Three Raggedy Friends and a Lifetime of Memories

 

There are some things we keep not because they are valuable in dollars and cents, but because they are priceless in memories. Sometimes those treasures are tucked away in a box, carefully wrapped and stored for safekeeping. Other times, they sit right where we can see them, quietly reminding us of where we came from and the little pieces of childhood that never really leave us. For me, three Raggedy Ann dolls have become much more than old dolls. They are pieces of my story.

 

The beautiful Raggedy Ann in the dark blue dress is the one who started it all. She was handmade especially for me in 1958 by Caroline Carey, a longtime friend of my mother's. (At the time, my mother was expecting my little sister and Carolyn knew I might need a little extra love before Valerie was born.) I was just a year old when she came into my life, and somehow, almost 7 decades later, she is still here. Her yarn hair may not be quite as perfect as it once was, and her little cloth body carries the gentle signs of a well-loved childhood companion, but to me she has always been beautiful. She isn't simply a doll. She is the keeper of my childhood secrets.

 

She has been there through so many seasons of my life. She knew the little girl I was before I understood much about the world. She witnessed childhood joys, disappointments, tears, dreams and perhaps a few things I wouldn't want anyone else to know. She never judged me, never interrupted and never told a soul. There is something comforting about an old friend who has been with you for almost your entire life. When I look at her now, I don't just see a Raggedy Ann doll. I see a little girl sitting on the floor with her beloved doll, completely unaware of how quickly the years would pass.

 

A few years ago, I found another handmade Raggedy Ann and couldn't resist bringing her home. I named her Raggedy Alice. I imagine she was probably made sometime in the late 1960s, and although I don't know the hands that lovingly stitched her together, I like to think someone once loved her as much as I loved my Raggedy Ann. She became a companion to my original girl, and somehow the two of them look as though they were meant to sit together. Raggedy Alice may have joined our family many years after my childhood, but she seems perfectly content to take her place beside her older friend.

 

Then, just yesterday, another little Raggedy Ann came home with me from a vintage market sale here in Perry, Georgia. She is the smallest of the three, and I immediately knew she needed a name. So Little Annie it was. She was manufactured sometime in the late 1970s, which means she carries her own little bit of history. I have no idea where she has been or who loved her before me, but now she has a new home with two older Raggedy sisters. I have a feeling she is going to fit right in.

 

And then there is the tiny ceramic Raggedy Ann figurine sitting among them. She was a gift from my youngest daughter, which makes her especially precious to me. She may not have the soft cloth body or yarn hair of the others, but she carries something just as meaningful, the love of a daughter who knew that Raggedy Ann represented something special to her mother.

 

My love for Raggedy Ann began long before I ever understood the nostalgia I would one day feel for her. As a child, I loved reading the Raggedy Ann and Andy books written by Johnny Gruelle. I could lose myself in those stories, where the world seemed gentler and imagination was always just around the corner. Life seemed simpler then. Childhood wasn't filled with quite so many distractions, and there was something wonderfully sweet about settling down with a book and entering a world where dolls could come alive and adventures could be found in the most ordinary places.

 

Perhaps that is why these dolls mean so much to me now. They aren't really about dolls at all. They are about time. They remind me of a little girl who once believed in the magic of stories, a mother who had a friend named Caroline Carey who took the time to make a special doll for her daughter, and a childhood that could never be duplicated but can still be remembered.

 

I sometimes wonder what my Raggedy Ann would say if she could talk. After all, she has had many, many years to collect stories. She has seen me grow from a little girl into a woman, watched the seasons of my life come and go, and remained quietly faithful through it all. She has known things about me that no one else could possibly know. Maybe that's the true gift of childhood treasures. They remember the version of us that the rest of the world has forgotten.

 

Now the three of them sit together, Raggedy Ann, Raggedy Alice and Little Annie, like old friends gathered around a kitchen table, sharing stories from different generations. One was made for me in 1958, one came into my life decades later, and one arrived just yesterday. Their years are different, their stories are different, but somehow they belong together.

 

Looking at them takes me back to a simpler time, when a handmade doll could become a lifelong friend and a book could transport a child into another world. It reminds me that some treasures grow more precious with age, not because they become more valuable to everyone else, but because they become more valuable to us.

 

So I'll keep these three little Raggedy girls close. I'll dust them gently, straighten their dresses and smile every time I walk past them. And somewhere in the quiet of my heart, I know that my original Raggedy Ann is still keeping my secrets. After all, we've been together since I was just a wee one.

Some friendships really do last a lifetime.

