Lately, I’ve been thinking about what it really means to follow Jesus Christ.
We often talk about faith as if it’s a destination, something we arrive at once we’ve learned enough or become good enough. But the more I reflect on my own walk with God, the more I realize it’s a lifelong journey. God isn’t looking for perfection overnight. He’s patiently shaping us, teaching us, and changing us one step at a time.
One phrase that has stayed with me is the idea that God is preparing a people who know His voice, feel His Spirit, and are willing to follow Him wherever He leads.
That kind of discipleship is both beautiful and challenging.
A few years ago, I found myself facing a decision that felt overwhelming. I had prayed for direction, but no clear answer seemed to come. I wanted certainty. I wanted a detailed roadmap. Instead, what I felt was a quiet assurance to simply take the next faithful step.
Looking back, I realize God wasn’t asking me to see the entire path. He was asking me to trust Him with the next step.
That experience taught me something important: faith isn’t always knowing where God is leading. Sometimes faith is choosing to follow even when you can’t see very far ahead.
I believe Jesus Christ lives. I believe He knows us personally, loves us completely, and is actively involved in our lives. Even when I don’t understand everything that’s happening around me, I find peace in knowing that He does.
More than anything, I want my life to reflect a simple but profound choice:
I choose Christ.
Not just on Sundays.
Not just when life is going well.
Not just when it’s convenient.
I want to choose Him when prayers seem unanswered. I want to choose Him when life feels uncertain. I want to choose Him in the ordinary moments that rarely make it into anyone’s testimony but often shape who we’re becoming.
One of the most moving thoughts from this message was the desire to be able to say to the Lord:
“I am Yours, totally and completely, without reservation or condition.”
If I’m honest, that’s easier to say than it is to live.
There are still dreams I cling to, plans I want to control, and questions I wish God would answer more quickly. Yet every time I try to hold too tightly to my own expectations, I’m reminded that God’s perspective is so much greater than mine.
The invitation Christ extends isn’t merely to believe in Him. It’s to trust Him. To know Him. To follow Him. To place our lives in His hands and believe that wherever He leads is better than anywhere we could go on our own.
Today, my prayer is simple:
“Lord, help me hear Your voice. Help me recognize Your Spirit. And wherever You lead, help me have the courage to follow.”
Because at the end of the day, above every other choice life offers, I want my life to say:
I choose Christ.
Reflection: Can you think of a time when God asked you to trust Him without showing you the entire plan? Looking back, how did that experience strengthen your faith?
Sometimes the greatest testimonies are built not in dramatic miracles, but in the quiet moments when we choose, again and again, to follow Him. ❤️
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 Acadianclip‑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!
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.
Recent discussions surrounding political figures and their views on which denominations are ‘truly Christian’ have brought a critical issue to the forefront of American public life: the preservation of religious freedom for everyone, not just for one’s own group.
The Core Issue: Shifting from Theology to Government Control
It is common for different religious groups to debate doctrine and theology. However, a dangerous line is crossed when those theological disagreements move from the pulpit to the halls of government. Reports involving figures like pastor Doug Wilson, who has expressed a desire for a ‘Christian Republic’ that would exclude Latter-day Saints (and others who do not meet his definition of orthodoxy) from holding public office, serve as a warning. This is not just a theological dispute—it is a challenge to the constitutional principles of our nation.
Why Article VI Matters
Regardless of our individual faith, all Americans should be concerned about the concept of a ‘religious test.’ The U.S. Constitution’s Article VI explicitly states that no religious test shall ever be required as a qualification for any office or public trust. This protection is essential because:
• It prevents the state from defining legitimacy: Once the government has the power to decide which denominations are ‘real’ Christians or which faiths are ‘legitimate,’ it gains the power to dictate who belongs in public life.
• It protects agency: True freedom requires that individuals be free to choose their own faith without government-imposed barriers to their participation in society.
• It protects all minorities: A precedent that allows one group to exclude another based on theology today can just as easily be used to exclude other religious or non-religious groups tomorrow.
Fairness for All
Defending religious freedom does not mean believers should retreat from public life or stop advocating for moral foundations. It means advocating for an environment where:
Religious liberty is universal: As President Dallin H. Oaks has taught, we should not seek total dominance for our own position, but fairness for all.
Conscience remains free: Civil government exists to restrain crime and protect rights, but it must never attempt to control the conscience of its citizens.
