Time at home for which I had longed is now possible. There are suddenly no excuses for unwashed dishes or unswept floors. I’m back on my home turf with all the time in the world to get organized and build my new routine without a twenty mile drive to care for and entertain my grandchildren.

Now they can come to Mamaw’s house for Sunday dinner. I can come to their soccer games and school programs as a grandparent instead of as a caregiver.

Even when you love someone dearly, five years of minimizing one’s own life to potentially enhance theirs is a long time. I left my career five years earlier than I had planned, and I gave up the paycheck that came with it. I took a part-time retail job at night to supplement my income. Leaving the house at 7 a.m., I often didn’t pull into the driveway again until 10 p.m. It was exhausting, and it was joyful; and it was so worth it. I’ve shared in their triumphs and their tears; held them when they were sick; played tag and Legos and dinosaurs with them. It has kept me young and given me so much joy.

Now it is time to start a new routine. I’m planning to continue working part-time for as long as I continue to enjoy it. I have two trips planned for the next year, to Alaska and California. My flowers and garden will get more attention, and I suppose I will dust the furniture if I just can’t find anything else to do.

But for today, the alarm clock is off and I am ready for a little nap.

You would think that I would tout physical work for, well, the obvious: physical health. I do use a few muscles along the way that I didn’t even know I had. The heart rate does increase a bit, and there is a lot of sweating involved, which I am informed is good for a person, although it seems unlikely. Yet the greater value for me is in the way bending, pushing, and pulling affect my mind and attitude, trending me toward positive thinking.

Gardening is one of my passions. Actually, it’s a means to an end. I love a yard full of flowers, and I love fresh vegetables, so the labor of gardening is necessary. Yet, I do not think I would be happy if my yard were suddenly transformed overnight into the perfect garden without my labor involved. I am reminded that what is achieved too easily is valued far less. Donning the work jacket, gloves, and shoes for the day signals the intention that something is about to change, and I am its agent.

The work actually begins with making a plan and prioritizing tasks. As the seed catalogs roll in to the mailbox, the anticipation of getting started provides a little head rush. I can’t wait to get outside as soon as the ground begins to thaw around the first of March. My dad was a farmer, so I have a little built-in knowledge and intuition about the “field,” but most of my information base has been built on a little reading and a lot of trial and error. During the early spring, I mentally walk through the tasks and put them in order.

The first priority in my yard is picking up the sticks that have fallen throughout the winter. It usually takes several passes, as spring storms continue to blow down more debris. It requires a lot of bending and walking, and my hamstrings can usually feel the burn after an hour or so. Better yet, it gives me a chance to walk the entire yard, surveying the ground for any stick fatter than my thumb that will need to be removed before mowing season. As I look down into the grass, I notice all the different kinds of plants that are there, from dandelions to violets, bluegrass and the recently-discovered pink yarrow. I take time to use Google Lens on any plant that I don’t know; not because I am eager to eradicate it, but because I am curious. I read once that a weed is just a plant that is out of place. But my yard is large, and there is room for the many different plants that have landed there by bird, by wind, or by human.

The second big task is tilling the garden. I use a large rototiller that crunches through the top crust and buries the debris below, making a rich soil. This is the hardest job for me, and I have to give myself a little pep talk before tackling it because it is awkward and physically challenging. After I have followed the tiller through the patch a couple of times, I am rewarded by the fine, black dirt that is ready for planting. This year I planted 100 strawberry plants. With benevolence from the gods of frost and freeze, their fruit will be plentiful next year. Patience and anticipation are skills that have gone out of style in our society of immediate gratification. I daresay that those berries will be sweeter, though, because they did not produce on demand but waited until the plants were sufficiently mature to sustain the fruit.

