The Blessings That Stick

There are some things in life that simply refuse to let go.

I was thinking about that recently as I wandered through the woods behind our house on a beautiful autumn afternoon. I wasn’t looking for anything profound. I was simply searching for a few fallen limbs to use in a craft project. The leaves were showing off in all their autumn glory, and the familiar crunch beneath my feet took me back to childhood.

As a little girl, I loved the woods. I could spend hours wandering beneath the trees, imagining that every tree had a story to tell and every rock was a treasure waiting to be discovered. Nature fascinated me. I loved the plants, the birds, the wildlife, and all the little surprises I might find along the way. And I rarely came home empty-handed.

Sometimes I carried home a pretty feather, a handful of acorns, an unusual rock, or a few wildflowers. Those little treasures found their way into my room, where I could admire them long after my walk was over. But there were other treasures I never intended to bring home.

Tiny green and brown things would attach themselves to my socks and pants and hitch a ride right back to the house with me. Mama called them beggar’s lice. They were nature’s way of making sure I didn’t leave the woods without taking something with me. I had all but forgotten about those little hitchhikers until my recent walk.

After about fifteen minutes of gathering fallen limbs, I headed back inside feeling quite pleased with my collection. But before I opened the door, I happened to look down. There they were. Beggar’s lice.

My old companions had returned, clinging to my socks and pant legs as though they had been waiting all these years for another opportunity to follow me home. I had to laugh. But as I stood there picking them off one by one, I began thinking about how much those little hitchhikers reminded me of something far more precious.

Some blessings in life are meant to stick.

Scripture says, “A friend loveth at all times.” Proverbs 17:17. And Proverbs 18:24 reminds us that there is a friend who sticks closer than a brother.

I have been blessed with people like that.

They are the friends who don’t disappear when life becomes difficult. They check on you when they sense something is wrong. They answer the phone. They remember the little things. They pray when you need prayer and show up when you need someone beside you. They don’t have to be asked to care because caring is simply part of who they are. They stick.

And in a world where people can drift in and out of our lives so easily, there is something incredibly precious about someone who chooses to stay.

Isn’t that one of the beautiful things about friendship? Family may be connected to us by blood, but a true friend chooses to remain connected by love. They have no obligation to stay, yet they do. That kind of friendship is a gift from God.

And perhaps that is why I like the picture of those little beggar’s lice more than I ever thought I would. They remind me that some things are meant to cling. Some things are meant to follow us home. Some things are meant to remain attached to our lives. God’s love is one of those things.

Romans 8:38-39 reminds us that nothing can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord. His love doesn’t loosen its grip when we stumble. It doesn’t fall away when we wander. It doesn’t disappear when life becomes messy. It sticks. His grace sticks. His mercy sticks. His promises stick.

And sometimes, if we are paying attention, He sends people into our lives whose love becomes a tangible reminder of His own. So maybe I’ll look at beggar’s lice a little differently from now on.

I’ll still probably reach for the lint roller when I get back from the woods. But the next time those little green and brown hitchhikers cling to my clothes, I may smile before I pull them off. They will remind me to be grateful for the things in life that refuse to let go. For the friend who keeps calling. For the person who keeps praying. For the family member who keeps showing up. For the people God has placed in my life who have chosen to stick around through the changing seasons. And most of all, for a Savior whose love holds on when I cannot hold on myself.

Life changes. Seasons change. People move. Circumstances shift. Years pass much faster than we ever imagined they would. But there are some things that remain. The love of God. The grace of Jesus. The promises of Scripture.

And those precious people He sends along the way who somehow manage to stick to our hearts. Those are the blessings I never want to take for granted. 

So today, Lord, thank You for the things that stick. Thank You for the people who love me enough to stay, for the friends who check in, for the hands that reach out, and for the hearts that refuse to let go. And thank You most of all that when everything else in this world feels uncertain, Your love remains firmly attached to me.

Like those little beggar’s lice clinging to my socks, may I carry Your love with me wherever I go, and may I never forget what a blessing it is to have something so precious that simply refuses to let go. And next time I go walking through the woods, I’ll probably take a lint roller with me. But if a few little hitchhikers decide to tag along, I think I’ll just smile and remember…Some blessings are meant to stick.

Heavenly Father, thank You for the simple reminders You place along our path. Thank You for the people You bring into our lives who love us, encourage us, pray for us, and stay beside us through every season. Help me never to take those relationships for granted.

Thank You for being the Friend who never leaves, never abandons, and never lets go. When life changes and circumstances are uncertain, remind me that Your love is still holding me close. Help me to be that kind of friend to others, someone who stays, someone who encourages, and someone who points others back to You.

Thank You for Your grace that sticks, Your mercy that follows me, and Your love that will never let me go.

In Jesus’ name, Amen.

The Art of Letting Go

I step into the brisk breath of autumn, and the wind greets me like an old friend. It moves wildly through the trees, dancing between branches, lifting leaves and sending them spinning across the sky. I stand beneath a row of sentry pines and look upward. Above me, the sky is an endless canvas of brilliant blue, kissed by the golden warmth of morning sunshine. For a moment, everything seems to pause. Somewhere deep inside me, something whispers, “Change is coming.”

The trees know it. The wind knows it. Even the leaves understand. All around me, nature is quietly surrendering what it can no longer carry. Green gives way to gold, crimson, and brown. What was once alive on the branch loosens its grip and drifts toward the earth. There is no struggle in it. No frantic grasping. Only release. I feel something stirring in my own heart. Perhaps it is the wind brushing against my face and slipping softly into the places inside me that have been tired for far too long. Perhaps it is whispering the same ancient invitation it gives the leaves: “Come dance with me. Lay down your burdens. You were never meant to carry them forever.” My heart leaps at the thought.

Ginger-colored leaves carpet the lawn beneath my feet. Every gust shakes the trees, and another shower of brown and gold comes floating down, slowly, almost reluctantly. One leaf settles upon another until the ground is covered with the beautiful evidence of surrender. I watch them fall, and suddenly I am no longer standing here as the woman I am today. I am a child again. I can almost hear the laughter. I can smell the crispness of autumn. I can feel the rake in my hands.

My siblings and I bundled ourselves in sweaters and jeans and went to war with the leaves. Our yard seemed enormous then, stretching wide and long, scattered with trees and shrubs just waiting to surrender their treasures. We raked and raked and raked, scratching the earth and gathering leaves into enormous hills, each pile becoming a monument to our determination. We worked together, laughing and scheming, until one mischievous soul would make a run through the middle, scattering our carefully constructed mountain in every direction. For a moment, there was frustration. Then came the laughter, and so we began again.

Eventually, we would line up like runners at the starting gate. Then, with all the reckless abandon childhood could muster, we would race toward those piles and hurl ourselves into them. We jumped, we landed, we rolled, and we buried one another beneath mountains of crunchy autumn leaves. Perhaps that was the best part, the burying. We knew nothing then of the things life would eventually ask us to bury. We knew nothing about loss, disappointment, heartbreak, endings, or the strange ache of watching seasons change. We only knew that being buried in leaves was fun. We would lie there beneath the rustling blanket, surrounded by the sweet evidence of another autumn, and stare upward toward heaven. Perhaps, without knowing it, we were learning something. The leaves were teaching us that everything changes, everything falls, and falling is not always the end. Sometimes it is simply the beginning of becoming something new.

