I’ve been experimenting with Nightcafe and am so happy at the way this has turned out.
My prayer is that, when the time comes, I will be greeted by my own children whom I have lost, foster children who passed away in my home, and all the multitudes of ancestors I’ve done the work for.
The tragic Acadians lost in the diaspora called The Great Dispersal that drove many to Louisiana.
To the Ancestors who came to the New World from France and dug trenches called dykes in Nova Scotia. All of these contributed to my bloodline, on both sides of my parents.
One, a veritable hero, Beausoleil Broussard, my direct ancestor that I happen to share with Beyoncé.
Another ancestor, unnamed due to threat of shaming, an ancestor who was the unknowing carrier of the deaf blind and balance scourge of many Cajuns, Usher Syndrome. Another, Tay Sachs syndrome, shared by tight-knit Jewish communities.
To my Louisiana Ancestors, who braved yellow fever, great storms and hurricanes, and sweltering heat. Worst of all, the mosquitoes who ravaged bodies with yellow fever. Even the awful monster, leprosy, inhabited so many bodies, clinics still exist in Louisiana. Yet, they survived. With their celebrations at Mardi Gras, and family crawfish boils, along with cotton picking parties and Saturday night dance halls. My childhood was filled with such great memories! In fact, I was nearly born on my grandfather’s shrimp boat on New Year’s Eve night. The shrimp were running so good, nobody except Mama was in a hurry to get off that boat! I just barely made it to the hospital at Lafayette General (called Charity Hospital at the time. The building’s still there.)
To my one line of Irishmen, the Pepper’s, who came right after the great potato starvation time, who first witnessed persecution, and then, founded a good life of blacksmithing. (My grandmother’s grandmother wasn’t allowed to speak in her native tongue, even at home, but my mother recalls her beautiful “sing-song” accent in her Cajun speak.)
Hey there, fellow night owls and creative souls! It’s Shirley here, tapping away from my cozy corner in Hawkins, Texas, where the stars are out and the world is quiet. It’s been a hot minute since I last posted—life has a way of throwing curveballs, doesn’t it? But tonight (or should I say this early morning?), I’m feeling inspired to share a little update on my latest adventure: diving back into Canva.
You know, as an author, I’ve always loved weaving words into stories that transport readers. But lately, I’ve been craving a visual twist to complement my writing. Enter Canva—the design tool that’s like a playground for the imagination. I’m relearning it from scratch, and let me tell you, it’s both exhilarating and a tad overwhelming. Remember those first days of discovering drag-and-drop magic? The templates, the fonts, the endless color palettes? I’m right back there, experimenting with book covers for my next manuscript and even some fun graphics for social media shares.
Pro tip: If you’re rusty like me, start with their tutorials—they’re bite-sized and perfect for short bursts of creativity.
But here’s the real talk: My schedule isn’t exactly ideal for this. For reasons I won’t bore you with (though I’d love to grill the universe about it someday—hey heaven, why the short end of the stick on sleep?), I’m only awake about four hours out of every 24. And those hours? Always after midnight, when the rest of the world is dreaming. It’s like living in my own personal twilight zone. On one hand, the silence fuels focus—no distractions, just me, my laptop, and that soft glow from the screen. On the other, I wish I had more time to explore, to iterate, to let ideas marinate. Four hours fly by when you’re knee-deep in aligning elements or hunting for the perfect stock photo.
Still, I’m making it work. Canva’s mobile app has been a lifesaver for those groggy moments when I can’t sit at my desk. And honestly, these late-night sessions have sparked some unexpected gems—designs that feel more raw and authentic, born from the quiet hours when my mind wanders freely. If you’re dealing with your own time constraints, whether from health, work, or just life’s chaos, know this: Progress doesn’t need a full day. A few dedicated hours can move mountains… or at least create a stunning Instagram post.
What’s next? I’m aiming to incorporate more visuals into my author journey—maybe some mood boards for characters or teaser graphics for upcoming releases. If you have Canva hacks or favorite features, drop them in the comments! I’d love to hear how you’re blending creativity with whatever curveballs come your way.
Until next time (hopefully sooner than later), keep creating in the cracks of time you’ve got.
Sweet dreams—or good morning, depending on when you read this.
