Page 110 – Guideposts Articles

The Surprising Spiritual Benefit of a Social Media Vacation

Posted on March 11, 2026March 12, 2026 by Kaylin Kaupish

Uninstall. Uninstall. Uninstall. With each click I removed a social media application from my phone. I had decided to take a short break from Facebook, Instagram, TikTok and a few other apps I used.

Taking a step back from anything you spend a lot of time doing can be a good idea—whether it’s work, doing a crossword or watching TV. This includes social media. According to Healthline , prolonged social media use can be linked to anxiety, depression and difficulty sleeping.

I decided to take a social media break because I was feeling less hopeful about the world. “Hope is an active anticipation in the ability to reach desired goals,” says psychologist and theologian Dr. Steven Sandage. “It requires a willingness to put energy toward those goals.” But after doomscrolling for hours and often hearing nothing but bad news, my energy to do anything—read a book, go for a walk, call my mom—was gone. I decided to take a break from social media, because I wanted to find hope again.

Here are some of my tips on how to take an effective social media break and feel more hopeful in your life:

1) Uninstall
Removing the social media apps on my phone was the most effective way to take a break. After all, I couldn’t scroll through Facebook or Instagram without a way to access them. Luckily, uninstalling them doesn’t remove my account or any of my photos, so I can always reinstall them and hop back on when I’m done with my break. If you use social media via your desktop, you can temporarily block those sites on your browser, so you aren’t tempted to hop on them.

2) Find new activities off the phone
Finding other things to do with my free time was the next step. When I finished work at the end of the day and wanted to unwind, I needed to train my brain not to absently reach for my phone. I created a list of things I enjoy doing on a sticky note on my desk. Then, whenever I had some down time, I chose something on the list.

You can include anything on your own list— go for a walk, take up a new hands-on craft like knitting or embroidery, start daily journaling, tackle a fun puzzle or tend to your houseplants—as long as it’s away from the screen. Keep the list handy so you always have something to fall back on if you feel the urge to scroll.

3) Find new activities on the phone
Even after I got used to my social media break, I still found myself reaching for the phone. After a while, I realized that it was okay! Our phones have become an important part of our lives and while setting them aside is important, they can be a great resource for information and fun. To avoid running to social media for entertainment, I downloaded a few activity apps that would keep me occupied in a more hopeful way.

Crossword puzzle apps let me exercise my brain and doing them with my boyfriend has been immensely fun. Online games like Words with Friends let me play Scrabble with my mom, even though we are states away from each other. Abide, the world’s largest Christian meditation and prayer app, is the perfect nightly ritual to help me relax my mind and fall asleep more easily.

4) Take pictures just for you
One of the most surprising things I did during my social media break was taking more pictures! Because I was taking photos for myself—and not as a means to get likes—I enjoyed the act of pulling out my phone and snapping a picture to remember the moment.

After hanging out with friends and family, I loved sending them the photos directly instead of posting them online and tagging them. This let us share the memories in a more personal way. And because all my photos are stored in my phone, I can easily look through them and reminisce about the good times. I was shocked at how much more hopeful I felt after scrolling through memories without being bombarded with negative news.

5) Reach out to people one-on-one
Psychologist and writer Ralph Smart once said, “There is no Wi-Fi in the forest, but I promise you’ll find a better connection.” Without social media to stay in touch with friends and family, I had to return to the good-old text message and phone call.

Perhaps not surprisingly, I realized I preferred this as a way to reach out to folks. Instead of liking a photo my sister posted, I gave her a call to tell her I loved it and caught up on how we were both doing. When it was my friend’s birthday, I didn’t post a generic “Happy Birthday” on his Facebook wall. I sent him a personalized text message wishing him the best day and telling him how much he meant to me. Having authentic connections with people is a vital part of feeling and staying hopeful. You’d be surprised how much going offline can bring you more online with the people in your life.

6) Be mindful
Of course, a return to social media is the last step. After my break, I was ready to hop back into social media with a few lessons learned.

The first thing I did was to set timers on my social media apps. This meant I could only use those apps for a certain number of minutes every day. So even as I hopped back on social media, I couldn’t go back to the hours of doomscrolling like before. According to Healthline, reducing our social media use even a little is helpful.

Next, I took a harder look at the pages I was following. I wanted to stay informed about what was going on with my friends, family and the world; but I also wanted to get some negativity off my timeline. I stuck with the pages that gave me good information and added on a few others that took a more actionable and positive look at the world. I sought out pages about things that brought me joy, like cooking, tending plants, art and travel. I also found pages that primarily focused on telling stories of hope—like Guideposts!—so my social media feed is sunnier than ever.

Taking a break from social media helped me return to a sense of hope, and now I’m using social media to stay hopeful in the future.

The Story of My Life

Posted on March 11, 2026March 12, 2026 by badams

They left me in the dark little room and closed the door. I tried to keep clam, to stay focused, to not freak out. Then they told me, through the headphones strapped to my ears, to step up to the microphone.

What in the world was I doing here? I should never have said yes to this.

When I wrote an article for the April edition of GUIDEPOSTS magazine, I was excited to write a story about a personal change in my life. I could handle writing. I know how to do that. I feel secure with my fingers on a keyboard. But when the magazine’s audio team asked if I wanted to read my story for the audio version of the magazine, I didn’t exactly jump at the chance.

Why would anyone want to listen to me read? My voice is not trained in any way (when I was about eight, my mom told me I sing like a frog, and that was pretty much the end of my vocal aspirations), and I’ve always had a bit of a lisp. I always think I sound like a dork when I hear myself on tape. Plus, I’ve listened to some boring recordings in my life.