Now, standing beneath these autumn skies of memory, I understand what I could not understand as a child. Change is coming. The broken season is ending. Something new is waiting beneath the surface. Just as spring lies hidden beneath winter's barrenness, new life can be waiting beneath the places in us that look most dead. Scripture reminds me of this truth: “There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens” (Ecclesiastes 3:1). Perhaps this season, too, has been appointed for a purpose. Perhaps God is asking me not to mourn what He is removing, but to trust what He is preparing.

The question is no longer whether I will change. The question is whether I will release what must fall. Will I slough off the old, or keep clinging to it? Will I cast away what has already served its purpose, or insist on carrying it into another season? Scripture speaks directly to the struggle within me: “Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing!” (Isaiah 43:18–19). The words feel like a gentle hand upon my shoulder. God is not asking me to deny yesterday. He is asking me not to live there.

The wind answers before I can. “Let go. Let go.” I feel fear rise within me. Insecurity whispers that I need what I am being asked to release. Old wounds remind me of what they cost. Familiar burdens argue that, at least, I know how to carry them. But then I remember the invitation of Jesus: “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest” (Matthew 11:28). Perhaps letting go is not falling into emptiness. Perhaps it is falling into the arms of God.

Then the wind grows stronger. Leaves whirl around me in a golden cyclone, and suddenly their falling does not look like death. It looks like freedom. They are not being punished for letting go. They are being carried. One by one, they release their hold on the branches and trust the wind to take them where they are going.

And perhaps that is faith. Not knowing where the wind will carry you. Not knowing what the next season will look like. Only knowing that the One who created the wind is still holding you. “Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding” (Proverbs 3:5). The leaves seem to embody that kind of trust. They do not cling to the branch and demand to know where they will land. They simply release.

The leaves seem to call to me now. “Release. Float. Trust. Come dance with us.” And this time, I listen. I loosen my grip. I open my hands. I step into the wind.

Somewhere between the falling leaves and the rising hope within me, I realize that perhaps change is not something to fear after all. Perhaps change is one of the ways God reminds us that what is finished does not have to be carried into what is coming. He makes “all things new” (Revelation 21:5). He brings beauty from ashes, life from death, and hope from places we thought had become barren.

The leaves fall. The earth receives them. Beneath the quiet burial of yesterday, tomorrow is already beginning to grow. What looks like an ending to my earthly eyes may be the preparation for a beginning only God can see.

So I lift my face toward the autumn sky, breathe deeply, and smile. The wind is calling, and this time, I am ready to dance, not because I know where it will carry me, but because I know Who holds me. Change is coming. And by faith, I am ready to let go, trust God, and step into the new thing He is bringing forth.

Heavenly Father, thank You for reminding me through the changing leaves that nothing is wasted in Your hands. Just as the trees release what they can no longer carry, teach me to release what You are asking me to surrender. Give me courage to loosen my grip on old hurts, disappointments, fears, and memories that belong to a season You have already brought to an end.

Lord, when I am afraid of what comes next, remind me that You are already there. When I cannot see what is beneath the surface, help me trust that You are preparing new life in places I thought were barren. Give me the faith to believe that what feels like falling may actually be Your invitation to fly, and what feels like an ending may be the beginning of something You are making beautiful.

Help me not to cling to yesterday simply because it is familiar. Give me discernment to know what to keep, what to bury, and what to release. When fear whispers that I cannot let go, let Your voice be louder: “Trust Me. I am doing a new thing.”

Teach me to trust You as completely as the leaves trust the wind. When You say, “Let go,” help me open my hands. When You say, “Come,” give me courage to follow. When You lead me into an unfamiliar season, remind me that I never walk into it alone.

May I embrace the change You are bringing, not with fear, but with expectation. May I rest in the promise that You work all things together for good, and may my heart remain tender enough to recognize the new life You are causing to spring forth.

Father, take everything I have been carrying and teach me to lay it down at Your feet. Breathe Your peace into the places within me that have been weary. Renew my hope. Restore my joy. And when the winds of change begin to blow, let me lift my face toward You and remember that I am held.

I release. I trust. I surrender. And I step forward in faith.

In the precious name of Jesus, Amen.

Teaching an old dog new tricks

It's never too late to try something new. I had to convince my husband of that when I told him I'd signed up for pottery class. I had taken pottery before and had enjoyed it for many years, but he'd never taken a class and wasn't quite sure it was something he wanted to do. 

There was a little studio there called Mud Blossom pottery. The owner offers small classes once a month and when I saw that she was doing something with a fall theme, I thought it was time to let him get a taste of using his hands for something creative. I signed us up and told him we were going to be taking a two and a half hour class. He shrugged his shoulders and said, "I don't know if I'll like that." I told him he would. 

About 1:15 this afternoon, we drove to Hawkinsville, a little city just on the other side of Warner Robins. When we pulled in the driveway we were surprised to see a big Victorian style house with a tiny out building behind it. The sign on the outbuilding said pottery classes here. We got out of the car and went to the door with great anticipation. When we knocked, we were greeted by the owner, a petite 50ish lady with purple hair. She said her name was Mary. 

Several 8-ft tables were lined up into end in the middle of the small studio. Pottery glazes lined one wall and all sorts of large plastic containers, towels, etc. lined the other.. In the center of the tables were slabs of clay and some pottery tools. Around the table there were six chairs. She said she always kept her classes small so that people could learn easier. 

We were the first to arrive and shortly thereafter, three more women came. With the teacher, we had six total. My hubby was the only male. 

After everyone was seated the instructor described our project, gave us tools, and then promptly sat down to make her own creation. I was stunned. Normally, when you're taking a class, the instructor gives instructions on what to do and how to do it. This lady didn't. Thankfully I'd taking pottery before and knew exactly what to do. I helped my husband with his creation and completed mine quickly. 

I think he enjoyed the feel of the wet clay. Although he didn't admit it, he did a good job for a first-timer. I was proud of him for sitting in a room full of ladies and listening to all the gossip without feeling like a fish out of water. 

In a couple of weeks we'll go back to the shop and pick up our projects. The instructor said that she was going to glaze them herself which is not what I'm used to. Normally, when you take a pottery class, you make your creation, it dries for a day or two before it goes in the kiln for the first firing, and then you go back and glaze it. It goes in for a second firing, and then about a week later, you go back and pick the finished product up. It's kind of weird that she's going to be doing the glazing for us. I'm thankful she did, at least, allow us to pick out the color. 

After we pick up our projects, I don't think we'll return for any future work. We're going to look for a pottery studio closer to our home. Hopefully, we can find one with a decent instructor. In any event, we had a good day and I'm thankful that we were able to share the experience together.

Those Stinking Scissors

Have you ever lived long enough to realize that your mother was right about something you were absolutely convinced she was wrong about?I have. And, believe it or not, it involved a pair of scissors.

When I was growing up, my mother did a lot of sewing. She would often take in sewing to make a little extra money, and if there was one thing Mama was particular about, it was her sewing supplies. Especially her scissors. Mama had one pair of scissors that were extremely sharp, and those scissors were for one thing and one thing only: cutting fabric.

