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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.

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The writing prompt for today asks:

The writing prompt for today asks:

Published by S.M. Ulbrich on 10/05/2026

“What’s a personal mantra or philosophy you live by?”

I laughed when I saw it.

Not because I didn’t know the answer.

But because I’ve spent the past few days thinking about it without realizing it.

If you had asked me this question when I was young, my answer might have been very different. I might have talked about hard work, determination, goals, faith, family, or perseverance.

Today, after many decades of life experience, my answer is much simpler.

People Are Carrying Stories We Cannot See

Life has taught me that every person is carrying a story.

Some stories are obvious.

Others remain hidden.

People carry grief.

People carry illness.

People carry loneliness.

People carry regrets.

People carry fears.

People carry disappointments.

Sometimes they carry burdens so heavy that simply getting through the day requires more courage than anyone around them realizes.

The longer I live, the less interested I am in judging people and the more interested I am in understanding them.

I’ve learned to ask questions.

What happened to this person?

What struggles have they faced?

What losses shaped them?

What strengths helped them survive?

Questions don’t erase accountability.

But they often create understanding.

And understanding makes room for grace.

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These Are the People Who Made the People Who Made You

Many years ago, I became fascinated with genealogy.

As I researched ancestors, collected records, and pieced together family histories, I discovered something remarkable.

Every person is built upon countless lives that came before them.

People crossed oceans.

Survived wars.

Endured poverty.

Raised children.

Buried loved ones.

Started over.

Took risks.

Made sacrifices.

And because they did, we are here.

One of my favorite phrases in a baby book I created for my great-granddaughter was:

“These are the people who made the people who made you.”

I still believe that.

None of us exists in isolation.

We belong to a much larger story.

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The Lord’s Tender Mercies

One of my favorite phrases comes from the scriptures:

“The tender mercies of the Lord.”

Over the years, I’ve learned that tender mercies aren’t always dramatic.

Sometimes they’re surprisingly ordinary.

A phone call.

A memory.

A photograph.

An old file discovered on a hard drive.

An encouraging conversation.

A relationship beginning to heal.

A little more time than I expected.

Sometimes the greatest blessings arrive quietly.

They don’t remove the trial.

They simply help us continue walking through it.

I’ve experienced many of those tender mercies throughout my life.

Some appeared exactly when I needed them.

Others weren’t recognized until years later.

Love Survives More Than We Think

I’ve lived long enough to learn that life rarely unfolds exactly as we planned.

Families face difficulties.

Relationships become strained.

Illness enters the picture.

Dreams change.

Mistakes happen.

There have been seasons when I wished circumstances were different.

There have been times when people misunderstood me.

And there have been times when I misunderstood others.

But one lesson keeps returning.

Love can survive more than we realize.

It can survive distance.

It can survive disappointment.

It can survive misunderstanding.

It can survive time.

Love does not always prevent pain.

But it often outlasts it.

The Philosophy I Live By

So if I had to summarize my personal philosophy in a few words, it would be this:

People are carrying stories we cannot see.

Look for the story.

Offer grace whenever possible.

Notice the Lord’s tender mercies.

Remember where you came from.

And never underestimate the power of love to survive difficult things.

Life has taught me that understanding another person’s story doesn’t change the past.

But it can change the future.

And sometimes, that is miracle enough.

❤️


Thanks for reading.
Shirley

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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.

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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.

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What If Following Christ Means Trusting Him Without the Full Plan?

What If Following Christ Means Trusting Him Without the Full Plan?

Published by S.M. Ulbrich on 09/25/2026

Lately, I’ve been thinking about what it really means to follow Jesus Christ.

We often talk about faith as if it’s a destination, something we arrive at once we’ve learned enough or become good enough. But the more I reflect on my own walk with God, the more I realize it’s a lifelong journey. God isn’t looking for perfection overnight. He’s patiently shaping us, teaching us, and changing us one step at a time.

One phrase that has stayed with me is the idea that God is preparing a people who know His voice, feel His Spirit, and are willing to follow Him wherever He leads.

That kind of discipleship is both beautiful and challenging.

A few years ago, I found myself facing a decision that felt overwhelming. I had prayed for direction, but no clear answer seemed to come. I wanted certainty. I wanted a detailed roadmap. Instead, what I felt was a quiet assurance to simply take the next faithful step.

Looking back, I realize God wasn’t asking me to see the entire path. He was asking me to trust Him with the next step.

