is wet and sticky.
• Generously flour a work surface.
• Turn dough out onto floured surface.
• Sprinkle a little flour on the dough and your hands and begin to gently knead and fold the dough.
• Add more flour as needed, but not too much, just enough so that the dough is manageable. Wet dough makes the best biscuits!
• Fold the dough over several times.(This will create layers.)
• Pat the dough out into a 1-inch thick rectangle.
• Dip the biscuit cutter into flour and cut out the biscuits. (do not twist the cutter)
• Place biscuits on pan, with the sides touching.
• Brush tops of biscuits with a very light coating of mayonnaise.
• Bake for 14 minutes or until tops are golden. (For a dark golden color, flip the oven to a low broil for the last 2 minutes. Be sure to keep your eyes on it at all times)
• Remove from oven and brush with butter.
• Serve warm.

Notes

Here are a few tips on how to make the Best Buttermilk Biscuits!

Think COLD: Make sure all of your ingredients are cold, even the bowl if you can! Biscuit dough needs to be super cold when it goes into the oven for the BEST biscuits.Work Fast: Work quickly to make sure the ingredients stay cold. Don't add too much flour: The dough will be a sticky mess when you first turn it out onto a floured surface. Don't be tempted to throw on a bunch of flour. The less flour you can get away with the better! The dough should be a tad bit wet and sticky, yet still easy to manage and not sticking like crazy. Don't twist the cutter: When cutting out biscuits, just go straight down. Don't twist. If you twist the cutter, you seal the dough and it can't rise properly. 

Dear Lord,
Thank You for the blessing of Annie’s life and the way she touched our hearts with quiet strength, warm love, and faithful kindness. Thank You for the laughter she shared, the meals she cooked, the work she proudly accomplished, and the tenderness she showed so generously. Help us to carry forward the legacy she left—loving without fear, serving with purpose, and choosing grace even in difficult seasons. May we honor her memory by living with the same gentle courage she did. Comfort us with the hope of reunion one day, and until then, help us to grow like she grew—steady and beautiful in Your light.
Amen.

Washed Whiter Than Snow, a Soapmaker's Reflection

 

Today has been one of those busy, unexpected blessing kind of days. Last week, one of my girls called to let me know what her kids—five growing, opinionated grandchildren—wanted for Christmas this year. I had braced myself for a long list of Amazon links and store suggestions. I was even planning to take the easy route: write a check, send it in the mail, and let Mama handle the shopping and wrapping.

But that’s not what happened.

 

Instead, she hesitated for a minute and said, “They’re not particular… but they really love your homemade soap.” Handmade. Suddenly, the easy route felt too easy, and maybe even a little empty. These kids are growing up, their values shifting, their eyes opening to the love, time, and care tucked inside something made by hand. They don’t want stuff—they want something that feels like us.

 

So today, I pulled out my soapmaking supplies and scattered them across the kitchen counter. Before long, I was working in a familiar rhythm—oils, lye, color swirls, fragrance, mold. It felt good knowing these bars would need weeks to cure, and that I was giving a gift that required patience, planning, and intention. Useful and pretty. I can do that, I thought.

 

But as I measured and stirred, my mind drifted to the origin of soap itself. How something so simple has always been connected to cleansing—not just of the body, but of the spirit. And suddenly, a Scripture I’ve known for years came to visit my thoughts:

 

“Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean: wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.”

—Psalm 51:7 (KJV)

 

I pictured women by a river’s edge long ago, scrubbing garments with fullers’ soap, beating dirt from cloth as water splashed around their feet. No fancy packaging, no pretty colors or essential oil fragrances. Just hard work, grit, and the promise of clean.

 

Soap has always done one job: remove whatever shouldn’t stay.

 

That’s exactly what King David was crying out for in Psalm 51. He didn’t need just a surface wash—he needed a cleansing deep in the fibers of his soul. True repentance. A fresh start. A heart that smelled like grace, not guilt.

 

Standing in my kitchen with a wooden spatula in hand, I realized my grandchildren might not know how spiritual soap can be. They may not realize how love lingers in every handmade bar. So maybe, tucked inside their Christmas box this year, there will also be a little letter—one that tells them why we give handmade gifts, and even more importantly, why we need a clean heart only God can make new.

