Learning to love prickly people

Have you ever encountered someone who seemed determined to make themselves difficult to love? You approach them with kindness, only to be met with a sharp response. You offer friendship, but they keep their distance. You try to have a pleasant conversation, but somehow their words leave little room for warmth. Before long, you find yourself wondering why you even bother.

 

Some people seem to have a prickly disposition. They are quick to take offense, slow to trust, and sometimes downright unpleasant to be around. We might describe them as having a rough exterior, a sharp tongue, or a wall around their heart. And if we're being honest, loving them can feel like trying to hug a pufferfish.

 

A pufferfish is an interesting little creature. Under ordinary circumstances, it may look rather harmless as it swims through the water. But when it senses danger, it has a remarkable way of protecting itself. It puffs up, enlarges its body, and extends its sharp spines. Suddenly, the little fish that might otherwise appear approachable becomes something another creature would think twice about getting close to.  

People can be much the same.

 

Some have learned to puff themselves up when they feel threatened. They use sarcasm, anger, criticism, silence, or an unfriendly attitude as protection. Their words become their spines, and their walls become so familiar that they may not even realize how effectively they keep others away. But what if the behavior we find so difficult is sometimes rooted in something we cannot see?

 

Perhaps someone has been disappointed so many times that trusting another person feels dangerous. Maybe they've experienced rejection, betrayal, loss, or years of feeling overlooked. Perhaps kindness has been unfamiliar to them, and they don't know what to do when someone offers it. Their prickly exterior may be less about wanting to hurt others and more about being afraid of being hurt again. That doesn't make unkindness acceptable, but it does remind us that there may be a story behind the behavior.

 

Jesus never taught us to love only those who are pleasant, agreeable, or easy to get along with. In Luke 6:32, He challenges us to consider what makes our love different if we love only those who love us in return. His example calls us beyond convenient kindness and into the sometimes uncomfortable territory of genuine compassion.  

That is where our faith is tested.

 

It is relatively easy to be kind to someone who smiles when we enter a room, remembers our birthday, and always has something encouraging to say. But what about the person who seems determined to misunderstand us? What about the one who responds to gentleness with irritation or meets our efforts with indifference? 

Perhaps the greatest opportunity to demonstrate Christlike love comes when there is very little immediate reward for showing it. We must learn to look beyond the spines.

 

This doesn't mean we should repeatedly place ourselves in situations where someone wounds us. Forgiveness does not require unlimited access, and compassion does not mean tolerating abuse. Sometimes loving someone means praying for them from a distance, refusing to participate in their negativity, or establishing boundaries that protect our own hearts. We can wish someone well without allowing their behavior to continually wound us.

 

But we can also ask God to soften our own responses. It is easy to become prickly ourselves when someone has been unkind. We can become defensive, impatient, and just as difficult to approach as the person who hurt us. Before long, two people are standing behind their own protective walls, each waiting for the other to make the first move. What might happen if one of them chose grace?

 

What if we stopped assuming the worst and started asking God to help us see the person beneath the behavior? What if, instead of responding with another sharp word, we offered a gentle one? What if we remembered that every person we encounter is carrying something we may know absolutely nothing about?

 

There is a beautiful lesson in the little pufferfish. His spines may protect him from danger, but they also make it difficult for anyone to get close. Protection can become isolation when we never allow ourselves to feel safe enough to let our defenses down. And isn't that true of us sometimes?

 

We all have tender places. We all have experiences that have shaped how we respond to the world. Some of us have built walls without realizing how high they've become. Others have learned to recognize those walls in the people around us. Either way, we need God's help to replace defensiveness with grace and judgment with understanding.

 

The next time you encounter someone who is difficult to love, remember the pufferfish. Don't assume that every sharp response tells the whole story. You may never know what made that person feel the need to grow spines in the first place.

 

You cannot force someone to lower their defenses, and you cannot heal wounds you cannot see. But you can choose not to add another wound. You can be kind without being foolish, compassionate without surrendering your boundaries, and loving without expecting anything in return. Sometimes the most powerful thing we can offer another person is the grace to be seen as more than their worst behavior.

 

Perhaps the person with the sharpest spines is not the one who needs another lesson in how difficult they are. Perhaps they need someone to remind them that they are still worthy of love.

Heavenly Father, help me see people through Your eyes rather than through the frustration of their behavior. When I encounter someone who is difficult to love, remind me that I may not know the hurts, disappointments, or fears they carry. Keep my own heart from becoming hardened by the unkindness of others. Teach me to respond with patience, wisdom, and compassion while maintaining healthy boundaries. Help me become a person who offers grace rather than judgment and kindness rather than another reason for someone to build a wall. And when my own heart becomes prickly, remind me to turn to You for the healing and love I need. Amen.

