Thanksgiving

We had a wonderful Thanksgiving celebration with the majority of our family here. Everyone contributed to the food prep which was a huge blessing to me! 

It's hard to get used to having grown children who serve and cleanup without even being asked to do so. It took me a few minutes to realize there wasn't really anything left for me to do but sit back and enjoy time visiting. That was a real first and one I liked!

It was so good to hear the banter and laughter as we sat around a table full of love and goodness. 

We had turkey, ham, dressing, sweet potato casseroles, green bean casserole, hashbrown casserole, rolls, plaza bars, heavenly hash, pecan pie, chocolate pie, and key lime pie! It's a wonder we didn't all gain twenty pounds just looking at the food! 

With everyone spread across the state, it's often hard to get everyone together, but we did pretty good this year. 

Of course, we missed our parents who're no longer with us and we missed our Texas family members, but maybe next year we can manage a bigger gathering. 

Hopefully your day was filled with blessings and lots of gratitude. Ours sure was!
 

Teen Patrol on the Rails

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Heavenly Father,

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

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

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

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

A Spoonful of Memories

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who Do You Think You Are?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Pianos and Piranhas

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Special Thanks to My Mother in Law

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mom's biscuit recipe: 

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

Instructions

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

Notes

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

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

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

Washed Whiter Than Snow, a Soapmaker's Reflection

 

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

But that’s not what happened.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

—Psalm 51:7 (KJV)

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

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

 

Heavenly Father,

 

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

 

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

 

In Jesus’ name,

Amen.

Missing the Glue

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dear Lord,

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

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

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

In Jesus’ name we pray. Amen.

Random musings © Bonnie Annis

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

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

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

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

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

I had never heard it before.

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

What I discovered moved me.

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

• day- means “enough,”

• -enu means “to us.”

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

I sat with that for a long while.

It Would Have Been Enough

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

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

And yet… He did so much more.

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

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

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

More Than Enough

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

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

Dayenu.

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

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

More than enough.

A Closing Thought

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

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

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

Dayenu.
Lord, You are enough.

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Abba, Father,

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

Jehovah Jireh in My Darkest Year

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was embarrassing. Humbling. And holy.

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

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

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

And He supplied—again and again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In Jesus’ precious name,
Amen.

Are Christmas Cards a Thing of the Past?

 

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

 

Because listen…

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

TWENTY.

 

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

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

“Joy.”

Or

“Love.”

Or my personal favorite:

Just the year. 

 

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

 

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

Either way… I’d love to know—

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Closing Prayer

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

Mama’s Little Record Player 🎶

Back in the early 60s, when life felt slower and simpler (though we didn’t know it at the time), Mama brought home one of the most magical things my young ears had ever encountered—a small record player with a handle on top so you could tote it around like a tiny suitcase of joy. She kept it in the room at the top of the stairs, perched neatly on a little table in the corner as if it were a sacred shrine. And in some ways, it was.

Mama joined what I think was the Columbia Record Club—sort of like a book-of-the-month deal, except instead of books, we got albums delivered straight to the house. Each month felt like Christmas morning when she’d open that cardboard package and slip out a brand-new record. Her first selections were classy ones: Perry Como crooning somewhere in the background, Nat King Cole’s velvety voice wrapping around us like a warm hug, and Percy Faith’s sweeping orchestras making our humble home feel downright elegant. 

Daddy, on the other hand, gravitated toward the funny records—Justin Wilson, Red Foxx, and other comedians whose jokes flew way over our innocent little heads. We didn’t understand a bit of the adult humor, but Daddy sure did. And he laughed—a lot. Daddy wasn’t a frequent laugher, so when that sound filled the house, it made the walls feel lighter somehow, like even the wallpaper could breathe easier.

At Christmastime, Mama ordered albums with all the popular holiday hits. We’d listen to “I’m Gettin’ Nothin’ for Christmas” and “All I Want for Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth” while decorating the live tree. Mama and Daddy would sing along, completely off-key but full of enthusiasm. Meanwhile, I, in all my literal childhood wisdom, believed every word of those novelty songs. If I’d told even one fib that year, that was it—I was done for. I’d get nothing but a lump of coal and disappointment under the tree. Fortunately, I worried for nothing. We always had presents, even in the lean years, though I couldn’t tell you what most of them were now. The gifts fade over time, but the music never does.

Eventually, I got my own record player—an absolute treasure in my little world. And with it came my growing stash of 45s. Oh, how I’d love to have those now! I played them for hours, memorizing lyrics like I was training for some imaginary musical Olympics. Otis Redding’s “Sittin’ on the Dock of the Bay,” Fleetwood Mac’s “Go Your Own Way”—I wore those grooves out. My bedroom walls probably still faintly echo with those tunes.