Civic participation is not conditional: An individual’s right to vote or hold office should never be viewed as a temporary ‘political convenience’ or a conditional privilege granted by those in power.
Conclusion
We can value America’s Christian foundations and the moral inheritance of our founding documents without resorting to theocracy. The best way to preserve our own liberty is to vigorously defend the same rights for those whose theology we might disagree with. By choosing to uphold the constitutional ban on religious tests, we protect the sacred principle of agency and ensure that America remains a land of freedom for all.
I’ve been experimenting with Nightcafe and am so happy at the way this has turned out.
My prayer is that, when the time comes, I will be greeted by my own children whom I have lost, foster children who passed away in my home, and all the multitudes of ancestors I’ve done the work for.
The tragic Acadians lost in the diaspora called The Great Dispersal that drove many to Louisiana.
To the Ancestors who came to the New World from France and dug trenches called dykes in Nova Scotia. All of these contributed to my bloodline, on both sides of my parents.
One, a veritable hero, Beausoleil Broussard, my direct ancestor that I happen to share with Beyoncé.
Another ancestor, unnamed due to threat of shaming, an ancestor who was the unknowing carrier of the deaf blind and balance scourge of many Cajuns, Usher Syndrome. Another, Tay Sachs syndrome, shared by tight-knit Jewish communities.
To my Louisiana Ancestors, who braved yellow fever, great storms and hurricanes, and sweltering heat. Worst of all, the mosquitoes who ravaged bodies with yellow fever. Even the awful monster, leprosy, inhabited so many bodies, clinics still exist in Louisiana. Yet, they survived. With their celebrations at Mardi Gras, and family crawfish boils, along with cotton picking parties and Saturday night dance halls. My childhood was filled with such great memories! In fact, I was nearly born on my grandfather’s shrimp boat on New Year’s Eve night. The shrimp were running so good, nobody except Mama was in a hurry to get off that boat! I just barely made it to the hospital at Lafayette General (called Charity Hospital at the time. The building’s still there.)
To my one line of Irishmen, the Pepper’s, who came right after the great potato starvation time, who first witnessed persecution, and then, founded a good life of blacksmithing. (My grandmother’s grandmother wasn’t allowed to speak in her native tongue, even at home, but my mother recalls her beautiful “sing-song” accent in her Cajun speak.)
I just received a message that was so touching, reminding us all of that Sacred, Blessed Thursday So very long ago, when the Lord spoke to His disciples, but they didn’t understand.
Not until they witnessed the Resurrection of Jesus Chridt, our Lord, Savior, and Master of us all. The true sacrifice wasn’t only on the cross.
It happened in the Garden of Gethsemane, when He took upon Himself the total of the sums of the sins of the world.
Think of it! He bore our sins – every one of us! From the beggar to the thief, from the robber to the murderer; from the sinful to the ones who try. He experienced every single thing a human can experience.
Why? So He can know how to succor us. So He’d understand how the Cancer patient felt, how physical pain of every kind felt; how emotional pain felt; how spiritual pain felt; any type of pain a human can experience. He felt it.
He knew that He had to know these things in order for us to trust Him, to believe Him, when He said, “I know. I can take it away from you. Follow Me.”
Oh, the love He has for us! We are truly His brothers and sisters. He is our Elder brother, the firstborn of the Father.
I believe in my heart that He had a relationship with each and every one of us. Before we were born, we knew Him intimately as our Elder brother.
The fact that He bore your sins, my sins, and everyone who ever took a breath here’s sins, that shows the great love He has for us.
If you don’t know that with all your being, pleaseaskHim. He will communicate this fact to you in the way you’ll know it.
Deeply personal.
One on one.
No barriers.
He reaches out to us individually in so many ways. All we have to do is, “Be still and know that I am.”
Nestled on the slopes of the Mount of Olives, just east of Jerusalem, lies a quiet garden whose name carries a weight far heavier than its olive trees. Gethsemane. In Aramaic and Hebrew it means “oil press”—the place where olives are crushed until the pure, healing oil flows. There, in the shadow of ancient trees, the Savior of the world chose to be pressed under a burden no mortal could possibly bear.