Scripture: Ephesians 4:2 (KJV) "With all lowliness and meekness, with longsuffering, forbearing one another in love."

A Thought to Carry With You:

You may not be able to remove another person's spines, but you can choose not to become prickly yourself.

Growing Old Together

There is something about growing older together that changes the way we look at love. When we are young, we imagine a lifetime stretching out before us, filled with more tomorrows than we could ever count. We build homes, raise families, make memories, and dream about the years ahead. We rarely stop to consider how quickly those years will pass or how different the person beside us will look when time has written its story upon both of us.

Sometimes, I look at my husband and find myself remembering the younger man I fell in love with. His hair has turned silver, his strength has waned, and the years have left their unmistakable marks upon his body. Time has changed him in ways neither of us could have imagined when we began our journey together. And yet, when I look into his eyes, I see something that time has not taken away. He still loves me with all his heart. Our bodies have changed, our steps may be slower, and our days may look different than they once did, but the love that binds us together remains.

Perhaps this is one of the most beautiful gifts of a lasting marriage. We have the privilege of knowing one another beyond the outward appearances that first drew us together. We have seen each other through good days and difficult ones, through laughter and tears, through seasons of certainty and moments when we had no idea what tomorrow would bring. We have watched our lives unfold one ordinary day at a time. Somewhere along the way, love has become more than a feeling. It has become a history, a promise, a familiar hand to hold, and a quiet assurance that we do not have to face life alone.

But growing older together also brings an awareness that can be difficult to put into words. We begin to understand that we are on the downhill slope of life. The years ahead may be fewer than the years behind us, and the thought of that can settle heavily upon the heart. I find myself wanting to hold tightly to every minute we have left together. I want to savor the conversations, the shared laughter, the simple evenings at home, and even the ordinary moments that once seemed too insignificant to remember. I want to pay attention to the little things because I know that one day, those little things may become the memories I treasure most.

And if I am honest, there is something that frightens me about growing older. Sooner or later, one of us will likely have to continue this earthly journey without the other. The thought of waking up one morning and reaching for a hand that is no longer there is almost too painful to consider. After sharing so much of life, how does a person learn to live in a world where the other half of so many memories is gone? How do we prepare our hearts for a loss we cannot yet imagine?

The truth is, we cannot fully prepare for every sorrow life may bring. But we can choose how we live the days we have been given. We can love more intentionally, forgive more readily, speak more gently, and stop postponing the things that matter. We can put down our distractions and look into the face of the person sitting beside us. We can say the words we sometimes assume are already understood. We can offer the extra hug, hold the hand a little longer, and remember that the ordinary moments we are living today may someday become extraordinary memories.

Scripture reminds us in Ecclesiastes 4:9–10, "Two are better than one; because they have a good reward for their labour. For if they fall, the one will lift up his fellow." What a beautiful picture of growing together. Marriage is not simply two people walking side by side when the road is smooth. It is two people helping one another through the uneven places, lifting each other when strength fails, and offering support when the burdens become too heavy for one person to carry alone.

There will come seasons when one of us must be stronger for the other. There may be days when the body grows frail, when memory becomes less dependable, or when the simplest tasks require more patience than they once did. Yet love has a way of changing with the seasons. What once looked like adventure may become companionship. What once looked like strength may become tenderness. What once required grand gestures may be expressed in the quiet act of helping someone rise from a chair or covering them with a blanket when they fall asleep.

And perhaps that is what growing together truly means. It means learning to love the person before us today, not merely remembering the person we fell in love with years ago. It means recognizing that silver hair is not a loss of beauty, that slower steps do not diminish the worth of a life, and that weakened hands can still hold a love strong enough to sustain us through our remaining years.

As Christians, we also have a hope that reaches beyond the limits of this earthly life. Psalm 73:26 tells us, "My flesh and my heart faileth: but God is the strength of my heart, and my portion for ever." Our bodies will change. Our strength will eventually fail. The people we love will not always be beside us in the way they are today. But God remains faithful through every season. He is present in the joy of our early years, in the tenderness of our aging years, and in the sorrowful valleys we may one day have to walk.

I do not know what the future holds for my husband and me. I cannot promise that we will always be together on this side of eternity, and I cannot pretend that the possibility of being left alone does not frighten me. But I can choose not to let tomorrow's uncertainty rob me of today's blessing. I can love him here, now, in the life we are living together. I can thank God for the years we have shared and for the privilege of still having another day to love the man whose life has become so intertwined with my own.