When my own kids came along, I passed the tradition down—though their Christmas tastes leaned more toward the ear-piercing joy of Alvin, Simon, and Theodore. The Chipmunks’ Christmas album played on repeat, and the kids cracked up every time Alvin messed up his lines. It wasn’t exactly Nat King Cole, but it brought the same kind of laughter Daddy used to share. And that felt right.

Of course, amidst all the silliness and chipmunk squeaking, we always made room for the heart of Christmas. “Do You Hear What I Hear,” “Silent Night,” and other sacred songs floated through our home each December, quietly ushering in the remembrance of Christ’s birth.

It’s funny how such old memories—sixty years old or more—can suddenly rise to the surface like a familiar melody. Sometimes it’s triggered by a single note from Pandora or Spotify as my holiday playlist shuffles along, surprising me with echoes from childhood. One moment I’m standing in my kitchen, and the next I’m back at the top of that staircase listening to Perry Como, Mama humming beside me, Daddy laughing in the background, and a tiny record player spinning the soundtrack of our lives.

And I’m thankful. So thankful. For the music… for the memories… and for the way songs can carry us back home again, even if just for a moment.

Dear Heavenly Father,
Thank You for the gift of memory and the sweet way music weaves itself through the years of our lives. As I look back on those simple days—Mama’s little record player spinning in the corner, Daddy’s rare but joyful laughter, and the songs that filled our home—I’m reminded of how Your goodness was present even then. You used those melodies to lift our spirits, knit our family together, and wrap us in comfort we didn’t always recognize at the time.

Lord, thank You for the precious gift of nostalgia, for the way a single song can carry my heart back to moments long gone yet still so alive within me. Thank You for laughter, for love, for the innocence of childhood, and for the way You’ve guided me through every season since.

As new generations in my family make their own musical memories, help me continue to cherish the past while embracing the present. Let the joy of those old records remind me that Your grace has always been the steady rhythm beneath every chapter of my life.

In Jesus’ name,
Amen.

The Christmas Angel

“Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and cometh down from the Father of lights.” — James 1:17 (KJV)

When I was a child, Christmas just wasn’t Christmas until our angel took her place at the top of the tree. Every year, we’d take turns naming her, though for the life of me, I can’t remember what name I chose when it was my turn—or what my brother picked either. But there’s one year that stands out clear as day in my memory.

Daddy had just finished stringing the colored lights around our tree, and Mama was putting the finishing touches on the garland of popcorn and paper chains we’d made in school. When it came time to crown the tree, Daddy lifted my little sister, Valerie, high into the air so she could place the angel on top. I can still see her hands trembling with excitement, her dark hair brushing just below her ears, the same color and cut as the angel’s. Daddy smiled and said, “We should name her Valerie—she looks just like you.”

And from that year on, the angel had a name that stuck.

Her gown was a soft cream-colored chiffon, elegant and delicate, especially for something made in the early 1960s. She seemed almost magical, glowing gently in the light of the old-fashioned bulbs that hummed softly overhead. It’s hard to believe that little angel is now about sixty-five years old and still brings joy to our family every Christmas.

Valerie still has her—carefully wrapped in tissue paper and tucked away safely for most of the year. But every December, she unwraps that fragile treasure and gently places her atop her own Christmas tree. Now her grandchildren watch in wonder as she tells them the story of “the Christmas angel,” and of the year Daddy lifted her up toward the heavens to place it there.

Though I didn’t get to keep our childhood angel, I carried the tradition into my own home once I had children. When they were small, I bought a Christmas angel of my own and, just like Mama and Daddy did, we took turns naming her each year. As the years passed and the tree themes changed, so did the angel. Each one had her own style, her own sparkle, and her own name chosen by one of my kids.

It became a little family ritual we all looked forward to. The kids still laugh about it to this day, remembering the names we came up with. I think one year, when they were teenagers, the angel ended up being named Clarice. I asked where that name had come from, and one of them grinned and said, “From The Silence of the Lambs!” I shuddered at first—but then laughed, too. Leave it to my kids to find humor in tradition.

Through the years, the angels may have changed, but the meaning behind them never did. They’ve always represented hope, light, and love—the same qualities that first Christmas night brought into the world.

