Teen Patrol on the Rails

I was in seventh grade the year I earned the privilege of going on the Safety Patrol trip. We were headed to the big leagues—Washington, D.C. and New York City. For a bunch of wide-eyed students from the South, it felt like we were about to take on the whole world. We’d spent months talking about it, imagining the tall monuments, the endless museums, and, of course, the Empire Star Building. None of us even realized it was called the Empire State Building until we were already there—proud as could be, staring up at something way bigger than we were.

Our chaperones worked harder than the Secret Service to keep the boys and girls separated. They tried their best to keep us focused on history, but we had other things on our minds. We weren’t thinking about presidents or soldiers or national heroes. We were thinking about each other. At that age, we didn’t just like people—we fell hopelessly in love twelve times a week. Every smiled glance felt like fate. Every giggle meant something. Our hearts were battlefields of crushes and daydreams.

We weren’t allowed to sit together on the train, so we got creative. When the train cars split, our communication operation began. We passed secret notes over our heads, like tiny paper missiles being launched across enemy lines. Boys stretched their arms into the aisle from one car, girls reached from the other, and somewhere between us was a forbidden love zone. Every time a note landed safely, a wave of suspense rippled through both cars—like someone had just cracked a safe.

One note I’ll never forget arrived folded into a little triangle, edges worn from being handled so many times before it reached me. Inside, in the slanted scrawl only a seventh-grade boy could write, were the words:
“Do you like me? Check yes or no.”

There was no name. But I knew. I recognized the handwriting. Of course I liked him, but I wasn’t about to let the entire train find out. I checked “yes” with the faintest, tiniest mark imaginable—so small it was practically invisible—and folded it back into a mystery. Whether he ever knew for sure, I couldn’t tell you. But the thrill of it was better than any postcard or souvenir I brought home.

The trip lasted four long days. By the third, after hours touring Arlington National Cemetery (and getting lost in it with my old pal, Valerie Arnold), and walking through monuments older than our grandparents, we were worn out but exhilarated. We’d been sitting on that train so long our feet swelled inside our shoes. Every time we stepped off at a stop, it felt like we were still swaying—our bodies convinced we were still on the rails. It was like the whole world was shifting beneath us, rocking and rolling to some rhythm we couldn’t escape.

When I think back on that trip now, I remember the history, yes. I remember the grandeur of places I never dreamed I’d see at that age. But more than anything, I remember the flutter in my stomach each time a note landed in my hand. I remember that feeling of being thirteen—caught somewhere between childhood and the rest of my life—where everything seemed new, exciting, and full of possibility.

And where circling “yes” on a tiny piece of paper felt like the biggest adventure of all.

Heavenly Father,

Thank You for the simple joys You tucked into the corners of our youth—moments so small we didn’t recognize their value until years later.

Thank You for childhood bravery, for nervous giggles, for friendships just beginning to blossom, and for hearts learning how to feel.

Help us treasure the innocence of those days and see how You were with us, even when all we cared about was passing notes on a train.

Remind us that every memory, whether big or small, is part of the beautiful story You’ve written for our lives. Amen.

A Spoonful of Memories

This morning, as I stood in the kitchen mixing up a bowl of Heavenly Hash for our upcoming family Thanksgiving, something unexpected happened. One minute I was slicing maraschino cherries, minding my own business, and the next I was remembering how I used to tie cherry stems into knots—with my tongue. It’s a ridiculous talent to keep in the family record, but there it is. And as much as I’d like to say someone glamorous taught me that trick, the truth is, it was my Daddy. Who needs Hollywood when you’ve got a Georgia man in a button-down shirt, showing his kids circus tricks with a cherry stem?

I practiced those knots like I was training for the Olympics. Daddy would cheer me on with the seriousness of a coach preparing his athlete for the big leagues. The day I finally succeeded, he laughed so hard his eyes watered. Somehow that memory floated right back to me today, sticky fingers and all.