If you are blessed to have someone beside you today, take a moment to look at them with fresh eyes. Look beyond the gray hair, the wrinkles, the changing bodies, and the limitations that age may bring. Look at the person who has walked beside you through the years. Remember the dreams you shared, the hardships you survived, and the memories only the two of you understand. Then give thanks for the beautiful, imperfect, precious gift of growing older together.

Because one day, we may look back and wish we could have just one more ordinary afternoon, one more conversation, one more opportunity to say, "I love you." We cannot stop the clock, nor can we bargain for more years than God has appointed. But while our loved ones are still here, we can make the most of the time we have been given.

Growing older together is not simply about watching the years pass. It is about discovering that even as time changes everything around us, love can grow deeper, faith can grow stronger, and gratitude can grow richer. And if God grants us the blessing of growing old beside someone we love, may we never become so accustomed to their presence that we forget what a precious gift it is to have them here.

Heavenly Father, thank You for the gift of love and for the people You have placed beside us on this earthly journey. Thank You for the years of shared memories, for the laughter that has lightened our burdens, and for the hands that have held ours through difficult seasons. As we grow older, help us not to be consumed by the fear of what tomorrow may bring. Teach us to treasure the moments we have today, to speak words of love while we still have the opportunity, and to extend patience and kindness when the years make life more difficult. When we worry about the possibility of loss, remind us that we are never beyond Your care. Help us grow together in love and faith, making each remaining day a testimony to Your goodness. In Jesus' name, Amen.

Love at rest

Every morning, as we drive to the park for our own walk, we pass an elderly couple making their way along the sidewalk. They appear to be in their mid-eighties, perhaps even older. He wears a wide-brimmed hat, and she has soft white hair that catches the morning light. Each has a rollator to help them along, and together they make their way down the street at a pace that belongs to no one but them.

They walk side by side, slowly and carefully, their little wheels rolling over the pavement. Every now and then, one turns to look at the other, and they exchange a smile. Not a hurried smile, not one offered out of politeness, but the kind of smile that seems to say, I'm glad you're here beside me.

I find myself wondering what they talk about as they walk. Do they reminisce about the years gone by, remembering the places they've been, the home they've built, and the family they've raised? Do they talk about their children and grandchildren, or laugh over some little memory that only the two of them understand? Perhaps they talk about what they will have for breakfast when they get home. Or maybe, after all these years, they no longer need to fill every moment with words. Perhaps simply being together is conversation enough.

When they reach the end of the sidewalk, they stop. Carefully, they settle onto the seats of their rollators to rest for a while. The morning air surrounds them, the trees cast their long shadows across the grass, and the world seems to slow down just for the two of them. But their walk isn't over. They continue talking, looking at one another, sharing a moment that belongs only to them.

I love imagining what happens next. After a little rest, they turn their rollators toward home and begin the journey back, side by side once again. Maybe their steps are a little slower now, and perhaps they pause once more along the way. But I imagine them arriving home with a quiet sense of satisfaction, helping each other through the door and settling into the familiar comfort of their home. Before long, they may be ready for a morning nap, resting peacefully after their little adventure out into the world. And I can't help but smile at the thought of it.

There is something so touching about this couple. They remind me that love doesn't always announce itself with grand gestures or sweeping declarations. Sometimes love looks like two sets of wheels rolling along a sidewalk. It looks like waiting for one another, matching a slower pace, offering a hand when needed, and turning to share a smile along the way. It looks like sitting down to rest together instead of rushing to get somewhere.

Perhaps the years have changed their steps, softened their voices, and made some things more difficult than they once were. But there they are, still making their way through the morning together. Still sharing the journey. Still finding reasons to smile.

I don't know their names or their story. I don't know how many years they have spent walking through life side by side. But each morning, as we pass them on our way to the park, they leave me with a gentle reminder: a beautiful life isn't measured only by how far we travel or how quickly we get there. Sometimes, it is measured by who is beside us when the road gets harder, who waits when we need to rest, and whose face still makes us smile after all these years.

And if those two sweet souls are any indication, perhaps one of the loveliest blessings of growing old is having someone beside you who still wants to take the morning walk with you.

One slow step, one shared smile, and one beautiful morning at a time.

~ Random musings by Bonnie Annis 

(I had to turn around in my seat to get this picture of them for you. Thankfully they didn't see me.)