Make Room for Joy Again

Somewhere along the way, life has a way of convincing us that there will always be time for the things we love—later, when the house is clean, when the laundry is finished, when the responsibilities settle down, when everyone else is taken care of. We tell ourselves we’ll get back to those things someday. But sometimes “someday” quietly turns into years.

As we grow older, it can be surprisingly easy to lose touch with the things that once brought us joy. Life gets busy. Families need us. Jobs demand our attention. There are errands to run, appointments to keep, bills to pay, and a thousand little things that seem more important than sitting down simply to do something we love. Before we realize it, those hobbies that once made our hearts happy have been tucked away in closets, boxes, or the forgotten corners of our minds. I’ve been thinking about that lately because I’m getting ready to return to something I loved years ago: pottery.

It has been several years since I’ve sat at a pottery wheel. Several years since I’ve felt a lump of cool, wet clay beneath my hands and watched it slowly become something beautiful. But recently, I found myself thinking about the studio again, and I realized just how much I’ve missed it. I can almost feel it already, the wet clay sliding between my fingers, the gentle rhythm of the wheel turning beneath my hands, the anticipation of seeing what might emerge from that shapeless lump. There is something almost magical about pottery. You begin with a handful of earth, something ordinary and unremarkable, and with patience, creativity, and a little bit of imagination, you can transform it into something useful or beautiful. I’m looking forward to getting my hands dirty again. More than that, I’m looking forward to finding that creative part of myself that has been waiting patiently to come back to life.

Maybe that is one of the gifts of getting older. We begin to realize that we don't have to spend every waking moment being productive. We don't have to justify everything we do by how useful it is. Sometimes it is enough to do something simply because it makes us happy. There is value in joy. There is value in creativity.

There is value in sitting quietly with a paintbrush, opening a book, planting flowers, taking photographs, writing words that may never be published, walking through nature, playing music, sewing, gardening, woodworking, cooking, crafting, or sitting at a pottery wheel with clay-covered hands and a smile on your face. Those things may not change the world, but they can change something inside of us.

I think we sometimes forget that we are more than the roles we have spent our lives filling. We are mothers and fathers, wives and husbands, grandparents, employees, caregivers, volunteers, homemakers and providers. We spend so much time pouring ourselves into other people that we can forget there is a person inside of us who needs nurturing, too. And perhaps that person is whispering, “Remember what you used to love?” Maybe it’s time to listen.

For me, that means pottery. It means walking back into a studio after years away and allowing myself to play with clay again. It means accepting that the first bowl might be crooked, the vase might collapse, and whatever I make may not look anything like the picture I had in my head. And that's okay. The point isn't perfection. The point is being present. The point is remembering what it feels like to create something with your own hands. The point is joy.

I think we need to give ourselves permission to rediscover those forgotten pieces of ourselves. Not because we are trying to turn back the clock or become the person we were twenty or thirty years ago, but because there are still new things waiting to be discovered within us. Age doesn't mean our creativity has to retire. It doesn't mean our curiosity has to disappear. It doesn't mean we've had our share of adventure.

There are still things we haven't made, places we haven't explored, books we haven't read, photographs we haven't taken, recipes we haven't tried, paintings we haven't painted and pieces of clay we haven't shaped. There is still life left to live. And maybe part of living it well means making room for the things that make our hearts come alive.

So I'm going back to the pottery wheel. I'm going back to the studio. I'm going back to the feel of wet clay slipping through my fingers and the wonderful uncertainty of wondering what my hands will create. And perhaps, in the process, I'll discover something even more important than pottery. I'll rediscover joy.

If there is something you've loved but haven't done in years, maybe this is your reminder to bring it back into your life. Don't wait for the perfect time. Don't wait until everything else is finished. Life will always have something waiting to be done. Make time for something that makes you smile. Pick up the paintbrush. Open the book. Plant the garden. Dust off the camera. Pull out the sewing machine. Take the fishing rod out of the garage. Sit down at the piano. Or, like me, get your hands covered in clay. Because joy doesn't always find us in the middle of our busy lives. Sometimes, we have to make room for it. And I intend to make room for mine.

One Breath Away

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about how brief this life really is. Maybe it’s because I recently lost a cousin. Maybe it’s because a dear friend is fighting hard against stage 4 lung cancer. Maybe it’s because I’m getting older and becoming increasingly aware that the years behind me now far outnumber the years ahead. Or maybe it’s all of it. Sometimes life has a way of slowing us down long enough to make us look around and realize just how quickly the years have passed.