Food does that, doesn’t it? We take one bite, catch one smell, or handle one ingredient, and suddenly we’re nowhere near our kitchens—we’re back in another time, standing next to someone we love. While I stirred my bowl of whipped cream and fruit, I remembered something else: Daddy’s obsession with sweets. The man never met a sugar product he didn’t befriend. Ambrosia was his holiday love language.

Now, Daddy’s ambrosia wasn’t exactly the same as my Heavenly Hash—his was the old-school blend, the kind that looked like a snowstorm hit a fruit cocktail. But he loved it with a devotion only Southerners reserve for college football, cornbread, and Jesus. After we grew up, Mama even started keeping a huge apothecary jar filled with Little Debbie snacks on her counter. Not because it looked pretty, not because it was convenient—no, that jar existed solely for Daddy’s sugar rations. If a grandchild dared reach in without permission, Mama would say, “Ask first. Those are Papa's.” As if he were paying rent on the treats.

I don’t know when jars of sweets and bowls of fruit mixed with whipped cream became the guardians of my memories, but today I’m grateful for it. As I sliced cherries and stirred fluff, I felt Daddy close by… like a quiet reminder that love lingers in the silliest things—recipes, traditions, and even cherry-stem party tricks.

Maybe that’s the beauty of holiday preparation. You think you’re cooking. You think you’re marking items off a list. But really, you’re opening the door to old stories, letting your heart pull up a chair at the table long before anyone else arrives.

So I’ll keep stirring, chopping, and tasting. I’ll make my Heavenly Hash, set the table, and welcome whoever walks through the door. And if someone asks why I’m smiling to myself while slicing cherries, maybe I’ll just tell them: “I’m visiting with Daddy. He showed up early in my memories this year."

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Heavenly Father,
Thank You for the gift of memories that warm us like sunlight on a cold morning. Thank You for the people we’ve loved, the traditions that shape our families, and the ordinary moments—like stirring a bowl of dessert—that remind us we are never alone. Comfort our hearts as we remember those who shared our tables in years past, and help us honor them by loving well the ones who gather with us today. Bless our homes, our hands, and the food we prepare with joy. May gratitude season every dish, and may Your presence fill every seat at our table.
In Jesus’ name, Amen.

Who Do You Think You Are?

In the 1970s, Friday nights weren’t just another step toward the weekend—they were a rite of passage. When the sun dipped behind the Georgia pines and my platform shoes were laced up tight, it was time to hit the local clubs with my friends. We weren’t exactly disco queens, but we sure thought we were something.

There was always that one club with the velvet rope and a bouncer who acted like he was the President of Admission. He’d stand there wearing a look that said, Don’t even breathe unless I tell you to. Anyone who made it past him practically walked inside with a halo floating above their head and “Stayin’ Alive” playing as their personal theme song.

To get inside, some of my friends came armed with their shimmering, laminated salvation: fake IDs. I can still remember the glossy cards with photos that looked nothing like them—wrong hair color, crooked typewriter fonts, and birthdays that magically aged them several years. One girl’s ID had her labeled as 22 when she barely had a learner’s permit in her wallet! Somehow, the bouncer looked at those ridiculous pieces of plastic and nodded like they were government-issued.

Meanwhile, I never had a fake ID, but I somehow slipped past the rope without ever being carded. I wasn’t sure whether to feel complimented or insulted. Did I look old? Worn out? Obviously mature beyond my years? Or did he just think I was someone’s babysitter?

Looking back, I laugh at how hard we tried to be “somebody.” We were desperate to fit in, to be older, cooler, funnier, prettier—anything but the awkward teenagers we truly were. Today, the fake ID has been replaced with digital identity. Now, you don’t even need to open your mouth before someone knows your name, age, blood type, and what you ate last week. It’s convenient, yes, but also a little creepy! Still, I guess it beats the flimsy laminated lie of the past.