That experience taught me something important: faith isn’t always knowing where God is leading. Sometimes faith is choosing to follow even when you can’t see very far ahead.

I believe Jesus Christ lives. I believe He knows us personally, loves us completely, and is actively involved in our lives. Even when I don’t understand everything that’s happening around me, I find peace in knowing that He does.

More than anything, I want my life to reflect a simple but profound choice:

I choose Christ.

Not just on Sundays.

Not just when life is going well.

Not just when it’s convenient.

I want to choose Him when prayers seem unanswered. I want to choose Him when life feels uncertain. I want to choose Him in the ordinary moments that rarely make it into anyone’s testimony but often shape who we’re becoming.

One of the most moving thoughts from this message was the desire to be able to say to the Lord:

“I am Yours, totally and completely, without reservation or condition.”

If I’m honest, that’s easier to say than it is to live.

There are still dreams I cling to, plans I want to control, and questions I wish God would answer more quickly. Yet every time I try to hold too tightly to my own expectations, I’m reminded that God’s perspective is so much greater than mine.

The invitation Christ extends isn’t merely to believe in Him. It’s to trust Him. To know Him. To follow Him. To place our lives in His hands and believe that wherever He leads is better than anywhere we could go on our own.

Today, my prayer is simple:

“Lord, help me hear Your voice. Help me recognize Your Spirit. And wherever You lead, help me have the courage to follow.”

Because at the end of the day, above every other choice life offers, I want my life to say:

I choose Christ.

Reflection: Can you think of a time when God asked you to trust Him without showing you the entire plan? Looking back, how did that experience strengthen your faith?

Sometimes the greatest testimonies are built not in dramatic miracles, but in the quiet moments when we choose, again and again, to follow Him. ❤️

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A Heartfelt Thank You

A Heartfelt Thank You

Published by S.M. Ulbrich on 09/19/2026

Some posts come easily. Others sit quietly in your heart for a long time, waiting for the right moment and the right words.

This is one of those posts.

Today, I simply want to say something that feels both simple and profoundly important:

Thank you.

When I started this page and blog back in August, I had no grand expectations. I wasn’t chasing numbers or recognition. I simply had a notebook full of thoughts, stories, reflections, and a desire to place them somewhere beyond my own mind.

What I didn’t expect was this.

I never imagined my words would travel as far as they have, or that so many people would take the time to stop, read, reflect, and stay. I certainly never expected my thoughts to resonate with others in the way they have.

Yet somehow, here we are.

Every time you read a post, leave a comment, react, share a thought, or send a private message, something remarkable happens. You remind me that words still matter. That reflection still has a place in our fast-moving world. That kindness, honesty, and thoughtful conversation are things people still value.

Your comments don’t simply remain beneath a post.

They stay with me.

They accompany me throughout the day. They make me pause and smile. Sometimes they arrive at exactly the right moment, offering encouragement when it’s most needed. On difficult days, your words have lifted my spirits. On ordinary days, they have added unexpected warmth and joy.

You may not realize it, but every reaction, every message, and every “this meant something to me” has made a difference. Truly.

By reading and engaging with this blog, you are doing something incredibly generous. You are helping a dream continue to grow. You are giving space to a voice that once spoke quietly, uncertain whether anyone would listen.

Because of you, that voice feels heard.

Because of you, it feels encouraged to keep going.

Over time, this blog has become more than a personal collection of thoughts. It has become a shared space. A place where ideas, memories, questions, and reflections meet. A place where, for a few moments, we can slow down together and connect through words.

For that, I am deeply grateful.

Thank you for your time.

Thank you for your trust.

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Thank you for your openness, encouragement, and support.

Thank you for being part of this journey since August and for transforming simple posts into meaningful conversations.

Most of all, thank you for reminding me why writing matters.

As I continue this journey, I promise to keep writing with the same honesty, care, and heart that inspired me to begin. Your support has shown me that authentic words can still connect people, and that is something I will never take for granted.

From the bottom of my heart,

Thank you.

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THROWBACK: Do You See Yourself as a Leader? My Journey of Leading with Heart

THROWBACK: Do You See Yourself as a Leader? My Journey of Leading with Heart

Published by S.M. Ulbrich on 09/14/2026

Leadership continues to surprise me…

These days, I find myself leading in quieter ways, through my writing, my blog, and the conversations I share with readers. Every story I write is an opportunity to encourage courage, kindness, and hope. I’ve learned that leadership isn’t always standing in front of a crowd. Sometimes it’s simply showing up, sharing your experiences, and inspiring even one person to keep moving forward. If my books or blog help someone smile, dream, or feel less alone, then I know I’m still making a difference.