Just as Daddy once lifted my sister toward the top of the tree, I’ve realized that our Heavenly Father lifts us up, too—gently, lovingly—helping us shine where He’s placed us. We may feel fragile at times, like those old angels wrapped carefully in tissue paper, but in His hands, we’re always safe. Each Christmas, as I unwrap another angel and place her on the tree, I’m reminded that love and faith endure, generation after generation.

Christmas isn’t about what’s under the tree. It’s about Who came to dwell among us, the true Light that still shines in every home and every heart that welcomes Him in.

Dear Heavenly Father,
Thank You for the memories and traditions that remind us of Your goodness through the years. As we lift our eyes to the angel atop the tree, may we remember the night You sent Your Son to lift us out of darkness and into Your marvelous light. Help us to treasure the laughter, the stories, and the blessings that bind our families together. Let Your peace rest upon our homes and Your love shine through us this Christmas and always.
Amen.

Thanksliving: A Life of Grace and Joy

Thanksgiving has always been a special time to count our blessings. We pause to thank God for His goodness, gather around the table with loved ones, and express gratitude for all He’s provided. But one day, as I reflected on how fleeting that holiday feeling often is, God quietly revealed something deeper to me. Gratitude shouldn’t be reserved for a single day—it should become our way of life. I realized what I truly wanted to practice wasn’t just Thanksgiving—it was Thanksliving.

Thanksliving is living every day with a heart of gratitude, not just speaking words of thanks when it’s convenient. It’s about waking up each morning aware of God’s presence and grace in the ordinary moments—the sunrise, the laughter of a loved one, the peace that comes from prayer. It’s a steady rhythm of recognizing God’s hand in both blessings and challenges.

In Luke 22:19, as Jesus gathered with His disciples at the Last Supper, the Bible says, “And He took bread, gave thanks and broke it, and gave it to them, saying, ‘This is My body given for you; do this in remembrance of Me.’” Even in the shadow of the cross, Jesus gave thanks. The Greek word used there is eucharisteo, meaning “to give thanks.”

Hidden within that one beautiful word are two others:

• Charis, meaning grace

• Chara, meaning joy

So when we give thanks—when we practice eucharisteo—we are recognizing God’s grace and discovering His joy. True gratitude flows from seeing His grace in every circumstance, and that recognition fills our hearts with joy that can’t be shaken.

Paul reminds us in 1 Thessalonians 5:18, “Give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you.” That doesn’t mean every situation will feel good or easy, but it does mean God’s grace is always present—and His joy is always possible.

Thanksliving means choosing to see grace where others see problems. It means smiling through uncertainty because you know God is still good. It means giving thanks before the miracle, not just after. When we do this, every day becomes a day of worship.

As Psalm 100:4 encourages, “Enter His gates with thanksgiving and His courts with praise; give thanks to Him and bless His name.”

This Thanksgiving season, and every day beyond it, may we move from being people who say thanks to people who live thanks. For when gratitude becomes our lifestyle, joy becomes our constant companion.

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Lord, help me live each day with a thankful heart. Teach me to recognize Your grace in both the sunshine and the storm. Let my gratitude overflow into joy so that my life reflects Your goodness to others. May I live not just in thanksgiving, but in Thanksliving.
Amen.

A Little Light in the Darkness

When I was a child, bedtime was never my favorite part of the day. While my mother tucked me in and smoothed the covers, I was busy checking under the bed for monsters and making sure the closet door was firmly shut. The dark always felt too big—too full of things I couldn’t see or understand. I’d beg Mama to leave the hall light on, but she’d just smile and say, “Close your eyes and go to sleep, sweetheart. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

But I was afraid. The shadows on the wall looked like long fingers, and every creak of the house made my heart race. Night after night, I’d cry until finally Mama gave in. She agreed to let me leave the closet light on if I promised to keep the door just barely cracked. It was a small compromise, but to me, that sliver of light made all the difference.

It’s funny now, looking back, how much comfort I found in that faint glow. The light didn’t chase away every shadow, but it gave me just enough courage to rest. I think that’s why I love how the Bible talks about Jesus being the Light of the world. As long as I can see Him—even if it’s just a glimpse through a cracked door of faith—I know I don’t have to be afraid.

As I grew older, I learned that darkness still tries to creep in. It just takes different forms—worry, grief, doubt—but the remedy is still the same. Just as that closet light calmed my fears as a little girl, the light of Christ continues to bring peace to my grown-up heart.

And when I think about those long-ago nights, I smile. That small light shining through the crack in my closet door wasn’t just helping me sleep—it was teaching me to trust in the One who lights every dark place.