I’ll be 69 soon, and honestly, I don’t know how that happened. It feels like just a few minutes ago that I was a little girl sitting in a first-grade classroom, my feet probably not even touching the floor, with absolutely no understanding of how quickly life would move. I didn’t worry about cancer. I didn’t worry about losing people I loved. I didn’t think about mortality or doctor’s appointments or the possibility that one day my parents wouldn’t be here. I simply lived. I laughed. I played. I went home when the streetlights came on. I had no idea that those ordinary days would one day become precious memories.

Now I look back and realize that childhood seemed to last forever, but somehow nearly seven decades have passed in what feels like the blink of an eye. And along the way, I’ve said goodbye to people I thought would always be here. My parents are gone. My brother is gone. Other family members and friends have gone on ahead of me, leaving behind photographs, memories, stories, and an empty space where their voices used to be and I try not to think about the fact that we are always one breath away from eternity...always one second away from losing someone we love.

That realization can be frightening if I dwell on it too long, but I’m beginning to think it can also be a gift. Because when we understand how fragile life is, we begin to appreciate the life we have been given. Twelve years ago, cancer entered my life and changed the way I looked at everything. When I first heard the words, I thought I was going to die. Cancer has a way of making mortality very real, very quickly. Suddenly, tomorrow wasn’t something I could simply assume would come. There were tests and scans and surgeries and appointments, but underneath all of it was a question I couldn’t escape: What if I don’t get to grow old?

I prayed. I cried. I was afraid. And yet, God allowed me to live. Twelve years later, I’m still here. I don’t take that lightly. I know there are no guarantees that any of us will wake up tomorrow. None of us knows how many mornings we have left, how many sunsets we will see, how many birthdays we will celebrate, or how many times we’ll hear the voices of the people we love. We simply don’t know.

That’s why I don’t want to waste what I’ve been given. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life worrying about the days I may not have when I could be living the day God has placed right in front of me. I want to love more deeply. I want to laugh more often. I want to forgive more quickly. I want to tell people what they mean to me while they’re still here to hear it. I want to make memories instead of constantly chasing things. I want to sit on the porch and watch the sunset. I want to linger a little longer when my grandchildren hug me. I want to take the pictures. I want to write the stories. I want to pray the prayers. I want to call the friend. I want to say, “I love you,” without assuming there will always be another opportunity, because there may not be.

That’s the part about getting older that nobody really prepares you for. You begin to realize that life isn’t an endless road stretching out in front of you. There is an ending. And while I don’t know when that ending will come, I know where I want to be when it does. I want to have lived. Really lived. Not perfectly. Not fearlessly. Not without regrets or mistakes or difficult seasons. But fully. I want to squeeze every bit of goodness out of the days God gives me. I want to be present instead of always waiting for the next thing. I want to stop postponing joy. I want to stop thinking, I’ll do that someday. Because someday is not promised.

This moment is. This breath is. This ordinary afternoon, this conversation, this cup of coffee, this hug, this phone call, this sunset—these are the pieces that make up a life. And perhaps that’s what my recent thoughts about death are really teaching me. I’m not supposed to live afraid of dying. I’m supposed to live aware that life is precious. There’s a difference. The Bible tells us in Psalm 90:12, “Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.” Numbering our days doesn’t mean counting them with fear. It means recognizing their value. It means understanding that every day is a gift that cannot be saved for later.

My friend fighting stage 4 lung cancer is teaching me something simply by fighting for another day. My cousin’s death has reminded me that our time together is never guaranteed. And the people I’ve already lost remind me that someday, if God allows me to live long enough, I will be one of those people someone else misses. That thought makes me want to live differently. Not desperately, but purposefully. With urgency, but not anxiety. With gratitude, not fear.

Because twelve years ago, I thought cancer might take my life. Instead, God gave me more life. And I don’t want to waste the miracle. I want to use whatever time I have left to love people, encourage people, make memories, tell stories, share my faith, and appreciate the simple things I once overlooked. I want to wake up each morning remembering that the fact that I am here is not something to take for granted.

At almost 69, I realize something I couldn’t possibly understand when I was sitting in that first-grade classroom without a care in the world: Life is both incredibly long and incredibly short. We spend our childhood wishing we were older, and then we spend our later years wondering where all those years went. We assume we’ll have more time. More time to visit. More time to call. More time to apologize. More time to travel. More time to tell someone we love them. More time to make things right. But none of us knows how much time we have.

So today, I’m choosing to stop taking time for granted. I’m choosing to love the people who are still here and cherish the memories of those who aren’t. I’m choosing to be grateful for every ordinary moment because I’ve learned that ordinary moments are often the extraordinary pieces of a life. And when my time on this earth finally comes to an end, I hope I can look back and say, I didn’t waste it.