It was the night before Calvary. The Passover meal had ended. Jesus led His disciples to this familiar spot, then stepped away alone. The scriptures describe what happened next with stark honesty: “And being in an agony he prayed more earnestly: and his sweat was as it were great drops of blood falling down to the ground” (Luke 22:44). He was not merely anticipating the cross. In that garden He took upon Himself every sin, every sorrow, every sickness, and every heartbreak that would ever be felt by any child of God. The weight was so crushing that even the Son of God trembled and asked if the cup could pass from Him—yet He submitted: “Nevertheless not my will, but thine, be done.”
Think about the name again: the oil press. Olives do not yield their richest oil by gentle handling. They must be crushed. The stone rolls over them relentlessly until every drop of life-giving oil is released. In Gethsemane, Jesus became the ultimate olive. He allowed Himself to be pressed so that the oil of salvation could flow to every one of us. The pure, healing, sanctifying power of the Atonement was squeezed from His soul that night.
Now consider your own moments of repentance.
When the Holy Ghost gently (or sometimes not so gently) brings a sin to your remembrance, you feel a pressure in your chest. Guilt. Remorse. A heaviness that makes sleep difficult and peace impossible. That pressure is not punishment—it is the garden of your own Gethsemane. Your heart is being pressed. The old self is being crushed so that something pure can come forth: a broken heart and a contrite spirit. Just as the Savior’s agony produced the oil of redemption, your godly sorrow produces the oil of repentance. It hurts. It is meant to. But it is also the very process that prepares you to receive the healing He already purchased.
I have felt that press. You have too. The tears in the car after a harsh word to a loved one. The sleepless night after realizing you betrayed a trust. The ache that comes when you finally admit you’ve been running from God. In those moments you are not alone. The One who bled in Gethsemane is right beside you, whispering, “I already carried this. Let Me help you release it.”
And here is the beautiful truth that turns every tear into thanksgiving: because He was willing to be pressed to the point of blood, you never have to stay crushed. The same garden that witnessed infinite suffering now offers infinite mercy. The oil that flowed from His agony anoints your wounds, softens your heart, and lights your way home.
So today I stand in awe and say simply, “Thank You.”
Thank You, Jesus, for not running from the press.
Thank You for staying in the garden when every fiber of Your being cried out to leave.
Thank You that because of Your suffering, my repentance is never hopeless—it is healing.
Thank You that the oil of Your Atonement still flows freely for anyone who will come to their own small Gethsemane and say, “Not my will, but Thine.”
Whatever weight you are carrying right now, take it to the garden. Lay it at the feet of the One who already bore it. Let the press do its work. And then rise, forgiven, lighter, and filled with the oil of gladness that only the Savior can give.
He suffered so you could be free.
What a Savior. What a gift. What an oil press.
The Oil Press of Gethsemane
Just as olives must be pressed and crushed to release their purest, healing oil, our Savior willingly suffered in the garden of the oil press. There He bore every sin and sorrow so that the sanctifying oil of His Atonement could flow to every soul who comes with a broken heart and contrite spirit.
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.
Maybe you’ll set a goal for this new year. Some people choose a word to represent their intentions for the year ahead. This year, our family will be focusing on the same verse of scripture: Moses 6:34, “Walk with me.” This was an invitation given to the prophet Enoch.
As Enoch journeyed through the land, the Spirit of God rested upon him. Then the Lord spoke to him. He taught him about His plan of happiness, which would give purpose and meaning to life. Everyone longs to have better and deeper meaning and purpose in their lives. When the Lord finished describing His plan, He gave Enoch an invitation: “Walk with me.”
As you journey through this new year, maybe you’ll find yourself looking for happiness, purpose, and meaning. We could all learn from Enoch’s story and invite the Lord to be part of our journeys this year, no matter where we go…or stay.
As you might already know, I have been dealing with Chronic Kidney Disease. I’m thankful to still be here, as I’ve got much to do. I hope to use my time wisely, so I’ll be ready when the time comes.
You could choose to walk with Him. As you do, blessings await. I’m sure each of us will be better for it, if we determine for ourselves that we will walk with the Lord.
Below is my Creation Listing for 2025. As you can see, I haven’t been using this tool very long, but I’m certainly enjoying it. The entries in the piece shows some of my books and yet-to-be published books of this year.
You can see Misty, the mermaid of the Emerald Coast, from my 2 children’s books of the same name. She’s chatting with 6-year-old George Washington and his buddy, the brave eagle.
