Below is my Creation Listing for 2025. As you can see, I haven’t been using this tool very long, but I’m certainly enjoying it. The entries in the piece shows some of my books and yet-to-be published books of this year.
You can see Misty, the mermaid of the Emerald Coast, from my 2 children’s books of the same name. She’s chatting with 6-year-old George Washington and his buddy, the brave eagle.
Under that section, you’ll find the book cover for my Washington’s Fantastical Crossing, where he’s being watched by merfolk – I really hadn’t planned to write so many stories about merfolk!
The one at the bottom middle is part of my America’s Great Perfect Storm. The leopard and night-watchers are suggestive of Obama’s dream — more on that later.
The bottom left is from my YA speculative fiction, “The Covenant Fire”, a story about a team asked to locate and activate an ancient artifact, while avoiding the evil cabal chasing them to recover the artifact to use for their purposes. This artifact is meant to bring about the 2nd Resurrection and gather the Lost Ten Tribes.
“Pages Alight” is my forthcoming podcast on YouTube! Coming very soon.
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.
Narrative Nook Monday: Echoes of the Forgotten Shore
Welcome back to Narrative Nook Monday, dear readers—a cozy corner ofFamily Circle 14 and S.M.Ulbrich Blog where stories unfold like whispers from the bayou, blending our Acadian and Cajun roots with threads of wonder and heart. Today, let’s dive into a tale inspired by the resilient spirits of the Gulf Coast, where the sea holds secrets and second chances. I call this one “The Lantern’s Promise”, a short story of loss, light, and the unbreakable pull of home. Pull up a chair, brew some chicory coffee, and let the words carry you away.
In the salt-kissed hamlet of Petit Rivière, where the Mississippi’s lazy fingers tangled with the Gulf’s restless waves, lived an old fisherman named Étienne. His days blurred into a rhythm of nets and knots, his nights into the hush of a widow’s solitude. Twenty years had passed since the great storm of ‘05 stole his Marie—not her body, mind you, but her spark—leaving him adrift in a world that felt as empty as the bay after a nor’easter.
Étienne’s boat, L’Étoile Filante (Shooting Star, though it hadn’t shot anywhere in a decade), bobbed forgotten at the rickety dock. He mended nets by lantern light now, not for the sea, but for the ghosts that gathered in the gloaming. Folks in town said he talked to shadows, but Étienne knew better: they were echoes. Marie’s laugh in the wind, her callused hands braiding his hair with tales of her Acadian grandmère, who fled the British expulsion in 1755, carrying only a locket and a song.
One fog-shrouded dawn, as the herons cried their mournful reveille, a stranger washed up on the shore. Not a man, exactly, but a silhouette stitched from mist and memory—a figure cloaked in seaweed, eyes like polished abalone shells. “Étienne LeBlanc,” it rasped, voice like gravel under keel, “you’ve kept my light too long.”
He froze, net half-mended in his lap. The lantern at his feet flickered, its flame dancing defiant against the damp. “Who are you to claim what’s mine?” he growled, though his heart hammered like a gator’s tail on tin.
The figure knelt, close enough for him to smell the brine and something sweeter—jasmine from Marie’s garden. “I am the Keeper of Lost Promises. Your Marie made one the night the storm came: to light your way home, no matter how far the tide pulls.” It extended a hand, palm up, revealing a tiny glass orb etched with Acadian fleur-de-lis. Inside swirled a miniature tempest, frozen mid-roar.
Étienne’s breath caught. That night replayed in his mind’s eye: Marie pressing the orb into his fist as winds howled, her lips fierce against his. “Keep this, mon cœur. It’ll guide you when I’m gone. Promise me you’ll live, not just survive.” He’d nodded, numb, and tucked it away. But grief is a sly thief; it had hoarded the promise like a miser with coins.
“Why now?” he whispered, the words cracking like driftwood.
The Keeper’s eyes softened, reflecting the lantern’s glow. “Because the shore forgets no one, but it tires of waiting. Sail out at dusk, Étienne. Follow the light to where her echo lingers.”
Dusk painted the sky in bruised purples and golds. Against the mutters of neighbors (“Old Étienne’s finally lost it”), he shoved off in L’Étoile Filante, the boat groaning like an old friend roused from slumber. The orb nestled in the lantern, its inner storm now a steady pulse of blue fire. He steered into the gathering dark, the Gulf a vast inkwell swallowing stars.