I hope I loved well. I hope I gave generously. I hope I laughed often. I hope I encouraged people. I hope I pointed others toward Jesus. I hope I left behind more love than I found. And most of all, I hope I lived with the understanding that every breath was a gift from God.

Because that’s what I know now that I didn’t know as a little girl in first grade. We’re only here for a little while. We’re one breath away from eternity, and we’re one second away from losing someone we love. So don’t wait. Call the person. Give the hug. Take the picture. Say the words. Forgive. Laugh. Pray. Love. Live. Don’t wait for someday. Someday isn’t promised. But right now is. And right now is a gift.

Lord, thank You for the gift of another day. Thank You for the people You’ve placed in my life and for the memories of those You’ve already called home. Help me not to waste the time You’ve given me worrying about the time I don’t have. Teach me to number my days, to love deeply, forgive freely, and live intentionally. When I’m tempted to take another moment for granted, remind me that every breath is a gift. And when my earthly journey is finally finished, let me be able to say that I lived the life You gave me with gratitude, purpose, and love. Until that day comes, help me make every second count. In Jesus’ name, Amen.

The Sound of School Bells and Sweet Memories

This morning, I sat quietly on our back porch with a cup of coffee in my hands as the familiar hum of a lawn mower drifted across the fence. The landscaper at the elementary school behind our home was trimming the grass, preparing the campus for another school year. In just a few days, August 4th to be exact, those quiet hallways will once again echo with laughter, chatter, and the hurried footsteps of children eager to begin a new chapter. Hearing that mower transported me back through the years to a place that still holds a special corner of my heart: my high school. 

There was something magical about the weeks leading up to school. New clothes carefully folded in dresser drawers. Fresh notebooks waiting to be filled with dreams and assignments. The cellophane wrapped packages of notebook paper, pens, and pencils. Every new school year felt like a clean slate, filled with possibilities. We couldn't wait to reunite with friends we hadn't seen all summer, compare schedules, and wonder who would be in our classes. There was excitement in the air that no amount of growing older can erase.

The memories come rushing back so vividly. Walking the hallways with books hugged tightly against my chest. The metallic slam of lockers closing between classes. Pep rallies that filled the gymnasium with school spirit. Teachers who challenged us, encouraged us, and sometimes made us laugh when they didn't even realize it. Looking at this photograph of some of my teachers and our principal brings back faces that helped shape who I would become. At the time, I probably didn't realize the lasting impact they were making. Years later, I understand that education is about so much more than reading, writing, and arithmetic. It's about people who invest in young lives.

Life has changed in so many ways since those days. My own grandchildren are homeschooled, and I'm grateful they are receiving a wonderful education. Yet every August, I still find myself smiling when school buses begin rolling again and children shoulder backpacks almost as big as they are. A new school year represents hope. It reminds us that every ending is followed by another beginning, and every student is stepping into opportunities they cannot yet imagine.

As adults, we often long for "the good old days," but perhaps what we really miss is the anticipation that came with them. We believed anything was possible. We measured life by semesters instead of calendars, football games instead of deadlines, and friendships instead of followers. Those memories are treasures that time cannot erase. They remind us where we've been and often help us appreciate where we are today.

So, as another school year begins, I pray for every student walking through school doors, every teacher preparing lesson plans, every administrator leading with wisdom, every bus driver, cafeteria worker, custodian, and volunteer who helps make a school function. May this year be filled with learning, kindness, laughter, and friendships that last a lifetime. And may today's students someday look back with the same warmth and gratitude that fills my heart whenever I think of my high school. 

"Train up a child in the way he should go: and when he is old, he will not depart from it." — Proverbs 22:6 (KJV)

The Gift of a Sunday Well Spent

There was a time in my life when sitting still made me feel guilty. If I wasn't cleaning the house, running errands, working on a project, or checking something off my to-do list, I felt as though I was wasting precious time. On Sunday afternoons, if I settled into my favorite chair with a good book, I couldn't fully enjoy it because a little voice in the back of my mind kept reminding me of all the things I "should" be doing.

Age has a wonderful way of changing our perspective.

As the years have passed, I've come to realize that time is one of God's most precious gifts. None of us knows how many Sundays we have left to enjoy. Instead of feeling guilty for resting, I've learned to treasure those quiet hours. They are no longer wasted moments; they are sacred ones.

Sunday has always held a special place in my heart. It is the Lord's Day, a day to worship, reflect, and remember His goodness. It is also a beautiful reminder that God never intended for us to live our lives at a constant sprint. From the very beginning, He established a rhythm of work and rest. After the work of creation was complete, God rested, not because He was weary, but because He was setting an example for us. He knew that our hearts, minds, and bodies would all need seasons of quiet.

