The New Year and My Uncompleted Bucket List

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

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

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

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

Losing a Friend is Never Easy

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Weight We Often Need

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

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

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

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

That’s how burdens show up.

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

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

But Scripture keeps saying things that ruin that theory.

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

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

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

What if they’re bridges.

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

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

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

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

And maybe that’s the part we miss.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were being carried across.

The Most Precious Book

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silent Night Before Christmas

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

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

And yet.

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

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

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

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

Amen.

Everyday Devotionals ©️ Bonnie Annis

Chew on This!

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

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

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

A Blue Christmas in the Mountains

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Feeling Nostalgic Today

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

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

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

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

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

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

Movies, Music, and Memories

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

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

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

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

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

Then there’s the music.

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

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

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

Maybe that’s why they bring so much joy.

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

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

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

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

I Don't Want to Miss Christmas

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

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

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

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

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

Christmas memory

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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