The Thimble: Love in Every Stitch

Scripture: “Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins.” — 1 Peter 4:8 (NIV)

When I think of my mother-in-law, I think of a woman who knew how to express love without needing many words. She had a gift for creating beautiful things with her hands, and quilting was one of the ways she shared that gift with the people she loved. She didn't simply make a quilt; she gave hours of her life to it. She chose the fabric, arranged the pieces, layered the batting, and patiently stitched them together by hand. Each quilt carried something of her within it: her time, her tenderness, her patience, and her desire to give someone something that would last. As a quilter myself, I understand the work behind those gifts. I know the concentration required, the weariness that comes with hours of stitching, and the soreness that settles into your fingers as you push a needle through layers of fabric and batting. I also understand that sometimes the most meaningful part of a handmade gift is the love no one else can see.

One of the smallest but most necessary tools in hand quilting is the thimble. Slipped over the middle finger, it protects the finger from the pressure and sharp point of the needle as it is pushed through the material. Without it, the very tool used to create something beautiful can cause pain. I imagine my mother-in-law working carefully, stitch after stitch, with her thimble quietly doing its job. It was never the centerpiece of the quilt. No one admired the thimble when the finished gift was opened. Yet without that little protector, the work could become painful and difficult to continue. Isn't that often how love works? Some of the most important things in our lives are the things we scarcely notice until we understand what they have made possible.

My mother-in-law's quilts remind me that love is rarely created in one grand moment. It is built through countless small acts of faithfulness. It is the time we give when we could be doing something else, the patience we extend when we are tired, and the kindness we offer without expecting recognition. Her quilts were more than fabric and thread; they were a way of saying, You matter to me. You are worth my time. I want you to have something made with love. I wonder how many times a family member wrapped up in one of her quilts felt comfort without fully realizing how much love had gone into making it. Perhaps years later, when the fabric grew familiar and the stitches softened with use, the quilt became even more precious because it carried memories of the hands that made it.

When I quilt, I often pray for the person who will receive my work. As I pull the needle through the fabric, I whisper a prayer for their life, their needs, their burdens, and their joys. They may never know those prayers were offered, but I believe they become part of the meaning of the gift. I want the quilt to cover more than their body; I want it to remind them that they are loved and held close, even when life feels cold or lonely. And this is where the thimble becomes especially meaningful to me. It reminds me of God's quiet, faithful protection. God does not promise that we will never experience pain, just as the thimble does not remove the needle from the work. Instead, we are invited to trust Him in the midst of life's sharp places. His presence gives us strength to persevere, comfort when we are wounded, and grace to continue loving when the work of love becomes difficult. We may not always see His hand at work, but we can rest in the truth that we are never beyond His care.

Perhaps the greatest gift my mother-in-law left behind was not any single quilt, but the example she gave of how love can be lived out through ordinary, faithful work. Every handmade quilt is a reminder that something lasting can be created one small stitch at a time. In the same way, our lives become richer when we choose to love in the little moments: when we pray for someone in secret, offer a listening ear, forgive a hurt, or give our time without expecting anything in return. First John 4:19 tells us, “We love because he first loved us.” The love we give begins with the love we have received from God. So when I think of my mother-in-law and the quilts she made, I am reminded that love need not be loud to be powerful, and it need not be seen to be real. Sometimes love is a needle moving patiently through layers of cloth, a thimble protecting a tired finger, and a prayer quietly spoken over every stitch. Long after the work is finished, the love remains.

Heavenly Father, thank You for the precious gift of people who teach us how to love through the simple things they do. Thank You for my mother-in-law, for her gentle spirit, for the gifts she made with her hands, and for the love she stitched into the quilts she shared with her family. Thank You for allowing those quilts to become reminders of her care and for the memories that continue to speak to my heart. Lord, help me carry forward the love she modeled. Teach me to give patiently, serve humbly, and pray faithfully for the people You place in my life. When I encounter the sharp edges of life, remind me that Your protection does not always mean the absence of pain, but the assurance of Your presence through it. Be my strength when I grow weary and my comfort when my heart is tender. Let every stitch I make, every prayer I whisper, and every kindness I offer become an expression of Your love. May the gifts I leave behind remind others that they are cherished, and may the love I share point them always toward You. In Jesus' name, Amen.

The Empty Chair

Scripture: “The LORD is nigh unto them that are of a broken heart; and saveth such as be of a contrite spirit.” — Psalm 34:18 (KJV)

There is something about the holidays that makes us especially aware of who is missing. As Thanksgiving approaches, we begin thinking about family gatherings, favorite recipes, familiar traditions, and the laughter that once filled our homes. Yet for many of us, beneath the anticipation of the season lies a tender ache, because the people who helped make these holidays special are no longer here. Sometimes the hardest part of Thanksgiving is not preparing the meal or gathering the family, but looking at the empty chair and realizing that someone we love will not be walking through the door.