I still have a prayer shawl to stitch, a necklace to string, and a hat to crochet—each with its own story and its own quiet lesson. But those are for another day. For now, I’m grateful for curing soap on the counter and the reminder that Jesus is still in the cleansing business.

 

As I wrap each gift, I’ll pray that they feel loved not just by me, but by the One who washes us whiter than snow.

 

Heavenly Father,

 

Thank You for the simple reminders hidden in everyday things. As soap cleans our hands and clothes, You alone can cleanse our hearts. Wash away anything that keeps us from You. Renew our spirits with Your grace, and make us whiter than snow.

 

As I give these handmade gifts, let Your love be felt in every stitch, swirl, and scent. May those who receive them know the beauty of Your forgiveness and the joy of being made new.

 

In Jesus’ name,

Amen.

Missing the Glue

As the holidays creep closer each year, I feel a quiet ache—one that doesn’t come from shopping lists, overflowing calendars, or even the empty chair at the table. It comes from the absence of the two people who once held our entire family together: my parents.

When Mama and Daddy were alive, holidays weren’t complicated. There was never any question about where we’d go. We always knew. Their home—no matter how small or how crowded—was the gathering place. You didn’t even need an invitation. You just showed up, and you were welcomed. It didn’t matter if you came for lunch, dinner, or a quick hello. They were always glad to see you.

I can still picture it: cousins shoulder to shoulder, kids sitting cross-legged on the floor with plates balanced awkwardly in their laps, siblings talking over one another, laughter echoing off the walls. Someone always told an old story, someone always burned the rolls, someone always got their feelings hurt—and still, somehow, we were together. That house may have been tiny, but it never felt too small for love.

Now, with my parents gone, I’m realizing that it wasn’t the food or the decorations or even the traditions that made holidays special. It was them. They were the glue—the strong, invisible, unspoken force that kept us coming back, kept us connected, kept us family.

These days, everyone has their own plans, their own quiet celebrations, their own little bubble. No one is to blame; it’s just life. But sometimes, even surrounded by people I love, I feel like a wobbly chair missing a leg—like I’m longing for that strong, familiar glue to hold us together again.

I miss being able to just pop in at my parents’ house, no appointment needed, no text message asking, “Are you home?” They were always there, arms open, lights on, ready to listen or just sit with you while you ate leftovers at the kitchen counter. They didn’t need a reason to be glad you came.

That kind of unconditional welcome is rare. And once it’s gone, you feel the empty space it leaves behind.

Regret is a quiet thing—it doesn’t scream, but it lingers. There are conversations we can’t go back and finish, moments we can’t recreate, apologies that never got spoken. You learn, in time, that you can’t fix what’s past. You can only carry it, learn from it, and try to love better moving forward.

I guess that’s what I’m trying to do. I can’t bring back Mama or Daddy, and I can’t make the family gather the way we once did. But I can hold onto what they taught us: that love doesn’t need perfection, that a small house can hold a big family, and that a warm welcome is one of the greatest gifts you can give.

Maybe it’s our turn now. Maybe we become the glue.

Until then, I’ll keep remembering the way it felt to walk into that familiar house—crowded, noisy, sometimes chaotic, but always full of love. And I’ll keep missing them, not just because they were my parents, but because they showed us what family really looks like when everyone shows up.

Dear Lord,

Thank You for the precious gift of family and for the memories that time cannot erase. Thank You for the parents who shaped us, taught us, and loved us well. Help us carry forward their legacy of open doors, warm welcomes, and unconditional love.

When grief tugs at our hearts and change feels heavy, remind us that You are the One who holds every family together. Teach us to love generously, forgive quickly, and gather joyfully, even when things aren’t the way they used to be.

Give us the courage to become the glue—to offer the same comfort, acceptance, and unity that once held us close.

In Jesus’ name we pray. Amen.

Random musings © Bonnie Annis

“It Would Have Been Enough” — A Reflection from an Unexpected Place

Last night, something unexpected reached deep into my spirit—and it happened while watching a TV show.

My husband and I have watched The Chosen off and on since it first came out. Produced by Mormons, the show takes creative liberties here and there, and while that originally made us cautious, we learned that if you know your Bible well, you can discern what’s scriptural truth and what’s simply television storytelling. After the fourth season, we drifted away from it and honestly forgot all about it.