Now, as children, we didn't always understand the importance of such rules. Every once in a while, one of us would get our hands on Mama's precious scissors and use them to cut a piece of paper for a school project. Buddy, if Mama caught you with those scissors and a piece of paper, you were in big trouble. At the time, I couldn't understand what the big deal was. After all, they were just scissors. We had other scissors. Surely cutting a little piece of paper wasn't going to ruin the world. But Mama knew something I didn't. Paper can dull a good pair of fabric scissors. And when you're trying to cut beautiful fabric, you need scissors that are sharp enough to do the job properly. Fast forward several decades.

I was working on a sewing project recently and went looking for my favorite pair of fabric scissors. I couldn't find them anywhere. I searched high and low. I looked in places where scissors had absolutely no business being. I checked drawers, baskets, cabinets and sewing supplies. I was beginning to wonder if those scissors had simply decided to leave the house without telling me. Finally, my husband found them tucked inside the little zippered pocket of my sewing machine case. There they were. My precious scissors. I was so thankful to have them back in my hand. They were still sharp, still dependable, and still exactly what I needed to cut my fabric. 

And that's when it happened.

A little voice in my head said, "See? That's why I was always so particular about my scissors."It was Mama's voice. I had to laugh.

Isn't it funny how the things that annoyed us as children sometimes make perfect sense when we become adults? Back then, I thought Mama was being overly particular about a pair of stinking scissors. Today, I understand. She wasn't being difficult. She was protecting something valuable.

And isn't that just like God?

There are things He tells us not to do that we don't understand. There are boundaries He places around our lives that sometimes seem unnecessary. There are instructions in His Word that may feel restrictive when we're young in our faith. But God sees what we cannot see. He knows what can dull us. He knows what can damage us. He knows what can take the sharpness out of our testimony, our faith, our discernment and our purpose. Sometimes His "don't touch that" is really an expression of His love. Sometimes the boundary that frustrates us today is the very thing that protects what we will need tomorrow. And sometimes, years later, we look back and realize that God wasn't trying to keep something good from us. He was trying to preserve something precious within us.

James 1:5 reminds us, "If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God, that giveth to all men liberally, and upbraideth not."

I think about Mama's scissors and smile. Maybe some of the lessons we thought were silly weren't silly at all. Maybe they were little seeds of wisdom planted in us long before we were old enough to recognize them. And perhaps that's one of the beautiful ways God works. He lets us live long enough to understand some of the things we once didn't understand. He allows a memory from childhood to come walking back into our lives at just the right moment and whisper, "Now you see." I certainly do. And Mama, wherever you are, I finally understand about those stinking scissors. You were right. Of course you were. You usually were.

And maybe that's the lesson for today: When God places a boundary in our path, we don't always have to understand it before we obey it. We can trust the One who sees what we cannot. Because sometimes obedience today protects the blessing God intends for tomorrow.

Heavenly Father, thank You for the little lessons You have woven throughout my life. Thank You for the wisdom of those who came before me and for the memories You sometimes bring back at exactly the right moment.

Help me remember that Your boundaries are not meant to keep good things from me. They are meant to protect what You have placed within me. Give me the wisdom to trust You even when I don't understand. Help me recognize when You are saying, "Don't touch that," and give me the courage to listen.

Keep my faith sharp. Keep my heart tender. Keep my testimony useful. And when I look back on the things I once didn't understand, let me see Your loving hand in them.

Thank You for the lessons, the memories, the laughter, and even those stinking scissors.

In Jesus' name, Amen.

The Miles That Changed Me

September 26, 2015, fifteen months after my breast cancer diagnosis, I found myself standing among hundreds of people preparing to walk a 5K in celebration of cancer survivors. What began as a simple walk became a deeply emotional journey of faith, gratitude, and the moment I finally understood what it meant to call myself a survivor.

The morning air was filled with anticipation, music, and the sound of hundreds of voices. Everywhere I looked, there were people wearing pink, carrying signs, hugging one another and offering words of encouragement. Some were walking. Some were running. Some were pushing strollers or walking hand in hand with loved ones. And some, like me, were simply grateful to be there. Eleven years ago, I stood among them as a breast cancer survivor, although I wasn't quite sure I was ready to call myself that yet.

It had been only fifteen months since my diagnosis, and cancer was still very much a part of my everyday life. Fifteen months may sound like a long time to someone standing outside the experience of cancer, but to someone who has heard the words "You have cancer", fifteen months can feel like both an eternity and the beginning of a completely different life. Cancer changes the way you look at time. Before cancer, I had taken ordinary mornings for granted. After cancer, an ordinary morning could feel like a gift. Waking up, getting dressed, walking outside, breathing deeply, and laughing with my husband- these simple things carried a different meaning. I was learning that survival isn't always a dramatic moment. Sometimes it is simply waking up and realizing that you are still here.

That morning, however, I had decided to do something that felt much bigger than simply getting out of bed. I was going to walk a 5K, 3.1 miles. On paper, it didn't seem like an extraordinary distance. But to me, those miles represented something much greater than a race. They represented everything I had endured, everything I had feared and everything I had prayed for since hearing the words, “You have cancer.”

Before the race began, I stood quietly and prayed. I asked God to give me a verse to hold onto that day. I wanted something I could carry with me when I became tired or discouraged, something that would remind me that I wasn't walking those miles alone. Instead of giving me just one verse, He brought several to my heart. The first was from Psalm 26: “Vindicate me, O Lord, for I have walked in my integrity, and I have trusted in the Lord without wavering. Prove me, O Lord, and try me; test my heart and my mind. For your steadfast love is before my eyes, and I walk in your faithfulness.” Then came Philippians 4:13: “I can do all things through Christ who gives me strength.” I tucked those words away in my heart. I had no idea just how much I would need them.

At seven o'clock that morning, a pancake breakfast was held for the cancer survivors. There was something comforting about being surrounded by people who understood a part of my story without my having to explain it. We all had different stories, different diagnoses, different treatments and different scars, but we shared something that morning. We had survived. Then the survivors were called to the stage.

One by one, we made our way forward as Rachel Platten's “Fight Song” played loudly through the speakers. The crowd erupted in cheers. People clapped, shouted and celebrated as though they knew every battle we had fought to get there. As I walked toward the stage, I felt a little overwhelmed. I'm not an “upfront and center” kind of girl. I've always been much more comfortable in the background, and I don't particularly enjoy being the center of attention. Yet suddenly I was walking onto a stage with hundreds of eyes watching me.

Then a survivor's medal was placed around my neck, and something happened that I will never forget. It hit me: I was a survivor. Until that moment, the word had seemed almost like a title that belonged to someone else. I knew I had survived cancer, but somehow, I hadn't allowed myself to fully embrace what that meant. Standing on that stage, with the medal resting against me and the crowd cheering, I suddenly understood. I was still here.

The tears came before I could stop them. They weren't tears of sadness. They were tears filled with gratitude, relief and emotion. In that single moment, fifteen months of fear, uncertainty, appointments, decisions, prayers and tears seemed to converge. I thought about where I had been, and then I looked at where I was. I was standing on a stage surrounded by other survivors. I was alive.

