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.
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.
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. 🎄
Write a prose poem – a poem written in a paragraph instead of lines and stanzas. It doesn’t rhyme or follow a structure, but it should still feel poetic. Use strong images, emotions, or rhythm. Think of it like a poem hiding inside a short piece of prose. Any topic welcome.
At the edge of the house where the floorboards remember footsteps nobody has taken for years, I open a drawer and the silver breathes out–old coins, a ribbon that still smells like a summer that refuses to be current, a photograph folded at the corners like a paper harbor.
Outside, rain argues with the gutters and the streetlight stitches a seam of gold across the pavement; inside, the kettle hums like a small confession, and I listen to its patience.
Memory arrives in small increments: a button with a name on its back, a ticket stub curled like a fallen leaf, the stubborn geometry of a laugh that lived here once and left an echo in the molding.
I press my palm to the glass of the window and learn the temperature of the night; the city exhales and I count the exhalations as if they were my own.
There is a kind of making–of rooms from absence, of sentences from the hush between heartbeats–where grief becomes architecture, where longing becomes furniture you can sit on when noon is tired.
I set things back, not to tidy the past but to give it posture, and the house agrees, folding itself around the small lit things, holding them as if they were keys.
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