This is not my favorite word… I like wrinkles on everyone…but me!

I like the wrinkles lined into a businessman’s face showing his years of success won through hard work.

Wrinkles gracing the sweet elderly lady talking to me in the line at the grocery store, more wisdom shared in those few moments than hours of research can yield.

Newborn ‘wrinkles’ are sweet, the folds in soft skin ready to stretch and smooth as they grow.

The thirty-something beauty getting her first forehead line who smiles at life and lives for the days and years ahead.

I love the wrinkles around my husband’s eyes – everything is tan except the wrinkles that are white from squinting into the sun.

Wrinkles on hands as they show me how to bake or how to crochet – the same hands that take my hands and say how lovely they are.

If there were a potion that guaranteed to do no harm, cost less than $50, and actually wiped out wrinkles wherever you rubbed it on, would I buy it? YES! But there isn’t and so I sigh when I see a new wrinkle, a new sag… Could it be that those who love me think “I love her wrinkles that came through her worry for me”, “Her years spent with me”, “Her smiles and laughter throughout each day”…….


There’s something about the air when spring is in full bloom, when cold winds have turned to calm breezes, when little girls turn up in frilly dresses.

There’s something about pastel colors adorning decorations, when flowers show off, when butterflies dance on wings so dainty.

A little boy with a bow tie and grandfather with the same. Grandmothers with wide brim hats hugging old friends.

The table set so all can sit around together even if ‘all’ is a few more than it can hold. The smell of baking ham and buttery rolls. Mom pushing back her hair as she ties on her apron.

What is all the fuss about? What is all the tradition about? Yet the question actually is: Who is the fuss all about and does the tradition remind all about Who?

There is great reason for celebration – though the events and the reasons put us all to shame. New life… New life not just in the hope of spring and all it brings, new life in the hope of Eternity and all it promises. A Roman cross symbolizes just part of the price paid for our selfishness, but oh that hope still offered – that is the ‘something’ about this day…

The Job

A young man set out one morning – to make his way in the world. He had a family and they needed him to make his mark.

His car was old, but his shirt was clean and pressed. He had tried so hard so many times, but he had to try again.

He asked a man in a suit with a power tie to give him a chance, the man told him he would keep his resume on file, maybe something would come up.

He asked a woman whose hair and accessories, matching shoes and purse certainly gave her an air of importance. She said she would speak to H.R. on his behalf.

Tired, he sat on a bench with head in hands. An elderly gentleman sat down next to him. “Son, you look worried. I have an extra sandwich with me and a soda, why don’t you share it with me.” Lifting his head he met wrinkled blue eyes, bright with a twinkle. Something about him made the young man swallow his pride “Thank you, I’m really hungry but can’t afford to spend what little we have on my lunch today.”

The old guy gently said “I’ve been where you are. No savings, no job, kids…” “How do you know all this?” the young man stopped chewing and asked. “Well, I don’t ‘know’ but something told me you needed someone to talk to and since it’s the middle of the day and you aren’t at work, I could guess what your troubles are.” The young man laughed and said “Yes, I guess that does make it obvious. I feel like I’m the only one who can’t seem to keep a good job and get ahead.”

“Are you healthy? Do your kids have shoes? Did your wife cook a meal last night?” The young man answered “Yes” to all those. “Do you have a sound mind? Strong hands? A desire to work?” Again he answered “Yes” to all. “Well, son, I can tell you this… Life throws us lots of curve balls, times we feel like giving in and giving up. But I have one last question for you and how you answer it is what sets a man apart from the world: If God was good the day before you lost your job, is He still good when you are out here getting turned down?”

The young man took a long drink of the soda. Before he could answer, the old guy stood and patted him on the back and said “Don’t tell me, tell Him…”


jsf baby hand ???????????????? JSF hand ray old hand hand It’s been said that hands are the most difficult part of the body for an artist to master…perhaps it’s because our hands are used for everything from the everyday ordinary brushing our hair to the truly tender touch only a hand can convey.

A baby’s hands are precious – I’ve kissed each little finger of my babies and wondered at their perfection.

A child’s hands tell stories – like the little girl patting her daddy’s back as they stood singing in church or the little boy painted handprints.

A young woman’s hands convey hope – that of tasks still ahead that only her woman’s touch can accomplish and wonders that will fill her hands as the years go by.

Hard working calloused hands show man’s determination – to work each day to provide and to make a difference.

Gnarled old hands remind us that time is not kind – but those same hands folded in prayer speak wisdom gathered through the years.

There’s a pair of hands whose great purpose still amazes us all – those are the nail pierced hands that were stretched out and scarred so that you and I could look forward to an eternity of discovery with our hands….




