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Category: Fiction

The Love That Waited

The Love That Waited

Published by S.M. Ulbrich on 10/13/2026

As grandparents, we learn there are some hurts we cannot fix, some miles we cannot shorten, and some lessons life insists on teaching the hard way.

This story came to me while thinking about the many forms love can take. We often celebrate love at its beginning, but we talk less about the love that endures. The love that waits through seasons of absence. The love that survives mistakes. The love that never stops believing in tomorrow.

Although this is a work of fiction, it is written for anyone who has ever loved someone from afar, missed years they can never get back, or hoped for a second chance.

Because sometimes the strongest kind of love is not the love that finds its way easily.

It is the love that waits.

The Love That Waited

Every year on her birthday, Lena lit three candles.

One for yesterday.

One for today.

And one for tomorrow.

The first candle reminded her of the roads she had traveled and the choices she wished she could retrace.

The second reminded her that she was still here, still breathing, still growing.

The third was for hope.

It was always the brightest.

She would sit by the window and watch the small flames flicker against the evening sky, imagining they were sending their light beyond the horizon to two little girls she loved more than words could ever say.

The girls had once fit perfectly in her arms.

Now they were growing up somewhere beyond her reach.

Life had carried them forward.

Time always does.

Yet no matter how many birthdays passed, Lena carried every precious memory with her.

She remembered tiny hands tugging at her sleeves.

She remembered lullabies sung off-key.

She remembered warm cheeks after bath time and sleepy voices asking for one more story before bed.

Most of all, she remembered being called Mama.

It had been years since she had heard the word spoken to her.

Sometimes that realization hurt.

But love, she discovered, isn’t measured by what we receive.

Love is measured by what we continue to give.

So Lena began writing.

At first it was only a few pages.

A memory here.

A story there.

A letter she never expected anyone to read.

When the pages filled, she found another notebook.

Then another.

Then another.

Soon she had a shelf lined with journals.

Inside them were stories her daughters were too young to remember.

Stories about chasing butterflies.

Stories about pink unicorns and princesses.

Stories about dancing in the kitchen and in sidewalk puddles after a Texas summer rain.

Stories about bedtime prayers and missing teeth and birthday cakes decorated with far too much frosting.

Each journal was different.

Yet every single one carried the same message.

You are loved.

You are loved more than you know.

And you always will be.

When loneliness visited, as it often did, Lena wrote.

When regret whispered in the dark, Lena wrote.

When hope felt distant, Lena wrote.

The words became bridges stretching across years and miles she could not cross herself.

One afternoon, her grandmother found her filling another notebook.

“You’ve written enough books to fill a library,” the older woman teased.

Lena smiled.

“Maybe.”

“Do you think the girls will ever read them?”

The question lingered between them.

Lena looked at the stack of journals.

Their worn covers held years of memories, dreams, prayers, and promises.

“I don’t know.”

Her grandmother settled into the chair beside her.

Then she said something Lena would never forget.

“Love is never wasted, child. Sometimes it simply waits.”

The words wrapped themselves around Lena’s heart like a warm blanket.

Sometimes it simply waits.

Years continued their steady march forward.

Seasons painted the world in spring blossoms, summer sunlight, autumn gold, and winter frost.

The journals multiplied.

The girls grew.

Life continued.

One day, while helping their grandmother sort through old family keepsakes, the girls discovered a weathered wooden chest tucked away in a corner.

Its brass latch creaked when they opened it.

Inside sat dozens of journals.

Carefully arranged.

Protected.

Treasured.

The younger girl picked one up and opened to the first page.

A pressed daisy slipped into her lap.

The handwriting was neat and gentle.

The title simply read:

For My Girls

Curious, they began reading.

Hours passed unnoticed.

The stories pulled them in.

There were memories of playground adventures and Halloween costumes.

Stories about favorite stuffed animals and beloved bedtime books.

Descriptions of tiny personalities that felt strangely familiar.

The girls laughed at some pages.

They cried at others.

And with every chapter, another piece of a larger picture came into focus.

The woman who wrote these journals was not perfect.

She never claimed to be.

But on every page, they found evidence of something remarkable.

Love.

Patient love.

Steadfast love.

The kind of love that had endured silence without disappearing.

The kind of love that had remained faithful through years of waiting.

Late one evening, the older sister closed the final journal.

For a long moment neither girl spoke.

Then the younger one quietly wiped away a tear.

“She remembered everything.”

Her sister nodded.

“No.”

She gently placed her hand on the stack of journals.

“She remembered us.”

At that very moment, miles away, Lena was sitting by her window.

A sunset painted the sky in shades of gold and amber.

The three birthday candles burned softly beside her.

Tomorrow wasn’t her birthday.

But sometimes she lit them anyway.

Just to remind herself that hope deserved celebrating.

She stared into their tiny flames and whispered a prayer she had carried for years.

“Let them know.”

Nothing more.

Just those three words.

Let them know.

Then her phone rang.

Lena glanced at the screen.

An unfamiliar number.

Her heart quickened.

Slowly, she answered.

“Hello?”

Silence.

Then a nervous voice.

Young.

Gentle.

Beautiful.

“Hi.”

Lena gripped the phone with trembling hands.

The voice continued.

“We found your stories.”

Tears filled her eyes before she could speak.

Another voice joined the first.

“We read every one.”

The room blurred.

The candles shimmered through her tears.

And for the first time in years, the distance between them felt smaller than hope.

“We know who you are,” the girls said.

Lena closed her eyes.

Not because she was sad.

But because joy can feel too large for the human heart.

Outside, the evening breeze stirred the trees.

Inside, three candles glowed softly beside the window.

One for yesterday.

One for today.

And one for tomorrow.

The brightest of all.

Because some loves burn quickly and fade.

But the deepest loves endure.

They wait through storms.

They wait through seasons.

They wait through silence.

And when the moment finally comes, they light the way home.

A Mother’s Love: Happy Birthday, Sweetheart!

Author’s Note: This story is dedicated to every parent, grandparent, child, and family member who has ever held onto hope when hope seemed distant. Love may be tested by time, circumstances, and life itself, but genuine love never forgets where it belongs.

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Toby’s Trail

Toby’s Trail

Published by S.M. Ulbrich on 10/01/2026

No one can say for certain where every step of the Lopez, Goldman, Mosquedo, and Duran families began. Records tell part of the story, memories tell another. The rest lives in imagination.

Perhaps, more than a hundred years ago, one of Toby’s ancestors stood beneath the wide Colorado sky. Near Denver, where the Duran family put down roots, he rose before sunrise and saddled his horse while the plains still glowed silver with morning dew. He was a vaquero, one of the proud horsemen whose Spanish traditions helped shape the cowboy culture of the American West. Historians tell us that the skills of the vaquero, from roping cattle to working horseback over vast ranches, became the foundation of the American cowboy.

On long cattle drives, he might have heard stories of legendary riders whose courage and horsemanship were celebrated across Colorado and the Southwest. The vaqueros were admired not because they sought fame, but because they embodied honor, hard work, loyalty, and respect for the land. Those values were their true legacy.

Maybe his mother told him tales carried from Puerto Rico, passed from her mother’s father. He had been born about 1900, and arrived in San Francisco before 1929. Puerto Rico, an island where Spanish heritage met Caribbean spirit, had an influx about that time. Around evening campfires, as horses rested and stars filled the Colorado sky, he shared stories of family and the belief that a person’s greatest wealth was not what he owned, but what he passed on to his children.

The years passed, and the family followed opportunity west. Denver gave way to California. The mountains faded behind them as they journeyed toward San Francisco, carrying little more than determination, hope, and the strength of generations before them.

There they built lives, raised children, and watched a growing city change around them. Through all the years, the spirit of the old vaqueros traveled with them: resilience, pride, and devotion to family.

If those ancestors could meet Toby today, they might see in him the same steady character that carried the family across states and generations. They would know that the trail they began did not end with them. It continued through sons and daughters, through San Francisco, and through Toby himself.

And perhaps they would say:

“We rode beneath the Colorado sun, crossed mountains and years, and built a path for those who would come after us. Wherever life leads you, remember that you carry more than a name. You carry the courage of those who came before you and the stories of those yet to come.”

As the years passed and the family journeyed from Colorado to San Francisco, they carried more than luggage and memories. They carried a heritage shaped by many shores and many horizons. There were the vaqueros of the West, riding beneath endless skies, and there was the proud spirit of Puerto Rico, where generations learned the values of family, perseverance, and honor.

Perhaps, somewhere along the way, a young member of the family heard the story of Roberto Clemente, Puerto Rico’s great hero. He became famous for his extraordinary talent, but he became beloved because he cared deeply for others. He believed that success meant very little if it was not used to help people in need.

The old vaqueros would have understood that. A good horseman was measured not by how loudly he spoke, but by his character. Clemente was measured the same way. Though separated by time, distance, and circumstance, both carried the same lesson: true greatness is found in service, courage, humility, and devotion to family.

And so, when we look at Toby today, we can imagine a little of both traditions living within him. The steady determination of the Colorado vaquero. The warmth and pride of Puerto Rico. The courage of those who crossed mountains and generations to build a better future.

If his ancestors could gather around him on this birthday, perhaps they would smile and say:

“Our journey was never really about where we lived. It was about what we carried in our hearts. Ride boldly. Stand proudly. Care deeply for those you love. And wherever life’s trail leads, remember that you are part of a story that began long before you and will continue long after you.”

Happy Birthday, Toby. May your next chapter be your finest yet.

A Personal Note to Toby:

Toby,

Family history is often written in old records, faded photographs, and stories passed down through generations. But sometimes the most important chapter is written by a young man making a difficult choice.

When you and Rachael were so young, the future was uncertain. Many people might have walked away. Many people might have chosen the easier path.

You didn’t.

Because of that choice, Angel was born into a family that loved him. He grew into a remarkable man, served a mission, married in the temple, and now has children of his own. The family tree that might never have been continues to grow.

Because of that choice, Rachael found a partner who would stand beside her through challenges and triumphs.

Because of that choice, two more wonderful children joined your family.

And because of that choice, our grandchildren and great-grandchildren are here, adding branches to a tree that will continue long after all of us are gone.

The old vaqueros measured a man by his character. Roberto Clemente believed a person’s value was measured by how he helped others. Looking at the life you have built, I think they would both recognize something admirable in you.

You may not think of yourself as a hero. Most good men don’t.

But from where I sit, one young man’s decision to stay, to love, and to build a family has blessed generations.

Thank you for loving our daughter.

Thank you for being a good husband, a good father, and now a good grandfather.

Most of all, thank you for becoming the man you are.

With love and gratitude,

Your grateful mother-in-law and father-in-law.

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A New Novel Is Quietly Taking Shape

A New Novel Is Quietly Taking Shape

Published by S.M. Ulbrich on 09/27/2026

I’ve spent the past several months living inside a building that doesn’t exist.

At least not the way I’m writing it.

It’s an apartment building in Cincinnati, populated by bricklayers, widows, schoolteachers, bakers, artists, maintenance workers, immigrants, flood survivors, and countless ordinary people whose names never appeared in history books.

