The New Year and My Uncompleted Bucket List

The new year always has a way of sneaking up on me, like a cat on a screen porch—quiet, determined, and suddenly right at your feet. As I step into this next year at 68, firmly planted in the sunset season of life, I’m more aware than ever that time is no longer something I assume I have in abundance. The years don’t just pass anymore; they sprint. And yet, even with the calendar pages flipping faster, my heart is still full of hopes, dreams, and a bucket list that’s been tagging along with me since my teenage years.

I started that bucket list back when my knees were original equipment and didn’t come with screws, hinges, or weather-related complaints. Over the years, I’ve been blessed to cross off quite a few things—some planned, some unexpected, and some that only God could’ve arranged. Still, there are a handful of dreams that refuse to loosen their grip on me. Ireland and Scotland call my name every time I hear a fiddle tune. Alaska still feels like unfinished business, even though I've been there once. I want to return again, only this time, I don't want to see the inside of their cardiac care unit! And Israel, well, that place has a way of settling into your soul and demanding a return visit, too. As for completing the Appalachian Trail, I’ll admit that dream and my mechanical knee have been in ongoing negotiations. I guess I'll remain a section hiker for life. 

These days, my knee predicts rain better than the evening news, and I don’t bounce back from long walks the way I once did. I’ve learned that ibuprofen is a food group and that stretching is no longer optional; it’s survival. Still, I’m Southern enough to believe that where there’s a will, there’s a way… even if that way involves frequent rest stops, good shoes, and someone else carrying the heavy stuff. I may not hike mountains the same way I used to, but I can still chase wonder, beauty, and meaning wherever God places them.

What I’m learning, as this new year approaches, is that dreams don’t have an expiration date. They may need adjusting, slowing down, or reimagining, but they’re still worth holding onto. Maybe I won’t check every box on that old bucket list, but I can still live fully, laugh loudly, love deeply, travel wisely, and savor the goodness in each borrowed day. If the Lord gives me the strength, I’ll keep moving forward, one careful step, one hopeful prayer, and one slightly creaky knee at a time. After all, as we say down South, I may be getting older, but I’m not done yet.

Losing a Friend is Never Easy

Today a sweet friend of mine went home to be with the Lord. My heart is saddened by his passing, but I know his worn and weary body is completely healed now. 

C.G. was 97 years old and had been married to his highschool sweetheart, Earlene, for 70 years! Please keep her in your prayers. 

Both C.G. and Earlene loved their family and friends deeply, but loved the Lord most of all. 

They were simple people who enjoyed gardening and serving their community. They also were huge fans of the Georgia Gym Dogs and loved taking others to their meets. 

Many tears have fallen today because of a deep loss, but God has collected every one and stored them in His bottle. 

I take comfort knowing I'll see C.G. again one day. I'm so thankful he loved Jesus. 

The Weight We Often Need

I found this on the Internet and it resounded with my soul so I thought I'd share. I'm unsure of the author's name, but hope it will speak to you-

I used to think burdens were like a hiking pack you didn’t realize was getting heavier. You start the trail feeling good. Confident. Maybe even a little overconfident. The straps are adjusted. The view is nice. You’re thinking, This isn’t so bad.

And then a mile in, your shoulders are on fire.

You stop and check the pack like maybe someone slipped a rock in there when you weren’t looking. You didn’t agree to carry this much. You didn’t pack it intentionally. But somehow the farther you go, the more weight you feel. Every step costs more than the last.

That’s how burdens show up.

Not as some dramatic collapse. Just a steady increase in weight. A season that starts manageable and slowly becomes exhausting. A responsibility, a grief, a situation you didn’t plan for that quietly changes how you move through everything.

We tend to treat burdens like proof something has gone wrong. Like if we were doing faith correctly, the pack would stay light. Like God hands out smooth trails to the people doing it right and uphill climbs to the ones who missed something along the way.

But Scripture keeps saying things that ruin that theory.

“Come to Me, all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.”

Not come to Me once you’ve lightened the load. Not after you figure out why you’re tired. Just come. With the pack still on. With the straps digging in.

Which makes me wonder if burdens aren’t obstacles at all.

What if they’re bridges.

And I don’t love that idea. Because I would prefer a shortcut. Or a chair. Or for someone to meet me on the trail and say, actually, you don’t have to carry that anymore.

But here’s the uncomfortable truth. I don’t draw closer to God when the trail is easy. I do when I’m tired. I pray differently when I’m out of strength. I listen more closely when my own plans clearly aren’t enough.

Desperate prayers aren’t polished. They don’t sound impressive. They sound like, I can’t do this by myself. And somehow, those are the moments He feels closest.

Jesus didn’t say He would remove every heavy thing. He said, “Take My yoke upon you.” Which means He steps into the weight with us. Close enough to carry it together. Close enough that the load shifts.

And maybe that’s the part we miss.

The burden didn’t mean God stepped away. It meant He stepped closer.