In the South, family has a way of becoming woven into nearly everything we do. We gather around tables heavy with food, pass down recipes written in our grandmothers’ handwriting, tell stories we have heard a hundred times, and laugh at jokes that never seem to grow old. We know who makes the best dressing, whose sweet potato casserole is always requested, and which relative will tell the same story before the meal is finished. These traditions are more than holiday customs. They are pieces of our family history, held together by the people who created them. And when one of those people is gone, even the most familiar gathering can feel painfully different.

This Thanksgiving, my thoughts turn to the people who will no longer be at my table. I think of my mother, my father, and my brother, whose places in my life can never truly be filled by anyone else. I think, too, of my Aunt Bonnie, who recently went home to be with the Lord. Each loss carries its own memories, its own story, and its own particular ache. As the holidays draw near, I find myself remembering the laughter, the conversations, the ordinary moments that seemed so unremarkable at the time but have become precious treasures now that I cannot experience them again in the same way.

Perhaps you know that feeling, too. You may be preparing a holiday meal while remembering someone who once stood beside you in the kitchen. You may find yourself reaching for the phone to call a parent before remembering that the familiar voice you long to hear is no longer on the other end. Perhaps a certain song, a favorite dish, or a story told around the table suddenly brings tears to your eyes. Grief has a way of finding us in the smallest details, often when we least expect it.

We do our best to remember the good things. We tell the old stories, share the funny memories, and repeat the expressions that made our loved ones so wonderfully themselves. We smile when someone tells a story we have heard countless times, and sometimes we laugh so hard that, for a moment, we almost forget the sadness. Those memories are gifts, and we should treasure them. But as beautiful as they are, they cannot bring our loved ones back. The laughter fades, the dishes are cleared, and eventually we find ourselves facing the truth again: someone we love is missing.

So how do we continue when a part of our heart seems to be missing, too?

Perhaps the first thing we must understand is that continuing does not mean forgetting. It does not mean we must stop crying, stop missing someone, or pretend that the holidays are just as they have always been. Moving forward is not a betrayal of the people we have lost. It is learning to carry their love with us into a life that looks different without their physical presence. We can honor their memory while allowing ourselves to experience new joys. We can laugh without feeling guilty, celebrate without believing we have forgotten, and give thanks even when gratitude and sorrow sit side by side.

Scripture reminds us in Psalm 34:18, “The LORD is nigh unto them that are of a broken heart.” Notice what this verse does not say. It does not promise that God's people will never have broken hearts. It does not suggest that faith will make every painful memory disappear or that a believer should be able to move through grief without tears. Instead, it offers a beautiful assurance: when our hearts are broken, God draws near.

What a comfort that is during the holidays. When we sit at a table that feels incomplete, God is near. When we quietly wipe away tears while everyone else is talking, God is near. When we wonder how to celebrate Thanksgiving with a heart that is both grateful and grieving, God is near. We may not always feel His presence as strongly as we wish, and we may not understand why the journey through loss must be so painful. But His nearness does not depend on our ability to hold ourselves together.

Jesus Himself understood sorrow. In John 11:35, we read two simple words: “Jesus wept.” He wept at the tomb of Lazarus, even though He knew that death would not have the final word in that story. His tears remind us that sorrow is not a failure of faith. Love grieves when someone precious is gone. If Jesus could stand beside those who mourned and weep with them, then we do not have to hide our sadness from Him. We can bring our tears, our questions, our loneliness, and even our anger into His presence. He already knows the weight we carry.

As Christians, we also hold to a hope that reaches beyond the empty chair. We believe that death is not the end of the story for those who belong to Christ. Jesus promised in John 14:2–3 that He was going to prepare a place for His followers and would come again to receive them unto Himself. That promise does not erase the pain of separation today, but it gives us something precious to hold on to when the distance between heaven and earth feels unbearably wide. Our tears are real, but so is our hope.

This Thanksgiving, perhaps we can find a gentle way to make room for both. We can set aside a moment to speak the names of those we miss. We can prepare a favorite dish in their honor, tell a story that makes everyone laugh, or invite each person at the table to share a memory of someone who is no longer with us. We can continue cherished traditions, and we can create new ones when the old traditions hurt too much to carry on in the same way. There is no single right way to grieve, and there is no requirement that every holiday look exactly as it did before loss entered our lives.

Most importantly, we can remember that the people we have lost leave behind more than an empty chair. They leave lessons, laughter, values, traditions, and expressions of love that continue to shape who we are. Perhaps we see our mother's kindness reflected in the way we care for someone else. Perhaps we hear our father's wisdom in the advice we give our children. Perhaps our brother's sense of humor lives on in the laughter of the family. Perhaps Aunt Bonnie's memory will remind us to cherish the people God has placed in our lives today. Their earthly lives have ended, but the love they gave us remains part of our story.

