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.
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.
The holidays are often painted as a time of pure joy—twinkling lights, family gatherings, and cherished traditions. But for many, this season stirs deep sorrow. Grief doesn’t pause for celebrations; it can make empty chairs, familiar songs, and festive cheer feel like painful reminders of what’s missing.
Whether your loss comes from the death of a loved one, estrangement, divorce, health challenges, or even the family you wish you’d had, holiday grief is real and valid. Expectations of mandatory happiness, resurfacing memories, and cultural pressure for perfect togetherness can all amplify the ache.
“No Empty Chairs…”
The good news? You don’t have to force cheer or pretend everything’s fine. Grief and joy can coexist. Here are some gentle ways to care for yourself this season:
• Give yourself permission to feel. Cry if you need to, laugh if it comes naturally, or simply rest. No guilt required.
• Rethink traditions. Keep what comforts you, adapt what hurts, or skip altogether. Light a candle in memory, share a favorite story, or create something entirely new—like volunteering or a quiet day alone.
• Set kind boundaries. It’s okay to decline invitations, leave early, or ask for space from certain topics. Protect your energy.
• Speak your needs. Tell supportive people what helps: “This year is tough—let’s keep it low-key” or “I’d love to talk about them today.”
• Practice small self-care. Eat, rest, move, breathe. Honor your loved one through a donation, a special ornament, or playing their favorite music.
• Seek support if needed. Friends, grief groups, counselors, or online communities can lighten the load.
Christmas Dreams
If you’re supporting someone grieving, your presence matters most. Listen without trying to fix it. Acknowledge their pain. Offer specific help. Simply say, “I’m here for you.”
Grief changes the holidays, but it doesn’t erase meaning. In time, the sharp edges soften, and space opens for new warmth alongside the memories you carry.
The Magic of Christmas
This season, be gentle with yourself. Your feelings are valid, your love endures, and healing comes in its own quiet way.
Wishing you moments of peace amid the complexity. 🎄
History is replete with tales of reconciliation that transformed bitter enmities into fragile alliances, and sometimes enduring peace. These stories often emerge from the ashes of war, genocide, or deep-seated divisions, showing how leaders, communities, and individuals can choose empathy over retribution.
Below, I explore several pivotal examples, drawing from conflicts that spanned centuries and continents. Each highlights the human capacity for healing, though not without challenges like incomplete justice or lingering resentments.
1. Post-Civil War Reconciliation in the United States: The Gettysburg Reunions (1860s–1930s)
After the American Civil War’s devastating toll—over 600,000 lives lost—the nation grappled with reuniting North and South. A key symbol was the Gettysburg Battlefield, site of the war’s turning point in 1863. Starting in the 1870s, veterans from both Union and Confederate sides organized massive reunions, culminating in the 1913 semicentennial event attended by over 50,000 aging soldiers. They shared meals, swapped stories, and even staged mock battles, emphasizing shared sacrifice over blame. President Woodrow Wilson addressed the crowd in 1913, proclaiming former foes as “brothers and comrades in arms, enemies no longer.” This “reconciliation movement” fostered national unity but often sidelined African American contributions and the emancipation cause, prioritizing white solidarity. Figures like Robert E. Lee embodied this shift; after surrendering to Ulysses S. Grant at Appomattox in 1865, Lee urged Southerners toward moderation, becoming a voice for healing and even testifying before Congress on Reconstruction. These efforts helped knit the Union back together, paving the way for a singular American identity, though racial reconciliation remained elusive for generations.
2. Franco-German Reconciliation After World War II (1945–Ongoing)
One of Europe’s most profound post-war healings unfolded between France and Germany, arch-rivals scarred by invasions and two world wars. In 1945, amid the ruins, leaders like Charles de Gaulle and Konrad Adenauer prioritized forgiveness over vengeance. A turning point came in 1963 with the Élysée Treaty, where the two nations committed to annual youth exchanges, joint cabinet meetings, and cultural programs—transforming enemies into partners. This was fueled by European integration, including the European Coal and Steel Community (1951), which made war economically illogical. By the 1980s, French and German students were routinely hosting each other’s families, and today, their militaries train together. Historians credit this “success story” with preventing further conflict and enabling the European Union, though it required confronting histories through memorials and education. As one observer noted, reconciliation here was “driven by the dynamic of Atlantic and European integration,” turning a century of bloodshed into a model of multilateral peace.