What unexpected ways has leadership shown up in your life? I’d love to hear your story.

— Shirley

A Year Ago, I Wrote:

Do you see yourself as a leader?

As the author of Discovering Misty: The Mermaid of the Emerald Coast and George and the Brave Eagle, and a blogger celebrating 500 visitors, I’ve learned that leadership isn’t just about titles—it’s about stepping up to make a difference. When asked, “Do you see yourself as a leader?” my answer is clear: as a parent, I’m automatically a leader. But the scope of that leadership, shaped by my history, stretches far beyond my home, touching lives through advocacy, service, and storytelling. Here’s how my journey as a leader has unfolded and how it fuels my writing today.

Parenthood thrust me into leadership from the start, guiding my children with love and purpose. Raising two daughters and five sons, three of whom became Eagle Scouts and two who worked toward it, I took on roles like Cub Scout leader in the Boy Scouts of America (BSA). Those years taught me to lead by example, fostering resilience and teamwork—qualities I weave into my children’s books, like George’s courage or Misty’s determination. My leadership extended to managing our family’s 25-acre LDS church park, where we hosted 600-800 Boy Scouts each year for six years. Picture a week-long campout on your front lawn—tents, laughter, and chaos! Organizing those events honed my ability to lead with patience and vision, skills I now use to manage my blog and book projects.

Beyond family, I found my voice as a political leader with Overpassers for USA, serving as California’s representative. Coordinating rallies across the state to promote patriotism and free speech was exhilarating. Every weekend, my family and I stood on freeway overpasses, waving flags and signs we kept ready in our van. I helped build the organization’s website, listing rallies nationwide, and watching our movement grow filled me with pride. Those moments of unity and love for American values inspired the hope-filled themes in my stories and blog posts, where I aim to uplift readers young and old.

My leadership also shone in foster care. For over 14 years, my husband and I were medical foster parents in Sacramento County, caring for more than 200 infants and children, many medically fragile. We held the first baby in the county to pass from AIDS, loving him for all eight months of his life. That experience taught me leadership through compassion—a thread that runs through Discovering Misty and my advocacy for hope and suicide prevention. As Vice President of the Sacramento branch of the California State Foster Parent Association for seven years and Editor of its monthly publication for six, I led by amplifying voices and sharing stories, much like I do now through my blog and books.

Leadership, for me, is about impact, not position. Whether rallying for free speech, guiding Scouts, nurturing fragile lives, or writing stories that spark joy, I lead by showing up with heart. My blog, my GoFundMe campaign for George and the Brave Eagle, and my books are extensions of that leadership, inviting readers to find courage and connection.

If you’ve ever stepped up to guide, inspire, or serve, you’re a leader too—shaping the world one moment, one story, at a time.

Shirley

Overpassers USA
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Silent Sunday 9/13/26

Silent Sunday 9/13/26

Published by S.M. Ulbrich on 09/13/2026

—Shirley

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A Year Later… Still Motivated

A Year Later… Still Motivated

Published by S.M. Ulbrich on 09/01/2026

A year ago, I wrote about what motivates me. Looking back, I’m grateful to see that the answer hasn’t changed. If anything, those motivations have grown stronger.

When I shared that post, I was deep in the process of rediscovering old manuscripts, research notes, and book ideas that had been tucked away for years. I remember the excitement of opening files and finding page after page of material I had forgotten I’d written. I also remember the frustration of running into corrupted files and forgotten passwords. Some days felt like a treasure hunt, and others felt like a dead end.

A year later, I can honestly say the treasure hunt continues.

I’ve spent many hours revisiting stories, organizing notes, and trying to bring some order to decades of work. What has surprised me most is not how much I wrote, but how much those stories still matter to me. Each manuscript represents an idea, a lesson, or a piece of history that I felt was important enough to preserve. Time has not diminished that feeling.

My family remains my greatest motivation. Every grandchild, every child, every ancestor whose story deserves to be remembered continues to inspire me. There are now even more branches on our family tree than there were when I first made that list of books for our grandchildren. Seeing our family grow reminds me why I started this project in the first place.