I am lucky that my body still bends sufficiently for the other spring tasks on my list. I have spent the past two weeks weeding and planting. How can the weeds be so far ahead of me already? I am plagued with Canadian thistles, which have spiky leaves and long roots. Bend and gently lift each individual plant, over and over. It is a never ending job, particularly after the weather gets hot. Spring is the time to get rid of as many as possible, and I spend a lot of evenings clearing out different areas of the flower beds. It is true that most of our problems are better approached sooner than later. As I pull and later how the bare spots, I tell myself that the beauty will be overtaken if I don’t get rid of these weeds now. If I refuse to put my shoulder to the wheel, or hand to the hoe, I will not be rewarded by the beautiful flowers that I love. There is a great give and take in nature, and I have found that if you don’t protect the beautiful, desirable plants, the ugly weeds will overtake them.

From a scientific perspective, moving and challenging your body releases hormones that balance your mental state, subsequently making you feel better. I know that to be true. Even though I might wake up stiff or stuffy, an hour after I start moving around, I feel better. When I was younger, I found that physical work helped me get through the discomfort of menstrual cramps. Muscles and hormones are doing their jobs, and I also think that just focusing on something besides the pain is the real value.

Gardening fulfills my personal need to nurture. I have been a caregiver throughout my life, and caring for these plants satisfies my need to watch out for another living thing. The physical and mental rewards keep me going back outside for 15-minute stints several times a day. This type of work works for me.

I did my research before signing off on my career and salary. I had long discussions with my financial advisor. In the end, my heart won out, as I knew it would.

I was told that I would have to work part time to make ends meet even though I was receiving almost all of my pension. I was ok with that. For the first year, I took care of a newborn, one-year-old, and three-year-old during the day, and then worked retail on evenings and weekends.

It became easier as the kids grew older and could go to preschool for a few hours. I am now down to the last child in my care. For me it was the right decision. Unfortunately, it’s only a dream for most people. Almost every household that I know has to bring in two decent salaries, and the kids are left with the most affordable care provider.

Grandparents are working until nearly 70 before they draw their first social security check. Stay at home parents are fewer each year. The only reason we could sustain our arrangement is that I had some savings and was willing to tighten my belt for a few years.

My daughter and her husband are beyond grateful to have me come to their home daily. I am not a housekeeper or cook, but I love my grandchildren dearly and choose to give them the best of me while I am still healthy and able.

We are all blessed.

This was truly a week to celebrate my rural heritage. I rejoiced to see cuttings from my grandmother’s peonies growing up along my lane. They are positioned so that both my niece and I can see them from our homes. The contractor just broke ground today on her new home, which will be slightly south and west of mine. We will both live on property that my dad purchased back in the seventies.

Beyond the large scale farming, my own garden and flower beds are teeming with new life, including the weeds that always thrive, but also new strawberry plants that will yield a crop next year. God has been faithful to me and my family.

In the Christian faith, Easter represents the day that Jesus’s mother and friends discovered that he had risen from the dead and escaped the tomb. It is a time of joy for his followers for He has shown that all things are possible even in a time of grief and darkness. It follows a tumultuous week beginning with Jesus being celebrated on a palm-lined street on his way into Jerusalem; an emotional last supper with the disciples in which He foreshadows Judas’s impending betrayal and his own death; and ends with his conviction and crucifixion,.

In my small, country church, we re-enact these events in our church services. Palm Sunday begins with the excitement of our little children parading through the sanctuary with palm leaves just as the those who lined Jesus’s path had done. “Maundy Thursday” is an evening service in which we are served the bread and cup, representing Jesus’s body and blood being shed at the Last Supper. We are asked to confront our sins and ask forgiveness. Our “Good Friday” service is in a darkened sanctuary, somberly describing Jesus’s death on the cross.

Three church services in one week is taxing for those of us who put in only our perfunctory hour on Sunday mornings. To leave our normal busy workday, throw on clean jeans and a dress shirt, and devote an evening at church is challenging. Not only is it out of our typical church schedule, it comes during a week when we are getting ready for Easter on Sunday. Everyone must have dress clothes and shoes; there is candy to be bought, baskets to be filled, and eggs to be hunted. It is also often close to Spring Break at school, and this year it falls during the college basketball tournament.