And yet, the more time I spend with them, the more convinced I become that their stories matter.

Perhaps even more than the famous ones.

The novel I’m currently working on is called The Collector.

At its heart, it asks a simple question:

What survives after we’re gone?

A photograph?

A letter?

A favorite recipe?

A journal?

A building that remembers the people who once lived inside it?

As I’ve written, I’ve been surprised by how often the story returns to the same idea:

Most people believe their lives are ordinary.

But ordinary does not mean unimportant.

In fact, the people history forgets may be the very people worth remembering most.

I’m not ready to share many details yet.

The mysteries are still unfolding.

But I can tell you this:

The story begins with a young immigrant bricklayer in the 1850s and stretches across generations of lives connected by a single Cincinnati apartment building.

And somewhere within those walls lives a question that refuses to go away:

Who remembers the people no one else remembers?

More soon.

For now, I’m heading back into the past.

The characters are waiting.

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⭐ A BIRTHDAY STORY FOR FORREST

⭐ A BIRTHDAY STORY FOR FORREST

Published by S.M. Ulbrich on 08/27/2026

I had been researching my grandson, Forrest’s family line and discovered the name Isaac Pemberton — a Philadelphia Quaker who lived during Revolutionary times. As I imagined what it might feel like for Forrest to receive this ancestor’s story as a birthday gift today, the picture of a small leather-bound booklet came to mind. Inside it, he discovers the tale of a man who stood for peace when the world demanded war. This is that story — written for Forrest, and shared here for anyone who values courage of conscience. Happy Birthday, Forrest!

⭐ THE MAN WHO WOULDN’T RAISE A GUN

A Birthday Story for Forrest

(Based on the life and era of Isaac Pemberton, Philadelphia Quaker, 1775)

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🌿 Prologue — The Package

Forrest didn’t expect anything in the mail that day. Bills, sure. A flyer or two. But not a small, hand‑wrapped parcel with his name written in his grandmother’s handwriting — the kind that looks like it took some time.

Inside was a leather-bound booklet, soft and worn, like something meant to be kept. The first page held only a single line:

“Every family has someone who stood up when it mattered.”

He turned the page.

And the story began.

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🌿 Chapter One — A City on Edge

Philadelphia, 1775.

The city was loud with talk of war. Blacksmiths hammered iron into musket barrels. Tavern doors swung open with arguments spilling into the street. Men gathered in clusters, whispering about rebellion, loyalty, and the price of freedom.

But inside the quiet of the Quaker meeting house, Isaac Pemberton sat with his hands folded, listening for the stillness he believed God spoke through.

He was twenty‑three — the same age Forrest once was when life felt heavy and uncertain. Isaac wasn’t a soldier. He wasn’t a politician. He was a craftsman, a helper, a man who believed peace wasn’t weakness but discipline.

One morning, militia officers arrived at the meeting house with enrollment papers. Every able-bodied man was expected to sign. The officers stood at the front, calling names, handing out quills.

Isaac felt his heart pounding. He knew what refusal would cost him. He knew what people would say.

But he stepped forward anyway.

“I cannot raise a gun against any man God has made.”

The room went silent.

Some men looked away. Some shook their heads. One officer muttered under his breath. But Isaac didn’t waver.

He set the quill down.

And walked out.

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🌿 Chapter Two — The Cost of Conscience

Refusing the militia wasn’t just unpopular — it was illegal.

Within weeks, Isaac’s tools were seized. His horse was taken. He was fined more than he could pay. Neighbors whispered that he was a coward. Others said he was a traitor. Some stopped speaking to him altogether.

But Isaac kept working.

He repaired fences for widows whose husbands had gone to war. He carried water for the sick. He shared bread with families who had less than he did. He helped anyone who knocked on his door.

He refused violence, but he never refused people.

One afternoon, a group of men confronted him in the street.

“War is coming,” one said. “You’ll let others fight for your freedom?”

Isaac answered softly, “I will work for peace as hard as you work for war.”

They didn’t understand. Most wouldn’t. But Isaac didn’t expect them to.

Courage, he believed, wasn’t always loud.

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🌿 Chapter Three — The Night of the Wounded Man

It was late when Isaac heard the knock.

A young soldier — barely older than Forrest — collapsed at his doorstep, bleeding from a skirmish outside the city. His uniform was torn, his face pale, his breath shallow.

Isaac lifted him, carried him inside, and tended his wounds with steady hands. He boiled water, tore cloth, whispered prayers.

The soldier looked at him through half‑closed eyes.

“Why help me?” he asked. “I’d have shot you.”

Isaac didn’t hesitate.

“Peace isn’t so much a belief,” he said. “It’s a practice.”

The soldier survived. Isaac never told anyone. Not the meeting. Not the militia. Not even his family.

Some acts of courage don’t need witnesses.

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🌿 Chapter Four — The Quiet Rebel

Years passed. The war raged. Isaac continued to refuse militia service, loyalty oaths, and anything that required him to harm another person.

He wasn’t loud about it. He didn’t make speeches. He didn’t argue in taverns. He simply lived his conviction every day, even when it cost him.

He wrote his story in a small journal — not to boast, but to remind future generations that courage comes in many forms.

He wrote:

“Some men fight with muskets.
Some fight with conscience.
Both require bravery.”

Those words became the final page Forrest read.

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🌿 Epilogue — Forrest

Forrest closed the booklet and sat quietly.

He didn’t know everything about his ancestor, the “first American conscientious objector.”He didn’t know everything about his own future. But he knew this:

He came from someone who stood firm when the world shook.

Someone who chose peace when anger was easier.

Someone who survived hardship without losing himself.

And maybe — just maybe — that strength runs in him too.

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Stories like Isaac Pemberton’s remind us that courage doesn’t always look like battlefields or banners. Sometimes it looks like a single person standing quietly, refusing to bend against the weight of the world. I wrote this for Forrest, but I share it here because we all need reminders that strength can be gentle, and that peace can be brave. May this story — and the blessing that follows — be a light for anyone walking their own uncertain road.

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🌿 Closing Blessing

A Blessing for Your Path

May the road before you be steady, and may your steps be guided by the quiet wisdom that lives within you.


May you find courage in gentleness, strength in compassion, and clarity in every new beginning.


May the God who shaped your ancestors shape your days with peace, purpose, and a light that never dims.


And may you always remember: you are part of a story still being written — one marked by resilience, hope, and the quiet bravery of choosing what is right.

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Tribute: “Be Like Dolly”

Tribute: “Be Like Dolly”

Published by S.M. Ulbrich on 08/25/2026

Good evening, friends.

Today, we celebrate the life and legacy of a remarkable woman whose voice filled concert halls, whose songs touched hearts, and whose generosity changed lives.

Many people knew Dolly Parton as a country music legend. Millions knew her as an entertainer, songwriter, actress, and performer. But those who admired her most often saw something even greater. They saw a person who never forgot where she came from.

Born into poverty in the mountains of Tennessee as one of twelve children, Dolly understood hardship from an early age. She knew what it meant to have little and dream big. Through talent, determination, faith, and relentless hard work, she built a life that inspired people all over the world.

Yet success never seemed to change her heart.

She remembered the families struggling to get by. She remembered children who needed opportunities. She remembered the importance of reading, learning, and believing in yourself. Through the Imagination Library, millions of books found their way into the hands of children who might otherwise never have owned one.

That may be one of her greatest songs, although it was never sung. It was written in kindness, one book at a time.

Dolly also taught us that strength doesn’t have to be loud. It can be humble. It can be generous. It can wear a smile and still move mountains.

Faith was an important part of her life. Hope was part of her message. Love was part of her example.

In a world often divided by anger and criticism, Dolly Parton reminded us to laugh, to dream, to help one another, and to remain grateful for our blessings.

Her music will endure. Her words will endure. But perhaps her greatest legacy is the example she leaves behind.

An example that says:

Never forget your roots.

Never stop believing.

Never stop giving.

And never underestimate the power of kindness.

May we honor her not only by remembering her songs, but by living the values she shared with the world.

Thank you, Dolly.

And may we all strive to “Be Like Dolly.”

—

Blog Post: Be Like Dolly

Be Like Dolly: More Than a Country Music Legend

Some people become famous.

A few become beloved.

Almost none become both while remaining humble, generous, and authentic.

That is why Dolly Parton’s story continues to inspire millions of people around the world.

What makes Dolly remarkable is not simply the music. It is not the awards, the hit songs, the sold-out shows, or the decades of success. The truly inspiring part of Dolly’s story is where she began and what she chose to do with her success.

Growing up in rural Tennessee as one of twelve children, Dolly experienced poverty firsthand. She understood struggle, sacrifice, and the importance of family. Those early experiences shaped the values that would remain with her throughout life.

Rather than allowing success to separate her from ordinary people, Dolly used her platform to help them.

The Imagination Library became one of the most successful literacy programs in modern history, providing free books to children and encouraging a lifelong love of reading. The program reflected something fundamental about Dolly’s character: a belief that every child deserves opportunity.

Dolly also demonstrated that kindness and strength are not opposites. She never seemed ashamed of her background, her faith, or her unique personality. In an era when public figures often reinvent themselves, Dolly remained unapologetically Dolly.

Perhaps that is why so many people from different backgrounds admired her. She represented something increasingly rare: authenticity.

Her life reminds us that success means little if it cannot be used to help others. Wealth matters less than generosity. Fame matters less than character.

The lesson is simple.

You do not have to be a celebrity to change someone’s life.

You do not have to write hit songs to inspire hope.

You do not have to be wealthy to be generous.

You simply have to care.

When future generations look back on Dolly Parton’s legacy, they will remember the music. But they will also remember the books, the kindness, the faith, the laughter, and the countless lives touched by her generosity.

That is why her story matters.

And that is why the best tribute may be the simplest one:

Be Like Dolly.

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✨ One Year Later: An Update on What Motivates Me

✨ One Year Later: An Update on What Motivates Me

Published by S.M. Ulbrich on 08/25/2026

About a year ago, I wrote a post about what motivates me. My answer then was simple: love. The love of my family, the love of my Heavenly Father, and the love I feel when I think of our Founding Fathers. I also shared my determination to organize and complete the many manuscripts and research projects I had accumulated over the years.

Today, I can happily report that I have made progress.

Not as much as I would like, perhaps, but enough to remind me that every step forward matters.

Over the past year, I have opened more forgotten files, rediscovered more research, and spent countless hours revisiting projects that I once feared might never see the light of day. Some of those old documents have turned out to be treasures. Others have required patience, reconstruction, and a little detective work. That’s all part of the adventure.

What continues to amaze me is the amount of material I gathered over the years. Every folder seems to lead to another story, another ancestor, another idea worth preserving. Sometimes I wonder what my younger self was thinking when I started all of this. Then I find a note or outline and realize I was trying to leave something meaningful behind.

The dream of writing books connected to our grandchildren remains very much alive. Those stories, built around real ancestors and real lives, still matter to me. Perhaps even more than before. The older I get, the more I appreciate how easily family stories can be lost if someone doesn’t take the time to preserve them.

