Silver Branches, Simple Joys

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

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

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

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

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

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

PDQ

 

Mornings in our house were anything but calm. My brother, sister, and I would dash around like chickens with our heads cut off—grabbing books, coats, and lunchboxes while Mama stood in the middle of the chaos, calling out, “Y’all better hurry up or you’re gonna be late!” Somehow, we always made it out the door, though usually with a shoe untied or a piece of toast clutched in one hand.

 

Looking back, I miss those crazy mornings. But more than that, I miss the silly little things that made them special—like the day Mama came home from the grocery store with a new product she said we’d love.

 

It came in a small glass jar filled with dark brown pellets. The label read PDQ. I was helping Mama unpack groceries when I spotted it, and I couldn’t resist picking it up for a closer look. The words on the label promised that these tiny pellets could turn an ordinary glass of milk into chocolate milk—something that, in our house, was considered pure luxury.

 

“Mama, can I try it?” I asked eagerly.

 

She smiled and said, “You can—but just one spoonful, you hear?”

 

I followed her directions carefully, pouring the little chocolate balls into my glass and stirring like I was conducting a science experiment. And sure enough, as I stirred, the milk turned from plain white to a rich chocolate brown. One sip and I was hooked. That PDQ was magic!

 

I don’t remember if the label explained what the letters stood for, so I asked Mama. Without missing a beat, she said, “Pretty Darn Quick!”

 

And she was right. From that day forward, our mornings were fueled by cereal—usually Captain Crunch or whatever happened to be on sale—and tall glasses of PDQ chocolate milk. Looking back now, I shudder to think of the sugar we were cramming into our growing bodies, but back then, it was pure bliss.

 

One afternoon after school, my siblings and I decided we were hungry enough for a snack before dinner. Peanut butter sandwiches were our go-to, but that day, one of us got a bright idea. “What if we sprinkled a little PDQ on top of the peanut butter?”

 

We worked fast—PDQ, you might say—so Mama wouldn’t catch us experimenting in her clean kitchen. We slapped the bread together, took a big bite, and laughed as tiny chocolate balls spilled out onto the counter. But oh, the taste! That combination of creamy peanut butter and chocolate was heavenly.

We didn’t know it then, but I like to think we were on the verge of greatness—standing at the kitchen counter, sticky-faced inventors, just a step away from creating the world’s first Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup. We just didn’t quite have our formula right.

 

These days, I wouldn’t dare start my morning with that much sugar, but sometimes, when I pass the chocolate milk mix at the store, I can almost hear Mama calling out from the kitchen—

“Y’all better hurry up or you’re gonna be late!”

 

And for a moment, I’m right back there again—running late, laughing with my siblings, and drinking my Pretty Darn Quick milk before it was time to jump in the car and go.

 

Life moves pretty darn quick, too, doesn’t it? One moment we’re kids racing to beat the school bell, and the next we’re grown-ups longing for one more taste of those simple, carefree mornings. I’m grateful for the memories that still bubble up like laughter from the past—reminders that even in the rush, love was always at the heart of our home.

 

Heavenly Father, thank You for the sweet, ordinary moments that make up a life—mornings filled with laughter, family, and even a little spilled chocolate milk. Help me to slow down long enough to savor the blessings You’ve placed in each new day. Amen.

More Than Beasts of Burdens

I’ve always had a soft spot for donkeys. I can’t remember exactly when it started, but I do remember the first one I ever saw. It was standing in the middle of a field surrounded by five or six horses. While the others grazed together, that poor donkey stood off to the side, looking like it had wandered into the wrong party. I remember thinking, “Well, bless his heart—he must be so lonely.”

As a little girl, I figured the farmer had accidentally bought a donkey when he really meant to buy another horse. Later in life, I learned that the donkey wasn’t there by mistake at all. Turns out, farmers know a thing or two.

Donkeys are protectors. They’re not nearly as fearful as horses, and when a coyote or some other predator comes prowling around, that little gray guardian will bray, bite, and kick until the threat hightails it out of there.