Write a poem that takes the form of a letter. It can be addressed to anyone – a friend, a family member, a stranger, yourself, or someone no longer here. The letter should feel personal and emotional. Starting with “Dear…” and ending with a closing is optional, but your poem should feel like a letter.
Rachael and Mama
Dear Mama,
In the trembling hush of my heart, where memories flicker like fireflies over Louisiana’s bayou shadows, I whisper to you across the eternal veil. You, my gentle Mama, whose spirit was ensnared by dementia’s merciless fog, your eyes dimmed like stars drowned in a cruel dusk.
I cling to my hopes of the last fleeting months you spent in my Texas log haven, its twin homes rooted in red-clay earth, built to cradle you close to Lafayette’s warm, Cajun heartbeat. My desire was to have you rest from your hard life, particularly the recent suicides of your son and brother, and enjoy researching our family history, while we heal ancestral wounds.
But you slipped away in your rage, refusing tests, though doctors whispered for years of the thief in your mind. I knew the reason you were so afraid of any discussion of mental health.
Long ago, in Alexandria’s Pinewood, they labeled you delayed, branded you forever thirteen, and caged you for a year. I, barely a pre-teen, struggled to mother my three younger siblings. That was my year of racing home from school and appreciating a new product called Rice-A-Roni.
Over the years, you could only hint and shudder at the memory of managed care back there: stories of overcrowding, forced shock therapy, sedative drugs, chains and physical restraints.
The doctors, aware of my obligatory maturity, precisely illustrated the necessity of me supporting you throughout your life. And I accepted it, unfair as it might have been, there was no other option.
You needed me; that’s all I needed to know. Your husband—my stepfather—banished you there in that hospital, his heart cold as iron, while throwing out his own son, Glenn for trying to protect me.
Not long after that, he stole the funds of my Daddy’s social security payments, painstakingly saved for me and Jeri from his schizophrenia’s chains that had bound him, an emotionally frozen man since age twenty-one.
I lost my Daddy at age four, Jeri having been forcefully conceived at the separation. We were alone and hungry, the three of us. You bore the shame of the accusations and inuendoes. I knew then I had a duty beyond my capacity. Daddy and his family fought for us, driven by the suspicion of abuse, my grandmother’s physical scars until her death.
You met him when I was eight, and Jeri just four. That man’s fists scarred us all—you, me, Jeri, and my stepbrother Michael—before he fled to Southern California, building thirteen dens of sin and shame — porn stores — from our stolen future.
I eventually forgave him, as faith requires. Years later, driving you through desert’s searing grief to his funeral, but I couldn’t face his casket’s hollow stare.
Sundowners sank its claws, pulling you into night’s unyielding grip. You begged me, in moments of piercing clarity, to shield you from my stepsister’s cruelty—her bullying shadow loomed large, a tormentor like her father, who fought neighbors into courtrooms, failed at foster parenting in bitter rivalry with me, and wielded words and hands against you, even breaking your wrist.
She plundered your credit cards, clashed with everyone, even her stepchildren who sued her, childless herself yet sowing discord. When you pressed me for unity, I said she was toxic, but in your naivety, you believed I called her trash. You didn’t understand; as a mother, you only saw division between your children and wanted unity.
In a moment of clarity, you pleaded for protection, and my heart vowed to be your refuge. When the time came, I couldn’t hold you safely here, although I tried. I rationalized that it’d just be for the holiday, so I purchased the flight with a 2-week return. No sooner did you get there, you announced that you were staying.
After you were there a couple months, she cast you out in Utah, leaving you to wander in your car, a fragile shell under weeping skies, for a whole month until a shattered ankle unveiled dementia’s truth in a hospital’s sterile light. They called me only then, my soul fracturing, unaware of the lies that painted our family as uncaring, unaware she’d silenced my cries to bring you home.
I fought, Mama, with an attorney’s fire, seeking guardianship to draw you back to Louisiana’s love, to friends who knew your gentle soul. The court stood ready, my hope blazing, but you faded the day before, leaving my promise unkept, a wound that bleeds still.
And oh, the final cruelty—Covid’s iron rules stole our touch. My stepsister and I, exiled outside your nursing home, knelt by an open window, our voices cracking through glass to whisper goodbyes. No hand to hold, no warmth to share, just words lost in sterile air, though you bore no virus.