My sense of urgency has not diminished. If anything, it has grown stronger. But I’ve also learned that progress doesn’t happen all at once. It happens one page, one chapter, one recovered file, and one remembered story at a time.

Financial challenges are still real. Life still finds ways to interrupt even the best-laid plans. Yet I remain determined. The motivation that drove me a year ago is still here. In fact, I think it may be stronger now because I can finally see evidence that the work is moving forward.

So what motivates me today?

The answer is still love.

Love for my family. Love for the stories of those who came before us. Love for the generations that will come after us. And the hope that something I write may someday inspire, comfort, or help someone else understand who they are and where they came from.

That seems like a worthy reason to keep going.

Thanks for being here, and thanks for reading.

Feel free to share.

Shirley


Aug. 20, 2025

“What motivates you?”The prompt’s question for today is: what motivates you? I can easily answer this question.

What motivates me is the love of my family. It’s the love I feel from my Heavenly Father. It’s also the love I feel when I think of our Founding Fathers.

Each expression of love comes from deep inside me—deeper than my heart. I’ve felt the lack of that love from each, and it’s even more precious because I feel like I’m missing out. Not necessarily because of anything they are doing, or not doing, but because of my own misgivings.

I am very motivated to work on these manuscripts I’ve had, some, for a very long time. I want as many of them I can find to be prepared for my family to publish, if I can’t do it myself. I have a strong impression that these books each have an important message to give. To whom, I don’t know. Maybe its my family, maybe its someone I don’t know. But this has been a motivating force in my life for a while now. 

It is such a joy to open a file and discover that there’s a lot of material I left for myself to use. So much research! 

On the other hand, it is excruciatingly painful to see that the file is corrupted or I have forgotten the password. Yes, that hurts. But enough of them have opened successfully, that I’m on a cloud. 

I am not talking about one or two books. Nope, I had plans to write one book for each of our grandchildren, and dedicate it to that child. At the time, we had 16 grandchildren. I found the list. It included each child’s name and the topic of the book I intended to write. Each of the protagonists in the stories was an actual ancestor of that child.

For many years, genealogy was my hobby. I loved collecting the names and stories of our ancestors, many of them tragic, some uplifting, and I wanted a way to share this with our grandchildren.

So, all this is my motivating factor. I hope to complete as many as possible. And I’m in a hurry to do it. The only thing keeping me from fulfilling this is finances – a big hurdle these days, but one I’m determined to overcome.

Thanks for being here. And thanks for reading! Feel free to share please. 

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✨ One Year Later

✨ One Year Later

Published by S.M. Ulbrich on 08/22/2026

One year ago, on August 19, 2025, I wrote an update during a season of rebuilding — physically, creatively, and spiritually. Reading it again this week, in the middle of my anniversary emotions and all the memories that come with it, reminded me how much has changed and how much God has carried me through.

At that time, I was recovering from CKD stage 4 and learning to work within the rhythms of my health. Today, I’m back in stage 4 again, and while that is difficult, it has also deepened my understanding of resilience. I continue to honor the quiet days and celebrate the creative ones. This journey still teaches me patience, strength, and grace.

Last year, I was searching for an illustrator. Today, I’ve found a workable rhythm using NightCafe for my artwork. It has allowed me to keep moving forward without the financial strain of hiring an artist. I still hope to collaborate with a young illustrator someday — especially someone who feels connected to the stories — but for now, this path has given me freedom and momentum.

And the creative growth… I never expected this much to bloom in just one year. The George Washington children’s book — inspired by my great‑granddaughter in her bright red patriotic dress — has grown into a full project. My Bedtime Story book is almost ready for publishing. I’ve created an adult coloring book, nearly finished a second mandala coloring book, and designed six “Walking with Christ” journals featuring artwork that reflects every stage of life. I’ve built an Acadian clip‑art book and several other projects that weren’t even imagined a year ago.

Looking back at the post from August 19, 2025, I see a woman hoping for progress. Today, I see a woman who has built an entire shelf of books, journals, and art — one gentle step at a time.

Here is the post exactly as it appeared one year ago.

August 19, 2025

Hi, everyone! I’m excited to share the second installment of my author blog. Let’s dive in! My sleep disorder has posed challenges, but it has forged resilience and adaptability within me. There are nights when I wake up around 10:00 or 11:00, yet I’ve learned to embrace those quiet moments and reflect on what I cherish most.

This journey, though isolating at times, has illuminated the strength found in the cycles of my health. When I feel “well,” I seize the opportunity to immerse myself in writing, gathering rich material for my stories and eager to unleash my creativity.

Moving to East Texas brought a long stretch of limited activity, but I emerged with invaluable lessons in perseverance. Surviving heat stroke and battling Covid twice revealed the immense power of prayer and community support, helping me recover from stage 4 to stage 3.

Recently, a video from my daughter featuring my great-granddaughter in her bright red patriotic dress filled me with inspiration. Her exuberance rekindled my passion for the stories I hold dear. Now, I am diligently working to get my books published!

I am actively seeking an illustrator, reaching out to past collaborators, and my husband has explored local high school resources. The art department head was impressed with my story and suggested involving a student—what a brilliant idea!

I am determined to move forward quickly and will be following up soon. Stay tuned for more updates on my creative journey!

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✨ Our 50‑Year Anniversary Story

✨ Our 50‑Year Anniversary Story

Published by S.M. Ulbrich on 08/21/2026

For our 50th anniversary, I wanted to gather the story of our life — the temples, the moves, the miracles, the losses, the laughter, and the quiet ways we kept choosing each other through every season. This isn’t just a timeline; it’s the map of a marriage built across states, decades, and faith. It’s a love story shaped by resilience, devotion, and the kind of companionship that grows deeper with every storm weathered and every sunrise shared.


If you’d like to read the full story, it’s below — a celebration of fifty years of us.

(A letter for my husband — August 21, 2026)

My love,

Fifty years. Half a century of us — of choosing each other, holding each other, building and rebuilding a life across states, temples, heartbreaks, miracles, and every kind of weather a marriage can walk through. When I look back, I don’t just see the years. I see you.

I see the young man I met at Signetics in Orem — the one every woman flirted with, the one who somehow became my friend in the middle of my own storms. I had Corey and Tracy, you had Alex and Ben, and both of us were trying to survive marriages that were already breaking. We didn’t plan a life together. We simply kept showing up for each other until life itself nudged us into the same direction.

And then came that Christmas of 1975 — the layoff, the eviction, the panic. You found me a place in Salt Lake City, found work nearby, and without knowing it, you set the first stone of our shared foundation. We didn’t fall in love in a moment. We built love out of survival, loyalty, and the way you refused to let me face anything alone.

🌿 The Early Years — Loss, Courage, and Holding On

We moved on January 1, 1976, carrying more hope than belongings. Then came the devastation no parent should ever face — losing Tracy. Losing everything we owned. Losing the Cougar. And yet, even in that grief, we stayed side by side.

Mama’s house. The funeral. Corey kidnapped the night of the viewing. Our first apartment. Our first purchase together — that king‑sized waterbed, our first big purchase on time, and even now, with a mattress we still sleep on. Even then, we were learning how to be a team.

Southern California beaches gave us rest. Quiet days, lazy waves, long talks, always with music to soothe us. You missed your boys. I missed Corey and Tracy. We were two people grieving separately, but healing together.

Then came the loss of our baby boy at five months. Another heartbreak. Another moment where we could have fallen apart — but didn’t.

💍 The Day We Chose Forever

My divorce finalized in August. We married on August 21, 1976, in Las Vegas at the tiny white “Chapel of Eternal Love.” We dressed in a gas station bathroom — me in a long white polyester dress with a white embroidered collar. We couldn’t afford a room, so we celebrated at Denny’s in the middle of the night. Then we drove home, closer to each other than two people have ever been.

That night wasn’t fancy. It wasn’t grand. But it was ours, and it was perfect. We made it OUR chapel of eternal love. From that day, I never felt otherwise, that our love is eternal.

Family time camping.

🏡 Becoming a Family

Corey came home after nine months missing. Alex and Ben came home a few days later. Oh, we were so very happy! We celebrated Halloween and Thanksgiving together. Fantasia was our first movie as a family. You brought me flowers every day for years. We were complete — or as complete as life allowed.

Varian. Church every Sunday. Sarah’s birth. No bucket seats — always cheek to cheek.

Washington. Boeing. Rachael’s birth. Acreage, camping, canning, goats, pigs, rabbits, homeschooling. A whole world built from scratch. We were so much in love, so thankful for each other. Even 20 years later, we couldn’t wait to hold each other tight every night.

Hawaii Temple

✨ Sacred Places, Sacred Promises

Our sealing in the Hawaii Temple — ten days in paradise, one on Maui. Sushi for the first time. Pearl Harbor. BYU–Hawaii. The Polynesian Cultural Center. Driving all over Oahu with joy in our bones. Stargazing into the brilliantly clear night sky, thanking our Father for our many blessings.

Mt. Haleakalā — the highest volcanic mountain in the islands. The young doctor and his pregnant wife who joined us. My altitude sickness. Your shoulder injury. The doctor treating you on the beach the next day. Even in the strangest moments, we were blessed.

🌱 The Middle Years — Work, Service, and Hard Lessons

School. Degrees. Fostering. Political life. Exhaustion. Parenting styles clashing. Kids running in opposite directions. Painful years. Both girls pregnant. The kind of heartbreak that ages a person.

Then, Penryn Park — caretakers. Isolation. Peace. Healing. Unity. The earth itself seemed to hold us together.

🌾 The Later Years — Dreams, Realizations, and Grace

Hawkins, East Texas — the dream fulfilled, then sickness, like a dark shadow, creeping in, once again. The slow painful realization that some dreams arrive later than we hoped. But even then, we stayed side by side.

Now we plan the conclusion gently. We take things slower. We prepare for one last move — to be near family. To settle all things. To finish our story the same way we began it: together.

💛 What I Celebrate Today

I celebrate your strength.
I celebrate your devotion.
I celebrate the way you have carried burdens no one else sees.
I celebrate the way you have loved me through sickness, exhaustion, and every season of life.
I celebrate the way you have shown up — again and again — even when life was unfair.

I celebrate us.

Fifty years of temples.
Fifty years of moves.
Fifty years of children, losses, miracles, and memories.
Fifty years of choosing each other.

My love, we have lived a life that could fill volumes. And through every chapter — the beautiful ones, the painful ones, the ones we barely survived — you have been my partner, my protector, my companion, my home.

Happy 50th Anniversary.

I love you more now than I did on the night we stood in that tiny white chapel.


And I will love you still in every chapter that remains.

✨ Gentle Closing Blessing for the Anniversary Letter

May the years ahead be lighter than the ones behind us.
May peace settle into the corners of our days,
and may kindness be the language we speak to one another.

May we walk slowly, hand in hand,
grateful for the chapters we’ve lived
and tender with the ones still unfolding.

May God hold us close,
heal what has been heavy,
and bless the rest of our journey
with gentleness, warmth, and quiet joy.