You’ve got to love that kind of grit in such an unassuming package. A donkey doesn’t have the sleek beauty of a horse or the elegance of a deer—but it’s got backbone, and I think that’s part of what makes it special.

Another thing I’ve always found fascinating is that donkeys carry a dark cross across their backs and shoulders. Some say it’s just the way the hair grows, but I’ve always liked the story that after Jesus rode into Jerusalem on a donkey, every donkey born after that carried the mark of that sacred moment. Whether that’s true or not, it’s still a beautiful reminder of humility and service—the very things the donkey represents.

The Bible mentions donkeys quite a bit, and every time I read about one, I can’t help but smile. Abraham loaded a donkey with the supplies for his journey of faith. Balaam’s donkey saw an angel when its master couldn’t, and after being beaten three times, that poor animal finally spoke up—literally! I’ve known a few people who could learn a thing or two from that donkey about seeing what others can’t and knowing when to speak.

And then, of course, there’s Jesus’ triumphant entry into Jerusalem. He didn’t choose a chariot or a proud stallion. He chose a donkey—a symbol of peace. Kings rode horses into battle, but they rode donkeys when they came in peace. That says everything about the kind of King He is.

I suppose that’s why I’ve always admired donkeys. They may look plain, but they carry purpose. They don’t need fanfare or fancy saddles. They just quietly do their job—steady, dependable, and humble.

And maybe that’s what I want to be when people look at me someday—a little less like a show horse and a little more like a donkey. Faithful. Peaceful. Marked by the cross.

Heavenly Father, thank You for the lessons You tuck into the simplest of creatures. Help me to live like the donkey—faithful in service, steadfast in spirit, and willing to carry Your peace wherever You lead me. May others see the mark of the cross upon my life, not in words alone but in quiet acts of love and humility. Amen.

Random musings ©️ Bonnie Annis

Prepare Him Room

“Let every heart prepare Him room.” – from the carol “Joy to the World”

“But the angel said to them, ‘Do not be afraid. I bring you good news that will cause great joy for all the people.’” – Luke 2:10 (NIV)

“Be still, and know that I am God.” – Psalm 46:10 (NIV)

Every year, it seems Christmas sneaks up on me. I tell myself I’ll be ready this time—I’ll plan ahead, shop early, and slow down long enough to truly enjoy the season. But then life happens. One day I’m putting away the fall decorations, and the next, I’m bombarded by Christmas commercials, glittering store aisles, and friends posting pictures of their perfectly decorated trees.

I glance at the calendar and realize December is almost here, yet my heart isn’t ready. My home might soon be trimmed in lights and garland, but inside, I feel unprepared.

That familiar line from Joy to the World echoes softly in my mind: “Let every heart prepare Him room.” What does that really mean?

It means clearing away the clutter—both physical and spiritual—that keeps me distracted from the true reason for this season. It’s not about having the perfect gifts or the prettiest tree. It’s about making room in my heart for the One who came humbly to save us.

As I think about preparing my home for Christmas—cleaning, decorating, cooking—I’m reminded that I need to prepare my heart as well. I want to set aside quiet moments to humble myself before the Lord, to dig into His Word, and to let His Spirit renew the joy of my salvation.

When I stop striving and simply be still (Psalm 46:10), I find peace. The noise of the world fades, and I hear His gentle whisper reminding me that Christmas is about Christ—about love that came down to dwell among us.

This year, I don’t want Christmas to sneak up on me. I want to experience it differently—to invite Jesus into every corner of my heart and home.

So as these final weeks before Christmas unfold, I’m asking God to show me how to prepare Him room—to open my eyes to His presence, my hands to His service, and my heart to His peace.

Heavenly Father,

As the Christmas season approaches, help me to slow down and truly make room for You. Clear away the distractions that keep me from focusing on Your Son. Fill my heart with anticipation, not for presents or plans, but for Your presence. Teach me to prepare You room—in my thoughts, in my actions, and in my home. May this Christmas be less about doing and more about being still before You. In Jesus’ name, Amen.

