Skip to content

Tag: family heritage story

The Love That Waited

The Love That Waited

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

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

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

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

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

It is the love that waits.

The Love That Waited

Every year on her birthday, Lena lit three candles.

One for yesterday.

One for today.

And one for tomorrow.

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

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

The third was for hope.

It was always the brightest.

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

The girls had once fit perfectly in her arms.

Now they were growing up somewhere beyond her reach.

Life had carried them forward.

Time always does.

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

She remembered tiny hands tugging at her sleeves.

She remembered lullabies sung off-key.

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

Most of all, she remembered being called Mama.

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

Sometimes that realization hurt.

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

Love is measured by what we continue to give.

So Lena began writing.

At first it was only a few pages.

A memory here.

A story there.

A letter she never expected anyone to read.

When the pages filled, she found another notebook.

Then another.

Then another.

Soon she had a shelf lined with journals.

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

Stories about chasing butterflies.

Stories about pink unicorns and princesses.

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

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

Each journal was different.

Yet every single one carried the same message.

You are loved.

You are loved more than you know.

And you always will be.

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

When regret whispered in the dark, Lena wrote.

When hope felt distant, Lena wrote.

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

One afternoon, her grandmother found her filling another notebook.

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

Lena smiled.

“Maybe.”

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

The question lingered between them.

Lena looked at the stack of journals.

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

“I don’t know.”

Her grandmother settled into the chair beside her.

Then she said something Lena would never forget.

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

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

Sometimes it simply waits.

Years continued their steady march forward.

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

The journals multiplied.

The girls grew.

Life continued.

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

Its brass latch creaked when they opened it.

Inside sat dozens of journals.

Carefully arranged.

Protected.

Treasured.

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

A pressed daisy slipped into her lap.

The handwriting was neat and gentle.

The title simply read:

For My Girls

Curious, they began reading.

Hours passed unnoticed.

The stories pulled them in.

There were memories of playground adventures and Halloween costumes.

Stories about favorite stuffed animals and beloved bedtime books.

Descriptions of tiny personalities that felt strangely familiar.

The girls laughed at some pages.

They cried at others.

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

The woman who wrote these journals was not perfect.

She never claimed to be.

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

Love.

Patient love.

Steadfast love.

The kind of love that had endured silence without disappearing.

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

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

For a long moment neither girl spoke.

Then the younger one quietly wiped away a tear.

“She remembered everything.”

Her sister nodded.

“No.”

She gently placed her hand on the stack of journals.

“She remembered us.”

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

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

The three birthday candles burned softly beside her.

Tomorrow wasn’t her birthday.

But sometimes she lit them anyway.

Just to remind herself that hope deserved celebrating.

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

“Let them know.”

Nothing more.

Just those three words.

Let them know.

Then her phone rang.

Lena glanced at the screen.

An unfamiliar number.

Her heart quickened.

Slowly, she answered.

“Hello?”

Silence.

Then a nervous voice.

Young.

Gentle.

Beautiful.

“Hi.”

Lena gripped the phone with trembling hands.

The voice continued.

“We found your stories.”

Tears filled her eyes before she could speak.

Another voice joined the first.

“We read every one.”

The room blurred.

The candles shimmered through her tears.

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

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

Lena closed her eyes.

Not because she was sad.

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

Outside, the evening breeze stirred the trees.

Inside, three candles glowed softly beside the window.

One for yesterday.

One for today.

And one for tomorrow.

The brightest of all.

Because some loves burn quickly and fade.

But the deepest loves endure.

They wait through storms.

They wait through seasons.

They wait through silence.

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

A Mother’s Love: Happy Birthday, Sweetheart!

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

Leave a Comment
Toby’s Trail

Toby’s Trail

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And perhaps they would say:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Personal Note to Toby:

Toby,

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

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

You didn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thank you for loving our daughter.

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

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

With love and gratitude,

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

1 Comment
Blast from the Past: You Might Be a Writer If… (And You Might Be Reading The Collector)

Blast from the Past: You Might Be a Writer If… (And You Might Be Reading The Collector)

Published by S.M. Ulbrich on 09/30/2026

Every now and then, it’s fun to look back at the posts that first connected us as writers, readers, dreamers, and storytellers. As our blog continues to grow beyond that exciting milestone of 500 visitors, I found myself revisiting an old favorite: “You Might Be a Writer If…”

When I first wrote that post, I reflected on the habits, quirks, and passions that seem to unite writers everywhere. Looking back, I realize those same qualities have followed me through every project, from Discovering Misty: The Mermaid of the Emerald Coast to George and the Brave Eagle, and now into my newest work, The Collector.

So, let’s take another look.

You See Stories Everywhere

Writers don’t simply observe the world. They imagine what lies beneath the surface.