Eyes closed, head back, breeze enveloping me – I hear it even now: creak…creak. The sound of the porch swing, the chirps of the crickets and frogs.

It’s how time used to be whiled away – on a front porch when day’s work was done. It’s how many a mom quieted a fevered child, how many first dates led to first kisses, how many old men faces scratchy with whiskers rested tired bones.

Seasons were observed as legs dangled and moved back and forth, back and forth. First butterfly of spring, first firefly of summer, first fall leaf dropping, first bite of winter wind.

Neighbors were welcomed to the porch and could hear the creak…creak before they got to the first step. Sweating glasses of sweet tea were passed around. Stories were told… Family histories were handed down, children gathered round to hear grandma spin a tale, and all manner of gossip was whispered.

Before air conditioning, the porch swing was the cooling off place – sometimes it was the cooling off place in the heat of an argument. Always it was where the day ended. With last light of day fading into blackness the creak…creak slows and the screen door slams.

White, slatted boards and galvanized chain – these simple elements lead to lifetime memories…


Yards of tulle and silk ribbon adorn the rows. Air is scented with flowers and candles glow. Soft music floats through the air.

Suits with bowties and shuffling feet stand nervously up front as they clear throats and try to calm his nerves.

Grey hair with boutonnieres and corsages escorted carefully down the aisle. They have stood the test of time and pray these do as well.

Moms who have tried to find the ‘just right’ dress, who hope they’ve done everything right to prepare child for this day, march proudly down the aisle.

Ringlets of curls strewing blossoms as she comes, accompanied by chubby fingers balancing that ring on the pillow bring smiles to every face.

Oh so good friends and sisters in matching dresses one by one make their way, smiling the assurances they just imparted one last time.

Suddenly the music changes, heads turn, and the “ahhs” can be heard. A proud father with misty eyes has his angel beauty on his arm and slowly they come forth. One mother takes her eyes off them for just a moment to capture her son’s awe as he watches the one chosen for him.

Two now stand hand in hand listening carefully to words old as time. Repeating what they hear, slipping rings on fingers with vows special for each other. A tender kiss and as God intended now the two are one!


The rumble starts in the distance as the skies grow dark. Slowly as the minutes tick by the air grows heavy. The weight of it settles in and lights come on. In the distance a thunderclap, no sign of the rain or the lightning.

We scurry to move a tender plant or close a patio umbrella. Windows are shut as we peer up at the sky. The brilliance flashes across our face and we count the seconds 1001, 1002, 1003, 1004, 1005 – crash as the light flashes again.

Large drops splatter here and there, a vague breeze moves the tree limbs. Again, 1001, 1002 – suddenly the heavens open wide and the thud of thunder and rain pounding drown out all else.

Limbs bow with the weight of the leaves pushed the wrong direction, the squirrels hide in dens below, momma birds spread wings wide and close their eyes.

The rain flows and soaks the earth good and deep, frogs sing for their favorite weather. Puddles form waiting for a child’s fun. And all the while we wait…

As drops become scattered again and skies lighten back towards afternoon’s hue, the rumble grows distant once more. Opening the door I breathe deep the smell of cleansed earth, feel gratitude for shelter, and there it is…that breeze tickling my arms and my nose with the unmistakable scent of the storm now gone. The fragrance left behind is the reminder of the awe and wonder of creation drinking in the gift of life.

It is the same with life’s storms…the rumble grows in the distance, we know it is coming – even before there are actual signs of it. The weight of life settles in and we scurry to protect what we can. Before we know it we’re in the midst of job loss, a sick child, a dying loved one and the pounding of it drowns out all else. We bend and are pushed along as we struggle. It is a season, and we wait…

Then clouds part, the world goes on – sometimes we have a new job or a healed child, sometimes we lose a loved parent, but always we are reminded by the fragrance left behind of the gift of life.


I have no need for an alarm clock, I have a cat…

Pouncing each morning around 6:30 – even on Saturday!

He used to pounce and attack through the covers – batting at my feet with his hind legs. All manner of pushing and trying to get him to stop only intrigued him. Finally I discovered ignoring him worked best – he gave up on that tactic…

Next was bounding up on the bed and walking with heavy steps behind me as I lay on my side then plopping down against me purring loudly. Again, I found if I lay really still he would settle down. No longer content with the results he was getting he found the foolproof method: pounce, creep slowly but surely, purr loudly in the face, lay on pillow next to her head – I can feel him staring at me. If I try the old ignore him routine, he turns around in circles a few times and proceeds with an extensive bath.