Under that section, you’ll find the book cover for my Washington’s Fantastical Crossing, where he’s being watched by merfolk – I really hadn’t planned to write so many stories about merfolk!
The one at the bottom middle is part of my America’s Great Perfect Storm. The leopard and night-watchers are suggestive of Obama’s dream — more on that later.
The bottom left is from my YA speculative fiction, “The Covenant Fire”, a story about a team asked to locate and activate an ancient artifact, while avoiding the evil cabal chasing them to recover the artifact to use for their purposes. This artifact is meant to bring about the 2nd Resurrection and gather the Lost Ten Tribes.
“Pages Alight” is my forthcoming podcast on YouTube! Coming very soon.
The assignment was to write a story of “What Happened” with the words, “Just Pick Up the Pieces” somewhere in the story. I chose to write about a Family drama after a Funeral
Funeral Flowers
“Just pick up the pieces.” Her voice trembled, a raw, jagged edge to it, like she’d clawed the words out of her chest and flung them at me. Clara stood in the dim kitchen, her silhouette framed by the gray dawn bleeding through the window, her eyes swollen but burning with a defiance I couldn’t match.
The air was heavy with the acrid tang of burnt coffee and the ghost of our grandmother’s lilac perfume, and on the floor, the shattered remains of her cherished teacup lay like a confession of everything we’d lost.
Each piece was a splinter of memory: her frail hands pouring tea, her voice weaving stories of love and war, her quiet faith that we’d always find a way through. Now she was gone, and the world felt like it had caved in, leaving me buried in the rubble.
I crumpled to my knees, the linoleum cold and unforgiving, my fingers hovering over the shards but too weak to touch them. My chest ached, a hollow, gnawing pain that had started when he walked out—his suitcase thudding against the doorframe, his “I’m sorry” as empty as the apartment he left behind.
But it wasn’t just him. It was Mom’s slow surrender to the bottle, Dad’s vanishing act years ago, the hospital bed where Gran took her last breath, whispering my name like a prayer I didn’t deserve. I was the dreamer, the fool who thought love could hold anything together, but all I had now was this broken teacup and a heart too heavy to carry.
“I can’t do it,” I choked out, my voice barely a thread, unraveling. “I don’t know how to keep going.”
Clara dropped beside me, her knees hitting the floor with a thud that echoed in the silence. Her hand gripped my shoulder, trembling but fierce, like she could anchor me to the earth by sheer will.
“You don’t have to know how, Lila,” she said, her words breaking as a tear slipped down her cheek, carving a path through the exhaustion etched into her face. “You just pick them up. One piece at a time. Not to make it whole again—because it won’t be. But to make something new. Something that can still hold you.”
Her voice cracked, and I saw it then—the weight she’d carried for years. Clara, who’d bandaged my skinned knees and Mom’s broken promises, who’d worked double shifts to pay for Gran’s medicine, who’d held my hand when the world fell apart. She was as broken as I was, but she was still here, still fighting, still picking up pieces when all I could do was stare at them.
My fingers closed around a shard, its edge biting into my palm, sharp enough to draw a thin line of blood. I held it up, the rose pattern catching the faint light, fractured but still beautiful, like a promise that even broken things could mean something. I thought of Gran’s hands, steady despite their tremors, and Clara’s, calloused but unyielding. Maybe I wasn’t them, but I was theirs—made of their strength, their stubborn love.
“Okay,” I whispered, my voice shaking but alive. “One piece at a time.”
Clara’s hand found mine, her grip warm and fierce, and together we reached for the shards—not to erase the cracks, but to build something new from them, something that could carry our grief and still shine.
“I’ll love you forever, I’ll like you for always, as long as I’m living, my baby you’ll be.”These words, sung softly from a mother to her child in Robert Munsch’s timeless Love You Forever, have lulled countless families into moments of quiet wonder. They’ve been whispered over cradles, read under covers during stormy nights, and passed down like heirlooms, turning ordinary pages into vessels of unbreakable connection. But what many don’t know is the depth of heartache behind this beloved story. Munsch, a father who lost two children at birth and, with his wife Ann, never had the family they dreamed of, until they happily adopted three children. He poured his grief into these lines—a lullaby not just for living children, but for the ones who slipped away too soon. It’s a testament to love’s resilience, transforming profound loss into something that heals and holds us all.