I’ve often thought about those ancestor stories I hoped to write. Some tell of courage. Some tell of sacrifice. Others tell of ordinary people who quietly endured hardships so future generations could have better lives. The older I get, the more I appreciate those ordinary heroes. Their stories deserve to be told.

I still feel a sense of urgency. Not the kind that creates panic, but the kind that encourages purpose. There are only so many hours in a day, and there are still many stories waiting to be written. Rather than feeling overwhelmed by what remains unfinished, I’ve learned to be grateful for every page completed and every memory preserved.

Financial challenges haven’t magically disappeared. They remain a reality, just as they were a year ago. But I’ve learned that progress isn’t measured only by money. It’s measured by persistence, determination, and the willingness to keep moving forward one step at a time.

Most importantly, my faith continues to sustain me. I still draw strength from the love of my Heavenly Father and from the love of family, both past and present. Those gifts continue to motivate me on difficult days and encourage me on the good ones.

So, a year later, I’m still here. Still writing. Still researching. Still believing these stories have a purpose and an audience, even if I don’t yet know who that audience may be.

And for that, I am grateful.

Thank you for being here. Thank you for reading. And thank you for encouraging me along the way.

August 20, 2025

PROMPT:What motivates you?PROMPT: What motivates you?

Prompt: 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. 

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⭐ A BIRTHDAY STORY FOR FORREST

⭐ A BIRTHDAY STORY FOR FORREST

Published by S.M. Ulbrich on 08/27/2026

I had been researching my grandson, Forrest’s family line and discovered the name Isaac Pemberton — a Philadelphia Quaker who lived during Revolutionary times. As I imagined what it might feel like for Forrest to receive this ancestor’s story as a birthday gift today, the picture of a small leather-bound booklet came to mind. Inside it, he discovers the tale of a man who stood for peace when the world demanded war. This is that story — written for Forrest, and shared here for anyone who values courage of conscience. Happy Birthday, Forrest!

⭐ THE MAN WHO WOULDN’T RAISE A GUN

A Birthday Story for Forrest

(Based on the life and era of Isaac Pemberton, Philadelphia Quaker, 1775)

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🌿 Prologue — The Package

Forrest didn’t expect anything in the mail that day. Bills, sure. A flyer or two. But not a small, hand‑wrapped parcel with his name written in his grandmother’s handwriting — the kind that looks like it took some time.

Inside was a leather-bound booklet, soft and worn, like something meant to be kept. The first page held only a single line:

“Every family has someone who stood up when it mattered.”

He turned the page.

And the story began.

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🌿 Chapter One — A City on Edge

Philadelphia, 1775.

The city was loud with talk of war. Blacksmiths hammered iron into musket barrels. Tavern doors swung open with arguments spilling into the street. Men gathered in clusters, whispering about rebellion, loyalty, and the price of freedom.

But inside the quiet of the Quaker meeting house, Isaac Pemberton sat with his hands folded, listening for the stillness he believed God spoke through.

He was twenty‑three — the same age Forrest once was when life felt heavy and uncertain. Isaac wasn’t a soldier. He wasn’t a politician. He was a craftsman, a helper, a man who believed peace wasn’t weakness but discipline.

One morning, militia officers arrived at the meeting house with enrollment papers. Every able-bodied man was expected to sign. The officers stood at the front, calling names, handing out quills.

Isaac felt his heart pounding. He knew what refusal would cost him. He knew what people would say.

But he stepped forward anyway.

“I cannot raise a gun against any man God has made.”

The room went silent.

Some men looked away. Some shook their heads. One officer muttered under his breath. But Isaac didn’t waver.

He set the quill down.

And walked out.

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🌿 Chapter Two — The Cost of Conscience

Refusing the militia wasn’t just unpopular — it was illegal.

Within weeks, Isaac’s tools were seized. His horse was taken. He was fined more than he could pay. Neighbors whispered that he was a coward. Others said he was a traitor. Some stopped speaking to him altogether.

But Isaac kept working.

He repaired fences for widows whose husbands had gone to war. He carried water for the sick. He shared bread with families who had less than he did. He helped anyone who knocked on his door.

He refused violence, but he never refused people.

One afternoon, a group of men confronted him in the street.

“War is coming,” one said. “You’ll let others fight for your freedom?”

Isaac answered softly, “I will work for peace as hard as you work for war.”

They didn’t understand. Most wouldn’t. But Isaac didn’t expect them to.