More Than a Day of Thanks

 

Thanksgiving is more than a day of food and family—it’s a day of prayer. For the believer, gratitude is a sacred act of worship.

Even though Thanksgiving is still a little more than two weeks away, I’ve already started prepping for the meal. There’s something peaceful about working ahead—chopping, baking, and planning—so that when the big day comes, I can rest, relax, and truly enjoy my family while they’re here. I don’t want to spend the whole day stuck in the kitchen and miss the real joy of the gathering.

As I prepare, God often brings someone to mind. Even when my hands are covered in butter or dough, I pause long enough to breathe a simple prayer. Those quiet, spontaneous moments of intercession have become one of my favorite parts of the season.

This year, my heart is especially tender. Several friends are facing cancer, and I find myself torn between gratitude for all God has done and compassion for those walking through pain. How do we celebrate when others are struggling?

Maybe the answer is this: we let our thanksgiving make space for prayer. We thank God for His goodness, even as we lift up those who can’t see it right now. Because gratitude and compassion are not opposites—they are threads of the same tapestry of faith.

This Thanksgiving, may our hearts be both thankful and tender, offering praise to God while holding others close in prayer. 🧡

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Heavenly Father,

Thank You for the blessings that fill our lives, both big and small. As we gather around our tables, help us remember those who can’t celebrate as easily this year. Wrap Your arms around the ones who are hurting, sick, or weary.
Teach us to be people of gratitude and compassion—to give thanks not just for what we have, but for Who You are. May our hearts overflow with kindness, our homes with peace, and our prayers with love.
In Jesus’ name, Amen. 

Learning to Bend Without Breaking

 

I’ve never been one to love change. In fact, I’d rank it right up there with root canals and long lines at the DMV. Somewhere along the way, I decided that routine equals peace. My coffee mug goes in the same cabinet, my socks have their own drawer, and my favorite chair has a perfectly molded dent that fits me like an old friend. Why mess with perfection?

 

But life doesn’t consult our comfort zones before it starts rearranging things. One day you’re cruising along, windows down, music playing, and the next day—boom!—the map changes. Jobs end, kids move away, health shifts, friends drift. The seasons of life seem to come faster now, and I can’t find the pause button.

 

I used to think if everything stayed the same, I’d finally feel secure. But honestly, if nothing ever changed, we’d probably get bored out of our minds. Can you imagine living the same day on repeat forever? Even Groundhog Day had to end eventually.

 

Still, it’s strange how easy it is to find security in stability. Maybe it’s because when things are predictable, we feel like we’re in control. But the truth is, that’s just an illusion. Change reminds us—sometimes painfully—that we’re not running the show. And maybe that’s the point.

 

Growth doesn’t come from sitting still. It comes from those uncomfortable, stretching seasons that make us want to hide under the covers and wait it out. Every time life has shifted under my feet, I’ve learned something new about myself—and about God. He doesn’t just allow change; He uses it to shape us.

 

When I look back, the times I’ve grown the most were never the easy ones. They were the times I had to let go of what was and trust that something better was coming, even if it didn’t feel that way. It’s funny how we cling so tightly to what’s familiar, even when God’s trying to hand us something new.

 

So these days, I’m learning to bend a little. To roll with the punches. To laugh at the unexpected and find peace in the unknown. It’s not always easy—some days I’m more creaky oak than flexible willow—but I’m trying.

 

Because underneath all the shifting sands of life, one thing never changes: God’s faithfulness. When everything around me feels uncertain, He remains steady. That’s where true stability lives—not in my routines, not in the things I can control, but in the unchanging hands that hold it all together.

 

And maybe that’s what growing older (and hopefully wiser) is really about: learning to trust the One who never changes, even when everything else does.

 

Dear Lord, thank You for walking with me through every season of change. When life feels uncertain and the ground beneath me shifts, remind me that You are my anchor and my peace. Help me to loosen my grip on what was and open my heart to what You are doing now. Teach me to find joy in new beginnings, courage in unfamiliar places, and faith that You are working all things for my good. Even as the world changes around me, let my trust that You remain unshakable. Amen.

