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Witness to Strength
Some forms of strength don’t announce themselves. They unfold quietly, through pain endured with grace and dignity — the kind of strength that never asks to be seen, yet shapes everything it touches.
Witness to Strength
There are rare and special people in the world with a quiet, hidden strength. They experience pain, yet somehow gardens grow from the tears they shed. Their strength is often concealed beneath layers of self-doubt — so well hidden, in fact, that they often fail to see it themselves.
How Do Dogs Know?
A short reflection about how dogs seem to sense what we need, even when we don’t. It’s a reminder that not every moment in life needs to be analyzed. Sometimes, it just needs to be lived.
Expect a Miracle
The sharp voice of the cashier slashed through my Sunday meanderings as I weaved through a cluttered discount store, looking for paper plates. I stopped and glanced toward the checkout. I wasn’t the only one. Other customers were gawking too. It must’ve been just after church; the store was packed.
Behind the counter stood a middle-aged woman, scowling at a man fumbling with the card reader. He looked sheepish, trying to swipe his card the right way. The customers behind him were already digging through their wallets and purses, getting ready. No one wanted to be next in line for her frustration.
Cookbooks and Bibles
An Ordinary Life
My mother lived a life many would call ordinary. She was a faithful wife, a quiet presence, and a devoted mother. She attended church regularly and spent much of her spare time reading books that kept her connected to her deep and unwavering faith.
Ordinary. In today’s world, it almost sounds like a failure: no branding, no curation, no attention-seeking. Everyone wants to be unique, to be recognized. But Mom never worried about being special. She wasn’t interested in standing out. She listened far more than she talked, and she had no interest in polishing a personal brand. Her focus was simpler; to make the people around her feel special.
Devil's Tower
I pulled into the visitor’s parking lot at Devil’s Tower National Monument and noticed there were only a couple of spaces left. A small car followed behind me as I made my way toward the open spots. We both pulled in. Full house.
The Tower loomed overhead, its ancient form quietly transcending and silencing the stream of thoughts running through my mind.
I creaked out of the van, my legs tingling in that relieved, grateful way they do after a long drive. The woman from the car beside me stepped out too. We both stretched, eyes drawn upward to the Tower. We exchanged a brief smile; a shared nod of luck at having found parking in the nick of time.
When Rest Works Harder
I tend to have a lot of projects going on at once. I bustle from one to another, stopping only for the briefest of breaks. Last week, I stayed up far too late finishing a project, and the next day I was tired. And, if I’m being honest, a little cranky.
Still, I was determined to squeeze as much work as possible into the day. I huffed around, drank some coffee, and dove back in.
The Last Run
I stood in the breakfast room of a weathered motel in Amarillo, waiting impatiently for the coffee maker to finish its cycle. I had no real schedule that day, no urgent destination; just a restless need to move. This was the return leg of a cross-country trip, a journey that had started as a favor to a family member and turned into a chance to explore before heading home to work and routine.
Sorting Medications
At the beginning of the week, I found myself staring at a dozen bottles of medication. They weren’t mine. They belonged to my mother, who had moved in with us about two years ago. Her dementia had been progressing steadily, and each week brought small but unmistakable changes.
Some days were good. She’d pass the time reminiscing, reading, or watching for deer out the window. Other days were harder. On those days, she became painfully aware of what she was losing; her memory, her independence. And her tears came easily. It was heartbreaking to watch, especially knowing we couldn’t fix it. We had to learn, slowly and painfully, to simply be there with her. Acceptance didn’t come quickly. It came through shared tears and quiet moments.
Instant Access
Imagine you’re driving home late at night.
The rain falls steadily, blurring the fading lines on the road.
You’re alone, feeling content, but needing to concentrate just a little harder than usual.
Your phone lies on the passenger seat next to you.
As you approach a sharp curve, it dings. A text message.
Your hand moves instinctively toward it, then stops.
You want to stay focused.
Moments later, it dings again.
And again.
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