And may love — the steady, enduring kind —
continue to be the thread that ties us together
in every step we take from here.

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🌌 Savannah’s Ancestral Song

🌌 Savannah’s Ancestral Song

Published by S.M. Ulbrich on 08/21/2026

Savannah’s birthday arrives wrapped in music, memory, and light.


This year, her celebration carries something deeper — a legacy long hidden, a lullaby rediscovered, and a truth ready to rise like a lantern in the dark. Savannah’s journey begins with a stolen speakeasy song, a diary tucked away for decades, and an ancestor whose voice refused to fade.

As candles flicker and wishes lift, Savannah steps into the story she was born to finish — a story of generational healing, clean romance, and the music that lives forever. Her birthday marks not just another year, but the moment her ancestor’s dream finally finds its way home.

Prologue: The Boarding House Years

Long ago, in a modest boarding house filled with dreamers, two young women shared a room. One would be remembered as a famous star; the other, Savannah’s ancestor, was a gifted songwriter with a voice that could hush the world into reverence. They were inseparable—confidantes of trauma, keepers of each other’s dreams. Together, they chased the same horizon: to be a star.

Their Secret Love.

The Song of Secret Love

Savannah’s ancestor poured her heart into a song, written for a secret romance with a married man. The melody was tender enough to be a lullaby, yet powerful enough to stir the deepest longing.

🎵 “How Long Must Love Be Hidden” 🎵

Verse 1
How long must love be hidden,
Behind the shadows of the night?
I whisper dreams in silence,
But my heart still burns with light.

Pre‑Chorus
Every secret has a rhythm,
Every longing finds its tune.
Though the world may never hear it,
I will sing this song for you.

Chorus
I believe to my soul,
This love was meant to be.
Though the world may never know,
Your song still lives in me.

Verse 2
I cradle hope like children,
And hum it soft and low.
A lullaby for angels,
Of a love the world won’t know.

Bridge
That’s enough to keep me breathing,
Though the night is cold and long.
Your memory is my comfort,
Your heartbeat is my song.

Final Chorus (soaring)
I believe to my soul,
This love was meant to be.
Though the world may never know,
Your song still lives in me.
Forever lives in me.

🎭 Scene: The Speakeasy Song

The speakeasy was alive with secrets. Lanterns flickered above small tables, candles burned low, and smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling fans. The air was thick with whiskey, tobacco, and perfume — a blend of longing and danger. Patrons leaned close over their drinks, whispering confessions, while couples stole kisses in shadowed corners.

The pianist struck slow, jazzy chords, the bass walking steady beneath. A trumpet sighed, weaving in and out of the melody, hypnotic and sultry. The crowd swayed gently, caught in the rhythm.

Savannah’s ancestor stepped onto the small wooden stage, the spotlight softening her features, making her seem both fragile and radiant. She clutched the microphone, closed her eyes, and let the first verse slip out like a prayer.

The room hushed. Glasses stilled mid‑air. Her voice was tender, aching, yet strong enough to hush the clinking of ice. The pre‑chorus rose, building anticipation, and then the chorus soared, gospel‑like, echoing Ray Charles’ confessional honesty and the aching vulnerability of Charles Bradley.

The melody wrapped the crowd in warmth and longing, like a lullaby for their own forbidden loves. Some swayed, some wiped tears. It was more than music — it was truth.

At a corner table, her roommate sat frozen, glass untouched. She knew instantly: this song was a masterpiece. Fame could be built on it. And in that moment, envy stirred, ambition whispered.

The bridge carried aching strength, and the final chorus soared higher, filling the smoky room with light. Applause thundered, echoing against the walls. Savannah’s ancestor smiled faintly, stepping down from the stage, unaware that her closest friend had already decided to steal the song — and with it, her dream.

The Hidden Diary

Decades later, fate intervened. A thrift store customer stumbled upon a diary tucked inside the drawer of a vintage dresser. Its pages revealed the truth: the song was not the star’s creation, but Savannah’s ancestor’s. The diary spoke of their friendship, their shared dreams, and the tragedy that silenced one voice while elevating another.

One entry read:

“She says she will sing my song. She says the world will believe it is hers. I am afraid, but I cannot stop her. My voice is fading, but my song will live.”

Revelation and Inheritance

The family finally learned the truth. Legal battles brought justice, and royalties flowed to Savannah’s family. For Savannah, this inheritance was more than wealth—it was a legacy. She returned to school, pursued her music, and found herself lifted into success. Fame came not from imitation, but from authenticity.

Dreams and Visitations

Savannah had always dreamed of a lullaby, a melody she thought was her own imagination. In truth, it was her ancestor’s song, sung to her infant before tragedy struck. These dreams were visitations, reminders of a bond formed in the pre‑existence. Her ancestor’s spirit had been with her all along, guiding her toward destiny.

Clean Romance and Healing Love

Savannah’s rise was not only musical — it was romantic. She met him not in the spotlight, but in a quiet rehearsal hall where she was practicing her ancestor’s lullaby. He noticed her spirit before her fame, drawn to her authenticity.

Unlike her ancestor’s secret, shadowed love, Savannah’s romance was open, honest, and healing. Where her ancestor’s heart was silenced by betrayal, Savannah’s was nurtured by trust. Together, they dreamed not of fame, but of creating a life filled with music, family, and service.

Their love became a mirror of the song itself — tender, enduring, and meant to be. Just as the chorus repeats “Your song still lives in me,” Savannah realized her love was proof that legacy can be reborn in joy. Through romance, she healed the generational wound of betrayal. Her ancestor’s forfeited dream found balance in Savannah’s fulfilled one, and the love she carried was free of secrecy, built on light instead of shadows.

Savannah’s debut, sings

🌌 Epilogue: The Spirit of the Song

The theater glowed like a sanctuary. Velvet curtains framed the stage, and lanterns lined the aisles, their soft light flickering like guiding stars. Above, feather‑shaped patterns shimmered in the spotlight beams, drifting across the ceiling as if angels themselves were watching.

Savannah stepped forward, her gown flowing like watercolor, pastel hues catching the glow. A single butterfly motif adorned her microphone stand — delicate, luminous, a symbol of transformation.

She began softly, her ancestor’s lullaby rising like incense. Each note was a feather in flight, carrying memory upward. The melody wrapped the audience in warmth, glowing like candlelight against their faces.

Savannah sang the lullaby — the song her ancestor had written in secret, the song stolen and buried, the song rediscovered through dreams and diaries.

As the chorus soared, lanterns brightened, casting golden halos across the crowd. Some wept openly, others clasped hands, and a few closed their eyes as if in prayer. The song was no longer just hers; it was a legacy reborn, a keepsake passed through generations.

Her voice carried not just melody, but memory. Each note was a bridge between past and present, between forfeited dreams and fulfilled ones.

Savannah felt her ancestor beside her, the presence shimmering in the motifs around her — feathers for faith, lanterns for guidance, butterflies for renewal. The final chorus lifted higher, radiant:

“I believe to my soul,
This love was meant to be.
Though the world may never know,
Your song still lives in me.
Forever lives in me.”

The last note lingered like a glowing candle in silence. Then applause erupted, thunderous, rising like a tide. Flowers fell at her feet, lanterns flickered brighter, and butterflies seemed to dance in the air.

Savannah bowed her head, whispering:

“Your song still lives in me.”

The applause was thunderous, but Savannah’s heart was quiet, at peace. She realized that her success was not only her own — it was the continuation of a dream once silenced. Her ancestor’s spirit had been with her all along, gifting her the lullaby, guiding her toward love, and reminding her that legacy is not lost, only waiting to be sung again.

She left the stage knowing she was whole — an artist, a woman, and a granddaughter carrying forward the music of generations, wrapped in symbols of faith, love, and light.

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Happy National Acadian Day; bonne fête nationale de l’acadie!

Published by S.M. Ulbrich on 08/15/2026

Today, August 15, is National Acadian Day … and it’s also India’s Independence Day. Two different different stories in different parts of the world, …

Happy National Acadian Day; bonne fête nationale de l’acadie!

National Acadian Day, known in French as Fête nationale de l’Acadie, is celebrated each year on August 15 in parts of Canada as a tribute to Acadian culture and heritage. The date was chosen in 1881 during the first National Convention of the Acadians in Memramcook, New Brunswick, when Acadian leaders were given the mandate to establish a national day of celebration. Its observance also aligns with the Feast of the Assumption of Mary, giving the day both cultural and religious significance for many Acadians.

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Katelyn’s Assignment

Katelyn’s Assignment

Published by S.M. Ulbrich on 08/10/2026

The moment Katelyn arrived in the Afterplace—somewhere between heaven and the warm glow of a memory—she was handed a clipboard.

She blinked at it. “A clipboard? Seriously? I thought angels had, like, scrolls. Or glowing tablets. Something fancy.”

A tall, shimmering attendant smiled at her. “We tried tablets. Everyone kept dropping them through clouds. You’re assigned to a case.”

“A case?” Katelyn flipped the page. “Am I… a guardian angel?”

“Technically,” the attendant said, “you’re a Preventative Guidance Specialist.”

Katelyn snorted. “So… a guardian angel with a sense of humor.”

“Exactly why we picked you.”

She looked down at the file. A photo of a girl—beautiful, long-legged, with the kind of cheekbones that made makeup artists weep—was clipped to the top.

Name: Lila Hart
Age: 18
Occupation: Model
Risk Level: High
Primary Temptation: Party drugs, peer pressure, bad decisions involving boys with jawlines too sharp to be trusted.

Katelyn raised an eyebrow. “Oh, she’s me at eighteen. Except taller. And probably better at eyeliner.”

“She needs someone who understands her,” the attendant said. “Someone who can speak her language.”

Katelyn sighed, but her heart warmed. “Okay. I’ll help her.”

“And Katelyn?” the attendant added gently. “You’re allowed to use humor. It’s one of your gifts.”

“Oh, I plan to,” she said, flipping her hair like she was about to walk onto a runway.

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Chapter One: The Baggie Incident

Lila Hart was sitting on the edge of her bed in her tiny New York apartment, staring at a little plastic baggie. The contents sparkled—not in a magical way, but in a this-will-ruin-your-life way.

Her phone buzzed. A text from her new modeling friends:

Party tonight. Bring the stuff.

Lila swallowed hard.

That’s when Katelyn appeared.

Not with trumpets. Not with glowing wings. She simply shimmered into existence like a sunbeam deciding to take human form.

“Hey,” Katelyn said casually.

Lila screamed, fell backward, and hit her head on a pillow—thankfully.

“Who—what—how—”

“I’m your… guidance counselor,” Katelyn said, waving her clipboard. “From the Afterplace.”

“The what?”

“It’s like heaven,” Katelyn said. “But with better lighting.”

Lila blinked. “Am I dead?”

“Nope. But you’re about to make choices that could get you there early, and trust me, the onboarding process is long.”

Lila stared at her. “You’re joking.”

“Oh, I joke constantly,” Katelyn said. “But not about this.”

She plucked the baggie from Lila’s hand, sniffed it, made a face, and swapped it with another baggie she pulled from her pocket.