 

"Of old You laid the foundation of the earth,

and the heavens are the work of Your hands.

They will perish, but You will remain; they will all wear out like a garment.You will change them like a robe, and they will pass away, but You are the same, and Your years have no end." Psalm 102:25–27

A Thanksgiving Tradition, Southern Style

Back when I was growing up, Thanksgiving at our house was no small production—it was an event. Mama ran the show from start to finish, and heaven help the soul who dared to step foot in her kitchen once she got started.

A few days before the big day, she’d head down to our local grocery store—back then it was called Foodtown, though it’s Thriftown now for reasons I’ll never understand. She’d come home with a 12- to 15-pound turkey that looked big enough to feed the entire congregation, a huge bunch of collard greens, a bag of cornmeal, a dozen eggs, milk, butter, and a couple cans of pumpkin for her famous pie.

Mama always said Thanksgiving dinner didn’t just happen—it took elbow grease, timing, and a good dose of don’t you dare get in my way. She didn’t want help, and we all knew better than to offer. I used to love watching her wrestle that big old bird into the roasting pan, smearing butter under its skin like she was tucking it in for a long winter’s nap. She’d pop it into the oven in the wee morning hours while the rest of us were still dreaming about the feast to come.

A day or two before, she’d tackle the collard greens. Lord, I hated that smell—it would hang in the air for hours, seeping into every curtain and cushion in the house. But everyone else loved them, so I learned to just breathe through my mouth and wait it out.

Then came the cornbread. Mama would mix cornmeal, eggs, and buttermilk in her big glass bowl, her small hands moving fast, turning that mixture into gold. By the time she was done, her hands would be red as tomatoes from washing them in water so hot it could peel paint. I used to wonder if that was her secret ingredient—fiery determination and water that could boil eggs.

When the kitchen smelled like heaven and everything was ready, Mama would call one of us kids in to set the table. We never quite knew how many people were coming because Mama had a habit of inviting half the neighborhood and any stray cousin who might be within a 50-mile radius. “The more, the merrier,” she’d say, and somehow there was always enough to go around.

When it came time to bless the food, Mama took charge. Daddy wasn’t much for praying out loud, but he sure did love to wrestle us kids for the pully bone afterward. He called it “settlin’ things the old-fashioned way.” Somehow, he always won.

It was hot in that kitchen from the oven working overtime, but nobody minded. The windows would fog up, laughter would fill the air, and plates would overflow with turkey, dressing, greens, and love.

Looking back now, I realize Mama wasn’t just cooking a meal—she was serving up tradition, faith, and family. She made sure we knew that Thanksgiving wasn’t just about the food on the table but about the hearts around it.

And if I close my eyes, I can still hear her saying, “Now y’all hush and bow your heads—we’re gonna thank the Lord proper.”

Dear Lord, thank You for the hands that cook, the hearts that gather, and the memories that keep us warm long after the dishes are done. Thank You for family—by blood and by choice—and for every blessing that fills our plates and our souls. Help us to carry gratitude not just on Thanksgiving, but every day we’re given breath. And Lord, if You don’t mind, could You make sure Mama’s kitchen up there has plenty of butter and just the right size turkey? Amen.

Random Musings © Bonnie Annis 2025

Sunday Drives

 

When I was a child, Sunday afternoons were made for rest—and sometimes for restlessness. After church and a good dinner, when we kids started getting antsy, Daddy would grin and say, “Pile in the car!” Those four words meant we were headed out on a short adventure. We never knew where we were going, and truth be told, I’m not sure Daddy did either.

 

All three of us—my brother, sister, and me—would bounce around in the backseat of our old blue Ford station wagon, back before seat belts were much of a thing. Mama and Daddy would talk softly up front while we whispered, giggled, and picked at each other until Mama’s warning came sharp and clear: “You kids better settle down or you’re gonna get a whipping.”

 

Daddy always had a cigarette hanging from his lips, and before long, the smoke would swirl thick through the car. One of us would holler, “Daddy, it stinks!” and he’d just smile, telling us to roll down the window. The cool breeze would rush in, washing away the smell, and we’d stick our faces close to the glass, watching fields of cows roll by or the occasional tractor lumbering down a dirt road.