Grief teaches you how to pray without pretending. Hard seasons strip away the illusion that you were meant to carry everything alone. The weight you never asked for becomes the place you finally stop performing and start leaning.

Bridges don’t feel safe when you’re standing on them. They sway. They creak. You can see exactly how far the drop is. But they exist for one reason. To get you somewhere you couldn’t reach on your own.

So if you’re carrying something heavy right now, maybe the question isn’t, "How do I get rid of this?"

Maybe it’s, "Where is this taking me?"

Because sometimes the very thing that brought you to your knees is the thing that brings you closer to the heart of God. And one day you realize you weren’t abandoned under the weight.

You were being carried across.

The Most Precious Book

This year, we’re not home to do our traditional Christmas morning but normally I pull out our old family Bible for devotional time. 

That Bible is falling apart. It’s held together with layers of tape so I keep it in my Grandmother’s cedar chest for safekeeping. 

I remember Mama telling me they bought it back in 1962 from a traveling salesman. They made $5 a month payments til it was paid off. 

It’s permanent place was atop an old antique mahogany library table in our living room, always opened to Luke chapter 2 during the Christmas season. Inside, a red velvet ribbon marker held the place. Over time, it’s disintegrated, but I hold tightly to the bits and pieces still hidden in my heart. 

Today, during our Christmas in the mountains, I can almost feel Mama and Daddy here.

I hope you have a special family tradition or memory that brings you joy today. Many blessings- Bonnie

Silent Night Before Christmas

I sit on the deck of a beautiful cabin tucked deep in the mountains of North Carolina, watching the sun slowly slip behind the trees. Below me, leaves rustle as deer skitter through the underbrush, unseen but unmistakably present. There’s a coolness in the air now—just enough to remind me that night is on its way and that tomorrow will be Christmas Day.

This isn’t what I expected when we made our reservations. In my mind, Christmas in the mountains meant snow-dusted branches and frosted mornings, a white Christmas straight out of a postcard. Instead, the air is almost warm, brushing 70 degrees, and the forest wears shades of brown and evergreen rather than white.

And yet.

The stillness settles in a way snow never could. No rushing. No noise. Just the quiet companionship of creation breathing around me. It slows my thoughts and gently shifts my focus from what I imagined to what is. I’m reminded that some of the best gifts arrive unwrapped and unplanned.

God is so good to gift us this beauty—this pause, this peace. “Be still, and know that I am God” (Psalm 46:10) rises gently in my heart, as if the mountains themselves are whispering it back to me. Gratitude swells until it feels almost too big to hold.

Christmas, I realize, is more than a single day circled on the calendar. It’s a heart song—one that plays quietly when we stop long enough to listen. It lives in sunsets instead of snowfall, in rustling leaves instead of carols, and in the sacred stillness that reminds us Emmanuel is still very much with us.

Lord, thank You for meeting me here—in the quiet, in the unexpected, in the beauty I didn’t plan for but needed all the same. Thank You for the rustle of leaves, the soft fading light, and the stillness that settles my heart. Help me to carry this peace with me beyond this moment, beyond this season, and into the days ahead. Remind me that Christmas is not confined to one day, but lives wherever gratitude dwells and love takes root. May my heart remain open, still, and listening.

Amen.

Everyday Devotionals ©️ Bonnie Annis

Chew on This!

On this blessed eve before Christmas, my prayer is that you will take time to ponder. Ponder isn't a word we use a lot in today's world, but it's the perfect word to convey the effort of digging deep, gleaning treasure, and mulling it over and over again. And if you've no idea where to start in this task of pondering, I'd like to give you some food for thought with the help of one of my favorite authors, Madeleine L'Engle . 

As you read the quotation below, please don't read it only once. To really ponder it, you need to...let me give you a good analogy here...you need to be like a cow. A cow takes in its food, chews it, digests it, and then the food moves down into one of the cows multiple stomachs. A little while later, the food is brought up again to be chewed on a little more, for a little longer, and then digested again. That process is exactly the essence of pondering. And this thought deserves to be considered in that way -

"Was there a moment, known only to God, when all the stars held their breath, when the galaxies paused in their dance for a fraction of a second, and the Word, who had called it all into being, went with all his love into the womb of a young girl, and the universe started to breathe again, and the ancient harmonies resumed their song, and the angels clapped their hands for joy?"

A Blue Christmas in the Mountains

This morning I stood at the cabin window, coffee in hand, staring out at a world stripped down to its essentials. The trees are bare now, their branches etched against an overcast sky like quiet pencil drawings. Beyond them stretches a long range of mountains, layered in soft shades of blue—the kind of blue that doesn’t feel cold so much as thoughtful. The kind that invites you to pause.

Winter has settled in up here. Not the dramatic, snow-globe kind—just a calm, gray stillness that feels like the earth holding its breath. Christmas is only two days away, and the mountains seem to know it. Everything feels hushed, as if creation itself is waiting for something holy… or at least for cookies to come out of the oven.