I did not want the story I’d worked so hard on to be turned into a snoozefest. I thought they should just hire a professional actor, someone who knows what they’re doing. And they would have—I didn’t have to accept.

But then I wondered: what was the worst that could happen? If I tried to read and completely mangled the story, they probably just wouldn’t use it. If I wasted a few hours of time in a studio, I’d just work late to make it up. Was my own insecurity really going to keep me from trying something new? I had no idea what to expect in a recording studio—but that was exactly the reason I should give it a shot.

“Sure,” I said. “I’ll try it. I’ll read my story.”

So this morning I found myself crammed into a little padded room, earphones strapped to my head, staring at a microphone, praying I wouldn’t sound like too much of an idiot. And you know what? I don’t think anyone is going to hire me for my vocal talent anytime soon, but it went okay.

I didn’t get laughed out of the room. I made it all the way through my story without breaking down in frustrated tears. I didn’t appear to waste too much of anyone’s time. And best of all, I tried something new. In my book, that counts as a successful day.

Beth Adams is the creator and editor of GUIDEPOSTS’ Home to Heather Creek fiction series.

The Statue That Restored My Faith

Posted on March 11, 2026March 12, 2026 by Therese Borchard

I was trying to pray when it happened. Desperately.

Dark feelings I’d been holding back for days like some terrible tide, feelings of worthlessness and exhaustion, overcame me.

I forced myself to keep reading the Psalm I had in front of me, but all I really wanted to do was give up. Just close my eyes and never open them again. Anything to make this unnameable despair, this sadness beyond sadness I couldn’t seem to shake, go away.

I was kneeling in our walk-in closet, my prayer space, the one spot in the house where my kids, Katherine and David, wouldn’t see me acting weird and wonder what was wrong.

The kids were downstairs watching TV. My husband, Eric, was at work. If only he’d come home! And yet I didn’t want him to see me like this. Not again. He’d know I wasn’t coping. He’d spend yet another evening worried sick about me. He’d tell me we should go see a doctor. That was the last thing I wanted.

I knew what my problem was: clinical depression. I was a stay-at-home suburban mom with two wonderful kids and a devoted husband, trying to maintain a freelance writing career. A perfectly normal person to anyone passing by.

Inside, though, I was a complete disaster. I’d battled symptoms of depression all my life. I had been a fussy baby, an anxious child, a teenager with an eating disorder.

I saw a counselor in college and learned to get by. Then in my thirties, after the kids were born two years apart, I went into a tailspin. Episodes of postpartum blues deepened into full-blown depression, a looming darkness that threatened to swallow me whole.

I’d seen a psychiatrist, but all the medications he had prescribed only seemed to make me worse. That convinced me. My problem wasn’t finding the right doctor. My problem was finding the right amount of faith.

I had been raised in church and I believed with all my heart that God answered prayer.

It’s me, I thought. I must not be praying hard enough. Kneeling there in that closet I tried to dig deeper into my soul, tried to find a deserving faith.

The front door opened and closed. Eric was home. “Where’s Mom?” he asked.

“Upstairs,” the kids said.

I heard him mount the steps. “Therese?” he called. I tried to pull myself together. I wiped my eyes. Why was I always crying? My hands tightened around my Bible. Eric’s tall, reassuring form appeared at the closet door. “Therese, what are you doing?”

I looked at him helplessly. “I—I didn’t want the kids to see me like this.”

His face softened. “Therese, why didn’t you call me?”

“Because I knew you’d come home,” I said. “You have to work. I didn’t want you to worry.”

“But I am worried.” He knelt and put his arms around me. I leaned into him and our bodies shook together with my sobs. He stroked my hair. “You can’t go on like this,” he said. “We can’t. Let me call a doctor, Therese. Please.”

For a long time I didn’t say anything. I thought about the psychiatrist I’d seen. He’d spoken so confidently, but nothing he’d tried had worked. I slept even less. The roller coaster of my moods got even wilder. My freelance writing career ground to a halt. I stopped scheduling playdates for the kids.

Every day was like a mountain. I hated my feelings and I hated myself for feeling them. What was wrong with me? I had so many blessings. Why couldn’t I just be grateful and get over my depression? What right did I have to be so sad? It was thoughts like those that had convinced me to go off medication. Didn’t God heal? Wouldn’t he heal me if I asked hard enough? If I had enough faith?

Eric took my silence as a tentative yes. “Let me call someone at Johns Hopkins,” he said. A friend of ours had recently seen a doctor at the renowned medical school in Baltimore and told me that the care was excellent.

“The doctor you saw wasn’t right for you,” Eric went on. “Maybe someone else could help you. Therese, I’m really scared. Please. For me.”

For an instant I had a vision of what life could be without depression. Life like the first years of our marriage, full of simple joy. I saw us taking the kids to a pumpkin patch in the fall, sledding in winter, on rainy spring walks. How could a doctor or a pill give that back to me? How could anything? But I heard the desperation in Eric’s voice. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll go.”

The first appointment I could get was six weeks away. Somehow I got through those weeks, though each and every day I thought about how the world would be better off without me—and I without it.

The appointment arrived. Eric’s mom came over to watch the kids, and Eric and I got into the car for the 45-minute drive to Hopkins. I tried to relax, but I couldn’t stop my obsessive, suicidal thoughts. What was wrong with me?