I think we've forgotten how to rest.

Our culture applauds busyness. We wear exhaustion like a badge of honor and often measure our worth by how much we accomplish. We rush from one responsibility to another, filling every spare moment with activity until we hardly recognize what peace feels like anymore.

But there is something deeply restorative about an unhurried Sunday afternoon.

For me, it's curling up with a good book while the world outside grows quiet. It's hearing the birds sing beyond the window, feeling the gentle stillness settle over the house, and allowing my mind to slow down. It's giving myself permission to simply be instead of constantly striving to do.

I've discovered that rest isn't laziness. It's obedience. It's acknowledging that the world will continue turning even if I pause for a little while. It's trusting that God never asked me to carry every burden or complete every task in a single day.

I've reached a season of life where I no longer apologize for slowing down. Instead, I embrace it with gratitude. These peaceful Sundays have become little gifts from the Lord, moments to breathe deeply, enjoy His blessings, and refill a soul that has poured itself out throughout the week.

If you've been feeling guilty for taking time to rest, perhaps today is your invitation to let that guilt go. Put aside the laundry for a few hours. Leave the dishes until later. Find a comfortable chair, open a good book, sip a cup of coffee or tea, and simply enjoy the quiet.

Sometimes the most productive thing we can do is rest in the presence of the One who created us.

"Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest."  Matthew 11:28 (ESV)

May your Sunday be filled with worship, peace, and the kind of rest that refreshes both your body and your soul. Those quiet moments are not time lost, they are time beautifully invested in the life God has graciously given you.

The Zucchini are dead

Summer gardening in Georgia is hard. With the terrible heat and the sporadic rain, plants don't know how to thrive. 

About 5 weeks ago, I planted some zucchini from seed. I only had one large pot and I thought I'd try to plant something to grow. I had bought some heirloom seeds from a company several years ago and wondered if they still might come up. So I planted them in the pot, watered it with care and waited. Within a week, little seedlings were popping up everywhere. 

Over the next month, the plants begin to thrive and get bigger. I was excited hoping that I would get some zucchini squash this year without having to buy them at the store. In the past whenever I tried to grow squash, squash bugs would get in and ruin the plant. It was very frustrating. This year that hasn't been the case but there has been another issue. 

It's been extremely hot this summer, hotter than I remember from past summers. I've had to water the plants more often and usually an hour or two after watering, the plants look wilted from the heat. The next day, I'll water them again, and they spring up. I've been hopeful and carefully watching the plants to see what would happen. 

Over the past couple of days, we've had some unexpected torrential downfalls. It has soaked my plants, pelting them with hard rain. The zucchini looked wilty and unhealthy so I decided to just yank them up. I was tired of dealing with them. I was sad because I felt like I'd wasted time and energy on the plants but realized I had some other seeds. 

Today I planted some red and green leaf lettuce. It's supposed to germinate more quickly and hopefully, it will be able to thrive despite the terrible weather conditions. If not, I'll just dig them up and wait till next year to plant something again. 

Since we have an inground sprinkler system, we haven't wanted to dig in the yard for fear of hitting the pipes. That has caused us to find other ways of growing. I'm hoping to get some above ground planting boxes next year, but this year I only had one large pot. If we didn't have the sprinkler system, I would have already planted in the ground and had a large garden, but cest la vie.

Special unexpected gifts mean the most

One of the greatest joys of being a parent is discovering that no two children are ever alike. They may grow up in the same home, hear the same bedtime stories, eat the same family meals, and celebrate the same holidays, yet each one develops into a completely unique individual. Looking back over the years, I've come to realize that God doesn't make copies. He creates originals, and I have been blessed to watch that truth unfold through each of my four children.

They are all wonderfully different. They each have their own personalities, talents, strengths, and ways of expressing love. Some are more outgoing while others are quieter. Some wear their emotions on their sleeves, while others reveal their hearts through actions instead of words. As their mother, I've learned to appreciate those differences because they make our family richer.

My oldest child, my son Dave, has always had a quiet, reserved nature. He's not someone who seeks the spotlight or tries to be the funniest person in the room. If you met him for the first time, you might think he's serious. But those of us who know him best have discovered a side of him that appears when you least expect it. Every once in a while, he'll do something so clever and unexpected that it catches me completely by surprise and leaves me laughing long after the moment has passed.

Not long ago, Dave came to visit. Like most visits, we enjoyed spending time together, catching up on life, and making new memories. At some point while he was here, he wandered into my art room. It's one of my favorite places in the house, filled with paintbrushes, projects waiting to be finished, and little treasures that bring back happy memories.