Looking at all that blue, I can’t help but hear Elvis crooning in my head: “I’ll have a blue Christmas without you…” It fits the view perfectly. And if I’m honest, it fits my heart a little too. Christmas has a way of shining a bright light on who’s missing from the room. I miss the noise of a full house, the overlapping conversations, the laughter coming from three directions at once. I miss the chaos—because love often looks like chaos when everyone you love is together.

But this is where gratitude gently taps me on the shoulder.

While not everyone can be here this year, we won’t be alone. Our youngest daughter and her husband are coming up to celebrate Christmas with us, and they always arrive carrying more than suitcases. They bring joy, laughter, and a happy energy that fills every corner of the cabin. The kind that makes even a quiet mountain Christmas feel festive—and somehow louder than expected (especially once games start or someone burns something in the kitchen).

They have a way of reminding me that joy doesn’t have to be big to be real. Sometimes it shows up in shared meals, late-night talks, and laughter echoing off cabin walls. Sometimes it looks like two young people walking through the door, instantly warming the whole place just by being themselves.

So yes, it may be a blue Christmas—blue skies muted by gray, blue mountains fading into the distance, blue notes humming softly in my heart. But blue doesn’t always mean sad. Sometimes it means deep. Sometimes it means reflective. And sometimes it’s just the color of a beautiful mountain morning that reminds you how blessed you still are.

From this cabin window, with leafless trees and layered blues stretching as far as I can see, I’m choosing gratitude. And maybe humming a little Elvis, too—just not too loud. The mountains deserve their quiet.

Feeling Nostalgic Today

Feeling nostalgic today as I remember our favorite local grocery store from many moons ago. Mr. and Mrs. Merlin were wonderful proprietors of the store and though Jewish, always made sure to have special Christmas items on hand for shoppers. One thing I really loved about them was the fact that during the weeks leading up to Christmas, they'd have something very special in their produce section - bundles of fresh mistletoe! I loved going with my Mom to buy it each year and when we didn't get to go there, Daddy would always find some up high in a tree and shoot it down for us. Sweet memories!

I've been meaning to get out and hunt up some mistletoe to hang from my light fixtures this year but haven't gotten around to it yet, maybe I'll do that tomorrow. And that brings up another memory.

My Daddy was always bringing things home from work for us - just little things like pieces of penny candy or one of those little metal clickers, but one day he asked me a question. He said, "Bonnie, I've heard you say often that you'd do something when you got around to it." I had to agree with him, I'd said that many times during my growing up years (though I was only about 8 or 10 when we were having this conversation). Digging deep in his pants pocket, he pulled out something and told me to hold out my hand. Obediently, I stretched my hand toward him as he gingerly placed a round, wooden coin in my hand. He told me to look carefully at it and then, as I read the words burned into it, he began to laugh. Now Daddy didn't laugh often, but when he did, it was very memorable.

Holding his belly and smiling ear to ear he looked at me and said, "Now what does it say?" I read the words out loud - "It says round to it." "Exactly," he said. "And now that you have a round to it, you'd better get to it!" He could be so silly at times but I'll always remember that day shortly before Christmas.

Little things like those bring joy to my heart this time of year. I hope you have some special memories that prick yours as well.

We'll all be super busy tomorrow and on Christmas Day as we make last minute preparations and get ready for our favorite folks to arrive, I'd like to tell you I love you and I pray this Christmas will be more special than any others you've had in the past. Seek joy, love hard, and most of all relax and enjoy the day. Don't focus on what didn't get done. Don't focus on whether or not someone likes a gift you give. Don't stress about who did or didn't come. Just be. Be happy. Little things matter. Do your best to dig deep into your pockets and find them. Time is short.

Movies, Music, and Memories

Some people need a perfectly trimmed tree, a color-coordinated ribbon theme, and a house that smells like a cinnamon candle exploded.

Me? I just need Chevy Chase losing his mind over Christmas lights.

There’s something magical about the way certain movies and music flip a switch inside us and suddenly—boom—it’s Christmas. Not the frantic, to-do-list kind, but the kind that settles in your chest and says, Ahhh… here we are.

Take National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation, for instance. I can be in the grumpiest, most un-Christmas mood imaginable, and five minutes in—right about the time Clark Griswold starts unraveling—I’m laughing. Not a polite chuckle. A full, honest laugh that loosens the shoulders and reminds me not to take any of this too seriously.

Because really, if Christmas were ever going to be perfect, it would have happened by now. And yet, year after year, we keep showing up—burnt cookies, tangled lights, unrealistic expectations and all.

Then there’s the music.

I love Christmas songs, but there’s something especially peaceful about instrumental Christmas music. No lyrics, no rush—just familiar melodies floating softly in the background like a gentle snowfall. It turns ordinary moments into sacred ones: washing dishes, wrapping gifts, sitting quietly with a cup of something warm.