Only after your breath stilled could I reach you, a theft that rips my heart raw. Things remain undone, Mama—your plea for safety haunts me, a vow I couldn’t fulfill. Yet in this letter, I hold you fierce. Beyond the fog, beyond the pain of others’ betrayal, you are my Acadian root, my light in the bayou’s glow.
My patriarchal blessing – a gift from Heavenly Father, reminds me that I “was born of goodly parents, parents that were chosen” for me in the pre-existence.
I see you whole, resilient, your love enduring like the stories I write for children. I read you I Love You Forever, praying its words wrapped you in my boundless devotion.
Forgive those who failed you; know my fight burned on, a daughter’s desperate love. Rest now, free of fear, in a heaven where no shadows fall. I love you, Mama, to the moon and back, forever.
Hey, everyone! I wanted to let y’all know that I won again — this time, it’s a $25 award. The story is based on the experiences of a woman in the foster care system. My story is dedicated to my dear friend, Dorothy Phillips, affectionately known as Dot in the story.
Dorothy is my bestie from California. We worked together in Sacramento County in Northern California. She was an excellent foster parent who cared for many children and babies in the Sacramento area.
Although Dorothy advocated mightily for the children in her care, she preferred to perform her service with the quiet fortitude of the character in Bette Midler’s song and story, “Wind Beneath My Wings”. In no way does this mean that I was the character that Midler played. And Dorothy did not die, as in the movie. However, the movie and song both reflect the love and admiration I have for this stalwart angel of God. She did the work of angels.
We haven’t spoken much these past few years. But there’s no doubt in my mind and heart, that our mutual love and respect continue — and will continue through the ages.
I testify that Dorothy Phillips is truly one of our Heavenly Father’s choicest daughters, having learned her inherent skills at the knee of her Heavenly Mother.
I ask for blessings upon her, her husband Francis, and her children, both natural-born and those countless spirits she nurtured and mothered. I say countless, because of her influence as a result to generations, like a ripple effect of a pebble dropped in a spring.
Dorothy’s nurturing qualities resonate with several figures from the Bible, but she most closely resembles Hannah.
**Mothering and Care: Hannah, the mother of Samuel, is known for her deep love and commitment to her son. After fervently praying for a child, she dedicated Samuel to the Lord’s service, showcasing her selflessness and devotion.
**Security and Comfort: Just as Dorothy provided a safe haven for foster children, Hannah offered emotional and spiritual support. Her story emphasizes the importance of a mother’s love and the lengths she would go to ensure her child’s well-being.
**Advocacy: Hannah advocated for her son’s future, much like how a foster parent advocates for the needs and rights of the children in their care. She sought God’s guidance and blessings for Samuel’s life, demonstrating her commitment to his spiritual and personal development.
“I’ll love you forever, I’ll like you for always, as long as I’m living, my baby you’ll be.”These words, sung softly from a mother to her child in Robert Munsch’s timeless Love You Forever, have lulled countless families into moments of quiet wonder. They’ve been whispered over cradles, read under covers during stormy nights, and passed down like heirlooms, turning ordinary pages into vessels of unbreakable connection. But what many don’t know is the depth of heartache behind this beloved story. Munsch, a father who lost two children at birth and, with his wife Ann, never had the family they dreamed of, until they happily adopted three children. He poured his grief into these lines—a lullaby not just for living children, but for the ones who slipped away too soon. It’s a testament to love’s resilience, transforming profound loss into something that heals and holds us all.
On a personal note, I gave my mother and mother-in-law a copy of this book one year for Mother’s Day. (Of course, they looked at me quizzically until I encouraged them to read it aloud. Once done, they both had tears in their eyes, with the knowledge of my intent.)
This book isn’t just a story; it’s a bridge across generations, a reminder that love doesn’t measure in milestones or years but in the quiet, persistent choice to keep showing up. The illustrations, with their soft blues and gentle curves, mirror the ebb and flow of life—joyful in the toddler tantrums, tender in the grown child’s weary return home. Munsch’s other works, like the fierce independence of The Paper Bag Princessor the playful rebellion inMortimer, echo this same spirit: life’s messiness is worth embracing, not escaping. Over 80 million copies sold, translated into more than 20 languages, his stories have sparked imaginations worldwide, proving that even from pain, beauty blooms.