But last night, while scrolling through our streaming services (and finding absolutely nothing worth watching), we stumbled across season five. Out of curiosity, we clicked on episode 4—and I’m glad we did, because it gave me something to ponder long after the screen went dark.

In this episode, Jesus and His disciples are seated around what appears to be the Last Supper table. As the scene unfolds, His followers begin chanting a word unfamiliar to me: Dayenu.

I had never heard it before.

The show portrayed it as a traditional Passover song, but since The Chosen does sometimes blend creativity with history, I wondered if this was simply another “made for TV moment.” So after the episode ended, I did what every curious believer does—I grabbed my phone and went researching.

What I discovered moved me.

Dayenu (דַּיֵּנוּ‎) is indeed a real Passover song—over a thousand years old. The word means, “It would have been enough.”
More specifically:

• day- means “enough,”

• -enu means “to us.”

So the phrase translates to: “It would have been enough for us.”

I sat with that for a long while.

It Would Have Been Enough

Those words kept circling through my mind, echoing in a way only the Holy Spirit can orchestrate:
It would have been enough.

If God had only done this—it would have been enough.
If He had only parted that sea—enough (Exodus 14:21–22).
If He had only provided daily manna—enough (Exodus 16:4).
If He had only led His people to safety—enough (Deuteronomy 1:30–31).

And yet… He did so much more.

I thought back over my own life—times I begged for answers, times I doubted, times I felt empty and afraid. Every instance, God met me with more than I asked for. More grace (2 Corinthians 12:9). More mercy (Lamentations 3:22–23). More provision (Philippians 4:19). More love than I deserved or even knew how to receive (Psalm 36:7).

Truly, everything He’s already done for us is enough.
And still—He keeps giving.
He keeps showing up.
He keeps proving Himself faithful (Psalm 33:4).

Watching that scene from The Chosen, whether dramatized or not, reminded me of something ancient and holy: A heart that recognizes the sufficiency of God is a heart that will never run dry.

More Than Enough

We live in a world constantly pushing us to want more, strive for more, accumulate more. But God whispers something far more freeing:

“What I have done is enough for you.
What I have given is enough for you.
Who I AM is enough for you.”
(2 Corinthians 12:9, Hebrews 13:5)

Dayenu.

If Jesus had only come—Dayenu (John 1:14).
If He had only healed—Dayenu (Matthew 4:23).
If He had only taught—Dayenu (John 6:68).
If He had only carried the cross—Dayenu (Isaiah 53:4–5).
If He had only risen—Dayenu (Luke 24:6–7).

And yet, He promises eternal life (John 3:16), grace upon grace (John 1:16), and His constant presence (Matthew 28:20).

More than enough.

A Closing Thought

Isn’t it something how God can use a simple TV show, a quiet evening, or a word we’ve never heard before to stir our spirits? Last night, I learned a new word—but more than that, I received a fresh reminder.

Whatever God has done is enough—
and often far more than enough.

Sometimes, we just need to let that truth echo until our hearts absorb it.

Dayenu.
Lord, You are enough.

---

Abba, Father,

Thank You for every blessing You’ve poured into my life—those I’ve recognized and those I’ve overlooked. Teach my heart to rest in the truth that what You’ve already done is enough. Let gratitude rise within me like a quiet song, reminding me daily of Your faithfulness. Help me to see Your hand in the simple moments, the unexpected places, and even through a TV show when You choose to speak. May my life reflect a heart that truly believes: You are more than enough.
In Jesus’ precious name, Amen.

Jehovah Jireh in My Darkest Year

 

1991 was the year my world came crashing down. I had just gone through a bitter divorce followed far too quickly by a horrible automobile accident—one that would leave me in a wheelchair for years. I was broken physically, emotionally, and spiritually. And in the middle of all that pain, I had four young children depending on me. My oldest was just about to turn sixteen. My youngest still needed help with shoelaces. And there I sat, unable to walk and unsure how to keep our lives from unraveling.

We had no income. No savings. No plan. One day I opened the cabinets and realized the only food in the house was a package of saltine crackers. I remember staring at that little red box as fear washed over me—fear so heavy I could hardly breathe. I wheeled myself into my bedroom, fell forward onto the floor, and sobbed before the Lord.