That music takes me back. To years when Christmas felt slower. To family traditions that didn’t require planning apps or Amazon tracking numbers. To living rooms filled with familiar faces, laughter, and the comforting predictability of doing the same things every year.

These little rituals—watching that one movie we’ve seen a hundred times, playing the same music our parents played—matter more than we realize. They ground us. They remind us who we were, who we loved, and how deeply those memories are stitched into who we are now.

Maybe that’s why they bring so much joy.

They’re not just entertainment.
They’re time machines.

So if you find yourself struggling to “feel” Christmas this year, don’t force it. Put on the movie. Let the music play. Laugh at the same jokes. Close your eyes during the quiet parts.

Sometimes the spirit of Christmas doesn’t arrive with bells and whistles.
Sometimes it slips in softly—on a familiar tune, a well-worn DVD, and the simple comfort of remembering.

And honestly? That’s my favorite kind of Christmas.

I Don't Want to Miss Christmas

The winter sky hangs heavy, a soft gray blanket stretching across the horizon. I watch a V-formation of geese cut through it, wings beating in perfect rhythm, and I’m instantly transported back to my childhood. School was out for the Christmas break, and even though we didn’t have much, the excitement of the season made everything feel full and bright.

I remember huddling with my brother and sister in front of our old TV, blankets wrapped around our legs, eyes wide as Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer and Frosty the Snowman flickered across the screen. The glow from the television danced on our faces, and for a little while, the world felt small, safe, and magical. Those moments were simple, yet they were everything.

Oh, to go back to those days! To feel that wide-eyed wonder again. But time moves on. Things change. People change. Christmas is different now, life is different, and yet—there is still a longing in me that hasn’t faded.

This year, I pray that I won’t miss Christmas—not the gifts, not the hustle, not the tinsel and lights—but the real Christmas. The quiet, unshakable joy of Jesus’ love, the hope that steadies us when everything else shifts. May I hold that close, like we held each other in front of that old TV, and remember what truly matters.

Because no matter how gray the skies, or how far we travel from those childhood days, Christmas is still there—waiting, gentle, and true.

Christmas memory

 

A week or so before Christmas, just after supper dishes were cleared and pajamas weren’t quite on yet, my mother and father would ask the question we were secretly waiting for every evening:
“Do y’all want to go look at Christmas lights?”

Of course we did. There was never any hesitation—just a mad scramble for coats, shoes, and the backseat of the car. Even if we’d already been out the night before, we acted like it was a brand-new adventure, because somehow it always was.

As we drove slowly through nearby neighborhoods, anticipation hummed louder than the car engine. My brother, sister, and I took our duties very seriously. One child per side of the car, necks craned left and right like eager owls, calling out sightings as if we were trained holiday scouts.

“Lights over here!”
“Big Santa!”
“Reindeer—two of them!”

We loved the giant blow-up Santas that leaned a little too far forward, the glowing reindeer frozen mid-prance, and every lawn that looked like Christmas had exploded all over it. Some displays were tasteful, some were questionable, and some probably caused the electric meter to spin wildly—but we loved them all.

Still, our favorites were always the nativity scenes. Some were softly lit, others barely visible, and we’d squint hard, searching for baby Jesus like it was a holy game of hide-and-seek. There was something comforting about spotting Mary and Joseph, even from a moving car, like a quiet reminder of what all this twinkling and glitter was really about.

Once—just once—we got to drive through a live nativity, and that memory has never dimmed. There were real barn animals, hay scattered everywhere, a manger, and people dressed as Mary and Joseph. Seeing it all in real life brought Christmas off the lawn and straight into our hearts. It felt sacred and magical all at once, the kind of moment you don’t realize will stay with you forever—but it does.

When I became a parent, we carried that same tradition forward. After dinner, we’d pile into the car and go searching for lights, listening to the excited shouts from the backseat, just like before. And now, my children are doing the same with their children, scanning neighborhoods for glowing Santas, crooked reindeer, and—most importantly—baby Jesus.

Some traditions don’t need improving; they just need repeating. Even now, as the season approaches, I find myself looking a little longer at decorated houses, smiling at the lights, and remembering the joy of those simple rides. Christmas still shines brightest when it’s shared—preferably from the passenger seat, with someone shouting, “Look over there!” 🎄✨

Christmas Is Coming (and Going Way Too Fast)

“Christmas is coming, the goose is getting fat,
Please to put a penny in the old man’s hat…”

That little rhyme has lived somewhere in the back of my mind since childhood, popping up every year right about the time I realize—again—that Christmas is coming whether I’m ready or not. One minute it’s early December and I’m telling myself I have plenty of time, and the next thing I know, the calendar is shouting at me, the stores are packed, and I’m standing in my kitchen wondering how I let it sneak up on me again.

Every single year.