Hours bled into the velvet night. Waves slapped the hull like impatient lovers, and doubt gnawed at him—had grief conjured this madness? Then, a glimmer: not from the orb, but ahead, where sea met sky in a hazy seam. A chorus of lights bobbed there, faint as fireflies, weaving patterns that tugged at his soul. He leaned into the tiller, heart thundering.
As L’Étoile cut through the swell, the lights resolved into lanterns—dozens, hundreds—drifting on a hidden atoll, a crescent of sand veiled by perpetual mist. Figures moved among them, translucent as moonlit lace: souls unmoored by storms past, Acadian exiles and Cajun kin, waiting for their lights to be claimed. And at the heart, Marie—her hair wild as the waves that took her, her smile a beacon.
“Étienne,” she called, voice clear as a fiddle’s reel. She stepped forward, solidifying in the lantern’s warmth, her hand cool but real against his weathered cheek. “You kept your promise. Now let me keep mine.”
They talked till the stars wheeled overhead— of lost years, of the boys they’d never had, of the songs her grandmère sang to summon courage. The other lanterns brightened with each word, promises reignited, pulling their keepers home across the water. Dawn crept in, gilding the mist, and Marie pressed the orb back into his palm. “This isn’t goodbye, mon amour. It’s the light we carry together. Go build that garden again. Plant jasmine for me.”
He sailed back as the sun crested, the Gulf now a mirror of gold. L’Étoile Filante kissed the dock with a sigh of relief. The town stirred, eyes wide at the old man grinning like a fool, his nets abandoned for a shovel and seeds. That night, as jasmine bloomed improbably under his window, Étienne lit his lantern—not for ghosts, but for the living promise within.
And on fogged dawns thereafter, when strangers washed ashore, he’d share the tale: “The sea don’t steal; it lends. Just follow the light.”
What do you think, friends? DoesThe Lantern’s Promisestir echoes in your own heart—memories of loved ones, or the quiet strength of heritage that lights our way? Share in the comments below, or drop a line on Goodreads or Amazon. If this nook warmed you, curl up with one of myZion Chroniclesfor more tales of trials turned triumphs, or revisit Discovering Mistyfor seaside magic that lingers. Until next Monday, may your own lanterns burn bright. Au revoir!
*~ S. M. Ulbrich*
(Word count: ~750. Inspired by Gulf Coast folklore and the enduring love in stories like Love You Forever.)
Throughout Western history, Christians have yearned for a new heaven and earth. John the Revelator’s vision of the “holy city, new Jerusalem” has inspired many, raising questions about its meaning. Was it merely a metaphor for eternal life, as St. Augustine suggested, or a literal city, as the 17th-century Puritans believed?
In the early days of the restored Church of Jesus Christ, Latter-day Saints envisioned the New Jerusalem as a tangible city to be built by the Saints, a refuge known as Zion. Two key questions arose: where would it be built, and who would inhabit it?
In August 1830, a revelation directed Joseph Smith’s followers to preach among the Lamanites, indicating that the city would be established among them.
After preaching in Ohio, Joseph Smith received a revelation in 1831, commanding him to travel to Missouri, which was identified as the sacred land for Zion. Upon arrival, he learned that the city was to be built near the Missouri River, historically occupied by the Osage tribe. The land had a complex history, with the Osage being prominent residents before being forced westward due to European expansion.
As white settlers moved into Missouri, they often disregarded the existing Native American presence, leading to the removal of tribes from their lands. Despite this, Joseph Smith’s revelations emphasized the need for Zion to be built among diverse peoples, recognizing both Jews and Gentiles as integral to God’s plan. This inclusive approach contrasted sharply with the prevailing attitudes of the time.
In later revelations, Joseph Smith expanded this vision, describing Zion as a place for “all nations,” inviting everyone, regardless of social or economic status, to share in God’s sacred space.
Though the Saints faced persecution and had to flee Jackson County, the aspiration for Zion continued, influencing their settlements in Nauvoo and the Great Basin. The hope for a society where “all nations” can live in peace endures among Latter-day Saints today.
How my upcoming novels tie into this vision, The Covenant Fire and the 5-part series, America’s Great Perfect Storm.
This vision of Missouri as sacred ground echoes the themes in my two upcoming books—how America’s covenants call us to build inclusively, even in divided times. Can you share your own stories of “Zion-building”?
In Covenant Fire, I explore how revelations like those in 1831 turned abstract promises into fiery calls to build—much like this reminds us of Zion’s enduring flame.” Historical visions fuel modern covenant-keeping.
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