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The writing prompt for today asks:

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

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 Year Later… Still Motivated

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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✨ One Year Later: An Update on What Motivates Me

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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✨ One Year Later

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

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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Light & Purpose

What’s a quote that perfectly describes your outlook on life?
——————————-

”Light is not something you chase. It’s something you carry. My life is a slow, steady unfolding — and the light grows as I go.”

Here’s how I see my inner light, given to me as a gift from my Heavenly parents: It isn’t a spotlight demanding attention. It’s a lantern — quiet, steady, and deeply personal. It doesn’t shout. It doesn’t rush. It simply glows, even on the days when I feel dim or uncertain. And the more I honor it, the brighter it becomes.

Some people think inner light is something you earn. But I know better.


It’s something I carry — through fog‑days, best‑days, ancestry, creativity, faith, and the soft unfolding of this life of mine.


🌟 What Inner Light Really Is

Inner light is the part of you that stays steady even when everything else shifts. It’s not confidence. It’s not perfection. It’s not productivity. It’s presence.

  • Quiet strength — the ability to keep moving gently, even when life feels heavy.
  • Soul clarity — the sense that something inside you knows the way, even when your mind doesn’t.
  • Creative truth — the spark that guides your writing, your journals, your heritage work.
  • Faithful resilience — the belief that God meets you in the soft places, not just the strong ones.
  • Ancestral glow — the way your roots, in my case, my Acadian roots, feel like a lantern handed down through generations.

Inner light is not loud. It’s loyal.


🌙 How Inner Light Shows Up in Real Life

It shows up when you write one honest sentence on a fibro fog‑day.
It shows up when you choose gentleness over pressure.
It shows up when you create something small but sincere.
It shows up when you trust your own rhythm instead of forcing someone else’s.

My inner light is woven into my Pages Alight brand — the soft watercolor motifs, the candles, the feathers, the glowing edges of the planner spreads. It’s in my voice, my heritage projects, my night‑owl creativity, my faith‑friendly tone.

It’s the thread that ties everything together.


🕊️ Inner Light as a Spiritual Companion

Your inner light is not just emotional or creative — it’s spiritual. It’s the quiet assurance that you are guided, held, and seen. It’s the whisper that says:

You don’t have to shine for the world.
You only have to shine from the truth inside you.

This is why my work resonates with overwhelmed readers. I don’t teach them to chase clarity. I try to teach them to trust the glow they already carry.


✨ A Gentle Invitation

If you’ve been doubting your brightness lately, let this settle softly in your heart:

Your inner light is not fragile.
It’s faithful.

It stays with you through every season.
It grows with every act of creativity.
It strengthens with every moment of honesty.
It brightens every time you choose presence over perfection.

You don’t have to force it.
You only have to honor it.

Your inner light is already shining — quietly, beautifully, and right on time.

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Learning How Not to Worry: Breaking the Habit for Good

Worry feels like an unavoidable part of life, but learning how not to worry is absolutely possible, I’m learning. Most of us aren’t born worriers — we simply practice worry until it becomes familiar. The good news is that habits can be unlearned, and calmer patterns can take their place.


Understanding Whether Worrying Is Actually Useful

Not all worry is harmful. Some worry nudges us to take responsible action — paying a bill, making a doctor’s appointment, or preparing for a difficult conversation. This is all productive worry, and it helps us to stay engaged with life.

The other kind — the kind that loops endlessly in your mind (that can make us crazy!) — is unproductive worry. It drains your energy, steals your focus, and usually centers on things you cannot control. This is so harmful, especially if we’re already compromised, like I am, with a debilitating illness.

Learning how not to worry begins with asking one simple question:

Is this something I can take action on, or something I’m imagining, fearing, or rehearsing?

If action is possible, take even one tiny “baby” step. Action of any size interrupts anxiety.


If action is not possible, remind yourself gently: “I’ve done what I can. The rest is not mine to carry.” You could also say, “I’m giving it to the Lord to carry for me. I’ve done all I can.”