Christmas comes fast—too fast. It barrels in like a runaway shopping cart in a Walmart parking lot, and I’m left scrambling to catch up. The tree goes up later than I planned, the cards don’t get mailed when I swore they would, and the cookies somehow feel more like an obligation than a joy. I always think I’ll be more prepared this year. I never am.

And then—just like that—it’s over.

The gifts are opened, the wrapping paper is piled high, the house smells like leftover ham and sugar cookies, and there’s a strange quiet that settles in. The decorations stay up, but the magic feels like it packed its bags and left sometime around Christmas afternoon. That’s when the letdown hits. Hard.

I start wishing for a do-over.

I wish I had slowed down. I wish I had soaked it in more. I wish I had paid better attention to the moments that mattered instead of the list that never ended. Christmas, that big wonderful event we build up in our minds, feels like it slips through our fingers almost as soon as we get hold of it.

That shouldn’t be how it feels.

Somewhere along the way, we’ve turned Christmas into something exhausting instead of life-giving. We rush through Advent like it’s a checklist instead of a season of waiting and wonder. We chase the “perfect” holiday while missing the holy one unfolding right in front of us.

Down here in the South, we like to say we’re going to “set a spell,” but come December, nobody’s setting anything except an alarm clock. We run ourselves ragged trying to make memories, when half the time the best memories come from sitting on the couch in fuzzy socks, laughing at something silly, or retelling the same old stories we’ve heard a hundred times. Those are the moments that stick. Not the fancy ones. The real ones.

Christmas was never meant to leave us feeling empty when it ends. It was meant to fill us—with joy, with hope, with love that carries us straight into the New Year. The birth of Christ isn’t a one-day event; it’s a reminder that light came into the darkness and stayed. If we’re feeling let down when Christmas is over, maybe it’s because we expected too much from the day and not enough from the meaning.

The goose may be getting fat, and the pennies may be hard to come by these days, but the heart of Christmas hasn’t changed. It’s still about generosity, still about grace, still about slowing down enough to notice that God showed up in the simplest way possible.

This year, I’m trying something different. I’m trying to let Christmas be quieter. Smaller. Less polished and more present. I may still be unprepared when it arrives—I probably will—but I’m hoping I won’t be so quick to rush past it when it’s here.

Because Christmas doesn’t need a do-over. It just needs our attention.

And maybe—just maybe—if we set a spell and let it linger, it won’t feel like such a letdown when the calendar turns and the New Year comes knocking.

---

I'm a Sentimental Sap, It's True

Gerri and her husband, "Doc"

Just a few more days until Christmas and all of a sudden, I've turned into a sentimental sap. Anything and everything causes me to start blubbering. I don't know what's wrong with me. I'm not usually like this. I think I've been watching too many Hallmark Christmas movies.

Each year, as Christmas approaches, I want everything to be just perfect...a cross between a Martha Stewart and Better Homes and Gardens Christmas. I work really hard to make my home inviting and do my best to fill it with memories my children and grandchildren will cherish. It's a lot of work for a few hours of celebration, but who cares?

The day after Thanksgiving, we put up our tree and before you know it, decorations fill every nook and cranny. I dig out all of my Christmas CDs and load the Bose, so I have continual holiday joy filling my home. After everything is lit and decorated, I begin baking. Part of my gift giving includes special holiday recipes from years past and it's always a pleasure to remember good times as I'm cooking. Smells trigger memories and hopefully, there aren't burnt ones this year.

Today was a bittersweet day as I ran across a different kind of memory tucked deep in my closet. It was a chilly day and the thin chambray shirt I was wearing wasn't keeping me warm. Heading toward my big walk in closet, I began to rummage through my winter tops in hopes of finding something more substantial. My fingers skimmed over sweatshirts and long sleeve blouses, that's when I saw it, Gerri's jacket...that faded blue denim tucked deep. My hand stopped and paused reverently on the sleeve as I remembered my sweet best friend. I don't know where they came from but suddenly, the dam burst and I was standing in a puddle of tears.

Gerri had passed away several years ago. It was so unexpected. When I received the news, I was devastated. My best friend had died. I couldn't process it. We'd just spent the weekend together getting our hair done, going out to eat, joking and laughing, and now...she was gone. I didn't realize it until that very moment, as my hand slid down the jacket front...I'd never see her again. I couldn't pick up the phone and call her. I'd have no one to share my secrets with again. We'd never giggle so hard over her bladder control issues again. It wasn't fair.

I took the jacket down from the hanger, held it carefully in my hands ,thinking it might disintegrate and then all memories of her would be gone. The soft denim jacket was well-worn. It was Gerri's favorite. When she'd died, her husband, Doc, asked if there was anything I'd like to have, and the only thing I could think of was her jacket. She'd been wearing it the last day we were together. For some reason, I just knew, if I held it up to my nose, I'd still be able to smell her...remember her. Doc had lovingly agreed to give me her jacket and had ridden his bike almost 50 miles to bring it to me one afternoon after things had calmed down a bit. I'd taken his sweet gift and hung it in my closet, thinking I'd wear it one day as the weather grew cooler, but the jacket had hung there for months and I'd forgotten all about it.