And maybe that is one way we learn to continue: by allowing the love we received to become love we give. We cannot bring our loved ones back, but we can carry forward the good they planted in us. We can make the phone call, extend the invitation, forgive the disagreement, and take the time to sit a little longer with someone who needs our company. We can stop assuming there will always be another Thanksgiving to say what needs to be said. Our losses remind us that the people gathered around our tables today are precious gifts, too.

If you are approaching this Thanksgiving with a heavy heart, please do not measure your gratitude by how little you cry. You can thank God for the blessings you still have while longing for the blessings you have lost. You can smile at a memory and still wish you could have one more conversation. You can trust God's promises and still struggle with the silence left behind. These feelings are not contradictions. They are part of being human, part of loving deeply, and part of learning to live with a loss that has changed you.

So when you look at that empty chair this Thanksgiving, remember that it tells only part of the story. It tells you that someone you love is no longer physically present, but it cannot tell you that their love meant nothing, that your memories have lost their value, or that your future holds no joy. And it certainly cannot tell you that God has abandoned you in your sorrow.

The chair may be empty, but the love is not. The table may be different, but the memories remain. And even when grief makes our hearts feel hollow, we can trust that the God who drew near to us in our happiest moments will draw near to us in our loneliest ones, carrying us gently through the holidays until we learn to smile again without feeling that we have left our loved ones behind.

A Closing Prayer

Heavenly Father, as Thanksgiving approaches, I come before You with a heart that holds both gratitude and grief. Thank You for the people You placed in my life, for the love they gave, the memories we made, the laughter we shared, and the traditions that became part of our family story. Thank You for my mother, my father, my brother, and my Aunt Bonnie. Though I miss them deeply, I am grateful that I had the blessing of loving them and being loved by them.

Lord, I pray for everyone who is dreading the holidays because someone precious will be missing. Comfort those who will face their first Thanksgiving without a loved one, and strengthen those who have carried their grief for many years. Sit beside those who feel alone in a crowded room. Give peace to those who cannot stop the tears and reassurance to those who wonder whether they will ever feel joy again. Remind us that we do not have to hide our broken hearts from You.

Help us treasure the people who remain, honor the memories of those who have gone before us, and carry their love into the days You have given us. When we see the empty chair, remind us of the love that filled it. When the sadness comes, draw near. And when we struggle to understand how to go on, hold us firmly in the promise that neither death nor sorrow can separate us from Your love in Christ Jesus.

Thank You for the hope of heaven, for the promise of Your presence, and for the assurance that our tears are never unseen by You. Teach us to give thanks not because life has been free of loss, but because Your love remains faithful through every season.

In Jesus' precious name, Amen.

The Art of Letter Writing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Much love,

God

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

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

What a way to end a letter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dear Heavenly Father, 

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

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

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

"Much love."

In the precious name of Jesus,

Amen.

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

Everyday Devotionals

Bonnie Annis

When Goodbye Isn’t Really Goodbye

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

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

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

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

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

And then there is the name.

Bonnie.

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

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

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

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

Aunt Bonnie entered the gates of glory today.

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

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

I believe Jesus was waiting for her.

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

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

Thank you for loving me.

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

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

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

Heavenly Father,

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

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

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

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

In the precious name of Jesus,

Amen.

When Love Has Hands and Feet

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love has a language all its own.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In the precious name of Jesus,

Amen.

Everyday Devotionals by Bonnie Annis

More Than a Chance Encounter

“For we are His workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand, that we should walk in them.” — Ephesians 2:10

Sometimes God puts people in our path for reasons we don't understand until we take the time to stop and listen.

Today, my husband and I were visiting a hotel, and after we sat down in the restaurant, I noticed a woman working behind the breakfast buffet. She was busy doing all the things that needed to be done—making pancakes, wiping down counters, preparing fresh coffee and keeping everything neat and orderly. Yet there was something else I noticed about her. Every time someone walked through the door, she greeted them warmly and enthusiastically. It wasn't just a polite, "Good morning." She genuinely seemed happy to see each person who entered.

As I watched her, I had the distinct impression that she was lonely. Perhaps she wasn't simply looking for someone to serve breakfast to. Perhaps she was looking for someone who would stop long enough to see her.

Eventually, we had the opportunity to meet face-to-face and talk for quite a while. As she opened up, I learned her name was Jennifer and she was 62 years old. She was in recovery from drug addiction. She had only been working at the hotel for seven weeks. She told me about her grandchildren and great-grandchildren and shared pieces of a life that had been filled with more difficulty than most people would ever know.