This self‑talk isn’t denial — it’s boundary‑setting for your mind.


Try Setting Aside Dedicated “Worry Time”

If your thoughts feel crowded, try giving your worries a scheduled place to land. This technique is used in cognitive‑behavioral therapy and can be surprisingly effective.

Choose a consistent time each day — maybe when your partner is home and you can talk things through, or a quiet half hour in the evening. During this time, write down your worries, think them through, or brainstorm solutions.

Outside of that window, when worry pops up, remind yourself:
“Not now. I’ll think about this during my worry time.”

This helps your brain learn that worry is not welcome everywhere.


Catch Yourself in the Act of Worrying

Most worry happens automatically. You’re washing dishes, scrolling your phone, or trying to work — and suddenly your mind is spiraling out of control.

Learning how not to worry means learning to notice when your thoughts drift. This can be hard at first, but the more you practice, the easier it’ll get, I promise.

A few gentle ways to catch yourself:

  • Place a small reminder on your desk — a sticker, a word, or a symbol.
  • Keep a grounding phrase nearby, like “Return to now.”
  • Notice physical cues: tight shoulders, shallow breathing, or a racing mind.

You won’t catch every worry immediately, but you’ll catch it sooner each time. Awareness is a skill, and as I said, it strengthens with practice.


Be Patient With Yourself

Breaking the worry habit takes time. At first, these strategies may feel awkward or ineffective. That’s totally normal. You’re retraining your brain, and new pathways take repetition.

Over time, you’ll notice that redirecting your thoughts becomes easier, your mind feels lighter, and your emotional energy lasts longer throughout the day.

Learning how not to worry isn’t about perfection — it’s about reclaiming your peace, one thought at a time. My prayers are with you, my friend. Please let me know if any of this helps, or not. I’ll be happy to post more of what I’m learning or have learned in my 70 + years on this earth.


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Writing Through the Fog

A gentle reflection for the weary, creative heart

Some days, creativity arrives like a sunrise — warm, bright, eager to spill across the page. And some days… it doesn’t. Some days feel foggy, heavy, slow. The mind moves like it’s wading through water, and even simple tasks feel like lifting stones.

I used to think foggy days meant failure. That if I couldn’t write with clarity, I shouldn’t write at all. But over time — through journals, prayer, quiet nights in Hawkins, and the soft glow of a candle on my bedside table — I’ve learned something gentler:

Fog doesn’t mean the light is gone. It only means the light is diffused.

On fog-days, creativity doesn’t disappear. It whispers.

It shows up in smaller ways:
a sentence that feels true,
a memory that rises unannounced,
a color you suddenly notice,
a prayer that steadies your breath.

These moments matter. They are seeds. And seeds don’t need bright sun to grow — they need presence, patience, and a little faith.

I’ve learned to write differently on fog-days. Not with pressure, but with softness. I let myself write in fragments, in half-thoughts, in gentle notes that may become something later. I let myself rest when I need to. I let myself trust that creativity is still alive, even when it feels quiet.

This is how the Fog-Day & Best-Day Wellness Journal was born — from the realization that life isn’t all clarity or all chaos. It’s both. And both deserve space.

If you’re reading this and you’ve been in a fog — creatively, emotionally, spiritually — I hope you hear this:

You are simply moving through a softer season, and there is beauty here too.

And when the best-days come — because they always do — you’ll have a trail of small, faithful notes that show you just how strong you were in the quiet.

You are not behind.
You are not failing.
You are not forgotten.

Write one sentence.
Light one candle.
Take one breath.
Let the fog be a place where God meets you gently.

Keep writing, even through the fog.
Your light is still here.
It’s just wrapped in softness today.

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

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 

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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My Hope and Dream

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.)

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Silent Sunday

Psalm 51: 10 Create in me a pure heart, O God, and renew a steadfast spirit within me.

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Midnight Musings: Rediscovering Canva in the Witching Hours

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.