Courage, he believed, wasn’t always loud.

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🌿 Chapter Three — The Night of the Wounded Man

It was late when Isaac heard the knock.

A young soldier — barely older than Forrest — collapsed at his doorstep, bleeding from a skirmish outside the city. His uniform was torn, his face pale, his breath shallow.

Isaac lifted him, carried him inside, and tended his wounds with steady hands. He boiled water, tore cloth, whispered prayers.

The soldier looked at him through half‑closed eyes.

“Why help me?” he asked. “I’d have shot you.”

Isaac didn’t hesitate.

“Peace isn’t so much a belief,” he said. “It’s a practice.”

The soldier survived. Isaac never told anyone. Not the meeting. Not the militia. Not even his family.

Some acts of courage don’t need witnesses.

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🌿 Chapter Four — The Quiet Rebel

Years passed. The war raged. Isaac continued to refuse militia service, loyalty oaths, and anything that required him to harm another person.

He wasn’t loud about it. He didn’t make speeches. He didn’t argue in taverns. He simply lived his conviction every day, even when it cost him.

He wrote his story in a small journal — not to boast, but to remind future generations that courage comes in many forms.

He wrote:

“Some men fight with muskets.
Some fight with conscience.
Both require bravery.”

Those words became the final page Forrest read.

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🌿 Epilogue — Forrest

Forrest closed the booklet and sat quietly.

He didn’t know everything about his ancestor, the “first American conscientious objector.”He didn’t know everything about his own future. But he knew this:

He came from someone who stood firm when the world shook.

Someone who chose peace when anger was easier.

Someone who survived hardship without losing himself.

And maybe — just maybe — that strength runs in him too.

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Stories like Isaac Pemberton’s remind us that courage doesn’t always look like battlefields or banners. Sometimes it looks like a single person standing quietly, refusing to bend against the weight of the world. I wrote this for Forrest, but I share it here because we all need reminders that strength can be gentle, and that peace can be brave. May this story — and the blessing that follows — be a light for anyone walking their own uncertain road.

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🌿 Closing Blessing

A Blessing for Your Path

May the road before you be steady, and may your steps be guided by the quiet wisdom that lives within you.


May you find courage in gentleness, strength in compassion, and clarity in every new beginning.


May the God who shaped your ancestors shape your days with peace, purpose, and a light that never dims.


And may you always remember: you are part of a story still being written — one marked by resilience, hope, and the quiet bravery of choosing what is right.

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Tribute: “Be Like Dolly”

Tribute: “Be Like Dolly”

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

Good evening, friends.

Today, we celebrate the life and legacy of a remarkable woman whose voice filled concert halls, whose songs touched hearts, and whose generosity changed lives.

Many people knew Dolly Parton as a country music legend. Millions knew her as an entertainer, songwriter, actress, and performer. But those who admired her most often saw something even greater. They saw a person who never forgot where she came from.

Born into poverty in the mountains of Tennessee as one of twelve children, Dolly understood hardship from an early age. She knew what it meant to have little and dream big. Through talent, determination, faith, and relentless hard work, she built a life that inspired people all over the world.

Yet success never seemed to change her heart.

She remembered the families struggling to get by. She remembered children who needed opportunities. She remembered the importance of reading, learning, and believing in yourself. Through the Imagination Library, millions of books found their way into the hands of children who might otherwise never have owned one.

That may be one of her greatest songs, although it was never sung. It was written in kindness, one book at a time.

Dolly also taught us that strength doesn’t have to be loud. It can be humble. It can be generous. It can wear a smile and still move mountains.

Faith was an important part of her life. Hope was part of her message. Love was part of her example.

In a world often divided by anger and criticism, Dolly Parton reminded us to laugh, to dream, to help one another, and to remain grateful for our blessings.

Her music will endure. Her words will endure. But perhaps her greatest legacy is the example she leaves behind.

An example that says:

Never forget your roots.

Never stop believing.

Never stop giving.

And never underestimate the power of kindness.

May we honor her not only by remembering her songs, but by living the values she shared with the world.

Thank you, Dolly.

And may we all strive to “Be Like Dolly.”

—

Blog Post: Be Like Dolly

Be Like Dolly: More Than a Country Music Legend

Some people become famous.

A few become beloved.

Almost none become both while remaining humble, generous, and authentic.

That is why Dolly Parton’s story continues to inspire millions of people around the world.