In the past, I have only sporadically attended the evening services. This year, however, my schedule allowed me to attend both Maundy Thursday and Good Friday services. Each was unique and brought focus into my understanding of the scripture, events, and feelings of Jesus and the disciples. By Sunday morning, I was more than ready to celebrate Easter after imagining the pain and disappointment of the Savior at the time of his death. I attended Sunrise Service to start the day with the fresh feeling that Jesus is indeed alive and among us. And it was about time.

It was time for me to be present and participate in learning about the agony and relief of Easter week. Even as a so-called retiree, I can come up with dozens of excuses to avoid attending gatherings. I just don’t have enough time in the day or days in the week after babysitting the grands, working my part-time retail job, and keeping up with my home. Time is a problem for everyone, though. I noticed that the same people attended each service. Many had driven over 10 miles to be there each evening. That’s effort and expense for them. I live only 2 miles away.

Even though I frame it as a time problem, it is really a commitment problem. It seems that we can do what we allow ourselves to be led to do. I recognize this as one of the primary failures in my Christian journey. I avoid letting Jesus have control of my whole life, including my time. Yes, I do believe in Him, but there is a part of me that wants to control my time with Him. My feeble mind tells me that I need “me time” to rest, read, and scroll while in truth, I need “He time” to listen, sing, and pray.

Easter week was enlightening for me. I felt a sense of fulfillment after spending those evenings listening and learning. The services were engaging and encouraged participation. I felt ready to receive my Lord’s presence on Sunday.

I’ve heard the saying, “The more you give, the more you get.” I think this is true in any situation, but it is certainly true when it comes to my church involvement. Each time I push myself out of my own door and into the sanctuary, I find some peace of mind. I am welcomed and embraced by others who have already discovered this feeling. It is never too late to find peace and fulfillment in the house of the Lord.

Then I followed random people who seemed to share my pathos: notes about faith from Brandon Robinson and Ali Earthman; common sense health by Adrian Laurence, M.D.; writer John Rinaldi; and words of wisdom from the Old Grey Thinker and David Nam with his “Helpful Cats.” I follow a lot of other people, too, including the photographer Bob Kelsoe and artists Vera Kloiber and Jill Badonski.

I must also mention the videos by Robert Arnold that show us how current political situations affect everyday citizens.

Substack has room for many ideas; for discourse and disagreements. It’s a place to fine-tune beliefs and gain insight. It’s also a place for people like me who have a need to express themselves without fear of sharing too much information to friends and family on other platforms. It is my place to connect with Londoners and Parisians and to enjoy the photos that they post.

I am glad to be here as part of the community and glad that you are here, too.

Grandma came from a stereotypical Irish home.  She witnessed lots of drinking and fighting as a child. Grandma had a reserved, sweet nature and the atmosphere in her home was filled with uncertainty and lack of respect for its females.

When she was 18, however, she married a staunch, stubborn man who had deeply conservative values. According to my mom, marrying Grandpa was the best thing that could have happened to her.

Grandpa was protective of Grandma, and he provided for her until the day that she died even after he had made her a widow some 24 years earlier. He was stout, strong, and hard-working. He managed to keep a job even through the Depression years and its aftermath, eventually able to purchase a farm in the mid 1940s.

But Grandma was strong, too, in her own way. She bore and raised five children, all of whom became successful adults. She spent many of her days in the basement of her home, “candling” the eggs that the family sold from the poultry farm, pulling the ones that had been fertilized. She cooked every meal from scratch, including angel food cakes and pies of all kinds. She wore a house dress with an apron to cover it, protecting her clothes from stains and dishwater. She didn’t sit down in the evenings until the kitchen was clean and ready for the next day because she and Grandpa rose with the chickens.

Grandma had a soft voice, and you could hear the love within it. She spoke gently, which meant the world to me because I, too, was reserved and quiet. When I was sick with the measles, she came to take care of me for a day. Her voice was reassuring as she entered the room to check on me or offer me lunch.

Grandma never asked for the spotlight, but we were delighted when she would break character and dance the Charleston. She was joyful and looked for the positive in all situations.