“There,” she said. “Prenatal vitamins.”

Lila blinked. “Prenatal vitamins?”

“Yep. They’re good for your hair, nails, and future babies you’re not having yet. Also, they won’t kill you.”

Lila stared at the new baggie. “Why do you have prenatal vitamins in a baggie?”

Katelyn shrugged. “I like to be prepared.”

Chapter Two: Text Message Sabotage

Lila’s phone buzzed again.

You coming?

Katelyn snatched the phone and typed:

I can’t go to the party tonight; I’m eating carbs.

Lila gasped. “You can’t send that! They’ll think I’m weird!”

“They already think you’re weird,” Katelyn said. “You’re a model who eats. That’s practically rebellious.”

The phone buzzed again.

lol girl u ok?

Katelyn typed back:

No. I’m emotionally fragile and retaining water.

Lila grabbed the phone. “STOP!”

Katelyn grinned. “Look, if they’re your real friends, they’ll laugh. If they’re not, they’ll stop inviting you to parties with drugs. Win-win.”

Lila sank onto the bed. “Why do you care?”

Katelyn softened. “Because I know what it’s like to be young and scared and trying to fit in. And because I know what it’s like to make choices that hurt your heart.”

Lila looked up. “Your heart?”

Katelyn nodded. “Yeah. Mine gave out. I didn’t know how sick I was. I didn’t know how much damage I’d done. I thought I had more time.”

Her voice trembled, but she steadied herself.

“I don’t want that for you.”

Screenshot

Chapter Three: The Rooftop

A week later, Lila stood on the rooftop of her apartment building, staring at the city lights. She’d avoided the parties. She’d avoided the baggies. She’d even started taking the prenatal vitamins, which made her hair look amazing.

Katelyn appeared beside her, sitting cross-legged on the ledge.

“You’re doing good,” she said.

Lila shrugged. “I still feel tempted sometimes.”

“Of course you do,” Katelyn said. “Temptation doesn’t disappear. It just gets quieter when you stop feeding it.”

Lila sighed. “I don’t know if I’m strong enough.”

Katelyn nudged her shoulder. “You’re stronger than you think. And you’re not alone.”

Lila looked at her. “Did you have anyone?”

Katelyn smiled softly. “I had my grandmother. She told me death wasn’t scary. She told me loved ones would greet me. She gave me peace when I was terrified.”

Lila swallowed. “You miss her?”

“Every day,” Katelyn said. “But she’s here. In the Afterplace. And she’s proud of me. And she’d be proud of you.”

Lila’s eyes filled with tears. “I wish I had someone like that.”

“You do,” Katelyn said. “Me.”

Chapter Four: The Party That Wasn’t

One night, Lila’s phone buzzed again.

Big party tonight. VIP only. You in?

She hesitated.

Katelyn appeared instantly. “No.”

“But—”

“Nope.”

“They’ll think I’m boring.”

“They already think you’re boring,” Katelyn said. “You’re a model who reads books.”

Lila laughed. “I don’t read books.”

“You will,” Katelyn said. “I’m manifesting it.”

Lila sighed. “I just… want to belong.”

Katelyn took her hand. “You belong to yourself. And someday, you’ll find people who love you for who you are—not for what you bring in a baggie.”

Lila nodded slowly. “Okay. I’ll stay home.”

“Good,” Katelyn said. “We’re watching a movie.”

“What movie?”

“Something with no drugs, no heartbreak, and no boys named Chase.”

“Why Chase?”

“Trust me,” Katelyn said. “Never Chase.”

Chapter Five: The Confession

Weeks passed. Lila grew stronger. She started eating real meals. She slept more. She laughed more. She even met a sweet boy who didn’t party, didn’t pressure her, and didn’t have a dangerous jawline.

One night, she asked Katelyn, “Why me?”

Katelyn smiled. “Because you remind me of myself. Because you’re beautiful and bright and full of potential. And because you’re standing at the edge of a cliff I once fell off.”

Lila swallowed. “Did you regret it? The drugs?”

Katelyn nodded. “Yes. Not because I was bad. Not because I was weak. But because I didn’t know how much I was hurting myself. I didn’t know how fragile my heart was. I didn’t know how much time I was losing.”

Lila’s eyes filled. “I don’t want to lose time.”

“You won’t,” Katelyn said. “Not if you keep choosing life.”

Chapter Six: The Saving

One night, Lila got a call from her old party friends.

Come out. Just one night. No pressure.

She hesitated.

Katelyn appeared instantly. “Talk to me.”

“I… I kind of want to go.”

“Why?”

“I miss feeling included.”

Katelyn took her face in her hands. “You are included. In your own future. In your own dreams. In your own story.”

Lila trembled. “I’m scared.”

“I know,” Katelyn whispered. “But fear is a sign you’re about to grow.”

Lila nodded. “Okay. I won’t go.”

Katelyn smiled. “Good girl.”

Lila exhaled shakily. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For saving my life.”

Katelyn’s eyes softened. “I didn’t save your life. You did. I just nudged you toward the light.”

Chapter Seven: The Goodbye

One morning, Lila woke up and felt something different. The air was still. The room was quiet.

Katelyn stood by the window, glowing softly.

“You’re leaving,” Lila whispered.

Katelyn nodded. “You don’t need me anymore.”

Lila’s eyes filled. “But I want you.”

Katelyn smiled gently. “I’ll always be around. Just not in person. You’ll hear me in your instincts. In your laughter. In your better choices.”

Lila swallowed. “Will I see you again?”

“Someday,” Katelyn said. “But not for a long, long time.”

Lila hugged her tightly. “I love you.”

Katelyn held her close. “I love you too. And I’m proud of you.”

She pulled back, winked, and said, “And remember—never Chase.”

Then she shimmered, sparkled, and vanished like a sunbeam deciding it had somewhere else to be.

Screenshot

Epilogue

Years later, Lila Hart became a successful model—not the kind who partied, but the kind who inspired young girls to love themselves.

She married the sweet boy with the safe jawline.

She had a daughter with thick, beautiful hair—thanks to prenatal vitamins.

And sometimes, when she stood on a rooftop at sunset, she felt a warm glow beside her.

A presence.

A laugh.

A whisper: “I’m still here.”

And she smiled, knowing she had been saved by a guardian angel with a clipboard, a sense of humor, and a heart that still shone bright.

Dedicated to my beautiful granddaughter, Katelyn, who is on the other side.

Katelyn Ulbrich

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A New Vignette Story

A New Vignette Story

Published by S.M. Ulbrich on 07/17/2026

There are moments in history — and in our own lives — when hope feels like a small flame held against a vast, uncertain world. This story was inspired by an AI‑created illustration of a young Acadian girl standing on a twilight cliff, lantern in hand, watching the sea with quiet strength.

Her image stirred something ancient and familiar: the resilience of Acadian families, the way faith becomes a compass, and how light — even a single lantern — can guide someone home.

Below is the story that grew from that image, written in the spirit of remembrance, gentleness, and the enduring Acadian heart.

On a personal note:
Next week, on the 23rd, my youngest daughter celebrates her birthday. I wanted to do something meaningful for her — something created from the heart — and though money is tight, love never is. So I chose to write this story and dedicate it to her.

Rachael’s love for her dad has always been sweet and uniquely her own. She carries a deep appreciation and respect for him that has blessed our family for decades, and I treasure that about her.

In celebration of her 47th year of life, I dedicate this story to our beautiful daughter, Rachael Lopez.


Happy Birthday, Sweetheart. You are a light all your own.

The Lantern of Beausoleil

The wind carried the scent of salt and pine as Élodie Broussard stood on the cliff’s edge, her shawl fluttering like a crimson wing. Below her, the sea breathed in slow rhythm, its waves whispering against the rocks as if remembering every voyage that had ever crossed its surface. The lantern in her hand glowed softly, a fragile sun against the deepening dusk.

She had come here every evening since her father’s ship failed to return. The villagers said the sea had claimed him, as it had claimed so many Acadian souls before — but Élodie refused to believe that the ocean could swallow faith whole.

The Acadian flag beside her snapped in the wind, its golden star catching the last light of the setting sun. That star, her mother had told her, was the Stella Maris — the Star of the Sea — guiding those who wandered far from home.

Tonight, Élodie whispered to it. “Guide him back to me.”

🌾 The Village Below

Down the slope, the village of Saint‑Pierre glowed with lamplight. Smoke curled from chimneys, and the church bell tolled softly, calling the faithful to evening prayer. The sound drifted upward, mingling with the sigh of the waves.

Élodie’s mother, Cécile, waited by the chapel door, her hands folded around a rosary worn smooth by years of prayer. She had stopped asking Élodie to come down before dark. The girl’s vigil had become a kind of sacred ritual — one that neither mother nor priest dared interrupt.

“Let her stand,” Father Armand had said once. “Faith sometimes needs wind and silence more than words.”

And so Élodie stood, each night, lantern raised like a promise.

🌊 The Memory of Departure

She remembered the morning her father left — the harbor alive with gulls and laughter, the ship’s sails swelling like the hearts of those who believed in new beginnings. He had kissed her forehead and said, “Keep the light burning, ma petite. The sea always finds its way home.”

She had laughed then, not knowing how heavy those words would become.

When the storm came weeks later, it tore through the coast with a fury that felt biblical. The villagers prayed, the mothers wept, and the sea roared as if answering every plea with thunder.

In the days that followed, wreckage washed ashore — planks, ropes, a single boot. But no bodies. No names.

Élodie refused to let the lantern go dark.

🌟 The Stranger at Dusk

On the seventh night after the storm, as the sun melted into the horizon, Élodie saw a flicker of light far out at sea — faint, uncertain, but real.

Her breath caught.

It wasn’t lightning. It wasn’t a star. It was a lantern, bobbing on the waves.

She ran down the cliff path, her skirts gathering dew and bramble. The villagers saw her and followed, their own lanterns swinging like fireflies.

By the time they reached the shore, the tide had carried in a small boat — battered, half‑broken, but alive. Inside lay a man, his hair silvered by salt, his hands clutching a wooden cross.

Her father.

🕯️ The Return

He was weak, but smiling. “Your light,” he whispered, “I saw it through the storm.”

The villagers lifted him gently, carrying him toward the chapel. Élodie walked beside him, lantern still burning.

That night, the church glowed brighter than it ever had. The priest said it was a miracle. The fishermen said it was luck. Élodie said nothing — she only watched the flame dance inside the glass, steady and golden.

Her father’s ship had been lost, but his faith had not.

🌠 The Legacy of Light

Years later, when Élodie herself became a mother, she told her children the story of the lantern — how it had guided a soul home through darkness.

She taught them that hope was not a thing to be shouted into the wind, but held quietly, like a flame cupped in trembling hands.

And when she grew old, she passed the lantern to her daughter, Marie, saying, “Keep it burning. Not for me, but for anyone who needs to find their way.”

Marie carried it to the same cliff, where the Acadian flag still waved against the twilight. The sea below was calm, the village lights steady.

She lifted the lantern high, and for a moment, the world seemed to pause — as if heaven itself leaned closer to listen.