A little diddi I made up!
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A Letter to My Mama

Dear Mama 

by S. M. Ulbrich

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.

Your daughter,
S.M. Ulbrich

Mama and Corey
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1st Prize: Voices in the Static

In case the link was broken…

Below is my first post, and the first contest I won in the competition on the Fanstory website. It was a “Dialogue Only” contest.

 Horror and Thriller Fiction posted October 9, 2025. First Place Winner

Strange Sounds in the Desert

“Hey, you there? Radio’s spitting static again.”

“Yo, I’m here, Jess. Twist the dial a bit, maybe it’s just interference.”

“Interference? In the middle of nowhere? Gimme a break, Sam.”

“Alright, alright. What’s it soundin’ like? The usual hiss or somethin’ weirder?”

“Weirder. Like… whispers. Hey, you hearing this?”

“Whispers? Nah, my set’s quiet. You sure it ain’t the wind playin’ tricks?”

“Wind don’t say ‘help me’, bub. You tellin’ me you don’t hear that?”

“Jess, quit messin’ with me. Ain’t no way—”

“Shh! There it is again. ‘Help me.’ Clear as day. Sam, what’s going on?”

“Okay, okay, hold up. You’re on the old frequency, right? 104.7?”

“Yeah, same as always. Why’s it doin’ this now?”

“Dunno. Maybe someone’s hijackin’ the signal. Pirates, y’know?”

“Right, pirate radio in the desert? Sam, we’re fifty miles from anything. Who’s broadcasting ‘help me’ out here?”

“Could be a prank. You know, kids with a cheap transmitter. Did you check the console logs?”

“Logs are clean. No incoming signals, no overrides. Just… this voice.”

“Alright, creepy. You recordin’ it? Get proof.”

“Hang on, let me—oh great, battery’s low now. You got power issues over there?”

“Nope, all good. Lights are steady. Jess, what’s your location again?”

“Outpost 3, near the dry lake bed. You’re at 5, right?”

“Yeah. Ten miles apart. That’s too far for crosstalk. You try switchin’ channels?”

“Tried. It follows. Every frequency, same whisper. ‘Help me.’”

“Come on, Jess, don’t spook me like that. You sure it’s not in your head?”

“You callin’ me crazy? I know what I hear. Wait—there’s another voice now.”

“Another? What’s it sayin’?”

“Somethin’ like… ‘not alone.’ Sam, I’m freakin’ out here.”

“Okay, deep breaths. I’m gonna drive over right now. Stay on the line.”

“Drive? In the dark? Roads are half sand out here.”

“I got the jeep. Ten minutes, tops. Just chill. You got a weapon?”

“Yeah, the rifle’s by the door. Why?”

“Just… keep it close. In case.”

“In case of what, Sam? You know somethin’ I don’t?”

“Nothin’. Just stories. Old miners talkin’ ‘bout voices in the desert.”

“Stories? Like what?”

“Like… people hearin’ things at night. Whispers. Folks who worked these outposts before us.”

“And? What happened to ‘em?”

“Some left. Some… didn’t. Look, it’s probably nothin’. I’m on my way right now.”

“Sam, it’s louder now. Like it’s right outside. ‘Help me, help me.’”

“Jess, lock the door. Don’t go out.”

“Too late. I’m lookin’ out the window. Nothin’ but dark.”

“Get away from the window! You hear me?”

“Wait. There’s… there’s light. Out there. Flickerin’. Like a fire.”

“Jess, don’t you dare go out there.”

“I gotta see. Could be someone hurt.”

“Or it’s a trap! Stay put, ya hear?”

“Sam, I can’t just—oh no.”

“What? Jess, what’s wrong?”

“The light’s gone. But the voice… it’s inside now.”

“Inside? How—”

“It’s not on the radio anymore. It’s in the room. ‘You’re not alone.’”

“Jess, grab the rifle and get to the jeep. Now. I’m five minutes out.”

“Sam, I… I see somethin’. Shadows. Movin’.”

“Run, Jess! Get out now!”