Dear Lord, thank You for being my Light in every season of life. When fear and doubt try to settle in, remind me that Your presence is brighter than any darkness I face. Help me keep my eyes on You, even when the world feels uncertain. Just as that little closet light once comforted a frightened child, let Your love and truth shine through every shadow that touches my heart. Amen.

The Night We Learned Our Lesson

Back when I was a child, discipline wasn’t a suggestion—it was a guarantee. If we acted up, we knew one of three things was coming: a sharp “Now you listen here,” a quick slap on the behind, or, in the worst of cases, Daddy’s belt. That belt was a legend in our house. It hung on the back of the bedroom door like a warning sign from the Lord Himself.

One particular night stands out clear as a bell. My sister and I were supposed to be winding down for bed, but instead we decided to test the laws of gravity. In our fuzzy little footie pajamas, we were jumping on the bed, laughing so hard our sides hurt. We were having ourselves a grand time—until Mama hollered from downstairs, “Y’all better quit that right now!”

Of course, we didn’t. When you’re a kid, Mama’s voice sounds more like background noise than an actual warning. I’m not sure how many times she called up, but when we heard her footsteps coming up those stairs, we knew Judgment Day had arrived.

Now, Mama was famous for her “warning swats.” She’d take Daddy’s belt, snap it once or twice in the air, and usually that was enough to send us scrambling under the covers. But not that night. No, ma’am. That night we’d pushed our luck one bounce too far. The belt didn’t just sing—it landed.

I can still feel that sting all these years later. Mercy, it burned like fire! Those little welts on the back of my legs were proof that Mama meant business. Back then I thought it was the end of the world, but looking back now, I see it was just good, old-fashioned love wrapped in leather.

You see, our parents took the Bible to heart when it said, “He who spares the rod hates his son, but he who loves him is careful to discipline him” (Proverbs 13:24, NIV). And in Hebrews 12:10, we’re reminded, “Our fathers disciplined us for a little while as they thought best; but God disciplines us for our good, in order that we may share in his holiness.”

I can’t say I was thankful for that spanking then—but I sure am now. Those lessons built respect, obedience, and a healthy understanding that choices have consequences. Looking back, I’m convinced those “come-to-Jesus moments” with the belt probably saved me from a few bigger whippings from life later on.

A Closing Prayer

Dear Heavenly Father,
Thank You for loving me enough to correct me when I go astray. Help me to remember that discipline isn’t punishment—it’s protection. Thank You for parents who cared enough to teach me right from wrong, even when it hurt them (and me!). Give me a humble heart that’s willing to learn from Your gentle correction and to extend that same kind of love to others.
In Jesus’ name, Amen.

Silver Branches, Simple Joys

Back in the early 1960s, when we’d visit my grandparents at Christmastime, the magic of the holiday seemed to fit perfectly inside their tiny two-bedroom house. The living room was small—just enough space for a sofa, a lamp, and their Christmas tree—but to us children, it felt like stepping into a wonderland.

Their tree wasn’t the kind you’d find fresh from the forest. It was an aluminum tree, shiny and silver, with branches that sparkled like tinsel under the dim light of the room. At its base sat a color wheel—one of those fascinating contraptions that slowly turned, casting shades of red, blue, green, and yellow across the tree’s shimmering limbs. My brother, sister, and I would sit cross-legged on the floor, completely mesmerized by the changing colors. We’d whisper to each other which hue was our favorite, as if our words might interrupt the enchantment of the moment.

I know there were ornaments on that tree, but for the life of me, I can’t recall a single one. The silver glow of the branches and the soft swirl of the color wheel were all that captured my attention. There were no stockings hanging on the wall, no piles of gifts tucked beneath the tree. I can’t even remember opening a single present there. Maybe there weren’t any. My grandparents didn’t have much, but somehow, it didn’t feel like anything was missing.

What I do remember is the warmth—the kind that came from love, not from money or presents. I remember the faint hum of the color wheel’s motor, the smell of something sweet coming from the kitchen, and the simple joy of being together. There was always a candy cane or two, those old-fashioned ones that seemed sweeter back then. Maybe that was the only gift, but it was enough.

If I close my eyes, I can still see that aluminum tree shimmering in its rainbow glow, and I’m reminded that Christmas has never really been about the things we receive, but about the light that shines from the love we share.

Heavenly Father,
Thank You for the simple joys that fill our hearts this Christmas and every day. Thank You for memories of love that outshine even the brightest decorations. Help us remember that the greatest gifts are not wrapped in paper or placed under trees, but are found in the warmth of family, the laughter of children, and the peace that comes from Your presence. May we carry that light with us, just as the color wheel once bathed that little aluminum tree in beauty. In Jesus’ name, amen.