🌅 Epilogue: The Star and the Sea

Long after Élodie’s time, travelers who visited Saint‑Pierre spoke of a light that could be seen from miles away — a single lantern glowing on the cliff at dusk.

Some said it was a trick of the sun. Others said it was the spirit of a girl who refused to let hope drown.

But the elders knew better.

They said the lantern was the heart of Acadia itself — a reminder that even when the world scatters its people like seeds across continents, the light of home still burns.

And if you stand on that cliff at twilight, you might hear the whisper of waves saying her name.

Élodie.
Keeper of the light.

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🛡️ Genealogy AI Safety Checklist

🛡️ Genealogy AI Safety Checklist

Published by S.M. Ulbrich on 07/06/2026

A calm, practical guide for using AI without letting it derail your research.

🔍 1. Keep AI in the “Safe Zone”

Use AI only for tasks that don’t affect the accuracy of your tree.

  • Transcriptions — word‑for‑word text from handwritten or printed records
  • Translations — turning foreign-language text into English
  • Summaries — pulling out names, dates, and places
  • Brainstorming — ideas, search strategies, or questions to ask

If a task requires interpretation, conclusions, or connecting people, keep it human.

⚠️ 2. Never Accept AI’s Genealogy “Facts”

AI can sound confident while being completely wrong.

Reject any AI output that includes:

  • Unverified relationships
  • Invented dates or events
  • Nonexistent record collections
  • Sources you cannot locate

If you can’t find the record yourself, it doesn’t exist.

📚 3. Verify Everything Against Primary Sources

Your safest workflow:

  • Compare AI transcriptions to the original image
  • Confirm translations with dictionaries or human help
  • Cross-check names, dates, and places manually
  • Use archives like FamilySearch, Ancestry, Drouin, or civil registers

AI can assist your eyes — but not your conclusions.

🧭 4. Watch for Red Flags

Discard AI output immediately if you see:

  • A perfect, tidy narrative
  • A timeline that doesn’t add up
  • A record set you can’t locate
  • A “source” that leads nowhere
  • A suggestion that contradicts known history
  • A claim that feels too convenient

Your intuition is a research tool. Trust it.

🧪 5. Test Before Trusting

When AI gives you information:

  • Ask it to show the exact text
  • Ask where the record is located
  • Ask for the archive, collection, and image number

If it cannot provide specifics, the information is unsafe.

🧱 6. Keep Your Tree Protected

Your genealogy tree is fragile. Guard it by:

  • Adding only verified facts
  • Keeping AI-generated notes separate
  • Labeling AI suggestions as “unverified”
  • Avoiding merges or connections based on AI output
  • Saving original documents first, interpretations second

Your tree should never depend on AI.

🧘 7. Maintain a Skeptical Mindset

AI hallucinations happen even when you tell it not to.

Your mantra:

“AI is a tool, not a genealogist.”

Use it for language barriers, not lineage building.

🌿 8. Use AI for Creative Extras Only

Safe creative uses:

  • Featured images
  • Genealogy-themed graphics
  • Blog post drafts
  • Checklists and worksheets

These enhance your work without touching your research accuracy.

⭐ Final Rule

If AI gives you a detail you cannot verify in a real archive, throw it out.

Your ancestors deserve truth, not guesses.

P.S. Here’s a cheat sheet, in case you’d like to download it.

S.M.U.
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Genealogy AI Safety Checklist

Genealogy AI Safety Checklist

Published by S.M. Ulbrich on 07/06/2026

A calm, practical guide for using AI without letting it derail your research.

🔍 1. Keep AI in the “Safe Zone”

Use AI only for tasks that don’t affect the accuracy of your tree.

  • Transcriptions — word‑for‑word text from handwritten or printed records
  • Translations — turning foreign-language text into English
  • Summaries — pulling out names, dates, and places
  • Brainstorming — ideas, search strategies, or questions to ask

If a task requires interpretation, conclusions, or connecting people, keep it human.

⚠️ 2. Never Accept AI’s Genealogy “Facts”

AI can sound confident while being completely wrong.

Reject any AI output that includes:

  • Unverified relationships
  • Invented dates or events
  • Nonexistent record collections
  • Sources you cannot locate

If you can’t find the record yourself, it doesn’t exist.

📚 3. Verify Everything Against Primary Sources

Your safest workflow:

  • Compare AI transcriptions to the original image
  • Confirm translations with dictionaries or human help
  • Cross-check names, dates, and places manually
  • Use archives like FamilySearch, Ancestry, Drouin, or civil registers

AI can assist your eyes — but not your conclusions.

🧭 4. Watch for Red Flags

Discard AI output immediately if you see:

  • A perfect, tidy narrative
  • A timeline that doesn’t add up
  • A record set you can’t locate
  • A “source” that leads nowhere
  • A suggestion that contradicts known history
  • A claim that feels too convenient

Your intuition is a research tool. Trust it.

🧪 5. Test Before Trusting

When AI gives you information:

  • Ask it to show the exact text
  • Ask where the record is located
  • Ask for the archive, collection, and image number

If it cannot provide specifics, the information is unsafe.

🧱 6. Keep Your Tree Protected

Your genealogy tree is fragile. Guard it by:

  • Adding only verified facts
  • Keeping AI-generated notes separate
  • Labeling AI suggestions as “unverified”
  • Avoiding merges or connections based on AI output
  • Saving original documents first, interpretations second

Your tree should never depend on AI.

🧘 7. Maintain a Skeptical Mindset

AI hallucinations happen even when you tell it not to.

Your mantra:

“AI is a tool, not a genealogist.”

Use it for language barriers, not lineage building.

🌿 8. Use AI for Creative Extras Only

Safe creative uses:

  • Featured images
  • Genealogy-themed graphics
  • Blog post drafts
  • Checklists and worksheets

These enhance your work without touching your research accuracy.

⭐ Final Rule

If AI gives you a detail you cannot verify in a real archive, throw it out.

Your ancestors deserve truth, not guesses.

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Using AI in Genealogy: A Helpful Tool… with Serious Limits

Using AI in Genealogy: A Helpful Tool… with Serious Limits

Published by S.M. Ulbrich on 07/02/2026

Genealogy is a discipline built on accuracy. One wrong assumption can unravel years of careful work. With AI becoming more common in research spaces, I wanted to see what it could realistically offer genealogists — especially those working with foreign‑language records.

What I discovered is that AI can be both a helpful assistant and a source of major problems.

Where AI Can Help

AI shines in a few very specific areas:

  • Transcription help — It can produce word‑for‑word transcriptions of handwritten or printed text, even in languages you don’t read.
  • Translation assistance — It can turn those transcriptions into English so you can understand the basics.
  • Document summaries — It can pull out names, dates, places, and relationships for quick review.

These tasks are mechanical, not interpretive — and that’s exactly why AI performs them reasonably well. For language barriers, this can be a huge help.

Where AI Goes Wrong

Once AI moves beyond transcription and translation, the risks increase dramatically.

  • False connections — AI may confidently link people who are not related at all.
  • Invented details — It may create marriages, death dates, or events that don’t exist in any record.
  • Nonexistent sources — It can fabricate entire record sets, archives, volumes, or page numbers.
  • No real sourcing — AI often pulls from user‑submitted trees or unverified data without telling you.

Even when instructed not to invent information, AI may still hallucinate — and sometimes defend those errors instead of correcting them.

These aren’t small mistakes. They can waste hours of research time and send you down dead ends.

Conclusion

After testing AI in multiple ways, here are the guidelines I now follow:

  • Use AI only for safe tasks
    Transcriptions, translations, summaries, brainstorming — yes. Facts, relationships, conclusions — no.
  • Verify everything manually
    Always return to primary sources: parish registers, civil records, notarial documents, censuses, and original scans.
  • Reject suspicious details
    If a record seems too tidy, lacks a source, or cannot be located in a real archive, discard it immediately.
  • Stay skeptical
    AI will hallucinate even when told not to. Double‑check everything.

Bottom Line

AI can be a helpful companion for transcription, translation, and image creation, especially when working with foreign‑language records. But as a research partner, it is unreliable. It can produce convincing but completely fabricated information — wrong connections, invented events, and imaginary record collections.

Real progress still comes from careful, manual verification.

Treat AI as a curious but unreliable assistant. Use it for language barriers, not conclusions.

My Rating: 3 out of 10 for genealogy research reliability.

P.S. Yes, yes, I know this is my “author” blog, but I’ll let you in on a little secret: I’m prepping to write another book! Hmm, I can tell, some of y’all have already picked up the vibes! Smart darlin’s, my readers.

As I was revising my contest entry documentation, I realized I was actually writing a basic outline for my next book! Oh, I feel so blessed!

Anyway, as you know, the storyline may evolve into something else, but I suspect He’s already given me my next assignment. Praying I can finish it.

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The Forge of Broken Things 

The Forge of Broken Things 

Published by S.M. Ulbrich on 06/29/2026

PLEASE NOTE: I’ve entered a contest in Nightcafe and I’m hoping to win. The prize is money, which I intend to use it to publish my many manuscripts. Please consider going to the site and voting for me. I cannot tell you how much I’d appreciate it.

My health is still hanging in at stage 4 CKD, thank goodness! I’ve been blessed so many times.

Below is a description of my entry to the contest:

This story weaves a rich tapestry that connects the epic, historical resilience of ancestors directly, into a modern story of survival and extraordinary love.

Capturing the blacksmith roots, the grief of Acadians, and the mending of self and foster children, this story highlights the concept of an unbroken line of patriots and survivors.

The protagonist (celebrating 50 years of marriage) reflects on her life of fostering over 200 children, adopting 3, and giving birth to 5. It explores her slow recovery from severe childhood trauma (parents divorced by age 4, a father with schizophrenia, a mother developmentally delayed to age 13, and enduring childhood physical and sexual abuse). It details the hardships she and her husband overcame, including losing babies, and celebrates their clean, enduring romance.

Incorporating a cohesive parallel narrative arc, the story interweaves the historical trials of my ancestors (the Acadian expulsion, the Irish potato famine) with my own personal trials (childhood trauma, fostering 200 children), showing that the “patriot DNA” of survival was passed down to me, through my children. 

The Paternal Grandmother’s side: Direct descent from the legendary Acadian leader Joseph ‘Beausoleil’ Broussard, embodying the patriot spirit and the tragedy/triumph of the Acadian expulsion.

The Maternal Grandfather’s side: A deeply rooted line where the protagonist is related to him 17 different ways, filled with early American patriots.

The Maternal Great-Grandparents (The Peppers): Newlyweds fleeing Ireland immediately after the Potato Famine, arriving in New Orleans to build a life from scratch as blacksmiths.

The themes of ancestral survival, blacksmithing/refining fire, and patriotism mirror the protagonist’s fight to survive her childhood and become a sanctuary for 200 forgotten children. 

https://creator.nightcafe.studio/g/select/post/tzEif3szTbg2FyW0c71X

Submit a Body of Work that tells a story from start to finish. Be reviewed by expert judges, and compete for a $1,000 grant and a feature in Prompt Magazine.