3. South Africa’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission (1995–2002)
Emerging from apartheid’s brutal legacy of racial segregation and violence, South Africa’s 1994 democratic transition under Nelson Mandela could have descended into civil war. Instead, the Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC), chaired by Desmond Tutu, offered amnesty to perpetrators who confessed atrocities, in exchange for truth-telling and victim testimonies. Over 7,000 hearings aired publicly, allowing stories like that of Amy Biehl—a white American activist killed by Black youth in 1993—to lead to forgiveness; her family advocated for her killers’ release. The TRC’s slogan, “revealing is healing,” broke cycles of impunity, fostering societal coexistence if not full forgiveness. While criticized for uneven accountability, it enabled a “rainbow nation,” with Mandela’s 1995 Rugby World Cup embrace of white Afrikaners symbolizing unity. This process showed reconciliation as a “parallel process” to politics, redesigning relationships amid division.
4. The Good Friday Agreement and Northern Ireland’s Peace Process (1998)
Decades of “The Troubles”—sectarian violence between Catholic nationalists and Protestant unionists claiming over 3,500 lives—divided Northern Ireland. The 1998 Good Friday Agreement, brokered by U.S. Senator George Mitchell, ended the armed conflict through power-sharing, demilitarization, and prisoner releases. It addressed grievances like police reform (replacing the biased Royal Ulster Constabulary) and cultural recognition, allowing former IRA and loyalist militants to enter politics—think Sinn Féin’s Gerry Adams and DUP’s Ian Paisley sharing platforms. Despite flare-ups, peace has held, with cross-community initiatives like integrated schools reducing divides. This demonstrates reconciliation in “deeply divided societies,” blending diplomacy with societal dialogue.
5. Rwanda’s Gacaca Courts and Post-Genocide Healing (2001–2012)
In 1994, Hutu extremists slaughtered 800,000 Tutsis and moderate Hutus in 100 days, turning neighbors into executioners. Post-genocide, Rwanda’s government established Gacaca community courts—traditional assemblies where 1.2 million cases were heard by elected locals. Perpetrators confessed publicly, victims forgave (or not), and sentences focused on reintegration, like community service. Stories abound: survivors like Andrew and Callixte, once genocidaires, reconciled through World Vision’s programs, sharing memories and tools for emotional management. By emphasizing “coexistence” over retribution, Rwanda rebuilt, with economic growth and unity laws banning ethnic labels. Yet, critics note suppressed dissent. This “two-week program of sharing” model has inspired global efforts, proving amnesia is reconciliation’s enemy, but truth its ally.
6. Personal Tales from World War II: Eric Lomax and Corrie ten Boom
Amid macro narratives, individual stories illuminate reconciliation’s intimacy. British POW Eric Lomax, tortured building the Burma Railway in 1942, harbored rage for decades until 1993, when he met his Japanese interpreter, Nagase Takashi, in a tearful embrace—immortalized in Lomax’s memoir The Railway Man. Similarly, Dutch Christian Corrie ten Boom, who hid Jews during the Holocaust and survived Ravensbrück camp, forgave a guard in 1947 at a church event: “For I had to do it—I knew that. The message that God forgives has a prior condition: that we forgive those who have injured us.” These acts, rooted in faith and time, echo broader WWII reconciliations, like Zamperini’s forgiveness of Japanese guards.
These stories reveal reconciliation’s facets: retrospective (grappling with past harms via commissions or memorials) versus prospective (building future ties through integration), often requiring multilevel efforts from governments to grassroots. Success demands acknowledging pain without erasure, as in South Africa or Rwanda, and shared incentives, like Europe’s economic union. Yet, they warn of pitfalls—racial oversights in U.S. efforts or incomplete justice elsewhere.
In our polarized present, these historical beacons remind us that while divides persist, deliberate steps toward understanding can rewrite endings. If you’d like expansions on any or stories from specific eras/regions, just say the word!
In a politically polarized world, stories of reconciliation between people with opposing views remind us that empathy, dialogue, and shared humanity can bridge even the deepest divides. Below, I’ll explore several real-life examples drawn from personal accounts, news reports, and social media shares. These focus on friendships strained by politics but ultimately mended through mutual respect and effort.
Lance Moseley and Rodney Sadler: From Rivals to Podcast Partners
Lance Moseley, a staunch MAGA supporter who sees America as an “amazing place” under Trump, and Rodney Sadler, a progressive pastor who views the political climate as “perilous” and fears the erosion of democracy, first met about a year ago during a social experiment on reconciliation along North Carolina’s Nahala River. They disagreed on nearly everything—from Trump’s policies on policing and immigration (Lance supported strict enforcement to curb drugs and crime, while Rodney saw it as threatening to Black and brown communities) to the overall state of the nation. Yet, through shared activities and honest conversations, they built mutual admiration. Eight months into Trump’s second term, they reunited in Florida, acknowledging two separate American narratives but committing to listen and learn. Today, they’ve launched a podcast about political rivals who remain friends, proving that genuine liking can transcend ideology.