One of those treasures is a troll doll that my youngest daughter, Jamie, gave me as a gift. She knows how much I enjoy nostalgic reminders of my childhood, and that little troll immediately transported me back to simpler days. It has sat on a shelf in my art room ever since, faithfully sporting the same wild, colorful hair that troll dolls have been famous for over the years.

A day or two after Dave had gone home, I walked into my art room and immediately noticed something was different. At first, I couldn't quite put my finger on it. Then I looked closer.

The troll's hair had been neatly parted straight down the middle.

I stood there for a second before it dawned on me exactly what had happened.

Dave.

Without saying a single word, he had quietly given my troll doll a new hairstyle. I could almost picture him standing there, carefully smoothing that outrageous hair into a perfect middle part, grinning to himself as he imagined how long it might take me to notice.

I laughed out loud.

He never mentioned it before he left. There wasn't a note beside the troll explaining his handiwork. He simply trusted that sooner or later I'd discover his little surprise. Knowing me as well as he does, he probably knew it wouldn't take very long.

The more I thought about it, the sweeter it became. It wasn't simply a practical joke. It was one of those small, thoughtful gestures that quietly says, "I know you." He knew I would laugh. He knew that every time I looked at that troll doll afterward, I'd think about him. Even now, every time I walk into my art room and see that perfectly parted hair, I smile all over again.

It reminded me that love doesn't always arrive in grand gestures. Sometimes it's tucked inside little moments that could easily be overlooked. Sometimes it's a phone call just to check in. Sometimes it's showing up when you're needed. And sometimes it's giving your mother's troll doll a haircut because you know she'll eventually find it and laugh until she can't help herself.

As parents, we spend years trying to teach our children about kindness, compassion, and bringing joy to others. Then one day we realize they've been teaching us all along. They've shown us that love has many languages, and each person speaks it a little differently.

I'm grateful for all four of my children and the unique ways they've enriched my life. They each reflect a different facet of God's creativity, and I wouldn't change a single thing about who they are. Their personalities may be vastly different, but together they have filled my life with laughter, lessons, unforgettable memories, and countless reminders of God's goodness.

And thanks to my quiet, reserved son with the wonderfully unexpected sense of humor, I'll probably never look at another troll doll quite the same way again.

The summer from hell

This summer has bothered me more than any other. I don't know if it's because I'm older and I'm less heat tolerant, or if it's due to our current location, or if it's due to the massive heatwave that has hovered over the southeast. It's probably a combination of all three! In any event, I hate it. 

I wonder if the horrible heat is a byproduct of the cloud seeding that the government has been doing for some time. Messing with the ozone layer is not a good thing. 

When I think about how hot it is, I can't help but imagine what hell would feel like. Can you imagine having scorching heat 24 hours a day 365 days a year for eternity? I can't! 

Finding ways to stay cool is a challenge. We get up early and get our walking in before 10:00 a.m. Between the hours of 10:00 a.m. and 7:00 p.m., we stay indoors. I've never been so thankful for air conditioning in my entire life. 

I grew up with no air conditioning. We had an attic fan, and windows. As a child, I didn't notice it that much. But as I grew older, I realized how unfortunate we were. Yes, we had a roof over our heads, but it would have been so much nicer to have air conditioning like all of my friends did. We couldn't afford it number one and number two, our house had no insulation so if we had been able to afford air conditioning, the coolness would not have stayed inside our home. 

I keep thinking I need to move to a cooler climate, perhaps one of the Carolinas or Tennessee. Who knows, maybe in another year or two, we'll make the decision to pull up roots and start again somewhere. 

For now, I'm doing the best I can to stay cool. I wear lightweight clothing, pull my hair up, stay indoors when I need to, and enjoy the early morning hours and late evening hours when possible. 

I feel terrible complaining about the heat when there are so many around the world who are worse off than we are. I guess you could say we've gotten spoiled. I like the cooler weather, I love air conditioning, and I like to be comfortable. I guess I am a little spoiled.

The photo below is of St Mark's lighthouse. It's one of the places we enjoy visiting when we go to Florida. Speaking of Florida, that's another hot place, but being near the ocean is always enjoyable especially when we can feel a nice ocean breeze.

Twelve Years After Cancer

Twelve years ago, I heard the words no one ever wants to hear: You have cancer. In that moment, life split into two distinct chapters—before cancer and after cancer. Nothing has ever looked quite the same since that horrible day. Every year since my diagnosis, I've celebrated life.

