Chronicles Woven in Runes
Building Blocks of a Good Life
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.
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.
It’s going to be a good year.
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.
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.
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.
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. 🎄
Write a poem that takes the form of a letter. It can be addressed to anyone – a friend, a family member, a stranger, yourself, or someone no longer here. The letter should feel personal and emotional. Starting with “Dear…” and ending with a closing is optional, but your poem should feel like a letter.
Dear Mama,
In the trembling hush of my heart, where memories flicker like fireflies over Louisiana’s bayou shadows, I whisper to you across the eternal veil. You, my gentle Mama, whose spirit was ensnared by dementia’s merciless fog, your eyes dimmed like stars drowned in a cruel dusk.
I cling to my hopes of the last fleeting months you spent in my Texas log haven, its twin homes rooted in red-clay earth, built to cradle you close to Lafayette’s warm, Cajun heartbeat. My desire was to have you rest from your hard life, particularly the recent suicides of your son and brother, and enjoy researching our family history, while we heal ancestral wounds.
But you slipped away in your rage, refusing tests, though doctors whispered for years of the thief in your mind. I knew the reason you were so afraid of any discussion of mental health.
Long ago, in Alexandria’s Pinewood, they labeled you delayed, branded you forever thirteen, and caged you for a year. I, barely a pre-teen, struggled to mother my three younger siblings. That was my year of racing home from school and appreciating a new product called Rice-A-Roni.
Over the years, you could only hint and shudder at the memory of managed care back there: stories of overcrowding, forced shock therapy, sedative drugs, chains and physical restraints.
The doctors, aware of my obligatory maturity, precisely illustrated the necessity of me supporting you throughout your life. And I accepted it, unfair as it might have been, there was no other option.
You needed me; that’s all I needed to know. Your husband—my stepfather—banished you there in that hospital, his heart cold as iron, while throwing out his own son, Glenn for trying to protect me.
Not long after that, he stole the funds of my Daddy’s social security payments, painstakingly saved for me and Jeri from his schizophrenia’s chains that had bound him, an emotionally frozen man since age twenty-one.
I lost my Daddy at age four, Jeri having been forcefully conceived at the separation. We were alone and hungry, the three of us. You bore the shame of the accusations and inuendoes. I knew then I had a duty beyond my capacity. Daddy and his family fought for us, driven by the suspicion of abuse, my grandmother’s physical scars until her death.
You met him when I was eight, and Jeri just four. That man’s fists scarred us all—you, me, Jeri, and my stepbrother Michael—before he fled to Southern California, building thirteen dens of sin and shame — porn stores — from our stolen future.
I eventually forgave him, as faith requires. Years later, driving you through desert’s searing grief to his funeral, but I couldn’t face his casket’s hollow stare.
Sundowners sank its claws, pulling you into night’s unyielding grip. You begged me, in moments of piercing clarity, to shield you from my stepsister’s cruelty—her bullying shadow loomed large, a tormentor like her father, who fought neighbors into courtrooms, failed at foster parenting in bitter rivalry with me, and wielded words and hands against you, even breaking your wrist.
She plundered your credit cards, clashed with everyone, even her stepchildren who sued her, childless herself yet sowing discord. When you pressed me for unity, I said she was toxic, but in your naivety, you believed I called her trash. You didn’t understand; as a mother, you only saw division between your children and wanted unity.
In a moment of clarity, you pleaded for protection, and my heart vowed to be your refuge. When the time came, I couldn’t hold you safely here, although I tried. I rationalized that it’d just be for the holiday, so I purchased the flight with a 2-week return. No sooner did you get there, you announced that you were staying.
After you were there a couple months, she cast you out in Utah, leaving you to wander in your car, a fragile shell under weeping skies, for a whole month until a shattered ankle unveiled dementia’s truth in a hospital’s sterile light. They called me only then, my soul fracturing, unaware of the lies that painted our family as uncaring, unaware she’d silenced my cries to bring you home.
I fought, Mama, with an attorney’s fire, seeking guardianship to draw you back to Louisiana’s love, to friends who knew your gentle soul. The court stood ready, my hope blazing, but you faded the day before, leaving my promise unkept, a wound that bleeds still.
And oh, the final cruelty—Covid’s iron rules stole our touch. My stepsister and I, exiled outside your nursing home, knelt by an open window, our voices cracking through glass to whisper goodbyes. No hand to hold, no warmth to share, just words lost in sterile air, though you bore no virus.
Only after your breath stilled could I reach you, a theft that rips my heart raw. Things remain undone, Mama—your plea for safety haunts me, a vow I couldn’t fulfill. Yet in this letter, I hold you fierce. Beyond the fog, beyond the pain of others’ betrayal, you are my Acadian root, my light in the bayou’s glow.