What makes Dolly remarkable is not simply the music. It is not the awards, the hit songs, the sold-out shows, or the decades of success. The truly inspiring part of Dolly’s story is where she began and what she chose to do with her success.

Growing up in rural Tennessee as one of twelve children, Dolly experienced poverty firsthand. She understood struggle, sacrifice, and the importance of family. Those early experiences shaped the values that would remain with her throughout life.

Rather than allowing success to separate her from ordinary people, Dolly used her platform to help them.

The Imagination Library became one of the most successful literacy programs in modern history, providing free books to children and encouraging a lifelong love of reading. The program reflected something fundamental about Dolly’s character: a belief that every child deserves opportunity.

Dolly also demonstrated that kindness and strength are not opposites. She never seemed ashamed of her background, her faith, or her unique personality. In an era when public figures often reinvent themselves, Dolly remained unapologetically Dolly.

Perhaps that is why so many people from different backgrounds admired her. She represented something increasingly rare: authenticity.

Her life reminds us that success means little if it cannot be used to help others. Wealth matters less than generosity. Fame matters less than character.

The lesson is simple.

You do not have to be a celebrity to change someone’s life.

You do not have to write hit songs to inspire hope.

You do not have to be wealthy to be generous.

You simply have to care.

When future generations look back on Dolly Parton’s legacy, they will remember the music. But they will also remember the books, the kindness, the faith, the laughter, and the countless lives touched by her generosity.

That is why her story matters.

And that is why the best tribute may be the simplest one:

Be Like Dolly.

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✨ 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. 

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Silent Sunday

Silent Sunday

Published by S.M. Ulbrich on 08/23/2026
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✨ 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!

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✨ 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.

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Happy National Acadian Day; bonne fête nationale de l’acadie!

Published by S.M. Ulbrich on 08/15/2026

Today, August 15, is National Acadian Day … and it’s also India’s Independence Day. Two different different stories in different parts of the world, …

Happy National Acadian Day; bonne fête nationale de l’acadie!

National Acadian Day, known in French as Fête nationale de l’Acadie, is celebrated each year on August 15 in parts of Canada as a tribute to Acadian culture and heritage. The date was chosen in 1881 during the first National Convention of the Acadians in Memramcook, New Brunswick, when Acadian leaders were given the mandate to establish a national day of celebration. Its observance also aligns with the Feast of the Assumption of Mary, giving the day both cultural and religious significance for many Acadians.

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Peaceful, Blessed Sabbath Day

Peaceful, Blessed Sabbath Day

Published by S.M. Ulbrich on 07/19/2026

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Silent Sunday

Silent Sunday

Published by S.M. Ulbrich on 07/12/2026

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250!
The Forge of Broken Things.part 2

The Forge of Broken Things.part 2

Published by S.M. Ulbrich on 07/03/2026

NOTE: if you read the previous story about this, and are confused about seeing it again, please check the last part. It will explain why you’re seeing this again.

This story weaves a rich tapestry that connects the epic, historical resilience of ancestors directly, into a modern story of survival and extraordinary love.

Capturing the blacksmith roots, the grief of Acadians, and the mending of self and foster children, this story highlights the concept of an unbroken line of patriots and survivors.

The protagonist, (celebrating 50 years of marriage) reflects on her life of fostering over 200 children, adopting 3, and giving birth to 5. It explores her slow recovery from severe childhood trauma (parents divorced by age 4, a father with schizophrenia, a mother developmentally delayed to age 13, and enduring childhood physical and sexual abuse from alcohol addiction and mental illness). It details the hardships she and her husband overcame, including losing babies, and celebrates their clean, enduring romance.  

Incorporating a cohesive parallel narrative arc, the story interweaves the historical trials of her ancestors (the Acadian expulsion, the Irish potato famine) with her own personal trials (childhood trauma, fostering 200 children), showing that the “patriot DNA” of survival was passed down to her, and through her children.

The Paternal Grandmother’s side: Direct descent from the legendary Acadian leader Joseph ‘Beausoleil’ Broussard, embodying the patriot spirit and the tragedy/triumph of the Acadian expulsion.