The feelings didn’t fix on any one thing. I couldn’t understand where they came from. Mostly I felt like a tremendous burden to Eric and the kids. I woke up every morning crushed by sadness. You’re worthless, a voice inside me said over and over. Why hadn’t prayer shut that voice up? If only my faith were stronger than that voice!

We neared the Hopkins campus and I felt panic stir. I pictured white-coated doctors wheeling me away. “I’m sorry, Mr. Borchard,” they would tell Eric, “but your wife is beyond hope.”

The doctors wouldn’t understand. What did they know about me? About my prayers? My faith? I was a diagnosis to them, not a person. The whole thing felt wrong. Eric circled the campus of historic brick buildings, looking for the parking garage. Should I tell him to go back home?

Finally we found a place to park. I took deep breaths. In one last instant of spiritual desperation, I screamed out a prayer in my mind: Dear Lord, be here. Help me. Please. We got out of the car and walked through the campus. I stared up at the buildings, all red brick and slate gray roofs against a cloudy Baltimore sky.

“Hmm,” said Eric. “I don’t think this is the building we want.” He looked at a map of the campus. “It looks like we just have to cut through that building there.” He pointed to an imposing Victorian structure topped by a dome and spire. “Billings Administration Building,” a sign read. We opened the doors and entered the lobby.

I stood stock-still. For a moment I thought I was seeing things. I thought I really had lost my mind. But, no. There, right in the center of the lobby, towering over everything, bathed in light from a skylight far above, was a ten-and-a-half-foot-tall statue of Jesus. He stood with arms outstretched, seeming to look straight into my eyes with an expression of infinite compassion and understanding.

What was a statue of Jesus doing here? I wondered. I knew that Johns Hopkins had been founded by a Quaker in the nineteenth century, but—this was the last thing I had expected to see today at the cutting-edge medical center. Jesus?

On the pedestal beneath Jesus’ feet was an inscription: “Come unto me all ye that are weary and heavy laden and I will give you rest.” Around the statue strode doctors in white coats talking in low voices. Patients walked past, nurses, orderlies, visitors.

I read the words again. I will give you rest. I looked around. Here? I wondered. Here, Lord?

Even as I asked, I knew the answer. Yes, it was exactly here that God would give me rest. Not through some sudden miraculous change in my emotional state. Not because my prayers were finally good enough. God would heal me as he had healed countless others, through the hands and talents of good doctors and nurses.

He could even work through medication if he chose. There were no barriers to Christ’s love. He was in charge of my healing. I could let go. I could let him work. Finally I could stop fighting. I could trust. Who more than Jesus understood the nature of suffering?

“Therese, are you okay?” Eric was right beside me. I turned to look at him.

“Yes,” I said. “I’m ready. Let’s go.”

We found our way to the psychiatric building, and there I was seen by a doctor named Milena who asked smart, gentle, caring questions. She then told me that the depression was not my fault, not a personal or spiritual shortcoming. Severe depression is a medical condition like many others, she said, biological in origin. It can and should be treated as an illness.

“You can get better, Ms. Borchard,” she said.

Eventually I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, which explained why my moods varied so dramatically. It has been almost four years now since I returned home from Johns Hopkins. Taking the right medications and seeing a counselor, I’ve gotten my life back on track.

Eric and I took the kids to that pumpkin patch. We went sledding and took walks in the rain. I returned to my writing career. Most important, I learned how wrong I had been to believe that God had forsaken me because of some weakness in my faith. I know better now.

I came to the hospital that day weary and heavy laden, but not knowing what to do. And there, so unexpectedly, the Lord gave me rest, the rest my spirit yearned for, the healing he knew I needed.

Read about the history of the Christus Consolator statue at Johns Hopkins here.

Download your free ebook on happiness and personal growth.

The Spiritual Rewards of Caregiving

Posted on March 11, 2026March 12, 2026 by Kimberly Elkins

“There are only four kinds of people in the world,” former First Lady Rosalynn Carter has said. “Those who have been caregivers. Those who are currently caregivers. Those who will be caregivers and those who will need caregivers.” A sobering thought but a reality we’re all likely to confront at some point in our lives. As someone who once cared for a friend with cancer and also briefly needed a caregiver myself after an operation, I thought I had a decent handle on the subject.

Then I became the editor of Strength & Grace, our bimonthly devotional magazine focused on caregiving, and found I still had a lot to learn. What has struck me the most are all the ways in which our writers illuminate the journey of caregiving—the stresses and struggles as well as the opportunities for emotional and spiritual growth. I’d never thought of caregiving quite that way before: an opportunity not only to get to know our loved ones better but also to examine our relationships with God and with ourselves.

In the past, whenever I’d considered the possibility of one day becoming a caregiver for one or both of my parents, the truth is I started to panic. But after reading and editing our contributors’ devotions, which are equally pragmatic and inspiring, I’ve found my panic immeasurably lessened. Though our caregivers never sugarcoat the multitude of challenges they face, the moments of unsurpassed poignancy, deepening bonds and— yes—joy help balance the load. Here, three of our writers share their stories and hard-won advice with you.

Norm Stolpe

Norm Stolpe
Milwaukee, Wisconsin
Norm Stolpe’s life was upended when his wife, Candy, was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease five years ago, after wandering from their home in the middle of the night. A retired pastor, Norm shifted his calling from caring for congregations to caring for Candy. “We’re constantly adjusting to the daily changes in our new normal,” Norm says. “Clinging to the past is inevitably frustrating.”