Robert Munsch
Yet, reading about Munsch’s recent openness about his own struggles hit me like a wave. Diagnosed with dementia in 2021, followed by Parkinson’s, the now 80-year-old author shared in a September 14, 2025,New York Timesinterview that he applied for and was approved for Medical Assistance in Dying (MAID) shortly after his diagnosis. He worries about becoming a “lump” for his wife to care for, about losing the stories that define him. His daughter Julie clarified soon after, emphasizing he’s “not dying anytime soon” and is doing well for now, but the weight of his choice lingers. I understand that fear intimately. My own mother battled prefrontal dementia, her once-vibrant mind unraveling into frustration and isolation. The woman who raised me with laughter and wisdom became someone we had to guide, her days a fog of forgotten names, unspoken fears, and huge episodes filled with rage. It was heartbreaking, a slow erosion that tested our family’s love to its limits. And in the quiet aftermath, I’ve wrestled with the same shadows: my brother’s suicide amid his chronic illness, my uncle’s, my mother’s years of suicidal ideation, and even my own attempt during a season of unrelenting despair.
These experiences have etched deep lines in my soul, but they’ve also illuminated truths I hold dear. In the pre-existence, as I believe we did before coming to earth, we chose this mortal journey—not to avoid its thorns, but to walk through them. Heavenly Father allows illnesses like dementia, the gnawing ache of Parkinson’s, the invisible grip of depression, not out of cruelty, but as part of a grand design we can’t fully see. Why? To teach us empathy in our weakness,resilience in our frailty, and compassion for others’ unseen battles. Elder M. Russell Ballard, in his compassionate address “Suicide: Some Things We Know, and Some We Do Not,” reminds us of this divine mercy. He speaks of a faithful man, confined by illness, who ended his life in muddled despair—yet emphasizes that God judges not by the act alone, but by the heart’s intent, the mind’s clarity, and life’s full tapestry. “Judgment is the Lord’s,” Ballard teaches, quoting Elder Bruce R. McConkie: those under great stress, mentally clouded or chemically imbalanced, “are no longer accountable for their acts.” The Lord sees our genetic makeup, our emotional storms, the traditions and teachings that shape us. As Alma promises, if our works and desires are good, we will be “restored unto that which is good” (Alma 41:3).
My Mother
Munsch’s life echoes this. From the ashes of losing his babies, he created Love You Forever—a gift that has comforted millions, including me as I navigated my family’s losses. His stories remind us that even when the body fails or the mind fades, the spirit’s legacy endures. Choosing to end life early cuts short that sacred unfolding, robbing us of the growth, the unexpected joys, the quiet revelations that come only through persistence. I’ve felt the temptation to let go, the whisper that escape is easier than endurance. But staying—messy, hard, holy staying—has shown me God’s hand in the details: a sibling’s unexpected hug, a scripture that pierces the dark, a stranger’s kindness that mirrors divine love. As the Prophet Joseph Smith taught, our Heavenly Father judges “according to the deeds done in the body… and His inscrutable designs in relation to the human family” (Teachings of the Prophet Joseph Smith, p. 218). Suffering doesn’t diminish our worth; it refines it, preparing us for eternal progression “line upon line.”
To anyone reading this in the grip of despair—whether from illness, grief, or the slow creep of forgetfulness—hear this: You are not a burden. You are a beloved child of God, your life a thread in His eternal weave. Your story, like Munsch’s, holds beauty yet untold. Hold on, not out of obligation, but out of the fierce love that says, “I’ll like you for always.” Reach out to those who can help carry the weight. Let their hands, and God’s, remind you that you’re not alone. In the spirit world, as President Joseph F. Smith saw in vision, even those who’ve stumbled can repent, pay the penalty, and receive “a reward according to their works” (D&C 138:58–59). Hope isn’t a fragile wish; it’s a promise.
As I reflect on Munsch’s courage in sharing his story, I pray it sparks not resignation, but resolve—for him, for my family’s memories, for all of us. Let’s choose life, one breath at a time, and keep singing our songs of forever.
If you or someone you love is struggling, please reach out—these lifelines are here to help:
• National Suicide Prevention Lifeline (US): Call or text 988 (24/7 support).
• Crisis Services Canada: Call 1-833-456-4566 or text 45645 (24/7).