 

After an hour or so, one of us would inevitably whine, “Daddy, I gotta go!” He’d nod and say, “We’ll stop at the next gas station,” but somehow we never did. Unless it was a real emergency, we had to hold it until we made it home. On the rare occasion he actually stopped, Mama would go inside to ask for the bathroom key, which was always attached to some odd contraption—a hubcap, a cinder block, or a chunk of wood—to keep it from being stolen.

 

Those Sunday drives didn’t take us anywhere fancy, but they were full of laughter, love, and the kind of togetherness you don’t find much anymore. We didn’t need a destination; the joy was in the going.

Today, after church and lunch, I got a little bored and looked over at my husband. “Wanna take a Sunday drive?” I asked. He smiled just like Daddy used to and said, “Let’s go.”

 

We drove with no plan in mind, just letting the road lead us where it wanted. We saw a shimmering rainbow arching across the sky, a quiet river lined with trees still holding on to their last bits of fall color, and—of course—a field full of cows grazing lazily in the afternoon light.

 

As the car rolled along, my heart swelled with joy. For a moment, it felt like I was that little girl again—hair flying in the breeze, laughter bubbling up from the backseat, and the world wide open before me.

Life moves so fast now that we rarely take time to just “go.” We think every trip must have a purpose, every moment must be productive. But sometimes, the sweetest blessings come when we simply take the road less planned and let God steer. Those quiet rides remind me that joy isn’t found in the destination—it’s found in the journey and in the company we keep.

 

Dear Lord, thank You for the simple joys—family, laughter, and the beauty that surrounds us. Help us slow down and notice the everyday miracles You place along our path. Teach us to trust the journey, even when we don’t know where it’s headed, and to treasure every mile we travel with the ones we love. Amen.

My Sweet Aunt

 

A childhood pic of Aunt Bonnie (on the left)

My sweet Aunt Bonnie has always been one of those rare souls whose faith didn’t need words to be seen. It lived in her kindness, in her gentleness, and in the calm assurance that God was near.

 

I remember visiting her years ago and noticing a Bible and a devotional book sitting on the back of her toilet. At first, I’ll admit, it struck me as odd—maybe even a little irreverent. But then I realized it was really quite beautiful. That little space had become her private sanctuary, a quiet corner where she could talk with God without interruption. In her own simple way, she had created a prayer closet where peace could always be found.

 

Aunt Bonnie has always shared her faith quietly, never pushing, only living it with grace. These days, she lives in an assisted care facility. Alzheimer’s has gently stolen away so much of who she once was—but not the essence of her spirit.

 

When someone reads a familiar scripture or hums one of her favorite hymns, something sacred happens. Her eyes brighten, her lips form the words, and for a brief, holy moment, she remembers.

Time has taken much, but it cannot take the faith that has anchored her soul or the love that surrounds her still. Aunt Bonnie’s light continues to shine—softly, steadily—reminding me that true faith never fades. It simply finds new ways to be seen.

 

Dear Lord,

Thank You for the quiet saints among us—those like my Aunt Bonnie, whose faith shines gently through the years. Even when memories fade and strength grows weak, Your presence remains. Let her heart continue to feel Your peace, and may her life forever remind us that no illness, no loss, and no passage of time can dim the light of a soul that belongs to You.

Amen.

 

“Even to your old age and gray hairs I am He,

I am He who will sustain you.

I have made you and I will carry you;

I will sustain you and I will rescue you.”

— Isaiah 46:4

Bottles, Nickels, and Bare Feet

 

Growing up in the 1960s, money was tight and every penny counted. In our house, we lived by the motto: “Use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without.” But that didn’t mean we kids didn’t dream of a little pocket money of our own.

There weren’t many ways to earn it—maybe rake leaves, take out the trash, wash a neighbor’s car, or walk a dog or two. But my brother, sister, and I found our own money-making scheme: scavenging for tossed-out Coca-Cola bottles.