Instead, he makes a point of finding joy in the moment, especially in celebrating Candy’s small victories, such as when she beats him at Scrabble. “Joyous moments are actually holy moments,” Norm says. He keeps a calendar and, in each day’s two-inch box, writes the specific moment of joy that day brought. He calls these his awareness-of-God boxes. “So much of life is paying attention,” Norm says. “If you cultivate and expect joy, you’ll see the little things you might otherwise take for granted.”

Such as Candy’s continued contributions in the kitchen. She can’t bake anymore because of the precision required, but she still prepares the couple’s soups and salads. “I’m glad I can still do something around here!” Candy often says with a laugh. She also makes the bed many days, although she now has difficulty with hand-eye coordination. “If it’s lumpy, I can deal with that,” Norm says. The couple do the dishes together; he washes and she dries and puts away the dishes. Most important, when they pray aloud together, Candy still takes her turn.

Sometimes Candy voices regret that she can’t do something she used to do. Norm will remind her of all she’s given in their half-century together. “We all want to feel as if we’re contributing,” Norm says, “so I take great pains to assure Candy of her continued worth—to me, to her family, to God. I’m still awakening to recognizing that this Alzheimer’s journey is a reciprocal partnership in which God prospers the work of the hands of both of us.”

Edwina and Danielle Perkins

Edwina Perkins
Cary, North Carolina
Two years ago, Edwina Perkins’s 29- year-old daughter, Danielle, was diagnosed with breast cancer. Edwina temporarily moved to New York City to take care of her during chemotherapy. A breast cancer survivor herself, Edwina knew firsthand how tough it was going to get for her daughter. What she didn’t anticipate, however, was how tough it was going to be for her. Edwina had high expectations for her role as caregiver. “I was going to be Wonder Woman,” she says.

Edwina tried to anticipate Danielle’s every want and need, from food cravings to trips to the bathroom. She was soon exhausted—but afraid of letting her daughter down. “Instead of looking at the good I was doing, I was constantly looking at the ways I’d fallen short,” she says.

One afternoon when Danielle asked for another piece of fruit, which would have meant a third trip to the store within a few hours, Edwina had to say no. At first, she felt guilty but then realized she was making a healthy decision for both of them. “I still needed to have certain boundaries so I could take care of myself. If not, I wouldn’t be able to take care of her.” And guess what? Danielle was fine with it.

Edwina prayed for the ability to give herself the same grace she so readily granted to others. “With God’s help, I gave myself the permission not to be perfect, even as a caregiver.”

Pamela Haskin (right) and
her mother, Lucille

Pamela Haskin
Sulphur Springs, Texas
Pamela Haskin’s mother, Lucille, was diagnosed with a form of Parkinson’s disease at age 71. Although her mom was a positive person, with a surprisingly good attitude about all she was enduring, she sometimes fell into self-pity as her struggles grew more painful and difficult. “It’s neither healthy nor helpful to allow her to remain in that state for long,” Lucille’s home health nurse told Pamela.

“My main goal became refocusing Mom’s attention when she was feeling down or sorry for herself,” Pamela says. “I brainstormed and prayed for creative ways to encourage her.” When her mother lamented not feeling pretty anymore, Pamela painted her mom’s nails bright red. When Lucille could no longer walk well enough to go on shopping trips, Pamela convinced the manager of her favorite boutique to let her take items out to the car so her mom could “shop” from there.

When her mom complained of feeling useless, Pamela asked her to think of things she could still do for others. With Pamela’s help, her mom made calls to friends and even sent flowers and cards.

“I looked for ways to turn every task into an adventure,” Pamela says. “Something that would distract her from her pain and frustration or, better yet, make her laugh. Mom had always been such an easy laugher, and I felt it was part of my job to bring her back to laughter.”

On days when even the shortest walks were tiring, Pamela would tell her mother to focus on the wall hanging across the living room, emblazoned with the word Jesus. “‘Walk to Jesus’ became our mantra,” Pamela says. “When either of us encountered an obstacle in our lives, we would remind the other to walk to Jesus.”

The Soul Survivors

Posted on March 11, 2026March 12, 2026 by John Senka

Welcome, U.S. Army 4th Battalion, 9th Infantry, 25th Division. I stared at the sign outside the reception. For 40 years I’d avoided these Vietnam vets’ reunions. I didn’t want to talk about the battle that haunted my nightmares, or how I’d survived.

The Battle of Mole City, December 22, 1968. We were a unit of 500 American soldiers, stationed in deep bunkers along one of the North Vietnamese Army’s busiest supply routes. I was 20. Fit, strong, tough.

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My three months in ’Nam hadn’t been much different than working on our family farm. I spent most days in the hot sun, digging the trenches the base was named for.

There was a holiday truce. After dinner, we opened packages from home with cards, cookies and miniature trees. It almost felt like Christmas. At 10:00 p.m. we received our orders for the night: patrol, L.P. (the listening post), or perimeter. I was assigned to defend the perimeter.

All was quiet till midnight. The L.P. reported some NVA movement. The four of us in our bunker took our positions. Suddenly the night sky lit up. Flares. Mortar fire. A surprise attack!

We returned fire. There was a tremendous explosion. An anguished scream from the soldier next to me. I looked over. He was dead. I was struck too, in my right leg. Another grunt dove out the back of the bunker. I crawled after him.

We squeezed into the next bunker, filled with GIs. Something thudded into the mud. Another grenade! I threw myself as far from it as I could.

Boom! Blood ran from my ears. A third grenade rolled in. Shrapnel ripped into my belly. My rifle was clogged with mud. My injured leg was useless. We were overrun. Guys were falling, crying out for their mothers.