“God,” I whispered, “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to feed my children. I don’t know how to keep the lights on. Please…help us.”

I had no idea how God would answer—but He did.

Before the divorce and the wreck, the kids and I had joined a small country church in Gainesville—Harmony Hall Baptist. We had only visited a few times, but the people there were warm and kind, the kind of folks who loved you without asking for anything in return. At the time, I didn’t understand how deeply that love would matter.

After the accident, when my days were equal parts pain and worry, I received a phone call I’ll never forget. The voice on the other end was a man I didn’t know. He said he felt the Lord had instructed him to pay our electricity bill—for an entire year.

I almost hung up on him. I honestly thought it was a cruel prank. But it wasn’t. He meant every word.

Not long after that, boxes of groceries began appearing on our doorstep. Bags of vegetables. Pantry staples. Sometimes even treats for the kids. No notes. No explanations. Just provision—quiet, steady, miraculous. Members of the church offered to drive me to doctor’s appointments, pick up the children from school, and help with things I could no longer do on my own. They became hands and feet when mine weren’t working.

It was embarrassing. Humbling. And holy.

During those long years, God taught me lessons I could never have learned any other way. I realized I didn’t have to pretend to be strong. I didn’t have to hold everything together. I only had to trust the One who promised He would never leave me nor forsake me (Hebrews 13:5).

I learned firsthand that He truly is Jehovah Jireh—the Lord who provides (Genesis 22:14).
I saw that He knows our needs before we even ask (Matthew 6:8).
I discovered that when we are at the end of ourselves, “His strength is made perfect in weakness” (2 Corinthians 12:9).

God didn’t want me to be anxious about anything, though I certainly was at times. Instead, He gently taught me what Philippians 4:6 says: “…in everything, by prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known unto God.”

And He supplied—again and again.

Looking back now, I can trace His fingerprints across every part of that painful season. Every box of groceries. Every anonymous gift. Every ride offered. Every bill paid. Every small kindness extended toward my children. All of it was Him working through the compassion of others.

That’s why I feel so strongly about mercy and grace today. You never know what someone is holding silently inside—how close they may be to breaking. No one chooses to be down on their luck. None of us wakes up expecting our life to fall apart. But hardship comes, and when it does, we depend on the compassion of those who choose to love like Jesus.

If you are struggling today, wondering how you’ll make it through your own difficult chapter, please hear me: God sees you. God loves you. And God will provide for you. He works all things—all things—together for the good of those who love Him (Romans 8:28). You can trust that even now, even here, He is already moving on your behalf.

And if life is steady for you right now, may I gently encourage you to look around? Someone near you may be praying the same desperate prayer I prayed in 1991. Someone may have nothing but a box of saltines and a heart full of fear. You could be the answer to their prayer.

Let’s be people who show mercy.
Let’s be people who offer compassion.
Let’s be people who love like Jesus loved me—through the hands of strangers who became family.

Heavenly Father,
Thank You for being Jehovah Jireh—the God who sees, who knows, and who provides. When life feels overwhelming and the road ahead looks impossible, remind us that You are already at work, meeting needs we haven’t even spoken aloud. Teach us to trust You more deeply, to rest in Your promises, and to remember that Your faithfulness never fails.

Lord, for anyone walking through a hard season right now, wrap them in Your peace. Strengthen their weary hearts and remind them that they are not alone. And help each of us to be instruments of Your compassion, offering kindness, mercy, and love to those who are hurting. May our lives reflect Your grace in every circumstance.

In Jesus’ precious name,
Amen.

Are Christmas Cards a Thing of the Past?

 

Is anybody actually planning to send Christmas cards this year, or have we officially moved into the “digital only, click-and-done” age?

 

Because listen…

 

A first-class stamp is now 78 cents. SEVENTY-EIGHT. At this rate, by next Christmas we may have to start choosing between sending a card or buying a gallon of milk.

 

Sure, I could print cards at home, but somehow it just doesn’t feel the same when the ink is streaky and the cat walks across the paper. And while services like Shutterfly or the drugstore kiosks are convenient, they still don’t beat the smell of a real envelope and a cross-eyed attempt at fancy handwriting.