Holding Gerri's jacket was difficult. She had loved this jacket so much and had worn it everywhere she went. As I looked over the front of the jacket, I saw several pins she'd placed on it. There was one for women bikers, one for diabetes awareness, and one for breast cancer awareness. That little pink ribbon...she'd put that one there for me. On the back of her jacket was a patch, another lady biker symbol. She and Doc were big Harley riders, and it was important for her to let others know.

I gently unfastened the buttons and opened the jacket. I slipped first one arm in and then the other. As I managed to get the jacket on, I felt an instant warmth...like a huge, big, Gerri hug. Oh it was so sweet! I could almost hear her whisper in my ear, "It's going to be okay, girl. It's going to be okay." The cozy denim enveloped me and I stood there crying. All the sweet memories of my best friend mingled together into a massive, overwhelming gift that was too hard to bear. Struggling, I took the jacket off and hung it back on the hanger. I couldn't bear to wear it today or perhaps ever. I knew it was only a jacket but it held too many emotions...too many memories...too much love.

As I turned out the light and softly closed the door to my closet, I knew Gerri's jacket was safe in its place amid my winter clothes and the memory of my friend was nestled snug against my heart, just where it always would remain.

The lights on the Christmas tree twinkle brightly as I stand before it. I'll miss you sweet friend, but I'll always treasure your laugh, your smile, and your mischievous grin. Even though you're no longer with me physically, you'll always be in my heart.

Just the other day, I was at the drugstore picking up a prescription. As I walked through the aisles to get to the pharmacy, I passed a row of feminine hygiene products. Suddenly, I felt a need to stop, and as I glanced down, there was a package of Tena bladder control pads lying on the floor. I swear I could hear Gerri's snicker starting up and then it turned into full blow gut wrenching laughter...but it wasn't hers I was hearing, it was MINE!

You know, Jesus said there’s a friend that sticks closer than a brother. That’s the way it is with the biker brotherhood. If ever someone is in need, you can bet there’ll be a rider ready to help out. Jesus put a huge value on the gift of friendship. Listen to what He says in these verses:

“This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you. Greater love has no one than this, that someone lay down his life for his friends. You are my friends if you do what I command you. No longer do I call you servants, for the servant does not know what his master is doing; but I have called you friends, for all that I have heard from my Father I have made known to you.” John 15:12-15

Isn’t that powerful? Jesus sends people our way on a daily basis. Sometimes He brings them into our lives for just a short season and other times, He allows them to become life long friends. If you’ve got friends, be sure and let them know how much you love them…especially during this holiday season.

Gerri and I several years before she passed. 

Mamas make Christmas

 

If Christmas were a Broadway production, the Mamas would be the producers, directors, stage managers, and the entire crew backstage—while the Daddies would be seated comfortably in the audience, offering helpful commentary like, “Looks great, honey,” without ever leaving their seats.

Let’s be honest. If it weren’t for the Mamas, no gifts would mysteriously appear on Amazon and then magically migrate into the house. They wouldn’t be wrapped with care, topped with curly ribbon, and tucked lovingly under the tree. They’d still be sitting in an online cart somewhere, waiting for a Daddy to remember his password.

Without Mamas, there would be no sugar cookies shaped like stars, angels, and something that was supposed to be a reindeer but looks more like a confused squirrel. No flour-dusted counters. No sprinkles in places sprinkles should never be. Certainly no taste-testing “just to make sure they’re good.”

Stockings? Please. Without Mamas, they’d still be folded neatly in a storage bin labeled “Seasonal,” because the Daddies were busy watching football or knee-deep in a garage project that absolutely had to be finished right before kickoff.

Yes, many Daddies do bravely attempt the holiday honey-do list. Some even cross a few things off. Others stare at it thoughtfully, nod with confidence, and then… somehow end up reorganizing the tool drawer instead.

Every now and then, there’s a Daddy who steps in and handles the Christmas prep like a pro. We applaud those rare and magical creatures. Truly. But most years, God clearly knew what He was doing when He gave Mamas extra stamina, an internal to-do list, and the ability to function on three hours of sleep and leftover cookie dough.

Mamas stay up late and rise early, making Christmas merry and bright. They wrap gifts in secret, assemble toys with instructions written in five languages, and silently thank the delivery drivers who bring not only presents but also dinner—especially when tipped just right.

So here’s a big, jingling, tinsel-covered shoutout to the Mamas. The magic-makers. The cookie-bakers. The gift-wrappers. Without them, Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas at all.

It would just be another night—with the TV on, the garage light glowing, and no cookies in sight.