On a personal note, I gave my mother and mother-in-law a copy of this book one year for Mother’s Day. (Of course, they looked at me quizzically until I encouraged them to read it aloud. Once done, they both had tears in their eyes, with the knowledge of my intent.)
This book isn’t just a story; it’s a bridge across generations, a reminder that love doesn’t measure in milestones or years but in the quiet, persistent choice to keep showing up. The illustrations, with their soft blues and gentle curves, mirror the ebb and flow of life—joyful in the toddler tantrums, tender in the grown child’s weary return home. Munsch’s other works, like the fierce independence of The Paper Bag Princessor the playful rebellion inMortimer, echo this same spirit: life’s messiness is worth embracing, not escaping. Over 80 million copies sold, translated into more than 20 languages, his stories have sparked imaginations worldwide, proving that even from pain, beauty blooms.
Robert Munsch
Yet, reading about Munsch’s recent openness about his own struggles hit me like a wave. Diagnosed with dementia in 2021, followed by Parkinson’s, the now 80-year-old author shared in a September 14, 2025,New York Timesinterview that he applied for and was approved for Medical Assistance in Dying (MAID) shortly after his diagnosis. He worries about becoming a “lump” for his wife to care for, about losing the stories that define him. His daughter Julie clarified soon after, emphasizing he’s “not dying anytime soon” and is doing well for now, but the weight of his choice lingers. I understand that fear intimately. My own mother battled prefrontal dementia, her once-vibrant mind unraveling into frustration and isolation. The woman who raised me with laughter and wisdom became someone we had to guide, her days a fog of forgotten names, unspoken fears, and huge episodes filled with rage. It was heartbreaking, a slow erosion that tested our family’s love to its limits. And in the quiet aftermath, I’ve wrestled with the same shadows: my brother’s suicide amid his chronic illness, my uncle’s, my mother’s years of suicidal ideation, and even my own attempt during a season of unrelenting despair.
These experiences have etched deep lines in my soul, but they’ve also illuminated truths I hold dear. In the pre-existence, as I believe we did before coming to earth, we chose this mortal journey—not to avoid its thorns, but to walk through them. Heavenly Father allows illnesses like dementia, the gnawing ache of Parkinson’s, the invisible grip of depression, not out of cruelty, but as part of a grand design we can’t fully see. Why? To teach us empathy in our weakness,resilience in our frailty, and compassion for others’ unseen battles. Elder M. Russell Ballard, in his compassionate address “Suicide: Some Things We Know, and Some We Do Not,” reminds us of this divine mercy. He speaks of a faithful man, confined by illness, who ended his life in muddled despair—yet emphasizes that God judges not by the act alone, but by the heart’s intent, the mind’s clarity, and life’s full tapestry. “Judgment is the Lord’s,” Ballard teaches, quoting Elder Bruce R. McConkie: those under great stress, mentally clouded or chemically imbalanced, “are no longer accountable for their acts.” The Lord sees our genetic makeup, our emotional storms, the traditions and teachings that shape us. As Alma promises, if our works and desires are good, we will be “restored unto that which is good” (Alma 41:3).
My Mother
Munsch’s life echoes this. From the ashes of losing his babies, he created Love You Forever—a gift that has comforted millions, including me as I navigated my family’s losses. His stories remind us that even when the body fails or the mind fades, the spirit’s legacy endures. Choosing to end life early cuts short that sacred unfolding, robbing us of the growth, the unexpected joys, the quiet revelations that come only through persistence. I’ve felt the temptation to let go, the whisper that escape is easier than endurance. But staying—messy, hard, holy staying—has shown me God’s hand in the details: a sibling’s unexpected hug, a scripture that pierces the dark, a stranger’s kindness that mirrors divine love. As the Prophet Joseph Smith taught, our Heavenly Father judges “according to the deeds done in the body… and His inscrutable designs in relation to the human family” (Teachings of the Prophet Joseph Smith, p. 218). Suffering doesn’t diminish our worth; it refines it, preparing us for eternal progression “line upon line.”
To anyone reading this in the grip of despair—whether from illness, grief, or the slow creep of forgetfulness—hear this: You are not a burden. You are a beloved child of God, your life a thread in His eternal weave. Your story, like Munsch’s, holds beauty yet untold. Hold on, not out of obligation, but out of the fierce love that says, “I’ll like you for always.” Reach out to those who can help carry the weight. Let their hands, and God’s, remind you that you’re not alone. In the spirit world, as President Joseph F. Smith saw in vision, even those who’ve stumbled can repent, pay the penalty, and receive “a reward according to their works” (D&C 138:58–59). Hope isn’t a fragile wish; it’s a promise.