As she talked about her recovery, she told me something that I found especially touching. She is working toward being able to get a special celebratory toe ring as she continues progressing through her recovery. She explained that there are different ways people celebrate milestones along the journey, and that some recovery tokens are connected to specific amounts of time in sobriety. To her, that toe ring wasn't simply a piece of jewelry. It represented something she was working toward, a reminder of how far she had come and the progress she hoped to continue making.

I couldn't help but think about how meaningful that little ring must be to her. Every day she chooses recovery is another step forward. Every morning she gets out of bed and goes to work is another step forward. Every difficult moment she faces without returning to the life she is trying to leave behind is another step forward.

Then Jennifer said something that broke my heart. She was ashamed that this was the only job she had been able to find. She needed the income from this job to supplement her Social Security so she could pay her rent.

But as I looked at her, I didn't see a woman who should be ashamed. I saw a woman who was working, trying and refusing to give up. I saw someone who had survived difficult things and was still standing. I saw a woman who was getting up every morning and showing up, even when life had not given her an easy road.

I wondered how often we look at people and see only the position they hold, the clothes they wear, the mistakes they've made or the circumstances they find themselves in, while God sees something entirely different. This woman wasn't merely the woman working behind the breakfast counter. She was someone's grandmother and great-grandmother. She was a woman with a story, a history, hopes and disappointments. Most importantly, she was a person created in the image of God and deeply loved by Him.

I asked if she was a believer in Christ, and her answer made my heart smile. She said she was. As we continued talking about our lives, I could see her beginning to relax. Her smile became more natural, and the guarded expression she initially carried seemed to disappear. She wasn't just talking to a hotel guest anymore. We were two women sharing pieces of our lives with one another.

Before we left, I told her how thankful I was that we had the opportunity to meet that morning, and she told me she felt the same way. As I walked away, I couldn't shake the feeling that this wasn't simply a chance encounter. I believe it was an ordained encounter.

Maybe God knew this sweet lady needed someone to sit down and listen to her that morning. Maybe He knew I needed to be reminded that beneath every uniform, behind every counter and inside every stranger is a story that I may know nothing about. Perhaps that's why Scripture tells us to be careful how we treat strangers. Hebrews 13:2 reminds us, “Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.”

We don't always know why God places someone in our path, and we don't always know what they need. Sometimes they need a meal. Sometimes they need encouragement. Sometimes they need prayer. Sometimes they simply need someone to look them in the eyes and listen to what they have to say. Sometimes God puts them in our path because He wants to remind us that every person matters.

Jennifer may never know how much our conversation touched me. She may have thought she was simply talking to a hotel guest while doing her morning work, but I believe God had something else in mind. He gave me the opportunity to see beyond her circumstances and recognize her worth.

And perhaps there is another lesson in that little toe ring she's working toward. We all have milestones along our journey. Some are visible to others, while some are known only to God. There are moments when we need something that reminds us, Look how far you've come. We may not be where we want to be yet, but we aren't where we once were either.

God isn't finished with us simply because our journey has been difficult. He doesn't discard us because we've made mistakes. He doesn't measure our worth by the lowest point of our lives. His grace meets us right where we are and gives us the strength to take the next step.

Maybe that's one of the ways God wants us to live each day, not rushing past people, but slowing down long enough to notice them. The cashier, the waitress, the person sitting alone, the employee who seems unusually eager to talk, the neighbor who rarely has visitors or the stranger who smiles at us in passing may all be carrying stories we know nothing about.

We may never know what someone is carrying behind the smile on their face, but a few minutes of kindness, a listening ear and a genuine conversation can sometimes become much more than we realize.

Today, I am thankful for Jennifer and for the opportunity to share a few moments of life with her. I'm thankful I noticed her, thankful she opened her heart and thankful that what appeared to be an ordinary morning at a hotel restaurant may have been anything but ordinary in God's eyes.

Perhaps God arranged our meeting because she needed to be reminded that she was seen, valued and worthy of kindness. Perhaps He arranged it because I needed to be reminded that everyone has a story, and that we should never judge someone's worth by where they are in life.

And perhaps, when Jennifer finally gets that celebratory toe ring, she'll look down at her foot and remember every difficult step that brought her there.

Maybe it wasn't a chance encounter after all.

Maybe it was a divine appointment.

Heavenly Father, thank You for the people You place in our paths each day, even when we don't immediately recognize why they are there. Help us to slow down enough to notice the lonely, the hurting, the discouraged and the people who simply need someone to listen. Give us eyes to see beyond circumstances and appearances and help us see each person the way You see them. 