A quiet beach can become a magical kingdom. An eagle soaring overhead can become a symbol of courage and determination. And sometimes a simple object, forgotten by most people, can become the centerpiece of an entirely new adventure.

That spirit of curiosity helped inspire The Collector. What begins as an ordinary discovery can quickly lead to extraordinary questions, reminding us that stories are often hiding in plain sight.

You Never Stop Asking “What If?”

What if mermaids lived along the Emerald Coast?

What if a brave eagle taught valuable lessons about courage?

And now, what if someone discovered something so unusual that it changed the way they viewed the world around them?

Writers thrive on “what if.” It is the question that opens every doorway to imagination and invites readers to step through alongside us.

You Fall in Love with Characters

One of the greatest joys of writing is creating characters who begin to feel like family.

Misty’s determination, George’s bravery, and the personalities taking shape within The Collector all started as ideas. Over time, they grew into companions who taught me lessons of their own.

Writers know this feeling. Characters stop becoming words on a page and start becoming voices in your heart.

You Daydream Without Apology

If you’ve ever stared out a window and lost yourself in a story, welcome to the club.

Writers spend a lot of time in two worlds at once. There’s the everyday world where dishes need washing and errands need running. Then there’s the story world where adventures unfold, mysteries deepen, and possibilities seem endless.

Many of the ideas behind The Collector arrived during those quiet moments when imagination took the lead.

You Keep Going, Even When It Isn’t Easy

Writing is rewarding, but it’s rarely simple.

There are moments of doubt, rejected drafts, editing headaches, and days when inspiration seems to hide. Yet writers continue because storytelling is more than a hobby. It’s a calling.

Every book I’ve written has required persistence, patience, and faith. The Collector was no different. Each challenge became another opportunity to refine the story and make it stronger.

You Hope Your Words Matter

Perhaps the biggest sign that you’re a writer is this: you want your words to make a difference.

Whether through the friendship and adventure found in Discovering Misty, the courage demonstrated in George and the Brave Eagle, or the themes explored in The Collector, my hope has always been to create stories that encourage, inspire, and spark imagination.

Stories have the power to bring people together. They help us see through someone else’s eyes, discover new perspectives, and find hope when we need it most.

Looking Back and Moving Forward

Revisiting You Might Be a Writer If… reminds me how much this journey has grown and how grateful I am for every reader who has come along for the ride.

The signs of being a writer haven’t changed. We still collect ideas, chase inspiration, daydream endlessly, and obsess over the right words. But each new story adds another chapter to the journey.

As we celebrate the past and look toward the future, I’m excited to share The Collector with readers and continue creating stories that spark wonder, curiosity, and hope.

So let me ask you:

Do you see stories everywhere?

Do you daydream about characters and adventures?

Do you carry a notebook just in case inspiration strikes?

If so, you just might be a writer.

And if you’re not a writer, perhaps you’re exactly who writers create stories for.

Thank you for being part of this journey. Here’s to the next adventure, and to the magic waiting to be discovered in The Collector.

1 Comment
A New Novel Is Quietly Taking Shape

A New Novel Is Quietly Taking Shape

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

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

At least not the way I’m writing it.

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

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

Perhaps even more than the famous ones.

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

At its heart, it asks a simple question:

What survives after we’re gone?

A photograph?

A letter?

A favorite recipe?

A journal?

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

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

Most people believe their lives are ordinary.

But ordinary does not mean unimportant.

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

I’m not ready to share many details yet.

The mysteries are still unfolding.

But I can tell you this:

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

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

Who remembers the people no one else remembers?

More soon.

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

The characters are waiting.

Leave a Comment
✨ One Year Later: An Update on What Motivates Me

✨ One Year Later: An Update on What Motivates Me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So what motivates me today?

The answer is still love.

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

That seems like a worthy reason to keep going.

Thanks for being here, and thanks for reading.

Feel free to share.

Shirley


Aug. 20, 2025

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Leave a Comment
✨ One Year Later

✨ One Year Later

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

August 19, 2025

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

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

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

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

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

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

1 Comment
✨ Our 50‑Year Anniversary Story

✨ Our 50‑Year Anniversary Story

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

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


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

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

My love,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

💍 The Day We Chose Forever

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

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

Family time camping.

🏡 Becoming a Family

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

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

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

Hawaii Temple

✨ Sacred Places, Sacred Promises

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

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

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

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

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

🌾 The Later Years — Dreams, Realizations, and Grace

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

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

💛 What I Celebrate Today

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

I celebrate us.

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

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

Happy 50th Anniversary.

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


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

✨ Gentle Closing Blessing for the Anniversary Letter

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

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

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

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

1 Comment