Brent Payne and Charlie Meyerson: Reconnecting After a Social Media Rift
Brent Payne, CEO of a digital agency who voted for Obama, then Trump, and later Biden, and Charlie Meyerson, a veteran Chicago journalist critical of Trump’s anti-media stance, were longtime friends and former Chicago Tribune colleagues. Their bond frayed during the first Trump era over heated online debates—Payne felt the media unfairly targeted Trump, while Meyerson saw it as holding power accountable. This led to them unfriending each other on Facebook and ceasing contact for over two years. The reconciliation began when Meyerson posted about a heartfelt 30-minute chat where they shed tears of affection and addressed their differences. Payne emphasized healing societal rifts by remembering the foundation of their friendship, and Meyerson agreed that people capable of working together should find ways to do so. They now share their story as a lesson in unity.
Kay and Her Neighbors: Choosing Friendship Over Politics
Kay, a 27-year-old from a small California town, was devastated when her two closest friends—a married couple and her neighbors—posted a viral photo of Trump after an assassination attempt, revealing their support for him in the 2024 election. This clashed with their shared values on reproductive rights and LGBTQ protections, leading Kay to distance herself initially. However, she missed the adult friendship they’d built and decided to reconcile by setting a boundary: no political discussions. Recognizing that cutting off loved ones isn’t always practical amid widespread loneliness, Kay chose to view their vote as a “misguided decision” while preserving the bond that enriched her life.
Joe Walsh and His Former Supporter: From Ugly Break to Respectful Disagreement
Joe Walsh, a former GOP Congressman and Tea Party member turned anti-Trump critic, had a close friendship with a staunch Trump supporter who was once his biggest political ally. Their relationship ended bitterly five to six years ago when Walsh opposed Trump, with his friend calling him a “traitor.” After years of silence, Walsh reached out recently, leading to conversations where they listened instead of yelling. Though the friend remains all-in on Trump, he now understands Walsh’s stance, and Walsh gained deeper insight into his motivations. They’ve rebuilt a passionate but respectful friendship, highlighting progress through empathy.
Deon Joseph and a Former Acquaintance: A Silent Apology on the Street
Deon Joseph, a police officer known for community work, lost touch with a woman in 2020 during the riots when she unfriended him online after he refused to label most officers as racist and warned against harmful police reforms. She believed in the anti-police movement, ignoring his track record of helping people. Nearly four years later, she spotted him on patrol, crossed the street, and gave him a tight hug that conveyed unspoken regret—“I was wrong, I’m sorry.” They had brief small talk, but Joseph noted that if people are loud in their convictions, they should be equally vocal in admitting mistakes. This encounter showed how time and real-world outcomes can prompt quiet reconciliation.
Betsy Geist and Her College Roommate: Decades of Enduring Disagreement
Betsy Geist, a self-described “knee-jerk liberal,” was randomly paired in college with a conservative roommate who admired Ayn Rand and organized for Young Americans for Freedom. They clashed intensely for weeks over views on human nature and politics—Geist attended antiwar rallies, while her roommate supported Republicans like Barry Goldwater. Yet, they found common ground, forging a friendship that lasted decades. Even as the roommate later engaged with figures like Pete Buttigieg, they maintained contact, teaching Geist that true bonds can survive radical differences if rooted in respect.
These accounts illustrate that reconciliation often starts with small steps—like a hug, a phone call, or a boundary agreement—and thrives on focusing on shared values rather than divisions.
While not every story ends perfectly, they underscore the power of patience and openness in healing relationships strained by politics.
If you’d like to dive deeper into any of these or explore reconciliations in other contexts (like family or historical events), let me know!
Some stories weave themselves into our hearts, becoming more than words on a page—they become part of our lives. Robert Munsch’sLove You Foreveris one such tale, a children’s book that captures the eternal bond between parent and child with a tenderness that transcends generations. Its iconic refrain, “I’ll love you forever, I’ll like you for always, as long as I’m living, my baby you’ll be,” resonates deeply, reflecting a love that evolves yet never fades. For me, this book holds special meaning, as I gifted it to my mother and mother-in-law for Mother’s Day, a gesture to honor the unbreakable ties of family. Its emotional depth inspired my own children’s book, Discovering Misty: The Mermaid of the Emerald Coast, where love and connection shine through adventures along Florida’s shores.