Beausoleil led the armed resistance against the British during the 18th-century Acadian Deportation and subsequently guided displaced exiles to safety in Louisiana. His heroic status rests on several major historical contributions:

  1. Armed Resistance: Before and during the 1755 British expulsion Beausoleil led guerrilla militias to defend Acadian communities, homes, and churches against British forces.
  2. Symbol of Hope: He earned his nickname, “Beautiful Sun” (or light of the resistance), from his fellow Acadians because he provided hope and protection during a period of severe persecution and ethnic cleansing.
  3. Resettlement in Louisiana: After enduring imprisonment and exile, Beausoleil successfully led a group of nearly 200 Acadian refugees out of Halifax to the Gulf Coast in 1765.

He is credited with establishing the first major settlement of Acadians in southern Louisiana, in Loreauville, in the Broussard area of Lafayette, LA. He was buried on October 20, 1765, at the age of 62-63, laying the foundation for modern Cajun culture.

The Maternal Grandfather’s side: A deeply rooted line where the protagonist is related to him 17 different ways, filled with early American patriots. He was born in Loreauville, and died in the same parish.

The Maternal Great-Grandparents (The Peppers, the ONLY non-Acadian line on this protagonist’s direct genealogy): Newlyweds fleeing Ireland immediately after the Potato Famine, arriving in New Orleans to build a life from scratch in nearby Jeanerette, as blacksmiths. This writer’s mother recalls hearing the uniquely “sing-song” Irish accent and tones of her great-grandparents.

Rene LeBlane, the Notary Public mentioned in official records of the events occurring during that time, is also a progenitor. According to the records, he “was seized, confined, and brought away among the rest of the people, and his family, consisting of twenty children, and about one hundred and fifty grandchildren, were scattered in different colonies, so that he was put on shore at New York, with only his wife and two youngest children, in an infirm state of health, from whence he joined three more of his children at Philadelphia, where he died without any more notice being taken of him than any of us, notwithstanding his many years’ labor and deep sufferings for Your Majesty’s service.”

The themes of ancestral survival, blacksmithing / refining fire, and patriotism mirror the protagonist’s fight to survive her childhood and become a sanctuary for over 200 forgotten, abused, and medically fragile children.

To see the collection of artwork I submitted for this contest, please click this link:

https://creator.nightcafe.studio/g/select/post/ajJmPLg60BMEudjYwgSG

A collection of AI-Generated Artworks curated by Shirley Ulbrich.

Below are the contest rules, according to Nightcafe.

Getting close!

I’ve got 9 more days to wait and hopefully, gather a couple more votes for this “part 2”.

As you can see, I’ve already successfully qualified for the next round with “part 1”, but, it’s not as complete as my 2nd try, “part 2”. I’d prefer to just remove that first one, and only leave “part 2” as my only submission. However, “part 2” is not qualified yet, and until it is – it needs just 2 more – “part 1” has to stay there.

Oh, how I’d love to win this contest! I’m sure y’all know what I’ve already spent the money on, lol. (In case you are new here, and don’t know, I’d get my books published!) Woohoo!

It would be quite a relief to finally get that all done.

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Using AI in Genealogy: A Helpful Tool… with Serious Limits

Using AI in Genealogy: A Helpful Tool… with Serious Limits

Published by S.M. Ulbrich on 07/02/2026

Genealogy is a discipline built on accuracy. One wrong assumption can unravel years of careful work. With AI becoming more common in research spaces, I wanted to see what it could realistically offer genealogists — especially those working with foreign‑language records.

What I discovered is that AI can be both a helpful assistant and a source of major problems.

Where AI Can Help

AI shines in a few very specific areas:

  • Transcription help — It can produce word‑for‑word transcriptions of handwritten or printed text, even in languages you don’t read.
  • Translation assistance — It can turn those transcriptions into English so you can understand the basics.
  • Document summaries — It can pull out names, dates, places, and relationships for quick review.

These tasks are mechanical, not interpretive — and that’s exactly why AI performs them reasonably well. For language barriers, this can be a huge help.

Where AI Goes Wrong

Once AI moves beyond transcription and translation, the risks increase dramatically.

  • False connections — AI may confidently link people who are not related at all.
  • Invented details — It may create marriages, death dates, or events that don’t exist in any record.
  • Nonexistent sources — It can fabricate entire record sets, archives, volumes, or page numbers.
  • No real sourcing — AI often pulls from user‑submitted trees or unverified data without telling you.

Even when instructed not to invent information, AI may still hallucinate — and sometimes defend those errors instead of correcting them.

These aren’t small mistakes. They can waste hours of research time and send you down dead ends.