Cat lover or not, you probably know most cats are very aloof. Not this guy, he’s Mr. Sociable. His favorite visitors are friends who are dog people and really don’t like cats. He makes it his mission to be sure and make them feel right at home – you know, walking behind them on the couch and laying behind their head, or better yet plopping down at their feet and wrapping his paws around their ankles and holding on for dear life. Should he detect that you have good fashion sense he proceeds to stick his head in your purse and explore all you brought with you, or rub against your black trousered leg – after all black and white do make a statement. But, I digress, back to the morning wake-up call…

As I stretch and stick out my arm to stroke that ever so soft fur, the first thing to greet me is whisker kisses. It’s hard to resist him! After all, he is doing his duty: making sure I’m up when I should be, making sure I know he loves me, and truth be told, making sure I know he is impatient for his morning grub!

opi (2) cropped


Smells are powerful – a scent can come our way that we haven’t breathed in years and instantly we are transported in time to a distant memory…

I have a favorite rest stop on Highway 10 along the Florida panhandle where the pine stands are thick. I get out of the car and fill my lungs. Often the air in this region is scented with tall pines. It is the smell of home – at least for me. When a scent says “this is where you were born and raised” then it’s familiar, like an old friend.

Soup bubbling in the pot, apple pie baking, strawberries about to be smothered in whipped cream – just recounting them makes your stomach grumble. Citrus blossoms, red roses, and gardenias are creation’s fragrant bouquet.

A baby’s soft skin, the smell of sweaty little boys coming in from play, a husband’s shirts – these bring a smile to your face. Cotton sheets fresh off the line or out of the dryer have a unique smell and elicit a contented sigh. Oh, and the smell of rain – who doesn’t wonder at that wonderful scent straight from heaven!

My mother was a hairdresser and she always said the smell of a hair salon was her favorite, funny my daughter loves that also. These days it’s my mother’s perfume that makes me stop. She’s gone and for the first couple of years her clothes still hung in the closet – when I would visit I would go bury my face in her dresses. Now all has been packed up and given away. Yet her scent still lingers on keepsakes I brought home: scarves, a soft throw, notes she wrote. Happening upon one of these catches me off guard, and suddenly the woman who taught me so much and loved me so dearly caresses my cheek. I close my eyes and long for the sweet voice and old stories.

God blessed us with the sense of smell; it has a way of bringing peace in the chaos of life…


“Wait for me, Nanny!” Nanny is what Little One called her grandmother. “Come on, Little One, the garden is calling.” “I don’t hear it, Nanny. What is it calling?” Laughing, Nanny said “No, Little One, you can’t hear it with your ears, you hear it with your heart. The garden is full of life and adventures, not to mention good stuff to eat.”

Little One clung to Nanny’s dress as they waded through the rows of corn towering higher than even Nanny. When they reached the beds of squash Little One let go and ran up to a squash flower peering in. “Look, Nanny, there’s a bee inside!” Next to the squash were the pole beans. Nanny had positioned strings running up to a center pole so that a ‘tent’ of bean tendrils had grown all around and up to the top. “Look, Little One, so many beans are ready. They will taste so good with cornbread and fried chicken.” “Mmmm, I like beans, Nanny, can we have some now?” Grandmother and granddaughter plopped on the dirt and Nanny spread her apron wide and ‘unzipped’ several pods. Fresh peas fell upon Nanny’s apron and both tasted the goodness of the garden.

“Let’s go pick some maters Little One.” Jumping up Little One ran ahead to the tomato cages. “Ooo, look there’s a big green worm on this one.” Nanny plucked the worm and squished it and then another and another. “Darn horn worms, they like maters more than I do” said Nanny. Little One looked at the squished worms; she wrinkled her nose and put her hands on her hips “Darn horn worms!” Caught off guard Nanny said “Don’t go telling your momma I said darn, Little One, and don’t you say it either.”

Not too many years later as Little One was starting school she and her family moved to where people didn’t have gardens. The years flew by and Little One was all grown up. When she began to have children of her own she and her family moved back to where people still planted gardens. She remembered the smell of the dirt, the tickle of the corn silks, and taste of the fresh beans. Most of all she remembered the joy her grandmother had just being in the garden, a joy she still felt in her heart. She started with tomatoes and took her children out to look at them each day. When they began to turn red her little ones said “Look, mommy, there’s a big green worm on this one!” “Darn horn worms!” said mommy as she squished it….

Candidly Christian

Living Braver

Happy Toddler Playtime

PLaY CReaTivEly WitH YoUr LiTtLe OnE

Lisa Appelo

Living Braver

Emily P. Freeman

Living Braver


Living Braver

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