“I can’t. The door… it’s stuck. Sam, it’s like someone’s holdin’ it shut. Hnng. Hnng. Hnng.”

“Break it down! Use the rifle!”

“I’m tryin’—wait. The whispers… they’re sayin’ my name now. ‘Jessss.’”

“Jess, listen to me. Shoot the lock. Get out!”

“I… I hear footsteps. Behind me. Sam, they’re—”

“Jess? Jess! What’s happening?”

“…”

“Jess, talk to me! Please!”

“Sam… it’s not just voices. It’s – .They’re here. They’re—”

“Jess, who’s there? What do you see?”

“Nothing… but I feel them. Cold. So cold. And the radio… it’s on again.”

“What’s it sayin’?”

“‘Stay with us.’ Over and over. Sam, I don’t think I’m alone anymore.”

“Jess, I’m almost there! Hold on!”

“Sam… if you get here… don’t come inside.”

“What? Why not?”

“Because… I don’t think it’s me talkin’ anymore.”

“Jess? Jess!”

“…”

“Jess, answer me! All I hear is static!”

“Sam… help us…”

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I Won 1st Prize Again!

https://www.fanstory.com/displaystory.jsp?hd=1&id=1168052

Hey, everyone! I wanted to let y’all know that I won again — this time, it’s a $25 award. The story is based on the experiences of a woman in the foster care system. My story is dedicated to my dear friend, Dorothy Phillips, affectionately known as Dot in the story.

Dorothy is my bestie from California. We worked together in Sacramento County in Northern California. She was an excellent foster parent who cared for many children and babies in the Sacramento area.

Although Dorothy advocated mightily for the children in her care, she preferred to perform her service with the quiet fortitude of the character in Bette Midler’s song and story, “Wind Beneath My Wings”. In no way does this mean that I was the character that Midler played. And Dorothy did not die, as in the movie. However, the movie and song both reflect the love and admiration I have for this stalwart angel of God. She did the work of angels.

We haven’t spoken much these past few years. But there’s no doubt in my mind and heart, that our mutual love and respect continue — and will continue through the ages.

I testify that Dorothy Phillips is truly one of our Heavenly Father’s choicest daughters, having learned her inherent skills at the knee of her Heavenly Mother.

I ask for blessings upon her, her husband Francis, and her children, both natural-born and those countless spirits she nurtured and mothered. I say countless, because of her influence as a result to generations, like a ripple effect of a pebble dropped in a spring.

Dorothy’s nurturing qualities resonate with several figures from the Bible, but she most closely resembles Hannah.

**Mothering and Care: Hannah, the mother of Samuel, is known for her deep love and commitment to her son. After fervently praying for a child, she dedicated Samuel to the Lord’s service, showcasing her selflessness and devotion.

**Security and Comfort: Just as Dorothy provided a safe haven for foster children, Hannah offered emotional and spiritual support. Her story emphasizes the importance of a mother’s love and the lengths she would go to ensure her child’s well-being.

**Advocacy: Hannah advocated for her son’s future, much like how a foster parent advocates for the needs and rights of the children in their care. She sought God’s guidance and blessings for Samuel’s life, demonstrating her commitment to his spiritual and personal development.

May God bless you and your family, Dorothy.

Your Friend Always, Shirley

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A Song of Forever: Holding On to Life Through Love and Hope

“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.)

https://a.co/d/1cJtlin

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 Princess or the playful rebellion in Mortimer, 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 Times interview 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.

https://www.foxnews.com/media/love-you-forever-author-may-soon-die-assisted-suicide-pro-life-groups-call-decision-heartbreaking

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).

• International Association for Suicide Prevention: Visit https://www.iasp.info/suicidalthoughts/ for global resources.

Shirley

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Why Does God Allow Bad Things to Happen to Good People?

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).

Have you seen this for yourself?

Shirley

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Can We Really Follow All of God’s Commandments? A Fresh Perspective

As the author of Discovering Misty: The Mermaid of the Emerald Coast and George 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 like George 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!