Ponder

 

This morning I woke up with a single word resting on my heart—ponder. Now that’s not exactly a word I use in everyday conversation. I don’t usually wake up thinking, “Well, I believe I shall ponder today.” But because it’s Christmas season, I knew that word didn’t just wander in on its own. God must have placed it there for a reason.

 

Psalm 64:9 says,“They will proclaim the works of God and ponder what He has done.”

That verse settled into my spirit like a warm quilt on a cold morning.

 

When I think of the word ponder, my mind immediately goes to Mary. The young girl chosen by God to carry the Savior of the world. Scripture tells us that Mary “pondered these things in her heart.” And that word, ponder, carries such tenderness with it. It’s not rushed thinking. It’s not shallow reflection. It’s the kind of remembering that holds something close, turning it over gently again and again because it matters too much to forget.

 

Mary had a lot to ponder.

 

She pondered the angel’s visit - can you imagine cooking supper one minute and then being told you’ll carry the Son of God the next? I’m certain she replayed those words in her mind again and again: “You are highly favored.” 

 

She likely pondered her visit with Elizabeth, the wonder of two miracle pregnancies meeting under one roof and the sound of laughter mixed with holy awe. And then there was the night of Jesus’ birth - shepherds bursting in with wild-eyed stories of angels, a manger standing in for a cradle, the Son of Heaven wrapped in simple cloth.

 

Luke tells us she treasured and pondered all of it.

 

The Greek word used in the scriptures for ponder is symballo, and it means to toss around or throw together. I find that comforting. Mary didn’t have neat, tidy answers. She had holy fragments - angel words, prophetic songs, midnight shepherds, baby cries, and she tossed them around in her heart, trying to make sense of the wonder.

 

And oh, what a lifetime of things she had to ponder.

 

From scraped knees and carpenter’s tools…To water turned into wine…To storms calmed with a word…To blind eyes opened and dead hearts awakened…All the way to a cross, a borrowed tomb, and finally, an empty grave.

 

No wonder she spent her life pondering.

 

There’s a beautiful Christmas song that asks the question - “Mary, did you know?” Did she know that her baby boy would walk on water? That He would save both the broken and the proud? That the child she held would one day hold the whole world together?

 

That song always reminds me that Mary wasn’t just a holy figure—she was a human mama with a wondering heart.

 

As Christmas draws closer, I feel that same gentle nudge to slow down and ponder. Not just skim past the story, not just rush through the season, but to hold tight to the wonder. To ponder what God has done in Scripture… and what He has done in my own life.

 

Because when we ponder, we don’t just remember, we proclaim His works without ever speaking a word.

And maybe that’s why “ponder” greeted me this morning. A holy reminder to pause. To reflect. To treasure. To let the miracle sink in all over again.

 

Heavenly Father,

Thank You for the gift of this sacred season and for the gentle reminder to ponder Your goodness. Help us slow down long enough to reflect on the wonder of the manger, the miracle of the cross, and the power of the empty tomb. Teach us to treasure what You have done—not just in Scripture, but in our own lives. Like Mary, may we carry Your promises close to our hearts and trust You with every unanswered question.

In Jesus’ precious name,

Amen

God Gently With Us

At Christmas, we are reminded that God chose to reveal Himself to humanity in the most unexpected way—not with thunder, fire, or overwhelming glory, but as a helpless baby.

I’ve often wondered why.

God could have appeared in all His majesty, clothed in light, speaking worlds into existence as He once did. Yet Scripture tells us we could not bear such a sight. When Moses longed to see God’s glory, the Lord placed him in the cleft of a rock and allowed him to see only what had passed by. It wasn’t rejection—it was protection.

“But,” He said, “you cannot see My face, for no man shall see Me and live.”
—Exodus 33:20

The Bible is clear: no one has ever seen God in His fullness.

“No one has ever seen God.”
—John 1:18

And yet, in His mercy, God still desired to be known.

So He came to us gently.

He came as a baby—small enough to be held, fragile enough to need care, familiar enough not to frighten us away. Everyone loves babies. Their innocence draws us in; their vulnerability softens our hearts. God, in His perfect wisdom, chose a form we could approach without fear.

And yet, this was no ordinary child.

The baby in the manger was fully human and fully divine. Wrapped in swaddling cloths was the One who created every delicate insect wing and flung the stars into the vastness of the heavens.

“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God…
All things were made through Him, and without Him nothing was made that was made.”
—John 1:1, 3

This Creator did not remain distant.

“And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we beheld His glory.”
—John 1:14

In that tiny, developing brain dwelled the fullness of Deity—unchanged, undiminished.

“For in Him all the fullness of Deity dwells bodily.”
—Colossians 2:9

This is the miracle of the incarnation.

Some struggle to believe that God would enter the world this way. But an omnipotent, omnipresent God knew exactly how He would be received—even in the soft, dimpled body of a newborn.

“For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son.”
—John 3:16

Christmas is not just the story of a baby born long ago—it is the story of a God who loved us enough to meet us where we were. Not above us. Not beyond us. But with us.