We’d spend whole summer days wandering up and down the streets in town, pulling our little red wagon behind us. I can still feel my bare feet burning on the hot pavement as we searched for those beautiful green-tinted bottles glinting in the sun. Each one was worth a whole nickel if we turned it in at the store—a nickel that could buy a treasure trove of penny candy.

What we didn’t realize then was that we were also doing our town a favor, picking up litter and keeping our streets clean. Before long, a few neighbors joined our mission, and the search turned into something of a neighborhood event. We’d laugh and carry on as we peered into ditches, crawled through underbrush (collecting a few scratches along the way), and darted out of the road when a car came by.

All that effort rarely amounted to much in terms of money, but we were proud of every nickel we earned. And of course, we spent it as fast as we got it—sometimes on penny candy, sometimes on another cold bottle of Coca-Cola. Either way, it was worth every drop of sweat and every blistered toe.

Looking back now, I see it wasn’t really about the nickels at all. It was about the simple joy of working together, laughing in the sun, and learning that even small efforts can make a difference. Those were rich days indeed, no matter how little we had.

Nowadays, when I think about those summers and that little red wagon, I’m reminded of how God blesses us in the simplest ways. We didn’t have much, but we had each other—and we had the joy that comes from gratitude, hard work, and togetherness. I believe the Lord smiled on those barefoot children, teaching us early that true wealth isn’t measured in coins, but in contentment.

Dear Lord, thank You for the simple joys that fill our lives—sunshine, laughter, family, and the satisfaction of honest work. Help us to remember that true riches come not from what we have, but from hearts that are thankful for every blessing, big or small. Amen.

 

Come Set a Spell: A Lesson in Patience and Faith

When I was a child, visiting my grandparents was one of the greatest joys of my week. They lived about fifty-five miles from our home, and every Friday evening, after my daddy got off work, we’d pack up the car and head their way. My father always helped my grandfather in his shop on the weekends, meeting the quota he had for a local mill.

As soon as we turned into that familiar driveway, all of us kids would start bouncing around in the backseat with excitement. We knew we were about to have the best kind of weekend — the kind filled with sunshine, laughter, and plenty of playtime while the grown-ups worked.

When we reached the front porch, the screen door would creak open, and without fail, my grandmother’s sweet voice would call out, “Y’all come on in and set a spell!”

Now, proper English would’ve said sit a spell, but in our Southern home, “set a spell” just felt right. Back then, I didn’t care about grammar. The only thing that mattered was that she wanted to spend time with us — to stop what she was doing, welcome us in, and make us feel loved.

Those weekends were simple, but they were rich. The air always smelled faintly of machine oil and biscuits baking. The hum of my grandfather’s tools mixed with the sound of my grandmother’s shuffling around in the kitchen. And no matter how busy everyone seemed, there was always time to “set a spell.”

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about those visits. This week especially, it feels like God has been whispering to my heart in much the same way: “Come and set a spell with Me.”

Life gets so busy — the days blur together, filled with things to do and places to be. I usually start my mornings with coffee and my Bible, but some days I rush right past that quiet time, thinking I’ll get to it later. But God waits patiently, just like my grandmother did — eager for me to pause, open the door, and spend a little time with Him.

Psalm 46:10 says, “Be still, and know that I am God.” That verse has taken on a new meaning for me lately. God doesn’t just want our quick prayers in between appointments or our distracted thoughts before bed. He wants us to be still long enough to feel His presence — to truly know Him.

When I picture my grandmother’s porch and her warm invitation, I can almost see my Heavenly Father sitting there too, gently calling, “Come and set a spell.” And just like those visits long ago, when I take the time to sit with Him, I always find peace, comfort, and a love that never runs out.

Dear Lord, thank You for the gentle reminders to slow down and spend time with You. In a world that moves too fast, help me to be still long enough to feel Your presence and hear Your voice. Teach me to rest in Your peace, just as I once rested on my grandmother’s porch. Thank You for always waiting with open arms, ready to spend time with me. Amen.

Random musings ©️ Bonnie Annis