Conclusion

After testing AI in multiple ways, here are the guidelines I now follow:

  • Use AI only for safe tasks
    Transcriptions, translations, summaries, brainstorming — yes. Facts, relationships, conclusions — no.
  • Verify everything manually
    Always return to primary sources: parish registers, civil records, notarial documents, censuses, and original scans.
  • Reject suspicious details
    If a record seems too tidy, lacks a source, or cannot be located in a real archive, discard it immediately.
  • Stay skeptical
    AI will hallucinate even when told not to. Double‑check everything.

Bottom Line

AI can be a helpful companion for transcription, translation, and image creation, especially when working with foreign‑language records. But as a research partner, it is unreliable. It can produce convincing but completely fabricated information — wrong connections, invented events, and imaginary record collections.

Real progress still comes from careful, manual verification.

Treat AI as a curious but unreliable assistant. Use it for language barriers, not conclusions.

My Rating: 3 out of 10 for genealogy research reliability.

P.S. Yes, yes, I know this is my “author” blog, but I’ll let you in on a little secret: I’m prepping to write another book! Hmm, I can tell, some of y’all have already picked up the vibes! Smart darlin’s, my readers.

As I was revising my contest entry documentation, I realized I was actually writing a basic outline for my next book! Oh, I feel so blessed!

Anyway, as you know, the storyline may evolve into something else, but I suspect He’s already given me my next assignment. Praying I can finish it.

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The Forge of Broken Things 

The Forge of Broken Things 

Published by S.M. Ulbrich on 06/29/2026

PLEASE NOTE: I’ve entered a contest in Nightcafe and I’m hoping to win. The prize is money, which I intend to use it to publish my many manuscripts. Please consider going to the site and voting for me. I cannot tell you how much I’d appreciate it.

My health is still hanging in at stage 4 CKD, thank goodness! I’ve been blessed so many times.

Below is a description of my entry to the contest:

This story weaves a rich tapestry that connects the epic, historical resilience of ancestors directly, into a modern story of survival and extraordinary love.

Capturing the blacksmith roots, the grief of Acadians, and the mending of self and foster children, this story highlights the concept of an unbroken line of patriots and survivors.

The protagonist (celebrating 50 years of marriage) reflects on her life of fostering over 200 children, adopting 3, and giving birth to 5. It explores her slow recovery from severe childhood trauma (parents divorced by age 4, a father with schizophrenia, a mother developmentally delayed to age 13, and enduring childhood physical and sexual abuse). It details the hardships she and her husband overcame, including losing babies, and celebrates their clean, enduring romance.

Incorporating a cohesive parallel narrative arc, the story interweaves the historical trials of my ancestors (the Acadian expulsion, the Irish potato famine) with my own personal trials (childhood trauma, fostering 200 children), showing that the “patriot DNA” of survival was passed down to me, through my children. 

The Paternal Grandmother’s side: Direct descent from the legendary Acadian leader Joseph ‘Beausoleil’ Broussard, embodying the patriot spirit and the tragedy/triumph of the Acadian expulsion.

The Maternal Grandfather’s side: A deeply rooted line where the protagonist is related to him 17 different ways, filled with early American patriots.

The Maternal Great-Grandparents (The Peppers): Newlyweds fleeing Ireland immediately after the Potato Famine, arriving in New Orleans to build a life from scratch as blacksmiths.

The themes of ancestral survival, blacksmithing/refining fire, and patriotism mirror the protagonist’s fight to survive her childhood and become a sanctuary for 200 forgotten children. 

https://creator.nightcafe.studio/g/select/post/tzEif3szTbg2FyW0c71X

Submit a Body of Work that tells a story from start to finish. Be reviewed by expert judges, and compete for a $1,000 grant and a feature in Prompt Magazine.

I’m just finishing up the outline for this yet-to-be-written book, which will be a historical novel/memoir.

Thanks so much!

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Happy Easter!

Happy Easter!

Published by S.M. Ulbrich on 04/05/2026

Christ is Risen!

Truly, He Has Risen!

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Just Recalling That Blessed Thursday Long Ago…

Just Recalling That Blessed Thursday Long Ago…

Published by S.M. Ulbrich on 04/03/2026

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, please ask Him. 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.”

In Jesus’ Name, Amen

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The Oil Press: Christ’s Agony in Gethsemane and the Gift of Repentance

The Oil Press: Christ’s Agony in Gethsemane and the Gift of Repentance

Published by S.M. Ulbrich on 03/19/2026

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.

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