One brave sergeant climbed out of the bunker, firing his M16. His silhouette crumpled; his body rolled down past me. All I could do was lie there and wait for death.

I wouldn’t have called myself religious, even though I wore a miraculous medal with my dog tags. Still, I shouted above the gunfire, “God, help me!”

Everything went silent. No explosions. No screams. Like I’d gone deaf. At the same time, I felt something hover over me. It fell softly upon my shoulders, warm, comforting, like I was a child being tucked into bed. Before I could figure out what it was, I blacked out.

When I came to, it was daylight. I moved to uncover myself, but nothing was there. Feet shuffled outside the bunker. Who had won? The NVA? Would I be taken prisoner? I pulled away a sandbag blocking my view. It thumped to the ground.

A helmeted head poked in. A U.S. Army sergeant. “It’s okay, soldier,” he said.

I was the only one found alive in that bunker. The Army sent me home. The physical wounds healed. My other wounds didn’t. Counselors told me that the nightmares were my mind trying to piece together what had happened in Mole City.

Even after I learned that we’d been stormed by 1,500 NVA, outnumbered three to one, the survivor’s guilt remained. Why had I been wrapped in that cocoon of safety, while others died?

For 40 years, that guilt kept me away from reunions. I wasn’t sure why I’d come now. But I took a deep breath and entered the reception hall. I put on my name tag and scanned the room.

A man came up, saw my name tag. “You’re the guy I’ve been looking for.” “I’m sorry,” I said. “Who are you?”

“Bob Chavous.” He shook my hand. “I heard you were in the perimeter bunker near where I was supposed to be. I survived, the other guys didn’t. It’s not easy to talk about.”

I understood all too well. Bob said he’d been assigned to the L.P. that night, one of the men who called in the warning about the enemy soldiers.

“Before we could withdraw, the sky lit up with a hundred mortars. We were pinned down in a rice paddy,” Bob said. “I made my peace with God, and prayed he’d let my family know that I loved them.”

He paused for a moment, searching for the right words. “Then it was like…a blanket settled over me and put me to sleep until the fighting was over.”

A blanket of protection. I’d never know why it had covered me. But I hadn’t been the only one. How many others at this reunion had felt the same thing? Been touched by the same inexplicable warmth that we told ourselves couldn’t possibly be real?

I was ready to talk then. Ready to tell everything I’d held inside. I wasn’t alone. Bob needed to know he wasn’t either.

Read Bob Chavous’ account of the Battle of Mole City!

Download your FREE ebook, Mysterious Ways: 9 Inspiring Stories that Show Evidence of God’s Love and God’s Grace.

The Soul of an Artist: A Teacher Inspires a Lawyer to Pursue His Passion

Posted on March 11, 2026March 12, 2026 by Ron Medley

From the outside, things looked okay. I had a nice apartment, good friends, a longstanding job as a lawyer with New York City’s Department of Finance. But inside I felt empty. Day after day, I tracked down corporate scofflaws, calling them up and confronting them about the thousands of dollars they owed the city. It was necessary work—somebody had to do it—but over the years, steeling myself, I found I had become so callous. Life was drained of its colors.

I used to drop in at a tavern in Greenwich Village after work and unload on a bartender there, Angelo. The place had these big paintings on the walls, brilliant acrylic portraits. One showed folks sitting around a card table playing bridge with all the details beautifully painted, even the cards. It was not what you’d expect to see in a bar—nothing generic about it—and one day I asked someone who the artist was. “Angelo,” he said.

I was flummoxed. Angelo, the bartender? In his free time, he created beauty with paints and a brush. He nurtured his artistic side. A side I had myself but had somehow let languish. How long had it been since I’d even tried to draw? What would Miss Wiener think?

Growing up, I was studious, quiet and curious. I wanted to see—really see—everything in the world outside our Brooklyn apartment. I was one of three kids, and I’d sit for hours at our kitchen table, copying pictures out of TV Guide or Life magazines. I remember studying Jackie Kennedy’s bouffant hair in a picture—the same way our teachers at school were starting to wear their hair. I wondered how it worked, so I copied it carefully, penciling each strand of hair in her bangs. Drawing was an incredible way of understanding things.

I once drew a picture of LBJ when he was elected vice president. His big floppy ears and the bags under his eyes fascinated me. I must have captured something about him because, when I brought in the picture and showed it to my teachers, they put it up in the hallway. That was where Miss Wiener saw it.

Miss Wiener was brand-new that year at P.S. 113. Only 21 years old, she was given all the jobs the other teachers disliked, like taking care of the hamsters, the goldfish and the turtles. During recess, instead of going outside to play stickball—which I wasn’t very good at—I used to stop in and study the animals. I’d sketch the geometric patterns on the turtles’ backs.

“You drew that picture of the vice president,” Miss Wiener said one day.

I nodded.

“You’re a good artist, Ronald,” she said. “Do you have any more pictures to show me?”

It was like a light went on. An adult was really interested in what interested me. Mom was loving and nurturing, but she had her hands full just getting us to church. It was altogether different to have a teacher express her enthusiasm, one who seemed to know a lot about art. Miss Wiener brought in books she got at the library of famous painters like Gauguin, Renoir and Rembrandt. I especially liked Rembrandt. His portraits looked so real, I could imagine the people stepping right out of them and talking to me.

I had never actually painted, but I loved studying the colors and seeing how an artist could show things with just a few deft touches, the light on a hand, the shadow or shade on a face.