At nine o'clock, the race began. The runners took off first, followed closely by the walkers. There were people everywhere, and the energy was almost electric. The course wound through the area with hills going up and down, and before long, I realized that 3.1 miles was going to require more determination than I had anticipated. But I also discovered something beautiful: people were kind. Strangers encouraged strangers. People smiled at one another. Participants cheered for those who were struggling. Nobody seemed concerned about who was finishing first. The focus was on moving forward together.

Along the course, Mercer University students held enormous signs that said things like “U R BEAUTIFUL” and “U R AWESOME.” They smiled, waved and cheered as we passed. Those young people probably didn't realize what those signs meant to someone like me. Cancer can change the way you see yourself. It can change the way you see your body. It can make you feel vulnerable and uncertain. There can be days when you look in the mirror and see everything cancer has taken instead of everything that remains. And there I was, walking past young people holding signs reminding me that I was beautiful and awesome. Sometimes encouragement arrives in the simplest forms.

Every mile marker became a small victory. One more mile. One more hill. One more step. I began to understand that the race wasn't really about reaching the finish line. It was about continuing to move toward it. That distinction has stayed with me all these years. Cancer taught me that life is rarely lived in giant leaps. More often, we move forward in small increments. We get through one appointment, then another. We wait for one test result, then another. We get through one difficult day and wake up to face the next. One step, then another, then another.

As we approached the final stretch of the race, I could see the finish line ahead. Cameras were snapping photographs, and local radio personalities were announcing participants as they crossed. The cheers grew louder. I was tired, but I kept walking. When I finally crossed that finish line, I could almost hear God whispering to my heart, “You pressed on toward the goal. You've fought a good fight.” I was proud of myself. Not because I had completed some great athletic accomplishment- I wasn't a runner, and I wasn't trying to set a record. I simply wanted to finish. And I did.

But I didn't do it alone. My friends and family had prayed for me. People I had never even met in person had prayed for me. I felt those prayers. I carried them with me that morning. There is something incredibly powerful about knowing that other people are lifting your name before God when you are facing something you cannot control. Their prayers became part of the strength I carried with me.

And beside me was my sweet husband, Phil. He held my hand every step of those 3.1 miles. When I became tired, he encouraged me to keep going. When I doubted myself, he told me he knew I could do it. There was something deeply reassuring about having his hand in mine. Cancer can sometimes make you feel as though you are walking a lonely road, even when you are surrounded by people. But that morning reminded me that I wasn't alone. God was with me, my loved ones were with me, and my husband was literally walking beside me.

Looking back, I realize that those three miles changed me. They weren't simply three miles on a race course. They were three miles through fear, faith, gratitude, and hope. They represented the distance between the woman who had received a cancer diagnosis and the woman who finally stood on a stage and accepted the word "survivor."

Cancer changed me in ways I never expected. It taught me not to take ordinary days for granted. It taught me to appreciate the simple things- the quiet mornings, the people I love and the opportunity to make plans for the future. It taught me that there is extraordinary beauty in simply being alive. It also taught me that survival isn't always a dramatic moment. Sometimes survival looks like getting out of bed. Sometimes it looks like showing up for another treatment. Sometimes it looks like crying in the privacy of your own home and then drying your eyes and facing another day. Sometimes it looks like accepting someone's hand when you are too tired to walk alone. And sometimes, it looks like walking 3.1 miles with your husband beside you and a crowd of strangers cheering you toward the finish line.

As I reminisce, I can still see it as clearly as though it happened yesterday. I can see the stage. I can hear the music. I can hear the cheering. I can feel the medal around my neck. And I can see my husband's hand reaching for mine. Most of all, I remember the realization that brought tears to my eyes: I was a survivor.

If you are facing cancer today, I wish I could sit beside you for a few minutes and tell you something I learned on that 5K course. You don't have to know how you're going to walk the entire journey. You only have to take the next step. Some days that step may be toward treatment. Some days it may be toward healing. Some days it may simply be getting out of bed and deciding to face another morning. Take that step. And then take the next one. Let people walk beside you. Let them pray for you. Let them encourage you. Let them hold your hand when you're tired. And if you need to rest, rest. Resting doesn't mean you've given up. It means you're human.

That day in September 2015, I started walking without knowing exactly how I would feel when I reached the finish line. I didn't know what the coming years would hold or how much my understanding of survival would continue to change. But I kept going. And somewhere between the starting line and those final few steps, I learned something I have carried with me ever since: the finish line isn't always the greatest victory. Sometimes the greatest victory is simply discovering that you had the strength to keep walking. Through every mile, every hill, every tear, and every triumph, God has been faithful. He was faithful then. He is faithful now. And I am still walking. 

It’s 2026 now, and I never dreamed I’d be a twelve-year survivor of breast cancer. As the walks for breast cancer awareness fill the month of October, I pray for all the participants. I pray especially for the first-timers. It’s scary, exciting, and humbling. For some, it’s a personal goal, and for others, it’s not only to bring awareness but to help raise funds to fight cancer; either way, it’s significant. It reminds us never to take a day for granted. 

Saturday Thoughts: A Sacrifice of Praise

“Through Jesus, therefore, let us continually offer to God a sacrifice of praise, the fruit of lips that openly profess his name.” Hebrews 13:15

Saturday mornings have always seemed to invite a slower pace. There is something about the quiet of a weekend morning that makes it easier to pause, breathe deeply, and notice the things we often rush past during the week. Maybe it's the first cup of coffee, the sound of birds outside the window, the gentle breeze moving through the trees, or simply the gift of having nowhere we have to be for a little while. These quiet moments can become invitations from God to slow down and remember Him. And lately I've been thinking about the word praise.

We often think of praise as something we do when we're in church, when we're singing a beautiful hymn, or when God has answered a prayer we've been praying for a long time. And certainly, those are wonderful reasons to praise Him. But Hebrews 13:15 takes praise a little deeper. It tells us to continually offer to God a sacrifice of praise. A sacrifice. That word makes me stop. Because if praise is always easy, it doesn't feel much like a sacrifice.

It's easy to praise God when the doctor says everything looks good, when the bills are paid, when our children are doing well, when our relationships are peaceful, and when life seems to be falling neatly into place. But what about the days when we're worried? What about the unanswered prayers, the disappointments, the empty chair at the table, the strained relationship, the diagnosis we didn't expect, or the uncertainty about what tomorrow may bring? Can we praise Him then? I believe that's where our praise becomes something much more than words. It becomes an act of faith.

Psalm 34:1 says, “I will bless the LORD at all times; his praise shall continually be in my mouth.” David didn't say he would praise God only when life was going well. He said at all times. That doesn't mean we have to pretend everything is wonderful. Faith doesn't require us to deny our pain. We can be honest with God about our sadness, our disappointment, our fear, and our questions. But even while we are hurting, we can still say, “Lord, I don't understand this, but I know You are with me.”

That is praise.

So what does continual praise actually look like in everyday life? Sometimes it begins with something as simple as starting our morning with gratitude. Before we pick up our phones and begin thinking about everything that needs to be done, we can pause and thank God for three things. They don't have to be extraordinary. Thank Him for another morning. Thank Him for the people you love. Thank Him for the roof over your head, the food in your kitchen, the sunshine coming through the window, or simply the breath in your lungs. Gratitude has a way of changing what we notice.