As I reflect on Munsch’s courage in sharing his story, I pray it sparks not resignation, but resolve—for him, for my family’s memories, for all of us. Let’s choose life, one breath at a time, and keep singing our songs of forever.
If you or someone you love is struggling, please reach out—these lifelines are here to help:
• National Suicide Prevention Lifeline (US): Call or text 988 (24/7 support).
• Crisis Services Canada: Call 1-833-456-4566 or text 45645 (24/7).
From my manuscript, The Covenant Fire, a Christian/LDS YA Apocalyptic Novel with loads of exciting adventure. To be published soon!
Chapter 1, paragraph 4.
The ground heaved, a beast awakening. Hymnbooks crashed, a child’s scream pierced the air. Sarah’s training snapped in—she gripped the pew, eyes locking on exits. “Stay calm!” she barked, voice slicing through gasps. A young man nearby, Ethan Caldwell, 28, dropped his leather journal, ink smearing as the quake roared. Beams splintered, stained glass exploded in a rain of crimson shards. The Tabernacle groaned, its 164-year-old frame buckling.
Salt Lake LDS Temple
“Down!” Sarah yelled, sprinting down the aisle. A light fixture swung, nearly clipping her. She scooped up a wailing boy, dodging falling plaster, her shoulder slamming a pew. Pain seared, but she shielded him, scanning for safety. “To the exit!” she shouted, clutching the kid tight.
Ethan pushed through the chaos, waving people toward a side door. Their eyes met briefly—his hazel gaze intense, almost knowing. She handed the boy to his sobbing mother, panting. “Good move,” he said, voice steady. “Military?”
“Ex-Army,” she snapped, as the ground lurched again. They ducked under a pew, the air thick with dust. Outside, the Salt Lake Temple’s spire swayed, the Angel Moroni teetering, skyscrapers collapsing in glittering bursts. A gas main erupted, fire licking the horizon, screams blending with sirens.
(Fully written, but not yet published. To Be Continued)
Someone recently asked me if I’d always known I was meant to be a writer. The following is my answer to that formidable question. Writing the two Discovering Misty books was my first attempt at writing professionally.
It seems, though, I’ve always written. I was Editor for the California State Foster Parent Association for several years. One year, I was awarded special recognition for my newsletter at the National Foster Parent Association in Chicago. I was also Editor and VP for our FPA association in Sacramento County. That’s where I was a medical foster parent for 14.5 years, taking in more than 200 infants and children who were extremely medically fragile. We adopted 3 of our foster children, and 2 are still with us, never to leave home, and 1 married. The 2 with us are special needs. We had 5 kids at the time, who we homeschooled, then homeschooled them, and now we have 16 grandchildren and 3.5 great-grandchildren!
It has been suggested to me to write of my experiences as a foster parent. If I have time, I may just do that. We definitely had some experiences that would be fascinating to read about, and gratifying to share. Some of my stories are so heavily wrought with emotion from the various perspectives of the parties involved. Some of my babies were not expected to live very long.
One little guy came to me right out of NICU, not expected to live but a few hours. However, his story is in the medical journals of having lived 19 months in my home; his life filled our home with joy and heavenly sweetness from the start to that final day.
Due to confidiality restrictions, which I fully support, I will respectfully refrain from using his real name or circumstances. This sweet boy had the most gentle, yet playful, spirit. Every morning, in exasperation, I would fuss at him for pulling out his G-tube (gastrostomy tube used for feeding him his only source of nutrition), and he would laugh and laugh… Until I had to insert it back in.
Technically speaking, he should not have lived for more than a few hours. He was missing some vital organs, and was doomed at birth with another life-threatening medical condition. Yet, he rarely cried, or even complained. He couldn’t sit up or roll over, but he had so much angelic joy!
He had so little, but he was filled with love and joy. It was such a pleasure to have him in our home and we loved him very much.
I kept a diary for most of my foster children to later give to the parents. Writing in first person, I told the family how much “I”, baby loved them and thanked them for the privilege of being born into that family. There were many times, when I was writing, that I truly felt the spirit of that child communicating with the family they were separated from. Whether due to their own misdeeds, or their inability to care for the child, for whatever reason, I felt I was a bridge or gateway between spiritual realms. When the sacred occasion was to be present during the dying process, I literally felt myself as a conduit, one who aided in transferring that sweet spirit back home to waiting, loving family on the other side.