She may have been a mild person, but once in a while she would “get her Irish up.”  According to Mom, Grandma and Grandpa were having an argument when he erupted, “Oh bull sh*t!” to which she responded, “Oh, cow poop!” I doubt they stayed mad long because they were a good team, and they truly respected each other.

After she retired and later became a widow, Grandma continued to live a quiet life, with church and family as her primary social activities. Her kids all did their best to honor and take time for her. She lived to within a few days of 98 years old, and was able to work on the puzzles in the newspaper during the week of her death.

Grandma was a light in the world, and I consider it the luck of the Irish that she was my grandmother.

Unlike a dutiful child, the wind is not seen, but it is certainly heard. It slams against the west side of the house and skirts to the north and south, huffing past to the next obstacle. Tree limbs come down; sometimes power lines do, too. The lawn chairs that were pulled out for the lamb-like weather earlier in the month have blown down the road. Although the sun is out, this gale is sustained, punctuated by an occasional gust and is serious enough for the National Weather Service to issue a high wind warning for the state and insurance agents to clear their calendars for next week.

Just getting to the car this morning was a challenge as it seemed to steer me away from my vehicle, then grab my door and fling it wide open. The crosswinds bellowed against the side of the car until it released in a momentary lull that felt like a jerk back to reality. Even though I normally feel pretty powerful in my SUV, driving in a storm reminds me just how vulnerable I am when faced with such a turbulent situation.

For most of my adult life, I have felt as if I were leaning against a windstorm. There was so much noise to withstand in addition to forces that I did not ask for. Add divorce and raising children to the atmosphere, and I felt like the flopping balloon person in front of the car dealership–whipped this way and that, with no control over my circumstances. As time has gone on, life has stabilized and gradually the constant force against me has lessened until once more I feel as if I have some control back.

Yet, there are still times in life when the wind picks up and I am unsure when I will no longer feel the push of life trying to force me off my path. Whenever my calendar gets too full, I begin to feel that stress. I am forced into the rush, and even though it is exciting for a little while, too many days of constant social effort exhaust me. I retreat into the quiet part of my life–my home and the small church community that provide my respite. These sustain me until I am renewed.

And when the big gusts of life–death, illness, disappointment–happen, I have to turn to the only One who has power over mighty nature–God. Additional trips to church? No. Daily, even hourly prayer? Yes. Bible verses? Yes. Christian music–absolutely! These are the ways that I lean into God, and let Him lean into the storm for me. Some things are just too overwhelming to battle alone.

When my mother had lain in bed for 100 days with no hope of ever returning home from the hospital, it was time to say goodbye. My father, siblings, aunts, and grandmother joined hands and formed a circle in the waiting room while the nurses disconnected her from the equipment that was breathing for her. The chaplain prayed with us and provided the comfort we needed as we came to the end of this arduous journey. We had all pushed against this powerful force for so long, each one praying for her to heal and come back to us, but when we were told that she had passed peacefully in just a few moments, we no longer felt the force against us. God had wrapped us in his arms, shielding us from the raw reality of death, and gave us the strength to move into the days ahead. We were weary from this long nightmare, but we had been carried through the storm of finality.

In the months following this life-changing day, one of my primary thoughts remained: How do people go through these things if they do not know God? How do they cope? Where is their comfort and hope? I pray that you can find this peace when you are facing the hardest times of your life. Like the wind, you cannot see God, but you can feel His power. He is the Almighty, and he can bring you through any storm. When the high wind warnings go out, you can reach up and be led through the worst days.

In a little while I will jump in the car to meet my son and his wife for the annual FFA breakfast at the local high school. It brings out a good crowd of people and raises a lot more money through free-will donation than any number of candy sales ever could. Friends and family of the FFA program see it as a way to support our rural heritage and a clean-cut program for kids that teaches them leadership and agricultural awareness. There is no better moment to explore and apply that knowledge than in this place in this period of time.