“Let me take you to a museum,” Miss Wiener said one day. She had a tiny car, a Renault Dauphine, about the size of a VW Bug, and she drove me into Manhattan on a Saturday. We trooped around the city, visiting the Museum of Modern Art, walking up the ramps that sloped around the walls of the Guggenheim, seeing some real Rembrandts at the Metropolitan.

Miss Wiener looked as if she could have been painted by one of the artists we saw, Modigliani. She was slender with pale skin and red hair, and I could imagine how he’d depict her features, her direct gaze and that quick smile. She opened the door to a whole new world for me. She even signed me up for art classes at the Modern and drove me to them.

Other kids were good at sports. I drew. It’s what I did, and Miss Wiener showed me the many different ways an artist could express himself. Thanks to her encouragement and support, I got into a good middle school. In seventh grade, I ran for student body president. I drew multiple self-portraits for my campaign and my face was plastered all over school. I won.

Neither of my parents had gone to college. My mom would have loved becoming a teacher like her sisters back in Virginia, but she worked too hard to support the family. And Dad…well, Dad had his demons.

It’s not hard to see why I felt called to be the super-responsible one, the middle child, the one getting awards at graduation. College was an obvious choice for me. I loved the academic challenges and was a motivated student. Law school seemed a logical next step for a history major like me. I wanted to be able to get a good job and make everybody proud.

The artistic side of me got lost. I might blame the art teacher in college. He did everything he could to make his classes unappealing, scheduling them at an ungodly early hour and then criticizing his students’ work with undisguised disdain. He was no Miss Wiener. Later came the demands of school and the law and chasing down scofflaws… until I seemed a stranger to myself and found myself wondering why my life felt drained of color. I had to make a move before it was too late!

The first thing I did was take myself back to church. I found a congregation I liked, with people who could talk about God and prayer in one sentence and then tell you about a great new restaurant in the next. Faith and community become one in my life.

And then there came that moment in the bar. What if i tried to paint like Angelo? What if I asked him for help? I bought some supplies and christened a corner of my apartment “my studio.” I immersed myself in painting. I’d tackle a big canvas, hearing Miss Wiener’s voice in the back of my head, then I’d ask Angelo if he could give me some advice. We even worked together on weekends. Angelo taught me how to mix colors, how a complementary color could be used to make something darker. If you put green next to red, you’d get a vivid shadow and shading. He’d get out his brush and rework what I’d done, showing me how to do it.

I took out some family albums and worked from old photos, making portraits of relatives, most of whom were long since gone: Aunt Delilah, Aunt Nannie, Aunt Luella. Their features would come alive with a few flicks of my paintbrush. One day I found an old picture of my father, who had died from alcoholism when he was only 54 years old. In the photograph, he was still a young man—thoughtful, studious yet already prematurely old. What was he thinking? What made him tick? Why had he made the choices he had?

Copying the picture in a painting was like meeting him for the first time. Like I said, art had always been a way of understanding things. Not that I would ever fully understand my father, but I saw him differently after that. Painting was a way of forgiving, like saying the Lord’s Prayer with a brush.

I’d long ago lost touch with Miss Wiener, but as the portraits accrued in my studio and my sense of self returned or at least a new sense developed—the lawyer who was also an artist—I was blown away to get a call out of the blue from one of her grown sons.

She was Mrs. Wiener now—she’d married a man with the same last name—and had moved to the suburbs, where she was the headmistress of a small school. Her son told me that she’d been suffering from cancer and wanted to see me again.

She came into the city, and we met at a restaurant on the Upper West Side, not far from my new church. She still looked like a Modigliani portrait, only she now had gray in her hair. There was something else I had never noticed as a kid—she had a very strong Brooklyn accent. But we were both very different people now. “I’ve taken up painting,” I told her. “I do portraits of people I love.”

I wished I had been able to take Mrs. Wiener to my studio in Brooklyn, where I could show off my work, but she didn’t live long enough to be able to make that trip. All too soon, I was visiting her grave. If only I’d been able to tell her how she had changed my life. Let it never be forgotten how one person’s interest in you, their willingness to encourage you, their ability to draw out your gifts can make a difference. A life difference.

It’s never too late to begin doing all the things you know they would love you to do. Never too late to discover what passion animates your spirit.

I am now retired from the law and paint full-time. I paint images that I see on Facebook or capture the faces of friends from church. Each blank canvas is a new challenge, an opportunity to see and to show. Each painting is a new expression of myself, filling me with joy. Each painting is another step in a new life.

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The Song I Had to Give Away

Posted on March 11, 2026March 12, 2026 by Noel Paul Stookey

As a songwriter I’m naturally pleased when people recognize my authorship. When Goldie Hawn recorded my tune “The House Song” in the mid-1970s, it was as big a thrill to me as when “I Dig Rock and Roll Music,” which I had a hand in writing, went Top 10 in the 1960s. But to this day the song I get the most credit for is one I didn’t really write.

Music has been part of my life since I was eight years old. In high school I was encouraged to start my own rhythm-and-blues group, but when I moved to New York City in 1959, I had no entertainment career plans.

I was a 20-year-old college dropout from Michigan State University who, because of a passing interest in photography, landed a job at a photographic chemicals company in Manhattan.

Evenings after work my colleagues and I would head for a Greenwich Village coffeehouse to play chess. One night I noticed a stage being constructed in a corner; the manager told me auditions for entertainment would be held later in the week. By that weekend, relying on nothing more than the songs I had created in my high-school and college days, I was in show business.