We can also turn our complaints into conversations with God. We all complain sometimes. It's part of being human. But perhaps the next time we hear ourselves saying, “I can't believe this is happening,” we can stop and add, “Lord, help me through it.” Instead of allowing frustration to have the final word, we can turn our words toward the One who already knows what we're facing.

We can praise God for who He is rather than only for what He does. That's an important distinction. If our praise depends entirely upon receiving what we want, then what happens when the answer is “wait” or “no”? God is still worthy. He is still faithful. He is still good. Psalm 100:5 reminds us, “For the LORD is good and his love endures forever; his faithfulness continues through all generations.”

We can also use Scripture when we don't know what to say. There are days when our hearts are so heavy that praise doesn't come naturally. On those days, we can borrow the words God has already given us. We can whisper, “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want” (Psalm 23:1). We can repeat, “Give thanks to the LORD, for he is good; His love endures forever” (Psalm 107:1). Sometimes Scripture can carry us when our own words cannot. 

And then there is something else we can do: look for God's fingerprints in the ordinary. Maybe it's a beautiful sunrise. A child's laughter. A phone call from someone you love. A bird perched outside your window. The smell of something baking in the kitchen. A cool breeze after a long, hot summer. A quiet moment with your husband. A good book. A cup of coffee enjoyed without rushing. These things may seem small, but small blessings are still blessings.

Sometimes we are so busy waiting for God to do something extraordinary that we fail to notice how much beauty He has already placed in our ordinary days. And perhaps one of the most powerful ways we can praise God is to praise Him before we see the answer. That's difficult. We want to wait until the storm passes before we sing. We want to see the healing before we say thank you. We want the door to open before we declare that God is faithful. But faith sometimes whispers, “I don't see the answer yet, but I trust the One who holds the answer.” Habakkuk expressed that kind of faith when he wrote, “Yet I will rejoice in the LORD, I will be joyful in God my Savior” (Habakkuk 3:18). Even then. Even when circumstances were uncertain. Even when things weren't going the way he wanted. Yet I will rejoice. That may be the purest kind of praise there is.

So this Saturday, before the week begins again, perhaps we can practice offering God a sacrifice of praise. Not because our lives are perfect. Not because every prayer has been answered. Not because we have everything we want. But because He is worthy.

Take a few quiet moments today and thank God for five things. Write them down if you can. Then think about one difficult circumstance in your life and deliberately place it in His hands. You don't have to understand it. You don't have to know how it will turn out. Simply tell Him, “Lord, I trust You with this.” And then praise Him. Praise Him in the waiting. Praise Him in the ordinary. Praise Him in the uncertainty. Praise Him in the morning and in the evening. Praise Him when the answer comes, and praise Him while you're still waiting for it. Because sometimes the greatest testimony isn't that God changed our circumstances. Sometimes it's that He changed our hearts in the middle of them. And that, my friends, is a sacrifice of praise.

Gracious Heavenly Father, 

Thank You for this quiet Saturday and for the opportunity to slow down and remember that You are good.

Teach me to praise You continually. Not only when life is going the way I want, but when I am waiting, wondering, hurting, and uncertain. Help me remember that my circumstances do not determine Your goodness.

Give me eyes to see the blessings I often overlook. Help me notice the little gifts You scatter throughout my ordinary days. When I am tempted to complain, turn my heart toward gratitude. When I don't know what to say, remind me of Your Word.

And when I am waiting for an answer, give me the faith to praise You before I see it.

Lord, let my life be an offering to You. Let my words bring encouragement, my actions reflect Your love, and my heart remain grateful even when the road is difficult.

Today I choose to praise You, not because everything is perfect, but because You are faithful. You are good. You are present. And You are worthy of my praise.

In Jesus' name,

Amen

Everyday Devotionals by Bonnie Annis

The Art of Letter Writing

I’m a letter writer. Not many people in today’s world still take the time to put pen to paper and record their thoughts. Writing a letter takes time, and most of us seem to be short on time these days. But I’ve always loved writing. There is something special about sitting down with a piece of paper, a pen, and enough quiet to gather your thoughts and send them to someone you love.

Years ago, I used to write long letters on beautiful handmade stationery I made myself. I would gather all sorts of paper materials—napkins, newspaper, paper towels, old junk mail, and anything else I thought might make interesting paper. I’d tear it into pieces, put it in my blender, add water, and turn it all into pulp. Then I would pour the mixture into a large container and repeat the process until I had enough pulp to make several sheets of paper.

I used a special screen called a mold and deckle to form the paper. I’d dip it into the watery pulp, swish it around, and slowly lift it, making sure the pulp covered the entire screen. Sometimes I’d add flowers, leaves, or other botanicals to make each sheet unique. Then came the process called couching, when I carefully transferred the wet sheet onto felt or an old towel, pressing it again and again with a damp sponge to remove as much water as possible. Finally, I would leave the paper to air-dry for several days.

It was a tedious process, but I loved it. The only part I disliked was having to fold my beautiful handmade paper small enough to fit into a standard envelope. It felt like I was ruining an artistic endeavor just to get it through the mail!

But once that paper became a letter, it was no longer simply paper. It became a place to put my thoughts, memories, prayers, and love. That is what a letter really is: a way of saying, "I thought about you. You matter to me. I took the time to write."

Letter writing has been around for thousands of years. People have written on stone, clay, animal skins, papyrus, and eventually paper. Letters carried news, encouragement, instructions, stories, and words of love. My Daddy loved collecting postage stamps from all over the world, and I remember how beautiful those little stamps could be. Each one seemed to carry its own story.

I loved writing my letters longhand, too. I loved cursive. We were taught the proper way to write letters when we were in school, including how to begin and end them. A formal letter might close with “Sincerely” or “Sincerely yours.” I thought those sounded a little too formal, so I preferred “Yours truly” or “Best regards.” These days, I often sign my letters with “Blessings” or “Many Blessings” because those words express what I genuinely want for the person receiving my letter.

But there is one letter closing that has become especially precious to me: “Much love.”

My beloved Aunt Bonnie always signed her cards and letters that way. Those two little words were so completely her. When I saw “Much love” at the bottom of one of her cards, I knew it wasn't merely a polite closing. It was her way of leaving a little piece of her heart behind.

Now that my precious Aunt Bonnie is gone, those words mean even more to me. I can picture her handwriting and imagine those familiar words at the bottom of a card or letter. They have become part of how I remember her. Isn't that what words can do? They remain long after the person who wrote them is gone.

A handwritten letter can become a keepsake. The paper may yellow and the ink may fade, but the love contained in those words can remain remarkably vivid. My Aunt Bonnie's letters are precious to me because they remind me of her love, and I will treasure those words for as long as I live.

Her “Much love” also makes me think about another letter, the greatest letter ever written.

Have you ever thought of the Bible as one enormous love letter from God? God used many different people to physically write its words across many generations, but the message comes from His heart. Scripture tells us who He is, who we are, why we need Him, and most importantly, how deeply He loves us.

There is no handwritten signature at the end of the Bible that says, “Love, God.” But if I could write the closing myself, I think I would write those same words Aunt Bonnie used so faithfully:

Much love,

God

Because that is what Scripture reveals from beginning to end. God's love isn't shallow or sentimental. It is demonstrated love. Sacrificial love. Redeeming love. A love so great that He sent His only Son to make a way for us to come home to Him.