We are located in the “Crossroads of America,” central Indiana. That nickname itself implies the intersection of ideas and lifestyles. It takes people on the south end of the school district just as long to get to the high school as it does to get downtown. Thirty years ago, residential neighborhoods began popping up where cornfields used to be. Vinyl villages are now everywhere. The county tries to accommodate people who have moved to the country for a better life by focusing on bike lanes and walking trails, street lights and roundabouts. Schools are bursting with new families, and there are always construction projects at them as districts vie for students and the income from the state that comes with them.

Because of its proximity to major east/west and north/south highways, our community is also the target for warehouse development. Several huge buildings were built on speculation that they would attract commercial prospects. Both Amazon and WalMart have built huge distribution centers where productive fields of corn and soybeans stretched wide. Flat fields with rich black dirt are now gone forever because of the growth philosophy.

Ironically, growth is the problem our community faces. Those people who moved out of the city with a dream of living and raising their kids in the country are finding themselves with traffic issues, higher taxes, and saturated neighborhoods. Schools clamor for businesses that will support the tax base, but while business development brings in workers, those workers need homes, stores, and infrastructure. Soon, those who sought the rural life will find nothing rural about it.

It is certainly understandable that people want comfortable homes and quality schools. However, when every intersection becomes a roundabout (rotary) or four-way stop, it begs the question, how do we preserve rural America? Not just the farmhouses and barns that we admire along the roadside, but the very soil upon which our food is grown? When the ancient glaciers started moving, they pushed vital minerals into Central Indiana and left it flat. This flat ground is ideal for growing corn and soybeans, and generations have worked hard to improve drainage, yet preserve it from erosion. Once this natural geographic goldmine is covered by asphalt and concrete, it can never return to its natural state. In essence, with every new building, we are biting the hand that feeds us.

Our rural heritage is important. Not just because Grandpa used to plow with horses or we had lots of trees to climb and animals to raise. It’s important because it comes with a lifetime obligation to do what is right for our families and for the earth for which we steward. We must find a way to preserve the land and the lifestyle and to limit the circular need for “improvement.” It’s pretty great the way it is.

Please forgive me if you see this a few times this week. Unfortunately, I am about to say goodbye to a very special person from a past life.

Because I haven’t seen her for about six years, one would think that I have not been a very good friend to her. So many times I have wanted to stop by and visit like old times, ending with a hug and “I love you.” Yet, I held back for fear it would leave her sad and confused.

My friend and I were separated by dementia and divorce. She was my mother-in-law. After several years in a long-term care facility, she passed peacefully in her sleep on Saturday. At the end of this week, I will face the sadness of saying goodbye to her amidst the pain of the rest of her family, my ex-husband, his wife, and our children.

She was a constant in my life for over 40 years. When her son and I got married, she took me in and treated me as a beloved daughter. She taught me how to cook and garden. We shared the love of fashion and flowers. When her son and I separated, she called me and said that no matter what, I would always be her daughter-in-law.

After becoming a widow, she moved to an apartment in town, and then, when dementia took its hold, into a care facility.

I never visited her there even though I often thought I should. But I did not want her to be confused about the first wife, the second wife, and the change in our relationship. So I held back and let my children fill me in on Grandma’s condition.

I plan to attend both the visitation and the funeral. It will be difficult to stand in the shadows during this final period of goodbyes, but I will allow my children and their dad to be as comfortable as possible in their time of grief. I am coming to express my respect for this lovely lady and to support my children. I will not allow myself to dwell on the past and the heartbreak that our divorce caused. I will show grace and discernment during this time of celebrating my friend’s life because that’s what she would have done. She now is at peace, and she deserves her final rites to be peaceful as well.

As your faith journey grows, however, you spend time getting closer and closer to the deep end of the regular pool. You are challenged more. You’re going to take more risks and explore new places and sometimes you are going to make some mistakes. God is going to give you grace no matter where you are in the pool, but the further you delve into the deep, the more that grace may cost you. You might jump off the board and do a belly flop, coming up with a bright red and stinging chest and abdomen. That’s a lesson learned, and once you experience it, God hopes that you remember the consequences so that you don’t do it again.