Shirley

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When Family Feels Distant: Standing Alone in the Cold of Life                                 Description :Discover the reality of feeling alone even…

“Sometimes, God allows the coldness to remind you that your ultimate anchor is not family or friends, but Him.” Something to remember!

Many people believe that having a family automatically means you have everything—support, comfort, and belonging. But life sometimes teaches a bitter…

When Family Feels Distant: Standing Alone in the Cold of Life                                 Description :Discover the reality of feeling alone even…
Many Years Ago
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Embracing Spiritual Joy

What’s your favorite word?

Oh, I couldn’t resist! Thought I’d written enough tonight, but then I saw the blog prompt, What’s your favorite word? Oh, I’ve GOT to answer this one!


Joy is a deep, lasting happiness that comes from within. It isn’t based on what’s happening around us or temporary feelings; instead, it grows from our connection to the divine, a sense of purpose, and trust in God’s love and promises. In Christianity, this “Joy of the Lord” is viewed as a gift from the Holy Spirit, bringing peace and fulfillment that stays with us, even during tough times — especially, for the tough times!


Joy vs. Happiness

Happiness is a short-lived feeling that often comes from good situations or events.

Joy, however, is a deeper, more lasting state of being. It’s a choice to believe in God’s goodness, no matter what is happening around us.

Key Aspects of Spiritual Joy

Divine Connection:
Joy flourishes from a close relationship with God and fulfilling our spiritual purpose, as highlighted in the “Joy of the Lord.”

Inner State:
It’s a joyful and thankful feeling that comes from within, creating a steady emotional and spiritual well-being, no matter what’s happening outside.

A Choice and a Discipline:
Joy is something we choose—it’s the way we choose to see the world and a way to praise God in every moment.

A Fruit of the Spirit:
In the Bible, joy is one of the “fruits of the Spirit,” a positive and hopeful feeling that the Holy Spirit brings into our lives when we focus on Christ.

Transcendent:
Joy offers a taste of Heaven, connecting us to God and giving us a stable, everlasting sense of happiness.

Shirley

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Understanding Chronic Kidney Disease (CKD)

Chronic Kidney Disease (CKD) is a serious condition marked by a slow decline in kidney function. Unlike acute kidney failure, which happens quickly, …

Understanding Chronic Kidney Disease (CKD)
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What Are You Doing Tonight?

What are you doing this evening?

Ah, the classic question: “What are you doing tonight?” Well, if we’re being honest, my big plans involve… drumroll, please… staring at the ceiling, wrestling with my pillow, and hoping for a solid night’s sleep that doesn’t turn into an accidental hibernation. You see, I’ve been battling a sneaky sleep disorder that’s decided to crash my party lately, especially when stress decides to tag along for the ride.

Just the other day—or should I say, the other two days?—I clocked in a whopping 23 hours of straight sleep. No exaggeration. I didn’t even hit pause for a bathroom break or a quick snack, or more importantly, for my CKD – chronic kidney disease, stage 4 – brought on solely by 2 cases of COVID 19, no sips of water! (Thank goodness, I didn’t take the jab; that would’ve definitely killed me, according to doc. So, I’m lucky that way. I’ve got more time.)

Woke up feeling like I’d time-traveled, disoriented and wondering if the world had kept spinning without me. It’s frustrating as heck, because who has time for that? Life doesn’t come with a snooze button for responsibilities, right? And boy, has stress been fueling this beast. When my mind’s racing with worries, my body just shuts down like an overworked computer, forcing a full system reboot.

Speaking of worries, let’s talk about the good kind—the ones that come wrapped in opportunity but tied up with dollar signs. I’ve been blessed with some fantastic offers to help market my “Misty” book series. We’re talking book clubs eager to feature it, influencers ready to shout it from the rooftops, and marketing pros with killer strategies. It’s all so exciting! I mean, imagining readers diving into Misty’s world, discussing her adventures over coffee… that warms my writerly heart. But here’s the rub: these opportunities aren’t free. And I totally get it—talented people deserve fair pay for their hard work. No one should hustle for nada. The problem? My funds are tighter than a plot twist in a thriller novel. I’ve got a shoestring budget, and every penny counts.