Celebrating the Early Years of Survival

In those early years, the celebrations were big. I wasn't sure I would make it to the next anniversary, so each one felt monumental. My family gathered around tables filled with laughter and gratitude. Many photos were taken. Cakes were decorated. Hugs lingered a little longer. We celebrated not just survival, but possibility.

I remember reaching the five-year mark, a milestone often viewed as the gold standard in the cancer world. People cheered, doctors smiled, and friends breathed easier. It was as though I had crossed an invisible finish line, but something interesting happened after that.

As the years passed, the celebrations became smaller. Family members, relieved that I had done well, naturally shifted their focus back to everyday life. The urgency faded for them; after all, I was okay—or at least, I looked okay. My cancerversary didn't take the same prominence in their lives, and often I'd have to remind them it had come again.

The Hidden Reality of Cancer Survivorship

What many people don't understand is that survivorship doesn't erase the experience of cancer. Even years later, there is often a quiet awareness tucked into the corners of our minds. A strange ache can trigger questions. A routine scan can stir anxiety. A doctor's appointment can awaken memories we'd rather leave behind. The fear of recurrence never completely disappears.

I don't dwell on it. I don't allow it to steal today's joy, but I acknowledge that it's there. That's one of the reasons I continue to celebrate every cancer-free anniversary—because I know what it means.

I know what it is to sit in waiting rooms holding my breath. I know what it feels like to hear medical terminology become part of everyday conversation. I know what it means to face uncertainty and keep moving forward anyway. Surviving cancer changes you.

Learning to Treasure Ordinary Days

It teaches you that tomorrow isn't guaranteed. It strips away the illusion of unlimited time. It causes you to notice ordinary miracles—the warmth of sunlight on your face, the sound of your grandchildren laughing, a meal shared with people you love, or another birthday candle to blow out.

Twelve years is a long time to live after cancer, and I am profoundly grateful for every single one of those years. So when should a cancer survivor stop celebrating? My answer is simple: never. Not because we're living in fear, but because we're living with appreciation.

Celebration isn't denial. It isn't pretending that the difficult parts never happened. It is acknowledging that they did happen and that somehow, through treatment, tears, setbacks, prayers, determination, and grace, we are still here.

Why Some People Don't Understand Cancerversaries

Some people may not understand that, especially when you share each milestone on social media. I've had both positive and negative reactions there. Old friends from high school have wondered why I still mark the date. They've commented with things like, "Haven't you moved on by now?"

The truth is, I have moved on. I've built a life beyond cancer. I've embraced joy, pursued new dreams, and created beautiful memories. But moving on doesn't mean forgetting.

Cancer became part of my story, but it did not become the end of it. And if one day the disease returns, as it sadly does for some survivors, I will face that challenge when and if it comes. I pray it never does. I do my best to trust God with the unknowns that remain beyond my control.

Every Anniversary Is Worth Celebrating

In the meantime, I refuse to postpone joy. I will celebrate the clear scans and anniversaries. I will celebrate ordinary days that once felt so uncertain because surviving a battle we never chose to fight takes courage. It takes determination. It takes resilience. It requires getting up on days when fear whispers loudly and hope feels fragile.

Cancer survivors understand that life itself is worth commemorating. Perhaps that's what survivorship really means. It isn't simply counting the years since diagnosis. It's learning to live fully within those years. It's choosing gratitude over bitterness. It's finding reasons to laugh again. It's recognizing that every new season, every milestone, every ordinary Tuesday is a gift.

So this year, I will celebrate twelve years of being cancer-free. I will probably take more pictures than necessary. I'll gather with the people I love. I'll reflect on how far I've come and offer prayers of thanksgiving for the journey. I'll more than likely have a big slice of cake. I'll do all these things not because I am afraid, not because I am stuck in the past, but because I understand something cancer taught me long ago: life is precious, and milestones matter.

There Is No Expiration Date on Gratitude

If you're a fellow survivor wondering whether it's still acceptable to celebrate five years, ten years, twenty years, or beyond, let me assure you that there is no expiration date on gratitude.

You don't need permission to honor the road you've traveled or the strength it took to get here. Celebrate in whatever way feels meaningful to you. Celebrate loudly or quietly. Celebrate with a party or with a whispered prayer. Put it all over social media—but celebrate, because every anniversary represents another year of hope, another year of memories made, another year of choosing life despite knowing how fragile it can be.

As for me, if God grants me another year to celebrate, I intend to do exactly that—with no apologies.

250 Years of Freedom

Today, America celebrates 250 years of freedom.

As I sit here reflecting on what that means, I realize that the word "freedom" is something many of us use so often that we sometimes forget just how precious it really is.