Testing the extent of God’s grace occurs in common events. The driver consistently speeds but asks for grace when he is caught by the law. Repentance is short-lived sometimes until a greater consequence applies, such as a wreck or hitting a pedestrian. To what extent do we expect to be forgiven and taken back into the fold?

Some people do not learn from their mistakes. They ask God to fix it over and over. They don’t say they’re sorry; they don’t reflect on what their foolishness cost, and they take God’s forgiveness for granted. God must shake his head in exasperation when we continue to test the limits of His love.

While God extends his grace to everyone, it comes as a great cost to him. Since he gave his only son, Jesus, to die and thus take the blame for all of our sins, He must be terribly disappointed that we take it so lightly. True Christians naturally grow in their faith by reading the Bible, following its words, and seeking community with others who wish to follow Jesus Christ. It is impossible to stay safe in the kiddie pool forever; one must get out and live and make decisions that affect our relationship with God. If we desire a closer relationship, we must remember to give God the respect of which He is worthy and not take His grace for granted.

It is sometimes a difficult job. I get up early, work for free, and unlike teaching, I don’t get my summers off. Yet these have been some of the best years of my life, I have learned to see family life through eyes of experience. I watch their interactions through a wider lens that includes the whole picture rather than the daily bases that parents have to cover. This morning’s episode was one of many similar ones that warm my heart.

The air outside is 17 degrees, but when I step inside the back door, it is a warm 70 degrees. The Christmas tree is lit and sparkling, and five stockings hang from the mantle The two older boys are finishing their breakfasts while filling me in about going to a friend’s house and the latest antics of their watchful Elf. The pace then picks up as Daddy leaves for work with reminders of after school programs and a warning to be good. He and his wife say “I love you,” and off he goes into the world to provide for his family

Their mom then makes sure shoes, coats, and backpacks are on and sends them out with me to wait for the bus while she gets her own lunch ready. She leaves for work having already done a half-day’s work herself.

The work is worth it, though. The boys are rested, well-fed, and ready for the day. Their coats and hats keep them warm. Best of all, they face their challenges with the security of two parents who love them and who love each other in addition to a supportive Mamaw who is at least a phone call away.

On the practical side, the wind dries the soil, the siding, and the roof. It removes the last of the leaves from the trees and blows them away. Figuratively, it indicates a shift of condition, as in “any way the wind blows.” However, the wind represents much more than drying, or movement, or shifting. It represents power.

The wind is powerful enough to uproot trees and tear off roofs. It’s a force to be reckoned with. When the wind is this ferocious, you hang on to your hat and walk sideways to get to the car. You keep an eye out for flying objects. And when you get into the car, you appreciate the quiet within.

If you walk against the wind for long enough, your posture changes. Your body works to remain upright. You are strengthened. We may not like it, and it may mess our hair up, but it is a natural power that forces us to work a little harder in our daily treks.

Now take this thought a bit higher into the abstract. When thinking about the elements of wind, water, and fire, my mind eventually goes to the power of God. We are tested with these elements that are found in nature, which represents God. If we are not up to the test, we could stay inside all the time and avoid the challenge. But most of us are going to have to brave the elements and take what’s out there. Life’s difficulties are everywhere, and sometimes they are pretty stiff. It’s a struggle. We may lose sight of our refuge because the force keeps our heads turned. Eventually, though, we make it to a place of peace. We have weathered the storm. Just like the sunshine after the rain, the peace that follows the wind is a joyful relief. We are able to breathe and reset. And we thank God that we have come through the difficulties into His peace.

So today I will be thankful for the wind. At the same time, however, I hope that tomorrow is calmer. Yet if it is not, I will put my shoulder into the wind and wait for the calm to follow.

I have always loved to write. In elementary school I would scrawl page upon smeared page of ideas and chatter. My left hand not only bore the marks of the spiral notebook, but also the ink I had dragged it through.

In high school I learned to type in Mrs. Culy’s class. We had big manual typewriters, the kind that you rolled paper into and returned the platen at the end of the line. Ding!I loved it so much that my parents bought me a portable typewriter for Christmas. I used it to write articles for the school newspaper as well as typing papers for a few teachers who were pursuing their masters degrees. It went to college with me where it was used almost daily.