Thinking about the travesties we’ve seen lately, we might have that question on our minds. For that poor young lady whose life was suddenly taken from her, with no one coming to her aid or even comforting her. For our friend Charlie Kirk, who was doing what he loved, sharing his testimony. And yes, for the young men’s family, who was forced to make a choice and turn their son in for the crime. And so many more examples of life’s unfairness. Why didn’t God stop the terrible events? He certainly has the power and ability to stop it.
Facing life’s unfairness requires perspective and faith. Understanding God’s plan helps us see that we are eternal beings on earth to grow and become more like Him. During our time here, we encounter temptation, pain, and suffering. Some of this suffering arises from the choices people make, while other reasons may remain unclear. However, we can trust that these experiences can ultimately lead to growth and good (see Doctrine and Covenants 122:7).
We were promised that we’d be free to make our own choices; He would not interfere with our choices. Satan was the one who offered “a guarantee” that we’d all be forced to comply, if he were given the opportunity to rule as God. But that’s not what Heavenly Father wanted for us. He knew that if He were to interfere in any way, we would not learn and grow to be more like Him.
Jesus Christ has triumphed over all through His Atonement and Resurrection. When we encounter unfairness, we can place our faith in Him and His plan, knowing that He will make everything right in the end. The thought that nothing is wasted — every tear is compensated — is very comforting. Through the Holy Ghost, we can find comfort and strength in our challenges.
By choosing faith and enduring, we are promised peace in this life and eternal life in the next (Doctrine and Covenants 59:23).
As the author ofDiscovering Misty: The Mermaid of the Emerald CoastandGeorge and the Brave Eagle, and a blogger celebrating 500 visitors, I’ve learned that leadership isn’t just about titles—it’s about stepping up to make a difference. When asked, “Do you see yourself as a leader?” my answer is clear: as a parent, I’m automatically a leader. But the scope of that leadership, shaped by my history, stretches far beyond my home, touching lives through advocacy, service, and storytelling. Here’s how my journey as a leader has unfolded and how it fuels my writing today.
Parenthood thrust me into leadership from the start, guiding my children with love and purpose. Raising two daughters and five sons, three of whom became Eagle Scouts and two who worked toward it, I took on roles like Cub Scout leader in the Boy Scouts of America (BSA). Those years taught me to lead by example, fostering resilience and teamwork—qualities I weave into my children’s books, like George’s courage or Misty’s determination. My leadership extended to managing our family’s 25-acre LDS church park, where we hosted 600-800 Boy Scouts each year for six years. Picture a week-long campout on your front lawn—tents, laughter, and chaos! Organizing those events honed my ability to lead with patience and vision, skills I now use to manage my blog and book projects.
Beyond family, I found my voice as a political leader with Overpassers for USA, serving as California’s representative. Coordinating rallies across the state to promote patriotism and free speech was exhilarating. Every weekend, my family and I stood on freeway overpasses, waving flags and signs we kept ready in our van. I helped build the organization’s website, listing rallies nationwide, and watching our movement grow filled me with pride. Those moments of unity and love for American values inspired the hope-filled themes in my stories and blog posts, where I aim to uplift readers young and old.
My leadership also shone in foster care. For over 14 years, my husband and I were medical foster parents in Sacramento County, caring for more than 200 infants and children, many medically fragile. We held the first baby in the county to pass from AIDS, loving him for all eight months of his life. That experience taught me leadership through compassion—a thread that runs throughDiscovering Mistyand my advocacy for hope and suicide prevention. As Vice President of the Sacramento branch of the California State Foster Parent Association for seven years and Editor of its monthly publication for six, I led by amplifying voices and sharing stories, much like I do now through my blog and books.
Leadership, for me, is about impact, not position. Whether rallying for free speech, guiding Scouts, nurturing fragile lives, or writing stories that spark joy, I lead by showing up with heart. My blog, my GoFundMe campaign forGeorge and the Brave Eagle, and my books are extensions of that leadership, inviting readers to find courage and connection.
If you’ve ever stepped up to guide, inspire, or serve, you’re a leader too—shaping the world one moment, one story, at a time.
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