Thinking about the travesties we’ve seen lately, we might have that question on our minds. For that poor young lady whose life was suddenly taken from her, with no one coming to her aid or even comforting her. For our friend Charlie Kirk, who was doing what he loved, sharing his testimony. And yes, for the young men’s family, who was forced to make a choice and turn their son in for the crime. And so many more examples of life’s unfairness. Why didn’t God stop the terrible events? He certainly has the power and ability to stop it.
Facing life’s unfairness requires perspective and faith. Understanding God’s plan helps us see that we are eternal beings on earth to grow and become more like Him. During our time here, we encounter temptation, pain, and suffering. Some of this suffering arises from the choices people make, while other reasons may remain unclear. However, we can trust that these experiences can ultimately lead to growth and good (see Doctrine and Covenants 122:7).
We were promised that we’d be free to make our own choices; He would not interfere with our choices. Satan was the one who offered “a guarantee” that we’d all be forced to comply, if he were given the opportunity to rule as God. But that’s not what Heavenly Father wanted for us. He knew that if He were to interfere in any way, we would not learn and grow to be more like Him.
Jesus Christ has triumphed over all through His Atonement and Resurrection. When we encounter unfairness, we can place our faith in Him and His plan, knowing that He will make everything right in the end. The thought that nothing is wasted — every tear is compensated — is very comforting. Through the Holy Ghost, we can find comfort and strength in our challenges.
By choosing faith and enduring, we are promised peace in this life and eternal life in the next (Doctrine and Covenants 59:23).
As the author of Discovering Misty: The Mermaid of the Emerald CoastandGeorge and the Brave Eagle, and a blogger who recently celebrated 500 visitors, I’ve faced plenty of moments where life’s challenges made me pause and reflect. During tough times—whether juggling foster parenting, coordinating Overpassers for USA rallies, or pouring my heart into my next book—I’ve caught myself wondering, “Do I really need to follow all of God’s commandments?” If you’ve ever asked yourself this, you’re not alone. Let’s explore this question together, one word at a time, with a perspective rooted in hope and my journey of leading with heart.
How I See It
Here’s how I see it: God’s commandments aren’t a rigid checklist or a cosmic test we have to ace. Instead, I like to think of them as a loving guide from a Father who knows way more than we do. Imagine His wisdom as vast as the Emerald Coast’s horizon, stretching far beyond what we can grasp (like Isaiah 55:9 says). As a parent of two girls, five boys, and a foster mom to over 200 kids, I’ve learned that guidance isn’t about control—it’s about helping someone find their way. That’s what God’s doing for us.
Sometimes, we picture God holding back blessings, like they’re locked in a heavenly vault, only handed out if we follow every rule perfectly. But that’s not how it works. Picture this: God’s blessings are like a constant rain, pouring down with love. The problem? Our fears, doubts, or mistakes can act like an umbrella, blocking that rain from soaking into our lives. His commandments are less about restrictions and more about showing us how to lower that umbrella—stepping into the full shower of His grace.
Not Barriers but Paths to Peace and Joy
Take my time as a Cub Scout leader or managing 800 Scouts on our 25-acre LDS church park. Rules like “stay on the trail” weren’t about spoiling fun—they were about keeping everyone safe to enjoy the adventure. God’s commandments work the same way. They’re not barriers; they’re paths to peace, joy, and connection. When I write stories likeGeorge and the Brave Eagle, I weave in themes of courage and hope, reflecting how following divine guidance helps us soar, just like George does.
Overwhelmed?
For my audience—parents, book lovers, and those seeking light in tough times—the challenge is often feeling overwhelmed by expectations, wondering if we’re “doing enough” to earn God’s love. My approach? Start small. Pick one commandment, like kindness or gratitude, and lean into it with intention. In my blog, I share how small acts—like reading to a foster child or waving a flag for unity—build bridges to hope. Try it: reflect on one way you can “lower the umbrella” today, maybe by forgiving someone or taking a moment to pray. You’ll feel the blessings start to flow.
God’s not up there judging our every move—He’s cheering us on, ready to pour out love.
Just like I keep writing, one word at a time, to connect with readers and spread hope, we can follow His guidance, one step at a time, to live fuller lives.
How do you lower your umbrella to let blessings in? Share your thoughts below—I’d love to hear!
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