I’m just finishing up the outline for this yet-to-be-written book, which will be a historical novel/memoir.

Thanks so much!

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Lagniappe

Lagniappe

Published by S.M. Ulbrich on 06/17/2026

Lagniappe: something given as a bonus or extra gift. (I used this term in another blog, which was useful. Hope you might see this as helpful to you.)

I’m in the middle of so much stuff! But I did read some very interesting articles from others’ blogs. I don’t have time to share each one properly, but I thought you might be interested in checking them out, if you have the time or inclination.

I do have another blog, which is primarily genealogy-related, and I’m trying to recall how to get access to it. The blog is: Family Circle 14, and I’ve had it for many years — although I lost it for much of that time.

When I can, I’ll post less genealogy-related stuff here and just post it there. In the meantime, here’s my list.

Blog posts

Full-Text Search + Research = A Win! by Ken McKinlay on Family Tree Knots.

It Happened in Newmarket by Patrick Lacroix on Query the Past.

New Ancestry Features: One Disappeared and One Made Me Smile by Doris Kenney on A Tree With No Name.

Smarter AI Prompts for Genealogists by Natalie Webb on Family Tree Technology.

Untangling the Life of Madeleine Hélie (c1633-1677/1678) – 52 Ancestors #479 by Roberta Estes on DNAeXplained.

From Memory to Memoir by Carole McCulloch on Essential Genealogy.

Gedminer by Claire Bradley on CBGenealogy.

Articles

Acadian ancestry led Marianne Sulser to story of displacement that inspired her novel, Colorado Sun, Denver, Colorado.

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Beausoleil’s Foundation: Acadian Freedom Fighter

Beausoleil’s Foundation: Acadian Freedom Fighter

Published by S.M. Ulbrich on 06/10/2026

Many people know about Joseph “Beausoleil” Broussard. That name is a proud part of Acadian history. If you’re familiar with Beausoleil, (English: Beautiful Sun), then, you know that Beyoncé is a direct descendant. I happen to share that distinction through my paternal grandmother.

Broussard is widely regarded as a hero and an important historical figure by both Acadians and Cajuns in Louisiana.

This story is about Catherine Richard, Beausoleil’s mother, (c1663 – after 1714). I’m working on a fun book which has to do with the Acadians, so, I’ve been thinking a lot about Catherine.

It is somewhat bittersweet because the content is for elementary-age school children. Naturally, the tone of the book will be appropriate for children. I considered putting the following thoughts here in this blog. Below are some facts I’ve collected from my genealogy work.

Born around 1663 in Port Royal, she came into a world where Acadia itself was unstable, contested, and vulnerable.

Catherine Richard’s life was not a neat genealogy line. It was a life lived under pressure, in fear, in grief, and in stubborn endurance.

Her parents, Michel Richard dit Sansoucy and Madeleine Blanchard, were among the early Acadian families trying to build a life on land that was never fully secure.

Catherine grew up in a place where survival meant farming, faith, family, and the constant awareness that history could break into your home at any moment.

By the time she was a teenager, Catherine had likely married François Broussard. She was still very young, probably about fifteen, when she began the life that would define her: wife, mother, mourner, survivor.

The records suggest that she and François had children almost immediately, and that some of those first babies died.

That kind of loss is easy to flatten into a line in a family tree, but in real life it meant a young mother burying infants before she had even learned how to fully live as an adult. It meant grief so early that it became part of the architecture of her life.

Then came the larger violence of history. In 1690, English forces attacked Port Royal.

Catherine would have seen the ships on the river, the cannons, the panic, the helplessness. The town was plundered. Homes were burned. Livestock was killed. The church was desecrated. The place where her children were baptized and where her dead were buried became a target. And this was not the only attack. More raids followed.

The family’s life in Port Royal became increasingly impossible, and like many Acadians, they moved upriver to Beausoleil, seeking safety, land, and some measure of peace.

But peace was always temporary. Catherine’s family was large, and the records show both growth and loss. She had children who survived into adulthood and children who vanished from the record, likely buried in unmarked graves.

She lost her mother, probably around the time she was still a young woman herself. She lost her father later. She likely lost siblings, children, neighbors, and the sense that the world could be trusted.

Catherine’s life was marked by repeated bereavement: babies, parents, perhaps even a child or two in the years after 1690. Her suffering was not singular; it was cumulative.

Her sons Alexandre and Joseph Broussard became the most famous members of the family.

Joseph, known as Beausoleil, became one of the great Acadian resistance leaders. He and Alexandre did not simply endure the English conquest and deportation; they resisted it.

They fought, hid, escaped, regrouped, and kept going when surrender would have been easier. Their story is one of courage, but it is also one of relentless loss.

They lost homes, land, freedom, relatives, and eventually, in exile, many more family members to disease and hardship.

François Broussard and Catherine Richard made the move to the village of Beausoleil between the 1693 and the 1698 census.

In today’s language, they would rightly be framed as “freedom fighters”, but that freedom came at a devastating cost.

The Acadian Expulsion was not just a relocation. It was a tearing apart of a people. Families were separated. Children were taken. Homes were burned. Entire communities were erased.

The Broussards’ story shows the human scale of that catastrophe. Catherine’s sons became symbols of resistance, but they were also sons of a mother who had already lived through decades of fear and grief before the final catastrophe even arrived.

In 1698, according to census records, Françoise, age 45, and Catherine, age 35, have Madeleine, 18, Pierre, 15, Marie, 13, Catherine 7, Elisabeth 5, François, 3, and Claude, one-half.

They have 15 cattle, 20 sheep, 14 hogs, on 16 arpents of land, with two fruit trees. Additionally, they have two guns and a servant, so all things considered, they are doing very well.

Of Catherine’s 10 known children, meaning those who did not die as children, and for whom we have names, the oldest three disappeared from the records around the time of the Expulsion, three died in Port Royal, one is last found in Maryland, one died in Quebec, and two founded the Cajun community in Louisiana.

These latter two, Joseph Beausoleil and Alexandre, were born 2 years apart. Catherine had one more child after Alexandre. I happen to be a direct descendant of Joseph through my paternal grandmother. Catherine gave birth to anywhere between 10 to 19 children, according to records, and perhaps more.

Catherine herself likely died before the Expulsion, but her life was the foundation from which her children’s resistance grew.

She raised them in a world that taught them how to survive, how to endure, and perhaps how to refuse submission.

What makes Catherine’s story so powerful is that it is not only about famous ancestors. It is about the ordinary, brutal reality of Acadian life.

It is about a woman who buried children, watched her home burn, moved to survive, and kept raising a family in a land repeatedly threatened by war. It is about the quiet heroism of mothers whose names are often preserved only in censuses and parish registers, yet whose lives shaped entire peoples.

Catherine Richard was not a footnote to Joseph Broussard dit Beausoleil. She was the root system beneath him.

And that is the deeper truth of the Acadian story. The famous names matter, but they were carried by mothers, fathers, grandparents, and children who lived through terror without the luxury of being remembered as legends.

Catherine’s life reminds us that history is not only made by battles and treaties.

It is made in kitchens, fields, graveyards, and burned-out homes.

It is made by women who keep going after loss, by families who rebuild after raids, and by people who refuse to disappear even when the world tries to erase them.

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“Sleepy Tales” Almost Ready!

“Sleepy Tales” Almost Ready!

Published by S.M. Ulbrich on 04/18/2026

My bedtime storybook, “Sleepy Tales” is very nearly done! I’ve just got one more illustration to complete, and then, it’ll be ready for final review. I’m so excited! It’s a very cute book, I must say.

Just one of the ten stories!

Stay tuned! More details coming.

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Just a Reminder…

Just a Reminder…

Published by S.M. Ulbrich on 04/02/2026

I’ve had this little book out on Amazon for a while now. Hope you’ve all had a chance to check it out. It’s really sweet; there’s a double story about the dangers that these beautiful ocean turtles experience – many lose their limbs to nets, fishermen’s nets that get caught up in their flippers.

Anyway, I just wanted to share my new video for book # 2 of Discovering Misty.

Please check it out! There’s some great reviews in Goodreads too.

Thanks all!

https://youtube.com/shorts/l5y01saAX8w?si=wiqfFpAOFkES6QY1

mibextid

https://a.co/d/0cAAqxcX

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Amazon Published My Adult Coloring Book Today!

Amazon Published My Adult Coloring Book Today!

Published by S.M. Ulbrich on 03/26/2026

Woohoo! My new book is out! It’s a Luxury Adult Coloring Book. Check it out!

Scientists have discovered that using coloring books actually helps to calm and help the brain focus better.

I wrote about it last night in my blog and now it’s available for purchase. They should have more pictures up in a few days. There’s more than 170 pages to color!

https://a.co/d/062sS8aX

Check it out!

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Exciting News from Pages Alight (and S.M. Ulbrich!)

Exciting News from Pages Alight (and S.M. Ulbrich!)

Published by S.M. Ulbrich on 03/25/2026

Hello, friends and fellow story-lovers!

I’m Shirley Ulbrich, writing under the pen names Pages Alight (for my more whimsical and visual storytelling projects) and S.M. Ulbrich (for my fantasy, sci-fi, and dystopian tales). Today I’m thrilled to share that we’re hard at work on a brand-new story book—a project that’s been dancing around in my imagination for quite some time. I can’t wait to tell you more as it takes shape!

In the meantime, my little collection of small notebooks (there are currently three available) continues to bring joy to folks who love to jot down thoughts, sketches, or daily reflections. They’re simple, charming, and perfect for tucking into a bag or keeping by your bedside.

And the big news I’ve been waiting for… my luxury adult coloring book is finally in review! After a couple of rejections (those picky full-bleed page requirements kept tripping us up), it looks like we might see it go live as soon as today or tomorrow. Fingers crossed—I’ll shout it from the rooftops the moment it’s approved and available!

To celebrate the creative energy flowing right now, here are a couple of illustrations I created that didn’t make it into the final story book or coloring pages. I thought you might enjoy them as a little sneak peek into my artistic process:

Sleepy Tales
Emma and the Whispering Unicorn

What do you think? Do any of these spark a story idea for you? I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments!

If you’d like to stay in the loop on the new story book, the coloring book launch, or any of my other creations (under any of my names), feel free to subscribe to the newsletter or follow along on social media. Your support means the world to this indie author and visual storyteller.

Thank you for being part of this creative journey with me. Here’s to more stories, more colors, and more pages alight!

✨Warmly,

Shirley Ulbrich

aka Pages Alight & S.M. Ulbrich

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Don’t Know Where This Was Discussed, but Here’s My Thoughts

Don’t Know Where This Was Discussed, but Here’s My Thoughts

Published by S.M. Ulbrich on 01/20/2026

A man slaughters a big cow, starts the grill, and says to his daughter, “Daughter, go call our relatives, friends, and neighbors to join us… We’re having a celebration!”


The daughter goes out to the street and shouts, “Please help! My father’s house is on fire!”
After some time, only a few people come out to help, while many others act like they didn’t hear anything. The ones who came stay, eat, and enjoy the food until late.