The Bible's final chapter brings this great letter to its conclusion: “He who testifies to these things says, ‘Yes, I am coming soon.’ Amen. Come, Lord Jesus. The grace of the Lord Jesus be with God’s people. Amen.” Revelation 22:20-21

What a way to end a letter.

And then comes that little word: "Amen." It means, “So be it,” “truly,” or “may it be so.”

The Bible begins with God creating. It tells the story of humanity wandering away from Him, yet it also tells of His relentless pursuit of His people. It points us toward Jesus, the One who came to redeem us, and it ends with the promise that He is coming again.

It is a love letter that has survived centuries. It has been carried across oceans, translated into countless languages, hidden during persecution, treasured by families, read beside hospital beds, held by grieving hearts, and passed from one generation to another.

And unlike my handmade paper, God's Word will never crumble with age. Jesus said, “Heaven and earth will pass away, but my words will never pass away.” Matthew 24:35

Think about that. My Aunt Bonnie's handwritten words are precious because they remind me of her love. They are pieces of her that I can hold in my hands. But God's words are different. They don't merely remind us of His love; they reveal it.

They tell us that He loved us before we ever knew Him. They tell us that He knows our name, sees our tears, hears our prayers, forgives our sins, and offers us eternal life through Jesus Christ. One day, when our earthly letters have been packed away and our earthly signatures have faded, His Word will still stand.

So today, I'm thinking about my Aunt Bonnie and the words she so faithfully wrote at the end of her letters: "Much love." What a beautiful way to leave someone. What if we lived our lives that way? What if, wherever we went and whenever we said goodbye, people were left knowing they had been loved, not just a little, not hurriedly, and not conditionally, but with "much love"?

Perhaps that is one of the greatest ways we can reflect the One whose love letter to us has been preserved for generations. And perhaps every time I see those two little words from now on, I'll think of Aunt Bonnie and remember that behind every genuine expression of love is a God who loved us first.

Dear Heavenly Father, 

Thank You for the gift of love and for the people You place in our lives who teach us what love looks like. Thank You for my precious Aunt Bonnie and for the beautiful way she signed her letters and cards with those simple words, “Much love.” Now that she is gone, those words have become even more precious to me.

Lord, help me remember that my own words matter. Help me leave love behind wherever I go. Let my family, my friends, and even those I encounter briefly know that they are valued and loved. Most of all, thank You for Your great love letter to us. Thank You for giving us Your Word and for sending Jesus to show us the depth of Your love.

Help me read Your Word not simply as an old book, but as Your living message to my heart. When my earthly years are finished, may the people I leave behind remember that I loved them well. And may my life point them toward the One who loved them first. Until the day we see You face to face, help us live, love, and leave these words wherever we go:

"Much love."

In the precious name of Jesus,

Amen.

“We love because he first loved us.” — 1 John 4:19

Everyday Devotionals

Bonnie Annis

When Goodbye Isn’t Really Goodbye

There are some people who leave fingerprints on your heart so deeply that time can never erase them. My dear, sweet Aunt Bonnie was one of those people. I have loved her for as long as I can remember, ever since I was old enough to understand that she was my aunt. Today, as I grieve her passing, I find myself thinking about all the years God gave us together and all the little things that, over time, became precious memories.

When I look back over those years, one thing stands out above everything else: I cannot remember Aunt Bonnie being angry. I cannot remember her speaking a harsh word. What I remember is kindness. I remember gentleness, generosity, love, and a woman whose life seemed to quietly ask, “How can I help?”

When we were children, Aunt Bonnie made sure we had Christmas presents and birthday presents when my parents couldn't afford them. We didn't know that then. Our parents never told us. We simply thought those gifts came because Aunt Bonnie loved us. Now that I am older, I understand just how much love those gifts represented. I wouldn't be surprised if she helped my parents in other ways, perhaps even lending them money when times were difficult. That was simply who she was. She gave without keeping score, without expecting recognition, and without seeking praise. She did it because she loved the Lord, and His love had found a home in her heart.

The Bible tells us, “Let all that you do be done in love” (1 Corinthians 16:14). Aunt Bonnie didn't just know that verse; she lived it. Her love wasn't loud or boastful. It was woven into the ordinary things she did for people. It showed up in presents beneath the Christmas tree, in birthday gifts, in helping hands, and in generosity given quietly when nobody else knew. Her life was a beautiful reminder that sometimes the greatest expressions of love are the ones given without an audience.

There is something incredibly beautiful about a person who gives simply because giving is an expression of love. Jesus said, “It is more blessed to give than to receive” (Acts 20:35), and Aunt Bonnie seemed to understand that truth in a way that could be seen throughout the life she lived. She didn't give for glory or honor. She gave because she loved God and because she loved people. That kind of life leaves behind a legacy far greater than anything money could buy. It leaves memories in the hearts of those who were blessed by it.

And then there is the name.

Bonnie.

I have always been thankful that I was named after her, but today that name feels even more precious. The name Bonnie is associated with the Scottish word *bonnie*, meaning “pretty” or “beautiful,” and is also connected with the French word *bon*, meaning “good.” What a beautiful description of the woman who gave me the name I carry.

She was beautiful, not merely because of anything the world could see, but because goodness lived within her. Her beauty was reflected in the way she treated people, the generosity of her heart, and the quiet kindness she showed throughout her life.

I have often thought there aren't very many Bonnies anymore, and perhaps that makes sharing her name feel even more special. I don't just carry her name; I carry the honor of having been named after a woman whose goodness touched my childhood and whose love has remained with me throughout my life.

One day, when someone asks me where my name came from, I will be able to tell them about my Aunt Bonnie. I will tell them that she was one of the kindest women I have ever known. I will tell them about the woman who quietly gave when my family needed help, who remembered children at Christmas and on their birthdays, and who never seemed to need recognition for any of it. And I will tell them that sharing her name has always been an honor I will cherish for the rest of my life.

Aunt Bonnie entered the gates of glory today.

Goodbye hurts more than words can express. My heart is broken because I will no longer hear her voice, see her smile, or have the opportunity to tell her how much she meant to me. But even through the tears, there is something I know with certainty: I know where she has gone.

The Bible tells us, “For to be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord” (2 Corinthians 5:8). I believe that with all my heart. Her earthly journey has ended, but it is not the end of her story.

I believe Jesus was waiting for her.

I believe the arms that were stretched out for her on Calvary were the same arms that welcomed her home. And perhaps there is something wonderfully fitting about that. A woman who spent her life opening her hands to give to others received the greatest gift of all today—the presence of her Savior.

So, Aunt Bonnie, though I have to say goodbye for a little while, I will not say it without hope. I will say it through tears, but I will also say it with gratitude.

Thank you for loving me.

Thank you for the gifts I didn't understand as a child but treasure now. Thank you for every kindness, every gentle word, every quiet act of generosity, and for giving me a name that I will carry with pride. Thank you for leaving behind a legacy of goodness that I hope will continue through those who loved you.

I love you with all my heart. Although my heart is breaking as I let you go, I know this isn't forever. Someday, because of Jesus, there will be no more goodbyes. There will be no more tears, no more sorrow, and no more parting.

Until then, I will carry your memory in my heart. I will thank God for the incredible gift of being your niece, and I will always be grateful for the honor of being your namesake.