Thank You for Jennifer and for the opportunity to share a few moments of life with her. Continue to strengthen her as she walks this journey of recovery, giving her courage for each new day and reminding her of the progress she has already made. When she finally reaches the milestone she is working toward, let that little toe ring be a reminder of perseverance, hope and how far she has come. 

Most of all, remind her that her past does not define her, her circumstances do not determine her worth, and she is deeply loved by You. And when You place someone in our path, help us recognize those divine appointments and have the courage to stop, listen and love. 

In Jesus' name, 

Amen.

Everyday Devotionals by Bonnie Annis 

Three Raggedy Friends and a Lifetime of Memories

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

Some friendships really do last a lifetime.

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. 

A special Christmas memory

Christmas memories are often either some of the very best or the very worst memories a person can have. I'm thankful I can say that most of my Christmas memories have been extremely pleasant and most of them have revolved around selfless love given to me by others. I'd like to share one of my childhood memories with you today in hopes that it might encourage or bless you during this emotionally charged time of year. 

I don't remember exactly how old I was the year I received my most prized possession but I must have been between the ages of 8 and 10. That Christmas, like most others in my childhood, centered around just being together instead of focusing on what was underneath the tree. 

I distinctly remember turning in a Christmas list to my mother earlier in the month. I'd talked with my next door neighbor (who was a little older than I) to find out what the most popular gifts were at the time. I'd asked her what she was going to ask "Santa" for and she showed me pictures from the Sears catalog of all the beautiful Barbie dolls and accessories she'd added to her list. I took home that empowering information and rewrote my list knowing all the while that my parents could never afford such luxuries. Although I would have loved to have found a Barbie dream house, Barbie, Midge, Ken, and Skipper under my tree, I knew I'd be lucky to receive one doll, if any. 

On Christmas morning, as my brother, sister, and I, sat patiently on our living room floor waiting for the signal to begin, I glanced at the packages beneath our tree. There were less than a dozen which meant there were probably only two or three a piece for each of us. This was nothing new. Each year, we were very thankful for whatever we received, but as a child, it was only natural to hope that year after year, things would get bigger and better. 

When Daddy came downstairs, Mama gave permission for us to begin opening our gifts. As we scrambled to find the gifts with our names on them, our parents sat back and watched with anticipation. Great thought and time had gone into the choosing and even though money was scarce, there was no shortage of love in our household. 

My brother, sister, and I were busy opening our gifts simultaneously. I have no idea what they received that year but I do remember my special gift. The box was bigger than a shoebox and I had no idea what might be inside. It was too small to be a Barbie Dream House and too big to be a Barbie doll. I hadn't asked for anything that was even remotely that size, but as I continued unwrapping the box, the mystery was revealed. 

Through a clear cellophane window on the front of the box, I saw a beautiful Italian doll. Her velveteen bonnet and dress were a deep burgundy in color. Her hair, perfectly coifed, was coiled into individual blonde ringlets framing her angelic face. 

I stared in awe as I beheld this wondrous gift. I felt so loved! Where on earth did my mother find it? I'd never seen anything so gorgeous in any of the stores we'd visited before Christmas. 

Carefully, I removed the wire ties that held the doll securely in the box. After she was free, I held her close and examined every inch of her loveliness. Glancing up from the doll, I looked into my mother's face. Tears of joy stained her cheeks. 

I didn't realize it at the time, but the purchase of that doll was a huge sacrifice. Surely she had cost more than any other gift under the tree and had been picked out just for me. 

For years, I cherished that doll only holding her once or twice a day for fear of soiling her loveliness. She was the most special material possession I owned. 

I don't know whatever happened to that doll. More than likely, as I grew older, she was given to a needy child in the neighborhood or donated to a charity but the memories of her will be with me forever. 

Last night, as I was perusing Ebay, I saw a photo of a doll very similar to the one I loved so dearly. It sparked all these memories and made me realize how very loved and cherished I was to my parents back then. It also made me realize how very much we take for granted in our lives. 

If I could have a "do-over," I'd make sure to let my parents know how very much I appreciate them not buying me a Barbie Dream House that year. Their gift was so much better because it was chosen with love. 

We don't always realize our blessings until they're gone. And while a Christmas doll seems so trivial, it's symbolic of a greater gift. Just as our parents want to give us their very best blessings and take joy in giving us our hearts' desires, so our Heavenly Father wants to shower us with His abundant blessings. 

This Christmas, don't focus on the "things" that make the day merry and bright. Instead, focus on the hearts and love around you. Most of all, remember the most beautiful, priceless gift of all...the sweet gift of God's one and only Son, Jesus, handpicked especially for you.

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.