I gave up my day job and became a singer, comedian and master of ceremonies at the Gaslight Cafe. Increasingly I was drawn to the simple, yet profound, legacy of folk music. And each night between shows, I went to hear as many other performers as possible.

After my set one night, Albert Grossman, a well-regarded folk music impresario, asked me to join him at his table. I was hoping the meeting might lead to a solo record contract and a tour. Then he asked, “Have you ever considered performing in a group?” I was crushed.

As taken aback as I was by his question, I found myself a few months later joined by Mary Travers and Peter Yarrow in my Lower East Side apartment searching for vocal ranges and harmonies. Our voices blended well. We had an appreciation of one another’s talents. After a year of preparation (and Albert’s guidance) our group—Peter, Paul and Mary—was on the road, on the radio, and on the record charts with songs like “Lemon Tree,” “If I Had a Hammer” and “Puff (The Magic Dragon).”

Those were heady times. A sense of change was sweeping the country. There was a young president in the White House, hope on the wing and a new day dawning.

And then: despair. The impact of the assassinations of President John F. Kennedy, Martin Luther King, Jr., and Robert Kennedy was devastating. The arts became more and more expressive of the dark mood of the country. Gone were the dreams of a better tomorrow. The only choices left seemed to be cynicism or escape.

Or so it felt to me. At the age of 30 I found success increasingly meaningless. The more popular Peter, Paul and Mary became, the emptier I felt. I began to recognize a barrier between my working lifestyle and my family, the people I cared for most.

I was performing 150 nights a year and devoting the remaining days to photo shoots, interviews, recordings and television appearances. I was losing touch with the very ethic I defended in song.

Backstage at peace rallies, I watched in dismay as arguments and manipulation replaced mutual concern. I asked myself: Is life nothing more than some great scramble for advantage? What is it all for? If there is some order in life, how does one go about finding it? Is “order” what some call God?

During this searching time of my life I visited a friend in Woodstock who was recovering from a serious motorcycle accident. He provided the advice: “Read the Bible.”

I took the suggestion seriously. I started at Genesis and read the Bible whenever I could. I was fascinated, but it seemed like distant history. Then, after a concert in Abilene, Texas, a fan introduced me to the promises of Christ. He prayed with me. I knelt praying to a creator I had only hoped was there.

Suddenly I felt a sure, comforting answer.

After that, I began to pray constantly. I would ask God the smallest questions, such as “Shall I take this elevator?” “Shall I sit next to this person?” “What would You have me say here?”

I discovered a wonderful closeness. God was with me in every situation. He was a best friend.

And so it was only natural that I would turn to him when, during the trio’s tour in the fall of 1969, Peter asked if I would sing a song to bless his wedding. Though I immediately answered, “Of course,” I didn’t tell Peter that it wasn’t going to be me who would bless his wedding.

One of my first days home I retreated to the small basement studio in our house. After tuning up my 12-string guitar, I sat in silence for a moment.

Lord, I prayed, nothing would bless this wedding ceremony more than Your presence. How would You manifest Yourself?

And the lyrics came:

I am now to be among you
at the calling of your hearts,
Rest assured this troubador
is acting on My part.
The union of your spirits here
has caused Me to remain,
For whenever two or more of you
are gathered in My name
There am I, there is love…

For the next hour I strung the lyrics together into the format of a song. The last section paraphrased a sentiment that had been voiced by another songwriting friend of mine, Jim Mason. He’d asked, “Do you believe in something that you’ve never seen before?” The song provided the answer, “There is love.”

Just one hour before the wedding ceremony, I sang it to my wife, Betty. “It’s beautiful,” she said. “But they won’t understand ‘I am now to be among you.’ They’re going to think you’re presuming to be God.”

I thought about what she said, and changed the words.

The song was sung at the ceremony: “He is now to be among you…” The blessing had been asked for and given. It would never be sung again, I thought. It was for Peter.

Several weeks later I was waiting backstage before my solo portion of a Peter, Paul and Mary concert when Peter asked, “Why don’t you sing the song you sang at my wedding?”

“I couldn’t do that,” I said. “It was just for your wedding.”

He looked at me thoughtfully. “My bride is out there,” he said. “Would you sing it for her?”

So I sang it that night, and the following nights. Each time it was well received, and each time I was amazed that something so particular had such a broad appeal. Is this what you wanted, Lord? I asked. Did you mean the song for everyone?

Less than a year after Peter’s wedding, the trio took a leave of absence from performing and we each created solo albums. By then I knew that “Wedding Song” would be included on mine, but now I had a dilemma on my hands. How could I honestly copyright the song in my name? Yet if I didn’t claim the song for someone, the record company would pocket the royalties.

In the end I set up a foundation to oversee the publishing rights and to receive all my income as composer. Any money the song earned could then be distributed to worthy causes.

To my amazement, shortly after the album’s debut, “Wedding Song” was released as a single and almost immediately went into the Top 30.

In the meantime I had chosen to spend more time with my family. I wanted to live a simpler life, away from the demands and pressures of performing. I half expected to hang up my guitar and stop playing professionally.

Then one afternoon as my family, some friends and I were sitting together in our backyard I received an excited phone call from the record company. The Tonight Show had called to ask me to perform “Wedding Song” on network TV. “This could be the beginning of a solo career!” the record company representative exclaimed.

Once I had wanted nothing more. Now I knew better. “No, thanks,” I said.

It’s been 22 years since the Public Domain Foundation was created to receive the royalties from “Wedding Song.” Two million dollars has been distributed to charitable organizations all over the United States—from soup kitchens for the homeless to research into computer interaction for hospitalized kids.