Heavenly Father,

Thank You for the precious gift of Aunt Bonnie. Thank You for allowing her life to touch mine for so many years and for giving me memories that I will treasure long after this earthly goodbye. Thank You for the kindness she showed, the generosity she gave, and the love she poured into our family. Thank You that her life was a reflection of Your love and that she gave without seeking recognition because she knew that the greatest reward was found in You.

Father, when my heart aches because I can no longer see her, remind me that death does not have the final word. Remind me that because Jesus lives, those who belong to Him will live also. Help me to grieve because I loved her deeply, but help me also to rejoice because I know where she is.

Thank You for the honor of carrying her name. May I live in such a way that when people hear the name Bonnie, they will see a little of the goodness, kindness, generosity, and love that she so faithfully lived.

Until we meet again, Lord, keep my precious Aunt Bonnie close to Your heart. And when that glorious day comes, let us find each other again at the feet of Jesus.

In the precious name of Jesus,

Amen.

Who's in control?

I had to have a little talk with myself recently, and it started with my phone. From the minute I get up in the morning until the minute I go to bed at night, that little thing seems determined to get my attention. There’s always something waiting for me, a message, an email, a Facebook notification, or some other little alert. And what do I do? I pick it up. “Let me just see what that is.” Then one thing leads to another, and before I know it, I’ve spent far more time on my phone than I ever intended. 

Lately, I’ve found myself asking, Who’s really in control here- my phone or me? I already know the answer, but sometimes knowing the answer and living like it are two different things. So I’ve decided to make some changes. I’m turning off some notifications, putting my phone down more often, and reminding myself that I don’t have to respond to everything the moment it happens. My phone is supposed to be a tool I use; it was never supposed to become the master of my time. And that got me thinking about something even more important: How often do I allow the things around me to steal the time God has given me?

Ephesians 5:15-16 tells us to “walk circumspectly... redeeming the time.” Redeeming the time means making the most of it and being intentional with the moments God has given us. Once a moment is gone, we don’t get it back. There are people who deserve my attention more than a screen does. There are conversations I don’t want to miss, books I want to read, prayers I want to pray, sunsets I want to watch, and quiet moments with God that are far more valuable than knowing what everybody on Facebook is doing. And honestly, Facebook will survive if I don’t check it every ten minutes. 

I’m learning that sometimes putting the phone down isn’t really about technology at all. It’s about choosing what deserves my attention. At the end of my life, I don’t want to look back and wish I had spent more time scrolling. I want to know I spent my time loving people, making memories, serving God, and being present for the life He gave me. So I’m asking myself one more time: Who’s in control-my phone or me? It really shouldn’t be a hard decision. I think it’s time I took back my time

When Love Has Hands and Feet

“And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.” 1 Corinthians 13:13

There are some people whose lives leave footprints on our hearts long after they are gone. They may never have stood behind a pulpit or written a book, yet their lives preached a sermon every day simply by the way they loved others. My father-in-law, Carl Annis, (I called him Dad) was one of those people.

Carl was a very quiet man. He never sought attention, never needed recognition, and never seemed interested in being noticed. Yet he was always willing to give of himself to others. His faith wasn’t something he felt the need to announce; he simply lived it through the way he served. As his daughter in law, I had the privilege of watching that quiet faithfulness unfold over the years, not through grand gestures, but through countless ordinary acts of kindness.

He was a deacon in our church, but his ministry extended far beyond the walls of the church building. One of the ministries closest to his heart was our bread ministry. Every day, he would visit local grocery stores and pick up their day-old bread. That bread was then distributed to people connected with our church’s English as a Second Language ministry. Many had come to America from other countries and were trying to build new lives while surviving on very limited resources. Some depended on housing assistance just to make ends meet.

To some people, a bag of day-old bread might not seem like much. But when you don’t have much, something as simple as bread can mean everything. And when that bread is placed in your hands by someone who genuinely cares about you, it becomes more than food. It becomes a tangible reminder that someone sees you and cares about what happens to you.

Carl understood that love doesn’t always need a microphone or a spotlight. Sometimes it simply needs willing hands.

I remember another way Carl quietly expressed that love. Our church needed an elevator so that elderly people with disabilities could enter the church more easily, and Carl helped build it. It was a huge project and one that was physically demanding for seventy to eighty year old deacons, but they worked hard and managed to get it done. Dad wasn’t standing in front of the congregation receiving applause for his contribution. He was simply doing what needed to be done.

Looking back, I see something beautiful in that. Carl helped build a way for people who might otherwise have struggled to enter God’s house. In his quiet way, he was removing a barrier and making room for others.

That was Carl. He didn’t draw attention to himself. He made room for other people.

Then came the months when cancer slowly began to take Carl’s strength. He was diagnosed with parotid gland cancer, and we watched this quiet man who had spent so much of his life helping others gradually become less able to care for himself. It was difficult to watch. Carl had always been the one who showed up, the one who carried the bread, the one who helped build what others needed, the one who quietly stepped in when there was work to be done. Now the roles were changing. The man who had spent his life giving care was becoming the one who needed to be cared for.

There was something deeply humbling about that season for our family. We found ourselves doing for Carl the very things he had spent so many years doing for others. We helped him, sat with him, watched over him, and tried to bring comfort when there was little we could do to change what was happening. His strength was fading, but his worth had never diminished. He was still Carl, the gentle man I had come to know and love as my father-in-law, a man who had spent his life quietly loving others.

As the months passed, there came a time when Carl was often unaware of what was happening around him. He was growing weaker, and our time together had become quieter. There was very little I could do to make things better, but I wanted to give him something that had brought him comfort throughout his life. As I sat beside my father-in-law, I felt God prompting my heart to do something very simple. I picked up the Bible and began reading his favorite passage: 1 Corinthians 13.

I read slowly, hoping somehow the familiar words would reach a place that illness could not touch. As I read those words about patience, kindness, perseverance, and enduring love, I realized I wasn’t simply reading Scripture to Carl. In many ways, I was reading the story of his life back to him.

“Love is patient and kind… It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.” 1 Corinthians 13:4, 7

Those words described the man beside me. And in that quiet room, I understood something I had perhaps never fully understood before: the greatest legacy we leave may not be found in what we accomplish, but in the love we pour into the lives of others while we are here.

Jesus said, “By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another.” John 13:35

He didn’t say the world would recognize His followers because they could win every argument, quote the most Scripture, or explain every theological question. He said they would know us by our love.

There were people in that ESL ministry who may not have understood everything Carl said. They may have struggled with the English language. But they understood kindness. They understood generosity. They understood someone showing up for them.

Love has a language all its own.

Jesus also said, “I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in.” Matthew 25:35

Carl may have thought he was simply picking up bread from the grocery store or helping with a construction project at church. But heaven may have seen something much greater. He was meeting needs, removing barriers, welcoming others, and quietly demonstrating the character of Christ.

We live in a world filled with people carrying burdens we know nothing about. Someone beside us may be lonely. Someone we encounter at the grocery store may be struggling financially. Someone at church may be hurting behind a smile. Someone who speaks another language may simply be longing to know that they belong.

We don’t always need a grand opportunity to make a difference. Sometimes God simply asks us to notice the person in front of us and respond.