I was fortunate to get a job while I was at Ball State University as a typesetter for the Ball State Daily News. This was in the early 80’s, and we were transitioning to word processing on VDTs (Video Display Terminals). You could see what you had typed on a screen, proofread it, then send it to a machine that would print it out on film. You still had to develop the film and paste up the final product, but this was a huge modernization of getting the newspaper onto the press.

Now the newspaper business has all but run dry (I’m not thankful for that), but I have the wonderful comfort of the laptop computer to console me. It warms my lap as I sit in the recliner and type. I can share my documents via email or social media. I can check sources, spelling, and grammar in an instant. Those conveniences are great, but its best use is letting me type away my feelings and then delete them when I’m finished so that I don’t get myself into hot water. It’s cathartic to pound on the keys instead of on people. And for that emotional release and the tool that enables it, I am thankful.

It is full of questions and suggestions about where we might be going.

It shares hopes of big birthday parties and yummy things to eat.

It sings, “He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands” and a Thanksgiving song that the preschool is learning.

Earlier this week it told me to change the radio station because the song had a bad word in it.

And just today, when the car line helper was admiring a huge leaf on the ground, it said, “That’s a sycamore.”

Apparently, sometimes it repeats my words. I love that little voice and the boy that goes with it.

A lady who attends my church not only sends get well cards, but she calls people who are ill, or she takes them something to eat. She doesn’t do it because she serves on a committee; she does it because she truly cares about people. When you speak to her, she looks you straight in the eye and listens. That’s how I know she cares about me.

A lady at my part-time job often brings in small treats or shares coffee from her Thermos. Sharing and caring is part of her soul. Sometimes during the week she will send me a meme, so we can both have a laugh. Her warmth is contagious.

Then there is my sister. She is a “drop everything, rush to your side” kind of person because she cares so much. (She has actually done so when my kids had to take me to the ER with a kidney stone.) She manages her resources so that there is always enough for her family as well as others whom she finds in the cracks along life’s sidewalk. She saves useful things, rationalizing that “somebody might need that some day.” She never seems to think about what others might do for her, but how she can serve others.

To be genuinely caring is a reflection of Jesus. To catch this glimpse of Him through these and many others with this quality makes me thankful today and every day.

Let us rejoice and be glad in it.” Psalm 118:24; Adapted as a hymn by Les Garrett, 1967

It is November 5, 2025. The temperature in central Indiana is 67 degrees.

The sun is out; the wind is blowing; the leaves are dropping.

Farmers are plowing; granddogs are dogging.

I’m pulling weeds for likely the last time this year and putting tools away.

While word on the street is that snow is not far away, I will gladly rejoice in this beautiful day.

Today I am thankful for the freedom to choose. It is election day in a number of states and cities in our country. Voters there will be choosing the leaders that they think best represent their needs in government. It is beyond my ability to define what makes a person vote for a certain party or label that accompanies the candidates. I know my own personal ideology and philosophy and will vote accordingly in next year’s mid-term elections in Indiana, but I can’t say that another person’s choice isn’t equally valid to them.

That’s why I’m thankful for the right to vote. Each person should have an equal say in electing the country’s leadership. Needless to say, I am disappointed that Indiana seems to be falling to the red-state gerrymandering of its districts. If the choice will already be made through gerrymandering (not to mention the Electoral College) it gives little hope to those who support the opposite candidate, or who are still defining their positions. Election nights in Indiana will be even more boringly predictable than ever before, if that’s possible.

But even though this strategy is being implemented in some states, it must not become a deterrent to one standing up for one’s own convictions and voting according to one’s conscience. Otherwise, we’ll just have to smile and go along with the majority and hope that they are open-minded enough to include the needs of all people.