My patriarchal blessing – a gift from Heavenly Father, reminds me that I “was born of goodly parents, parents that were chosen” for me in the pre-existence.
I see you whole, resilient, your love enduring like the stories I write for children. I read you I Love You Forever, praying its words wrapped you in my boundless devotion.
Forgive those who failed you; know my fight burned on, a daughter’s desperate love. Rest now, free of fear, in a heaven where no shadows fall. I love you, Mama, to the moon and back, forever.
Your daughter,
S.M. Ulbrich
A short story about New Moon’s promise
In the small town of Hawkins, where the East Texas hills rolled like green waves under a big sky, lived a woman named Dot, short for Dorothy.
She was a foster parent, her home a revolving door of laughter and tears, where children came like shooting stars — bright, fleeting, sometimes hot, and leaving trails of light in her heart.
Dot had no children of her own, but she had empathy, a quiet force that bloomed in the darkness of night, much like the new moon she watched every month from her front porch.
Tonight was such a night. The new moon hung invisible in the sky, a blank slate promising rebirth. No silvery glow pierced the velvet black; instead, the stars seemed sharper, as if the moon’s absence made room for their stories.
Dot sat on the creaky swing, a mug of chamomile tea warming her hands, listening to the nearby hoot of an owl.
Inside the house, two foster siblings slept: Amy, eight years old with a mop of curly hair and a guarded smile, and her little brother Mikey, five, who clung to a stuffed bear like it was his anchor.
They had arrived three weeks ago, old suitcases battered and eyes wide with the uncertainty of yet another move. Their mother was in recovery, their father a ghost in old photographs.
Dot knew the drill — love them fiercely, teach them gently, and let them go when the time came. But each departure carved a deeper groove in her soul. “Why do they have to leave?” she’d whisper to the night sky on new moon evenings, when the world felt emptiest.
This time, though, something felt different. Amy had a fire in her, a curiosity that sparked during their evening walks. “What’s a new moon, Miss Dot?” she’d asked one day, pointing at the calendar on the kitchen wall where Dot marked the lunar phases.
“It’s when the moon hides,” Dot explained, kneeling at Amy’s level. “But it’s not gone. It’s just resting, gathering strength to grow full again. Like us, sometimes we need darkness to find our light.”
Amy’s brow furrowed. “Does it feel alone up there?”
Dot’s heart ached. “Maybe. But it knows the stars are watching. And it always comes back stronger.”
That conversation lingered as Dot gazed at the sky now. A soft creak from the door pulled her from her thoughts. Amy stood there in her pajamas, rubbing her eyes. “Can’t sleep,” she mumbled.
“Come sit,” Dot said, patting the swing. Amy hesitated, then climbed up, leaning into Dot’s side. The night air was cool, carrying the heavy scent of pine from the nearby woods.
“Why’s the moon hiding tonight?” Amy asked, her voice small.
Dot smiled. “It’s a new moon. A time for new beginnings. What do you think it’s dreaming about?”
Amy thought for a moment, her fingers twisting the hem of her shirt. “Maybe… a family that stays.”
The words hung heavy, like rain about ready to fall. Dot wrapped an arm around her. “Families come in all shapes, sizes, and colors, Amy. Sometimes they’re forever, sometimes they’re for just a season. But the love? That stays forever, like the moon’s promise.”
Mikey appeared then, bear in tow, his thumb in his mouth. He toddled over and squeezed between them. The three sat in silence, the swing gently rocking.
Dot pointed upward. “See those stars? They’re like all the people who care about you, even the ones you don’t know yet. Even when you can’t see the moon, they’re there.”
As the night deepened, Dot shared stories — tales of the moon’s cycles, how ancient people saw it as a guardian of secrets and fresh starts.
She spoke of empathy, that invisible thread connecting hearts. “It’s feeling what someone else feels,” she said. “Like when Mikey scrapes his knee, and you hug him because you know it hurts.”
Amy nodded slowly. “Is that why you take care of us? Even if we leave?”
“Yes,” Dot whispered. “Because I know what it’s like to feel lost. And I want you to carry that feeling with you — to look for it in others, to give it away. It’s the strongest magic there is.”
A shooting star streaked across the sky, and Mikey gasped. “Wish!” he exclaimed.
They closed their eyes. Dot wished for the children’s happiness, wherever life took them. When she opened hers, Amy was staring at the empty space where the moon should be. “I wished for the moon to come back,” Amy said. “And for us to find a home like this.”
Dot’s eyes misted. “You already have a piece of it, right here.” She tapped Amy’s chest.
The next morning, the social worker called. Their mother was stable; reunification was imminent.
Dot’s stomach twisted, but she pushed through, packing their things with care — extra clothes, drawings they’d made, a little photo book of some of the things they did together, and a small notebook where she’d written moon stories for them.