 

And digital cards? Bless them. I know a lot of people love Jacquie Lawson and all those animated snowmen dancing across the screen, but I can’t help feeling like I’ve been invited to a holiday PowerPoint presentation.

 

Last year I mailed over 80 Christmas cards. Do you know how many I got back? Twenty.

TWENTY.

 

I started wondering if the mailman had a secret box labeled “Bonnie’s Missing Christmas Cheer.”

Maybe paper cards really are becoming a thing of the past. These days the younger generation sends those cute flat photo cards—adorable kids, matching pajamas, dogs wearing antlers—but the sentiment inside is usually something like:

“Joy.”

Or

“Love.”

Or my personal favorite:

Just the year. 

 

Where did the heartfelt messages go? The handwritten notes? The ink smudges that prove someone cared enough to try?

 

Or am I just officially old-school and resisting change like a Christmas tree refusing to stand up straight?

Either way… I’d love to know—

 

Are you sending Christmas cards this year? Or has the mailbox become the loneliest place in December?

A Quiet Place of Peace: My Visit to the Monastery of the Holy Spirit

Nestled in the gentle landscape of Conyers, Georgia, the Monastery of the Holy Spirit sits like a quiet invitation. I can’t remember the very first time I ever visited—it feels like it has simply always been part of me—but I do remember the moment I set foot on the grounds and felt something shift inside. There was a holiness in the air, a sacred hush that wrapped itself around me as if God Himself had placed His hand upon that place.

Long before my footsteps ever touched its pathways, twenty-one Trappist monks left Gethsemani Abbey in Kentucky in 1944 to found this monastery in what was then the wilderness of rural Georgia. Conyers was an unknown town with only one Catholic family in the entire county. Atlanta sat a long way down red-clay roads, and the diocese was centered in Savannah. Yet these monks followed a calling, trusting that God had prepared this quiet corner for them.

As I walk the grounds now—something I’ve done many times, often bringing friends and family along—I still try to picture those early days. Before the Abbey Church existed, before the bookstore or retreat house, the monks lived in a barn on the old Honey Creek Plantation. Their days were filled with prayer, hard work, and an unwavering belief in what they were building.

For fifteen years they labored to construct the Abbey Church, a soaring concrete cathedral raised not by machines but by devotion, sacrifice, and their own hands. The finished church rises like a prayer in solid form.

Every time I step inside, I feel the same rush of reverence. The stillness settles over me like a comforting shawl. And when the sun pours through the stained glass windows, scattering vibrant color across the floor, it feels almost as if heaven is spilling into the room. That light has touched me deeply more times than I can count.

I’ve often dreamed of attending a spiritual retreat there. More men than women traditionally do that since it is a monastery, and the monks care for the grounds and guide the retreatants. But they do allow women, and every time I visit, a part of me wonders: Could I do it? Could I take a vow of silence for an entire weekend and simply be still before the Lord?

Fasting and prayer are familiar practices to me, but complete silence—well, that would be a challenge. Yet something in me longs for it. A quietness that deep. A stillness that intentional. A rest that holy.

Walking the paths, hearing the wind slip through the trees as if it too knows how to worship, I always feel closer to God. The lake reflects the sky in a way that makes you want to reflect, too. Even the stones seem to hold the stories of sorrow, joy, change, and renewal that the monastery has weathered through the decades.

Today, the monks rejoice in a new season of growth. New visitors come. New vocations arise. The life of prayer continues, steady and faithful as ever.

Each time I leave, I carry the peace of that place with me—like a quiet blessing tucked into my pocket. The Monastery of the Holy Spirit isn’t just a destination. It’s an encounter, a reminder to slow down, listen deeply, and let God whisper in the silence.

---

Closing Prayer

Dear Lord,
Thank You for the sacred places You scatter across our lives—quiet corners where our souls can breathe and our hearts can listen. Thank You for the Monastery of the Holy Spirit and for the faithful monks who built it with their hands, their prayers, and their lives.
As I reflect on the peace found there, help me to carry that stillness into my everyday moments. Teach me to seek You in silence, to rest in Your presence, and to listen when You whisper to my spirit.
Whether on retreat or in the busy corners of my home, remind me that You are always near. Let Your light—like those stained glass windows—shine through me in ways that bring beauty, warmth, and hope to others.
In Jesus’ name, Amen.