Carl’s life reminds me that we don’t have to change the entire world to make a difference in someone’s world. We simply need to be willing to let God use us in the ordinary moments He places before us.

And perhaps someday, when our own lives are nearing their end, the greatest testimony people remember won’t be what we owned, what position we held, or how much we accomplished. Perhaps they will remember how we made them feel. Did they feel loved? Did they feel seen? Did they feel welcomed? Did they see Jesus in us?

Paul concluded his beautiful teaching on love with these words: “And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.” 1 Corinthians 13:13

As I sat beside Carl and finished reading those words, I realized something profound. His body was failing, but the love he had given throughout his life was not ending. It had already been planted in the hearts of others.

Every loaf of bread he carried, every person he served, every barrier he helped remove, and every quiet act of kindness had been a seed. We may never know how many lives were touched by those seeds, but God knows.

So today, ask yourself this question: Who do I know that needs God’s love to reach them through me today? Is there someone God's put in your path for a special reason? 

Perhaps it is someone who needs a loaf of bread. Perhaps it is someone who needs forgiveness or encouragement. Perhaps it is someone who simply needs us to sit beside them during one of the hardest moments of their life. Whatever the opportunity, may we never underestimate what God can do with one willing heart.

Because sometimes love quietly shows up, carries a loaf of bread, builds a doorway for someone who needs help getting through it, holds someone’s hand when they need comfort, and points them toward Jesus without saying much at all.

Heavenly Father, thank You for Dad and for the years You allowed us to have him in our lives. Thank You for his quiet spirit, his gentle heart, and the way he so freely gave of himself without ever seeking recognition. Thank You for every loaf of bread he carried, every person he helped, every barrier he helped remove, and every life he touched simply by being willing to serve.

Lord, I am especially grateful for those quiet moments beside him when there was little left to say and even less that I could do. Thank You for reminding me that sometimes love is simply being present. Thank You for allowing me to read his favorite words from Your Word and to realize, as I read them, that Dad's life had already been a beautiful reflection of the love described in 1 Corinthians 13.

Help me carry that lesson with me. When I am tempted to think that my small acts of kindness don’t matter, remind me of Dad and a simple loaf of bread. When I wonder whether anyone notices the things I do quietly, remind me that You see every act of love. And when I encounter someone who is hungry, lonely, struggling, or simply needs someone to care, give me the willingness to stop, notice, and serve.

May Dad's life continue to speak, not because he sought to be heard, but because he quietly lived what he believed. Let his memory remind us that a life poured out in love is never wasted. The kindness we give today may become a seed that continues growing long after we are gone.

Father, help me to love as Dad did, not for recognition, not for praise, and not because anyone is watching, but because Your love lives within me. Let my hands be willing, my heart be tender, and my eyes open to the needs around me.

And when my own journey is finished, may I leave behind the same kind of legacy: not a life that drew attention to itself, but a life that quietly pointed others toward You.

“And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.”

In the precious name of Jesus,

Amen.

Everyday Devotionals by Bonnie Annis

When Life Feels Like Sandpaper

“He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.” — Psalm 147:3

This morning, I sat down for my quiet time and reached for my Bible, my devotional book, and my journal, the things I usually gather when I want to slow down and spend some time with the Lord.

As I picked them up, something fell out.

A piece of sandpaper.

I looked at it and thought, Where in the world did that come from? I couldn’t remember putting it there, and I couldn’t think of any reason it should have been tucked between the things I use during my quiet time.

Then I looked at the date.

September 11.

And somehow, that little piece of sandpaper made me stop and think.

Twenty-five years ago today, our nation experienced something we will never forget. September 11, 2001, began like any other Tuesday for thousands of people. They got up, went to work, kissed their families goodbye, made plans for the day, and expected to come home that evening.

But they didn’t know that before the day was over, their lives, and the lives of so many others, would be changed forever.

That’s what makes September 11 so difficult to remember. It reminds us how quickly life can change. One moment can alter everything we thought we knew about tomorrow.

Maybe that’s why the sandpaper caught my attention.

Sandpaper is rough and abrasive, but it has a purpose. It is used to smooth rough edges, remove imperfections, and prepare something for what comes next. Life can sometimes feel the same way. There are seasons when circumstances leave us worn and tender, grief, disappointment, loss, uncertainty, or the pain of watching someone we love struggle. None of us gets through this life without encountering things we would never have chosen, but perhaps our difficult seasons can become places where God deepens our faith, softens our hearts, increases our compassion, and draws us closer to Him. That doesn’t make the painful things good, nor does it mean we have to understand them. It means we can trust that God is still at work, even when we cannot see what He is doing.

Scripture reminds us:

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” — Psalm 34:18

God doesn’t promise that we will never hurt. He doesn’t promise that tragedy won’t happen or that we will always understand His ways.

He promises His presence.

I think about that when I remember September 11. God was there in the middle of unimaginable fear and loss. He was there with the people who were trapped, with the families waiting for loved ones who would never come home, and with the firefighters, police officers, first responders, and ordinary people who ran toward danger to help others.

And God is still there.

He is with us in the memories we carry and in the grief that sometimes resurfaces years later. He is with us when our own lives take an unexpected turn and we don’t understand what He is doing.

September 11 also reminds me not to take ordinary days for granted. The people who left home that morning didn’t know it would be their last goodbye. We don’t know which ordinary moments will one day become precious memories.

So perhaps today is a good day to call someone we love. To forgive. To say I love you. To slow down long enough to recognize the blessings we sometimes overlook because they have become familiar.

We aren’t promised tomorrow.

But we have today.

And we have a God who promises never to leave us.

That piece of sandpaper may have ended up between the pages of my Bible completely by accident. I’ll probably never know how it got there. But this morning, God used something ordinary to remind me of something eternal:

Life can change in an instant, but God remains faithful through it all.

He was faithful on September 11, 2001. He is faithful today. And He will be faithful in whatever tomorrow brings.

Father, today we pause to remember.

We remember September 11, 2001, and the lives that were suddenly and tragically taken. We remember the families who lost husbands, wives, fathers, mothers, sons, daughters, brothers, sisters, and friends. We remember those who went to work that morning expecting to come home and never did.

We remember the heroes who ran toward danger while others were running away. We remember the courage, sacrifice, compassion, and selflessness that emerged from one of our nation’s darkest days.

Lord, be near to those who still carry the wounds of that day. Comfort those whose hearts still ache and those who have spent twenty-five years learning how to live with an empty place where someone they loved should be.

And Lord, I pray for those of us walking through our own difficult seasons. When our hearts are weary and we don’t understand what You are doing, remind us that You are near. Give us the faith to trust You even when we don’t have answers.

Use our struggles to make us more like You. Deepen our faith, soften our hearts, and teach us to love more freely. Help us never take an ordinary day for granted. Help us love our families well, forgive quickly, speak kindly, and cherish the people You have placed in our lives.

Remind us that the moments we consider ordinary today may someday be the memories we treasure most.

Thank You for being our refuge when the world feels uncertain, our comfort when our hearts are broken, and our strength when we don’t think we can take another step.

We remember those we lost. We honor those who sacrificed. We pray for those who still grieve.

And today, we place our lives, our families, our nation, and our future into Your hands.

Because even when life feels like sandpaper, You are still God, and You are still holding us.

In the precious name of Jesus,

Amen.