And funny enough, thinking about those fake IDs makes me think of a truth that’s no joke at all: you can pretend to be someone else at the door of a nightclub, but you can’t fake who you are before God. He doesn’t need a card reader or facial recognition. He already knows every piece of our story—past, present, and what we’ll look like when gray hairs cover our heads like disco glitter.

“O LORD, you have searched me and known me.” — Psalm 139:1

We tried to fool the world, but we could never fool Him. Isn’t that both humbling and comforting? There’s no need to pretend when the One who made us already knows who we really are.

Dear Lord,
Thank You for knowing us fully and loving us completely, even when we try to be someone we’re not. Help us live honestly and confidently in the identity You’ve given us. Teach us to find joy in who You created us to be, without needing to hide behind fake versions of ourselves. Guide our steps, guard our hearts, and let Your truth be the only ID we ever need to carry.
Amen.

 

Pianos and Piranhas

When I was growing up, bartering wasn’t some quaint, old-timey concept. It was just how folks did business. If you had something useful to trade, you might never see a single dollar exchanged. Lucky for us, my mother was a master seamstress. She could hem a dress, mend a rip, or stitch a zipper faster than most people could microwave popcorn (not that we had microwaves back then, but you get my drift). Because of Mama’s magical sewing machine, we never lacked for what we needed—although sometimes I wished the woman had been terrible with a needle.

Especially the year she bartered our childhood freedom away for piano lessons.

Mama struck a deal with a local piano teacher. In exchange for sewing clothes for the teacher’s family, my brother, sister, and I—were to learn how to make beautiful music. Mama imagined us lined up like the Von Trapp children, harmonizing and maybe even smiling. What Mama didn’t know was that our future held more terror than treble clefs.

The first day, we entered the piano teacher’s house with high hopes and low expectations. She greeted us with the enthusiastic warmth of a hostage negotiator. Her mouth was drawn in a tight line that said, “I do not play”. She pointed with her bony finger to a pair of chairs in the corner—our designated waiting area. That corner held exactly two things: hard wooden seats and a large aquarium full of fish with pointy teeth.

She informed us, very calmly, that those were piranhas.

I didn’t even know piranhas lived in Georgia. But I also wasn’t about to challenge a woman holding a ruler with calluses on her knuckles. She made it abundantly clear that silliness, fidgeting, or even excessive blinking would not be tolerated. One of us would sit on the piano bench while the other two waited. And by “waited,” I mean sat perfectly still… trying not to get eaten.

Our lesson began with scales. Not songs, not melodies—scales, over and over, forward and backward until our fingers tangled like spaghetti noodles. Each mistake was rewarded with a stinging tap! from her ruler as she barked, “Start again!”

If the student on the bench suffered, the two in the chairs suffered in silence. We were supposed to watch quietly, but every now and then she’d glare at us over her glasses and say, “Act up, and I’ll put your hand in the tank with my piranhas.”

You’ve never seen three children sit so still. We didn’t even breathe normally. I’m pretty sure oxygen was too risky.

Week after week, we practiced, tapped, trembled, and survived. Mama proudly stitched hems while the ivory keys claimed our childhood. But in spite of the ruler smacks and the fish-y threats, we actually did learn something. At the very least, I learned how far a mother will go to make sure her children get a “well-rounded education.”

And to this day, whenever I hear a piano, I don’t think of Mozart or Beethoven.

I think of a wooden ruler and a tank full of piranhas.

And if you’re wondering—no, none of us grew up to be musicians. We never played in a talent show, or even a church offertory. Our greatest piano achievement was surviving without losing a finger. But I must say, I can still play several of the songs I learned back then and yes, Heart and Soul is one of them.

Today, when I think about those lessons, I have to laugh. Mama believed she was investing in our future. In a way, she did. She taught us discipline, determination, and the importance of sitting very, very still if there’s even the slightest chance piranhas are involved.

And to this day, if someone offers me piano lessons, I kindly decline.

Unless they throw in a pair of earplugs and guarantee—in writing—that no aquatic wildlife will be harmed in the making of my musical education.

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