I recall the 1972 Presidential election. I was in elementary school, and we were lined up ready to go back to our classroom after lunch and recess. A few kids started chanting, “Nix-on, Nix-on!” It was loud, and the teachers did not try to stop it. Being a kid who loves a good marching performance, I started to join in the chant, but then I remembered that my parents were not going to vote for Nixon, and that they probably wouldn’t be happy about my joyfully chanting his name. So I refrained and went back to class quietly because even if they could have heard me above the din, my creating a chant about “McGovern” just wouldn’t have been effective.

Some political swells are like that. Names grow in recognition and in popularity and soon everyone is on the bandwagon whether they know the candidate’s positions and policies or not. That’s why it is so vital that we research every candidate thoroughly and pray about our choices so that we get a government that is truly representative of its people. I’m thankful for the opportunity.

Mrs. Fuller was nothing short of a legend in our family and in the school community. She had been teaching since the beginning of time and all four of us kids had been placed in her class.

Her classroom was filled with posters and pictures and props that brought learning to life. I still remember the “tv set” that we stood behind to read as another classmate manned the clicker for us to begin. I also vividly remember the five monkeys on the wall named Jack, Speck, Dick, Rock, and Chuck. They represented the five short vowel sounds. There were also posters showing us blends, dipthongs, and digraphs; in short, the basics of phonics.

Mrs. Fuller spent hours drilling us in phonics–probably half the day’s instruction. She’d never get by with that today. Of course, she’d also never get by with giving us gold stars if we had attended church on Sunday or asking us to bring in our loose change so that we could divide it up equally and make a walking field trip to the local store to spend it on candy. She set and followed her own rules, and she got by with it because at the end of the school year kids in her class could read and recite.

So I’m thankful for her today as I start the day (as I do every day) with the Wordle, the Waffle, and the Sudoku puzzles. By teaching me phonics, she gave me the keys to the language kingdom.

Nearly two years ago, my right foot developed a stabbing pain in the heel. I knew it was likely plantar fasciitis, so I didn’t go to the doctor. Instead I bought a different pair of shoes. I bought drugstore inserts. I soaked my feet. I took pain relievers. I bought more new shoes. I knew nothing was really helping, but I was afraid to go to the doctor because Brad and I had planned a trip of a lifetime to go to Europe for a month-long tour, and no way was I going to traipse through the Old Country in a boot. So off we went, and I was able to tolerate the pain because we were on the move and seeing so many great things.

After the trip, the nagging pain was still with me, so I made up my mind to mention it to my family doctor, who referred me to a specialist. An MRI revealed a lot of arthritis and a torn tendon in addition to the plantar fasciitis. Because I had suffered for over a year with no relief, the specialist said I could definitely choose to have surgery. Then, almost as an afterthought, he said we could try one more less invasive approach, wearing a brace.

Because I hate the idea of unnecessary surgery, I wore the brace for six weeks. The doctor seemed pleasantly surprised that it was helping, since I had tried so many other therapies. I walked out of his office feeling as though I had been given a reprieve. More than that, I felt as if we were partners in pain relief. He truly listened to me and gave me time to work through the problem. I am so grateful that he had offered this plan instead of rushing me to the operating table.

This past summer I was able to walk and work fairly normally, with only a few days of pain and swelling. Full recovery was back in sight!

I have been feeling so much better that I have taken another step forward with one of my family doctor’s suggestions to improve my general health: regular cardio exercise. I have been avoiding this my whole life, but I knew that I probably better listen to the doctor instead of appeasing my lazy bones. So I have been stopping at the Wellness Center a few times a week to get my heart pumping on the elliptical and bike apparatuses. After about the third session, I noticed that my right foot feels normal, even good, after exercising! I can’t believe it, but getting a little more blood flowing is really helping this area that I thought would always be a little impaired. What a bonus! It makes the huffing, puffing, and sweating a little more tolerable since I know that my foot will feel better when I am finished. My PCP wasn’t seeking this particular outcome when suggesting the cardio workouts, but she is celebrating with me. Both of these physicians seem so willing to listen and to approach healthcare with open minds. I contend that the Great Physician provides the healing, but it is channeled through the knowledge and hearts of the doctors.

So today I am thankful for these and all of the other healthcare professionals who listen and care about their patients.