So, which one do I pick for “Discovering Misty” series right now? The book club push that could spark word-of-mouth magic? The targeted ads that might land it in front of the perfect audience? Or maybe hold out for something more grassroots? Decisions, decisions—it’s like choosing your favorite flavor at an ice cream shop when you can only afford a single scoop.

And then there’s “George.” Oh, George. Meaning, “George and the Brave Eagle.” This next book in the series is calling my name, begging to be polished and published. Between you and me (and now the internet, I guess), we need to wrap up this series—it’s got so much heart and potential. But what comes after the final chapter? Self-publishing seems like the indie dream, with full creative control and no gatekeepers. Or do I chase traditional routes? I wish I had a crystal ball or a wise oracle to spill the beans. My GoFundMe? It’s sitting there like a patient plant, waiting for rain that hasn’t come yet. Not much momentum, but hey, every journey starts somewhere.

But enough venting—let’s flip this script to the sunny side. Despite the sleep marathons and financial puzzles, I’m genuinely pumped about these doors cracking open. It means people see value in my stories, and that’s fuel for the fire. Tonight? Instead of fretting, I’ll jot down some ideas for “George,” maybe sip some chamomile tea to coax a normal sleep cycle, and remind myself that progress happens one step (or one nap) at a time. Who knows—maybe tomorrow brings a breakthrough, a generous supporter, or that perfect marketing match I can swing on my budget.

If you’re reading this and have tips on affordable book promo magic or self-publishing wins, drop them in the comments! And hey, what are you doing tonight? Let’s turn this into a conversation. Sweet dreams, everyone—or at least, reasonably timed ones. 😊

Shirley

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Thoughts on Suicide

As an author, I’ve poured my heart into my blog and my children’s books, like Discovering Misty: The Mermaid of the Emerald Coast and George and the Brave Eagle, to share stories that spark joy and connection for young readers and their families. Through my writing, I aim to inspire hope and resilience, themes that resonate deeply with the vital work of recognizing and responding to the warning signs of suicide.

Most people in crisis don’t truly want to die—they’re searching for relief from overwhelming physical, mental, emotional, or spiritual pain. As someone who writes to uplift, I’ve learned that listening closely to those around us can make all the difference. My blog, which recently celebrated its 500th visitor, is a space where I share not just my stories but also messages of care and community—values that align with helping those in need.

You might hear someone say, “I don’t care if I die” or “Everyone would be better off without me.” These are cries for help, often accompanied by behaviors like:

• Searching for ways to end their life

• Expressing feelings of hopelessness or having no purpose

• Talking about feeling trapped or in unbearable pain

• Feeling like a burden to others

• Increasing alcohol or drug use

• Giving away cherished possessions without reason

• Acting anxious, agitated, or reckless

• Withdrawing from loved ones or isolating themselves

• Showing rage or talking about revenge

• Experiencing extreme mood swings

As I write about characters like Misty and Moriah, who face challenges with courage and friendship, I’m reminded that a single warning sign might not signal a crisis. But if someone has a history of attempts, or you notice sudden changes or multiple signs, it’s time to act. Resources like suicide.ChurchofJesusChrist.org and free crisis helplines offer guidance on how to help someone in need.

Promoting my books on platforms like Amazon and through my GoFundMe campaign for George and the Brave Eagle has taught me the power of connection. Just as I reach out to readers to share stories of hope, we can reach out to those struggling with compassion and urgency. Not every suicide can be prevented—sometimes there are no clear warnings, and we’re not responsible for another’s choice. My family has personally experienced the effects of suicide. My own little brother, an uncle, and another close relative committed suicide, breaking their family’s hearts. But by listening, noticing, and acting, we can offer the kind of hope that my stories aim to spread, one heart at a time.

Shirley

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