I am thankful that I live in a country where I can open my Bible without fear. I can bow my head in prayer at a restaurant, attend church every Sunday, speak openly about my faith, and share God's Word with others. I can travel where I choose, voice my opinions, cast my vote, and enjoy countless liberties that generations before me fought to preserve.

Those freedoms became even more meaningful to me in 2009 when I traveled to China on a mission trip.

It was a beautiful country filled with wonderful people, but it was also a sobering reminder of what life is like without the freedoms we often take for granted. As we walked through the airport, soldiers carrying machine guns seemed to be everywhere we looked. Their presence was impossible to ignore. I remember thinking how different it felt from home.

We were careful about where and when we talked about our faith. Something as simple as openly reading my Bible or praying in a public place could have brought unwanted attention and potentially serious consequences. It made me appreciate, in a way I never had before, the incredible blessing of religious freedom here in America.

That experience forever changed my perspective.

Today, I also find myself thinking about the men and women who have worn our nation's uniform. My own family has a rich heritage of military service, and I have always been proud of that legacy. Today, my grandson continues that tradition as he serves in the United States Army. Knowing he is willing to stand in harm's way to help protect the freedoms that so many of us enjoy fills my heart with both gratitude and pride.

Freedom has never been free. Every liberty we enjoy has come at a tremendous cost paid by brave men and women and by the families who stood behind them.

This Independence Day also brings sweet memories of my daddy.

Daddy was born on July 2, and he loved to tell everyone he was "almost a firecracker." Every year, the Fourth of July was one of his favorite holidays. He couldn't wait for the fireworks. M-80s, Black Cats, bottle rockets, you name it, he loved them all. His excitement was contagious, and some of my happiest childhood memories are wrapped up in family gatherings, cookouts, laughter, and watching him enjoy every loud boom and brilliant burst of color lighting up the summer sky.

Every Fourth of July, those memories come rushing back, and I can't help but smile. I can almost hear his laughter and imagine him grinning from ear to ear as another firecracker exploded.

As we celebrate America's 250th birthday today, with family gathered around the table, hamburgers on the grill, homemade ice cream, flags waving proudly, children laughing, and fireworks filling the night sky, I hope we will pause for just a moment to remember why we celebrate.

May we never take our freedoms for granted.

May we remember those who sacrificed to secure them.

May we pray for our nation, for our military, for our leaders, and for future generations.

And may we always thank God for the incredible blessing of living in a land where we are still free to worship Him openly.

Happy 250th Birthday, America.

God bless America, and may God continue to bless the land that I am proud to call home.

Busted in the Backyard

Before I married my first husband, David and I spent a lot of time visiting his cousin Pat and her husband Ron. They were fun people, and their backyard featured what seemed like the greatest luxury imaginable on a sweltering Georgia summer night, an above-ground swimming pool.

One particular evening, after the four of us had spent hours talking and laughing, Pat and Ron announced they were heading to bed. David and I exchanged a glance. The night air was thick with humidity, and the pool water looked inviting beneath the moonlight. Somewhere between youthful courage and questionable judgment, David suggested we go for a late-night swim. Then he added two words that nearly stopped my heart: "skinny dipping."

I had never done such a thing in my life. The very idea made me nervous. But David was persuasive, and eventually I agreed. We waited until we were absolutely certain Pat and Ron were asleep. Like a pair of amateur spies, we tiptoed across the backyard, trying not to make a sound. We slipped into the cool water and congratulated ourselves on our successful mission. There we were, floating beneath the stars, feeling quite clever and certain we'd gotten away with our little adventure.

For about twenty minutes, everything went according to plan.

Then suddenly, without warning, the backyard security light blazed to life.

One second we were hidden in darkness. The next, we were illuminated like the grand opening of a new department store. Every ounce of confidence instantly evaporated. I froze. David froze. We stared toward the house, and there stood Pat, who had apparently heard enough suspicious splashing to investigate.

I have never moved so fast in my entire life.

To this day, I don't remember exactly how I got out of that pool, gathered my dignity, and found my clothes. I only remember being absolutely mortified while Pat laughed so hard she could barely stand up. As for David, he thought the whole thing was hilarious.

Years have passed since that summer night, and thankfully my embarrassment has faded. What remains is a memory that still makes me smile. It's funny how life works. The moments we wish would disappear forever often become the stories we laugh about the longest. And while I wouldn't necessarily recommend skinny dipping in your relatives' swimming pool, I can testify that nothing creates a lasting family story quite like getting caught red-handed, or in our case, caught completely uncovered.  

(Graphic created with AI)