The father, confused, looks around and says to his daughter, “I don’t know most of these people. Some I’ve never seen before. Where are our friends, family, and neighbors?”


The daughter calmly replies, “The people who came didn’t come for a party. They came because they thought we were in trouble. These are the people who care about us. These are the ones who deserve to celebrate with us.”

Lesson: The ones who don’t show up when you’re struggling don’t deserve to be with you when you succeed.

What do you think? I think it all depends on the intent of a person, really. Some people may WANT to help, but don’t know how. There are times in everyone’s lives when it’s just too hard to stretch and serve another, even though we want to help.

If someone came to our door right now, my husband would do everything he can, but he can’t give money or can’t be gone from the house very long, as people need him here. Those circumstances must be taken into consideration, and not punish those with good intent.

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The Magic of Runes in Modern Storytelling

The Magic of Runes in Modern Storytelling

Published by S.M. Ulbrich on 01/19/2026

As an author weaving tales of survival and mysticism, I’ve fallen in love with runes, those enigmatic symbols from our ancestors. Today, let’s explore how these ancient marks breathe new life into modern stories, drawing from their historical roots to inspire today’s readers and writers.

Imagine a world shattered by catastrophe, where survivors cling to fragments of ancient wisdom to forge their path forward. In my Zion series, a mysterious rune etched on a weathered stone whispers prophecies of hope amid the ruins. It’s not just a plot device—it’s a bridge to the past, pulsing with magic that feels alive on the page.

Runes aren’t mere letters; they’re portals to a bygone era. The Elder Futhark, the oldest known runic alphabet, emerged around 150-800 AD among Germanic tribes in Scandinavia and beyond.

Carved into wood, stone, or bone, these 24 symbols served practical purposes—like labeling possessions or commemorating the dead—but they also carried deeper, mystical connotations.

Derived from the word “rún” meaning “secret” or “mystery” in Old Norse, runes were believed to hold divinatory power. Warriors might consult them before battle, or shamans use them in rituals to glimpse the future.

Historians draw much of what we know from sources like the Anglo-Saxon Rune Poem and the Norwegian Rune Poem, which assign poetic meanings to each symbol.

Take Fehu, the first rune, shaped like a cattle horn: It represents wealth, prosperity, and the rewards of hard work.

Uruz, resembling an aurochs (a wild ox), embodies raw strength and endurance—perfect for tales of overcoming adversity.

Then there’s Ansuz, linked to Odin, the Allfather, symbolizing wisdom, communication, and divine inspiration.

These aren’t static definitions; they’re fluid, open to interpretation, which is why they fascinate storytellers like me.

In my Zion series—starting with Zion: The Beginning and continuing through the chronicles—I’ve adapted these runes to fit a post-apocalyptic landscape. Here, they’re more than historical nods; they’re survival tools.

Characters decipher rune-inscribed artifacts to unlock hidden bunkers or predict environmental threats, blending ancient lore with futuristic grit.

For instance, a protagonist might trace Uruz during a brutal storm, drawing on its energy to push through exhaustion.

This isn’t arbitrary—I researched authentic meanings to ensure they resonate authentically, then twisted them to serve the narrative. It’s like Tolkien did with his Elvish scripts or runes in The Hobbit, where they add layers of world-building that make Middle-earth feel timeless.

What draws me to runes in storytelling is their versatility. They’re visual poetry: Simple lines that evoke complex ideas, making them ideal for visual media like book covers or fan art.

In Zion, they symbolize resilience in chaos, mirroring real-world themes of adaptation in uncertain times. And honestly, incorporating them sparks my creativity—it’s like unlocking a secret code in my own writing process.

Speaking of process, let’s get practical. If you’re an aspiring writer eyeing mystical elements, runes are a goldmine. I start with research:

Books like The Rune Primer by Sweyn Plowright or online archives from museums provide solid foundations without overwhelming you. Then, I sketch them out—drawing Fehu or Ansuz helps internalize their shapes and energies.

One tip I had fun with: Try “rune journaling.” Each morning, pull a rune (you can use apps or make your own deck) and let it inspire a scene. Stuck on a character’s motivation? Draw Ansuz for a wisdom breakthrough. It’s a low-pressure way to infuse some Nordic or Celtic magic into your drafts.

In Zion, this method led to some of my favorite twists—like a rune that shifts meaning based on context, forcing heroes to question fate. It’s empowering: Runes remind us that stories, like real life, are woven from choices and interpretations. If you’re curious, grab a notebook and experiment— who knows what secrets you’ll uncover?

As we step into 2026, runes feel more relevant than ever. In a world buzzing with AI and rapid change, they ground us in human heritage while fueling imagination. Whether you’re devouring fantasy epics or crafting your own, these symbols endure because they tap into universal truths: Strength in struggle, wisdom in whispers.

From Book 1: Zion: The Beginning Of the 6-part Series “America’s Great Perfect Storm”

If runes have sparked your interest, let me know and when it’s ready, I will let you know.. You’ll dive into the Zion series on Amazon—start with Zion: The Beginning and see how these ancient marks shape a new world.

Share your thoughts in the comments: Have you used runes in your stories, or do they appear in your favorite books?

I’d love to hear! And stay tuned for more chronicles woven in runes—next up, perhaps a rune-deep dive on my upcoming podcast.

Thanks for reading, fellow adventurers. Until next time, may your paths be marked with prosperous runes.

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Navigating the Digital Waves: How I Communicate Online as an Author

Navigating the Digital Waves: How I Communicate Online as an Author

Published by S.M. Ulbrich on 01/14/2026

How do you communicate online?

Hello, readers! I’m Shirley Ulbrich, writing under the pen name S.M. Ulbrich, and today I’m diving into the prompt: “In what ways do you communicate online?” As an author of fantasy, sci-fi, dystopian, and children’s stories, online communication is my lifeline for connecting with readers, sharing my work, and building a community.

Hard at Work – MakingPlans

From promoting my books like the Discovering Misty series, George and the Eagle, The Covenant Fire (a standalone book), and the Zion series—America’s Great Terrible Storm, a 6-book series exploring themes of prophecy, survival, and faith with elements like Obama-era events, New Jerusalem visions, survival vaults, and culminating in a Survival review in the last book—to preparing to host my Pages Alight Podcast,

Misty the Mermaid of the Emerald Coast

I use a mix of platforms to engage, inspire, and interact. In this post, I’ll break down my methods, sprinkle in insights from key books on digital communication, and highlight how these tools help me spread the word about my projects. Let’s explore!

My Go-To Online Communication Methods

Online communication for me is all about blending creativity with connection. It’s not just about broadcasting—it’s about fostering conversations, sharing behind-the-scenes glimpses, and turning solitary writing into a shared adventure. Here’s how I do it:

1. My Website: The Central Hub (smulbrichauthor.com)

My website is the foundation of my online presence. It’s where I post detailed blog entries, book descriptions, and updates. For instance, I recently shared “Got a New Story in the Works for Misty,” teasing expansions to the Discovering Misty series about a young mermaid’s adventures in self-discovery and friendship. I also use it to announce wins, like taking 1st prize in a writing contest, and to promote my standalone book The Covenant Fire, a Christian/LDS YA apocalyptic novel full of adventure, as well as the Zion series, America’s Great Terrible Storm. This 6-book series weaves Latter-day Saint prophecy with dystopian survival stories, incorporating elements like Obama-era collapses, visions of New Jerusalem, and survival vaults in a saga of faith and resilience. The series includes books like Collapse (focusing on early chaos), Runners, Shadows of Zion, Rebuilding, Legacy, and ends with a Survival review in the sixth book, providing a comprehensive look back at survival strategies and themes. The site links everything together, from buy buttons on Amazon to podcast trailers, making it easy for visitors to explore my world.

2. Social Media Platforms: Engaging and Promoting

Social media is where the magic happens in real-time. I use it to share snippets, visuals, and calls to action for my books and podcast.

• Facebook (fb.com/smulbrich): On FB, I post about my multi-genre tales, from the whimsical Discovering Misty to the intense Zion series, America’s Great Terrible Storm, which follows characters navigating faith, chaos, and prophetic storms across six books, ending with a Survival review. I share trailers, reader reviews, and community discussions to build buzz.

• Instagram (@s.m.ulbrich): IG is perfect for visuals. I post book covers, AI-generated art inspired by my stories—like a podcast banner with a glowing antique book for Pages Alight—and reels teasing scenes from George and the Eagle, where young George Washington and his eagle companion face storms and adventures. It’s great for hashtagging #multigenre and connecting with visual storytellers.

• X (formerly Twitter, @SMUlbrich): On X, I share quick updates, blog links, and engage with trends. For example, I posted about my YouTube milestone for Pages Alight Podcast, which lights up discussions on my books and storytelling. I promote entries like “Narrative Nook Monday” series, tying into my Zion books such as America’s Great Terrible Storm, and even chime in on fun polls to keep interactions lively.

• TikTok and YouTube: These are video-heavy for my Pages Alight Podcast, where I will dive into book themes, read excerpts from the Zion series, and share trailers for The Covenant Fire. Short clips build excitement for upcoming releases.

These platforms help me reach different audiences—FB for in-depth shares, IG for aesthetics, X for quick chats—but they can get noisy, so I focus on authentic engagement to avoid burnout.

3. Email and Newsletters: Direct and Personal

I use email lists via my website to send exclusive updates, like sneak peeks at the Zion series’ Survival review or podcast episode drops. It’s asynchronous, allowing thoughtful responses without the pressure of live chats.

4. Podcasts and Video: Bringing Stories to Life

My Pages Alight Podcast on YouTube is a passion project. I communicate through audio-visual storytelling, discussing themes from my books, interviewing fellow creators, and reading passages. It’s ideal for conveying tone and emotion that text alone misses.

To refine my approach, I’ve drawn from several insightful books:

Lessons from Books on Online Communication

• Alone Together: Why We Expect More from Technology and Less from Each Other by Sherry Turkle: This reminds me that while social media expands my reach for promoting Discovering Misty, it can lead to superficial ties. I counter this by encouraging genuine comments and DMs.

• Online Communication: Linking Technology, Identity, & Culture by Andrew F. Wood and Matthew J. Smith: It explores how platforms shape identity, which helps me craft my author persona across FB, IG, and X.

• Smart Online Communication: Protecting Your Digital Footprint by Mary Lindeen: Essential for safe promotion, especially when sharing personal wins like my newsletter awards.

• Future Crimes by Marc Goodman: A warning about digital risks, guiding me to protect my content while sharing Zion series details.

These books emphasize balance—using tech to enhance, not replace, human connection.

The Impact and Future of My Online Efforts

Communicating online has grown my audience, from 25 followers on X to YouTube subscribers celebrating milestones. It’s helped sell books, launch the podcast, and connect over shared loves like fantasy and faith. Challenges? Time management and algorithm changes. But the rewards—reader feedback on George and the Eagle or Zion discussions—make it worthwhile.

How do you communicate online? Drop a comment below, or find me on socials to chat. Check out smulbrichauthor.com for more, and stay tuned for Pages Alight episodes!

Thanks for reading—let’s keep the conversation going!

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