InLove You Forever, Munsch crafts a narrative that mirrors life’s cycles. A mother rocks her baby, singing her lullaby of devotion, and as time passes, the roles reverse—her grown son cradles her in return. This poignant shift hit me profoundly when reading to my sons, now grown, in our East Texas home. The story’s simplicity—its gentle rhythm and heartfelt illustrations—belies its power to evoke tears and gratitude. It reminds us that love is a constant, even as life changes. I felt this when I wroteDiscovering Misty, where Misty the mermaid and Moriah the loggerhead turtle forge a friendship that weathers challenges, like Moriah’s entrapment in a fisherman’s net inFriends Forever. Their bond, set against the vibrant Emerald Coast, echoes the steadfast love in Munsch’s tale, showing young readers that care and loyalty endure.
What makes both stories timeless is their ability to speak to all ages. Love You Foreverisn’t just for children; it’s for anyone who’s loved or been loved. Its message of eternal devotion connected me to my Acadian roots, where family and heritage are sacred. Similarly,Discovering Mistyuses the magic of mermaids and coastal adventures to teach trust and friendship, inspired by the real-life Misty Joy, a Florida performer whose warmth infuses the series. When Misty helps Moriah or teaches a lesson about kindness inThe Missing Tiara, it’s my way of bottling that same universal love for young readers, encouraging them to carry it forward.
As a writer, I’ve learned from Munsch to keep stories simple yet profound, letting emotions breathe through small moments—like a mermaid’s smile or a mother’s lullaby. For thisThoughtful Thursday, I invite you to revisit a book that shaped your heart. Share it with someone you love, just as I did withLove You Forever. And if you’re looking for a new adventure, dive intoDiscovering Mistyon Amazon or Audible, where love and friendship sparkle like the Gulf waves.
Thoughtful Thursday #1: Five Endings Later: How I’m Learning to Let Go of Perfectionism
Picture this: it’s 2 a.m., my desk is littered with empty cups, and I’m staring at the fifth version of my novel’s ending. Each draft felt closer to ‘perfect,’ but never quite there. I’d change a character’s final line, then scrap the whole scene, convinced it wasn’t good enough.Hours turned into days, and I was stuck—paralyzed by the need for every word to be flawless. If this sounds like your writing life, you’re not alone. Perfectionism is the silent enemy of every writer, whispering that our work isn’t ready. But here’s what I learned after those five endings: chasing perfection can keep you from ever finishing.
The turning point came when I shared my latest draft with a trusted beta reader. I braced for criticism, but instead, she said, “This works—why are you still tweaking it?” Her words hit hard. I’d been so obsessed with crafting the “perfect” ending—a poignant, unforgettable close to my coming-of-age story—that I’d lost sight of the bigger picture. The ending didn’t need to be flawless; it needed to feel true to the story. That feedback snapped me out of my perfectionism spiral. I chose the fourth draft, polished it one last time, and considered it “done”. It wasn’t perfect, but it was done, and that felt like a victory.
Looking back, I realized perfectionism wasn’t just about the ending—it was a pattern. I’d agonize over every chapter, every sentence, afraid my work wouldn’t measure up. But rewriting that ending five times taught me a crucial lesson: progress trumps perfection. Writing is messy, repetitive, and deeply personal. Waiting for every word to sparkle risks stalling your momentum and silencing your voice. As Anne Lamott wisely said, “Perfectionism is the voice of the oppressor.” Letting go of that need for flawlessness freed me to trust my instincts and actually finish my novel.
Frustration!
So, how can you break free from the perfectionism trap? Here are a few strategies that is helping me:
• Embrace the “crummy first draft”: Write without editing, even if it’s rough. Get the words out, then refine later. I set a timer for 20-minute sprints to keep myself from overthinking. (Learned that from the Pomodoro method; helps to alleviate fibro symptoms, as well.)
• Set a revision limit: Cap yourself at three rounds of edits per scene. After that, move on. This forced me to prioritize what mattered most.
• Get feedback early: Share your work with a critique partner or writing group. A fresh perspective can stop you from endlessly tweaking. (I surely miss mine in California; shoutout to Timespinners!)
• Celebrate “done”: Finishing a draft, even an imperfect one, is worth celebrating. Treat yourself to something small—a soda, a walk, or just a moment of pride.
Overcoming perfectionism didn’t just help me finish my novel; it made writing feel lighter, more joyful. I’m still learning to quiet that inner critic – and sometimes, it’s a real battle – but each step forward reminds me that imperfection is part of the creative process. Your story doesn’t need to be perfect—it needs to be told.
What about you? How has perfectionism shown up in your writing, and what’s one trick you’ve used to push past it? Drop your thoughts in the comments—I’d love to hear your story and keep this conversation going!
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