On their last night, under another starlit sky, Dot gathered them on the porch again. She gave each a polished stone, smooth and dark like the hidden moon.
“Keep this,” she said. “When you feel alone, hold it and remember: the new moon is just beginning. Seek empathy, give love, and you’ll always find your way.”
Amy hugged her tightly. “Will you miss us?”
“Every day,” Dot admitted. “But that’s okay. Missing means we mattered.”
Mikey buried his face in her shoulder. “Love you, Miss Dot.”
“And I love you both. Always.”
The car pulled away the next day, taillights fading like dying stars. Dot stood alone, the house echoing with emptiness. That evening, she returned to the porch, the new moon still cloaked in darkness. But as she sat, a warmth spread through her — a whisper from the sky, reminding her that endings were just veiled beginnings.
Weeks later, a letter arrived. Amy’s handwriting, wobbly but determined: “Dear Miss Dot, We saw the moon growing last night. It’s like you said — new starts. Mom’s trying, and I hugged Mikey when he cried. That’s empathy, right? We miss you. Love, Amy and Mikey.”
Dot smiled through tears, clutching the letter. The new moon had worked its magic, planting seeds of love that would bloom in the darkness, guiding them home.
Foster care is difficult for everyone, but sadly, it’s necessary. Most of the kids we saw had only a plastic bag with a couple of items. As VP of the FPAssociatoon, I always advised foster parents to send kids out with some personal items they could call their own, like a photo album. Many kids never saw their own baby pictures! That’s how I started writing – journals for the kids to take with them. There are many good foster parents out there; you just hear about the bad ones.
Dedicated to my friend, Dorothy Phillips
https://www.fanstory.com/displaystory.jsp?hd=1&id=1168052
Hey, everyone! I wanted to let y’all know that I won again — this time, it’s a $25 award. The story is based on the experiences of a woman in the foster care system. My story is dedicated to my dear friend, Dorothy Phillips, affectionately known as Dot in the story.
Dorothy is my bestie from California. We worked together in Sacramento County in Northern California. She was an excellent foster parent who cared for many children and babies in the Sacramento area.
Although Dorothy advocated mightily for the children in her care, she preferred to perform her service with the quiet fortitude of the character in Bette Midler’s song and story, “Wind Beneath My Wings”. In no way does this mean that I was the character that Midler played. And Dorothy did not die, as in the movie. However, the movie and song both reflect the love and admiration I have for this stalwart angel of God. She did the work of angels.
We haven’t spoken much these past few years. But there’s no doubt in my mind and heart, that our mutual love and respect continue — and will continue through the ages.
I testify that Dorothy Phillips is truly one of our Heavenly Father’s choicest daughters, having learned her inherent skills at the knee of her Heavenly Mother.
I ask for blessings upon her, her husband Francis, and her children, both natural-born and those countless spirits she nurtured and mothered. I say countless, because of her influence as a result to generations, like a ripple effect of a pebble dropped in a spring.
Dorothy’s nurturing qualities resonate with several figures from the Bible, but she most closely resembles Hannah.
**Mothering and Care: Hannah, the mother of Samuel, is known for her deep love and commitment to her son. After fervently praying for a child, she dedicated Samuel to the Lord’s service, showcasing her selflessness and devotion.
**Security and Comfort: Just as Dorothy provided a safe haven for foster children, Hannah offered emotional and spiritual support. Her story emphasizes the importance of a mother’s love and the lengths she would go to ensure her child’s well-being.
**Advocacy: Hannah advocated for her son’s future, much like how a foster parent advocates for the needs and rights of the children in their care. She sought God’s guidance and blessings for Samuel’s life, demonstrating her commitment to his spiritual and personal development.
May God bless you and your family, Dorothy.
Your Friend Always, Shirley
wheatandtares.org/2025/10/16/the-doorway-of-redemption/
This is so beautifully written.
We must remember that…
Eve’s words still startle us. She doesn’t apologize for the Fall—she honors it. “If not for our transgression,” she says, “we never would have known the joy of our redemption.”
Some stories weave themselves into our hearts, becoming more than words on a page—they become part of our lives. Robert Munsch’s Love You Forever is 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.
In Love 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 wrote Discovering 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 in Friends 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 Forever isn’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 Misty uses 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 in The 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 this Thoughtful Thursday, I invite you to revisit a book that shaped your heart. Share it with someone you love, just as I did with Love You Forever. And if you’re looking for a new adventure, dive into Discovering Misty on Amazon or Audible, where love and friendship sparkle like the Gulf waves.
What’s a story that’s touched you? Let’s talk in the comments on Family Circle 14 or S.M. Ulbrich Author Blog!
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