“Behold, the virgin shall conceive and bear a Son, and they shall call His name Immanuel,” which means, “God with us.”
—Matthew 1:23

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Heavenly Father,
We stand in quiet wonder at the mystery of Christmas. Thank You for revealing Yourself not in ways that would overwhelm us, but in love that draws us near. Thank You for the humility of the manger and the grace wrapped in human flesh. Help us to receive You anew—not only as the baby we adore, but as the Savior who knows us completely. May our hearts remain soft, our faith deep, and our awe undiminished as we celebrate the miracle of God with us.
Amen.

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Cookie Christmas

Today I was remembering a special time during my growing up years. This memory is specifically from my time in Girl Scouts. (I have so many memories I could share from my scouting career - from Brownies, at age 7, all the way up to my time as part of a Co-Ed Explorer group, in my high school years, and every rank in between those two, but today, I'll stick to one tiny memory from my Junior year.)

Girls from my troop were so excited as Christmas approached and we were even more excited when we found out we had a chance to learn cookie making one afternoon after school. 

Mrs. Stodghill, one of my scouting friend's mothers, had agreed to teach a small group of us how to make gingerbread cookies. 

We stood around her kitchen counter as Mrs. Stodghill read the recipe to us. She allowed us to ask questions as she carefully explained terms we were unfamiliar with. After she'd read the complete recipe, she began pulling out the necessary ingredients and placing them on her counter. 

Through fascinated eyes, we looked at the bag of brown sugar, the jar of molasses, the blocks of butter, the spices, and flour. We couldn't wait to get started! 

Mrs. Stodghill was a kindhearted and very patient woman. Tenderly she allowed each of us to have a turn doing part of the preparation. As the dough came together, one by one, we'd get a turn to stir the big wooden spoon in her sturdy, Pyrex bowl. 

We each took turns smelling the dough when it was complete. Mrs. Stodghill asked if we could smell the ginger and we assured her we could. 

Then we watched as she ripped off a long sheet of wax paper. She smoothly laid it on the counter then turned the bowl of dough upside down smack dab in the middle of it. We had no idea what she was doing, so we watched in awe as she took one end of the paper and began rolling. Soon she had a long roll of dough covered in wax paper. Next, she twisted each end and told us the dough had to chill in the refrigerator for several hours. We were so disappointed thinking we wouldn't get to make cookies that day, but Mrs. Stodghill had thought ahead. 

Smiling, we watched as she wiped her hands on her apron and turned toward the refrigerator gently placing the cookie dough log inside while at the same time, pulling out another. 

Putting two and two together, we all began to giggle. We'd definitely be making cookies that day and we were happy about it. 

She turned on the oven to let it preheat, then pulled out a rolling pin and dusted the counter with flour. Before we could participate, she made us all wash and dry our hands as she explained the importance of being sanitary while cooking. 

She assigned each of us a small task and before you know it, we had dough flattened out on the counter, dusted with a light coating of flour, and various cookie cutters had been chosen by each girl. 

When it was time, Mrs. Stodghill showed us the proper way to cut and lift the cookies from the dough onto the cookie sheet. We worked slowly and carefully so as not to tear our cookies apart. 

After all the cookies had been cut and placed on the pan, Mrs. Stodghill placed them in the oven while we helped clean up the mess we'd made. 

Before we knew it, it was time to take the cookies out. The aroma that filled that kitchen was heavenly. 

The cookies cooled and then we had the fun of decorating them. Our artistic abilities brought peals of laughter and when we were done, we each got a couple of cookies to take home but also one to enjoy right away. 

Every year, since she was old enough to climb up in a chair, I've baked gingerbread cookies with my granddaughter, Heather. This year, since we live a good distance from one another, she'll make them at home with her Mama. She's 10 now and an excellent student so I'm sure my daughter, Laura, will allow Heather to do the majority of the mixing while she oversees. 

It's so fun to teach little ones to master a skill. Cookie baking helps them learn to follow directions but also teaches them that together time is special. 

I'm thankful Mrs. Stodghill gave of herself to that group of precocious little girls one afternoon. I wonder if she ever thought, after 50 some odd years, I'd still remember the time spent with her?

You may not realize how the things you do impact your children or grandchildren, but often, some of their fondest memories stem from the little things. 

Every time I smell ginger, I think of Mrs. Stodghill and her willingness to work with us. My hope now is that Heather will have the same type memories of our baking time together. 

It may be holding the big, wooden rolling pin, that reminds her of cookie baking with me, or it may be the sprinkles of flour we spill on the flour as we get messy together. It doesn't really matter to me. All I want is for her to know she's loved and that I made time for her, like Mrs. Stodghill did for me. 

"Dear friends, let us love one another, for love comes from God. Everyone who loves has been born of God and knows God. Whoever does not love does not know God, because God is love."

1 John 4:7-8