Every year, too, I turn down requests to sing “Wedding Song” at services around the country. “It’s not my song,” I can honestly say. It belongs to every bride and groom who ever had a good friend strum a guitar and sing at their wedding.

God gave me a song. It was mine to give away.

The Sister-in-Law Diet

Posted on March 11, 2026March 12, 2026 by Roberta Messner

“Do you maybe have anything spiffier?” I asked the salesman at the medical-supply store. I was staring at a motorized scooter in a color so dismal I didn’t know what to call it…greige?

He showed me one in a cheery cherry red. Better. If I had to spend the rest of my life in a chair, it might as well match my nails and pocketbook.

“Your scooter will arrive in a month,” he said, writing up my order. “Right at your doorstep.”

Great. That meant I’d have it in time for Thanksgiving. In time for everyone to see, especially my sister-in-law, Ellen. I sighed, limping out of the store. What choice did I have? I was only 56 years old, but this scooter had been a long time coming. So this is it, Lord. More of a complaint than a prayer.

I had been battling health problems since I was teenager, when I was diagnosed with a condition that caused benign tumors to grow on my nerves. There were tumors in my brain, in my mouth, even on my spine and legs, which made it excruciatingly difficult to walk. I had undergone 32 surgeries over the years.

As if that wasn’t enough, the antiseizure medications I’d been prescribed contributed to weight gain. I’m not going to lie, though. I had a sweet tooth, big time. I weighed nearly 300 pounds by the time I was 40. Nowadays, I could barely complete my rounds as a nurse without panting, then collapsing into a chair in the patient waiting room.

“The best thing you can do, Roberta, is lose some of that weight,” my longtime physician, Dr. Brownfield, had told me at my last appointment. “Might even keep you out of a scooter.”

It was a nice idea in theory. I’d tried every diet there was, from Atkins to Weight Watchers, and never lost more than five pounds. My health problems had taken so much from me already. Now they were about to take my freedom.

To add insult to injury, Thanksgiving came and the scooter never arrived. There was some kind of mix-up. Typical. They probably ran out of red. At least I saved face in front of my family when we all gathered for dinner.

Ellen eyed me when I arrived. I always felt as though Ellen—and everyone, really—judged me because of my weight. In the 40-plus years she’d been married to my brother, the two of us had never really connected.

She’d always been good to my brother, and we had a polite relationship. But we were hardly close. What did we have to talk about? Ellen was a math teacher and athlete, the kind of person who exercised regularly and cut the fat out of everything. She was six years older than I was, but had the energy of a high school cheerleading squad.

Meanwhile, I was easily 100 pounds overweight and about to be relegated to a motorized scooter, a fact I left out when she asked how I was doing. I don’t think she would have been impressed that the scooter came in red.

Ellen had cooked up an elaborate feast. She sent me home with a dozen different containers of leftovers. I phoned her the week after to thank her. Despite ingredients like broccoli and low-fat sour cream, her dishes had been surprisingly tasty.

“What in the world do you do to that food?” I asked. I’d actually lost a pound from eating her meals all week.

“Just a few cuts here and there,” she said, then paused. “You know, Roberta, if you want to lose weight…I mean, if you really want to try, I could coach you.”

Ellen? Coach me? How would that work, exactly? We could barely make small talk. How was I going to discuss something as personal as my diet with her? Just the thought of disclosing my candy-bar-a-day habit made me cringe. And did she think I hadn’t tried during all my other futile dieting attempts? That I was some kind of diet slacker?

I almost told her no on the spot. But Dr. Brownfield’s words popped into my head. “Maybe we could keep you out of that scooter….” I had a choice. It was a long shot, but anything was better than a future on wheels. Even if that meant opening up to my perfect sister-in-law.

“You can think about it,” Ellen said.

“I don’t have to think about it,” I said. “I’m up for it.”

I had no idea what i was getting myself into. To get started, Ellen asked me to keep a food journal. I tried to be completely honest, even about my sweet tooth. She called and I read her my entries for the week. She didn’t say anything.

“That bad?” I muttered.

“You don’t really eat that much, Roberta, but your meals come too late in the day,” she said. “That’s the first thing we can change. Easy. No more eating after six p.m.”

Easy for Ellen, maybe. Who wants to eat celery and boiled carrots no matter what time of day it is? Still, I was in no position to argue. So I followed her instructions and began eating dinner before six p.m. A real challenge with my hectic nursing schedule.

When I made my rounds, I’d stare longingly at the vending machine, desperate for just a little snack. Two long, torturous weeks later, I stepped on the scale at work and couldn’t believe the number staring back at me—I’d lost two pounds!

My feeling of victory was short-lived. When I got back to the nurses’ station, one of the other nurses talked about a diet she’d lost five pounds on in the first week. I called Ellen, ready to quit.

“Wait a minute, let’s look at the math here,” Ellen said in that matter-of-fact teacher’s voice of hers. “If you dropped a pound a week for the rest of the year, that’s about fifty pounds all together. That’s a big deal, Roberta.”

Hmm. Fifty pounds was at least five dress sizes. That’d mean I could fit into the jeans at a store like Chico’s, where I’d always dreamed of shopping. I longed for Chico’s jeans!

Once I was back on board, Ellen was ready to move me to phase two of her master plan—more seemingly insignificant changes. Substituting water for regular soda and cutting out the bread in my dinner. She insisted I would see results.

So I resisted the urge to reach for a can of soda in the afternoon and had my grilled chicken sandwiches with one slice of bread instead of two. By the end of one week, I’d lost a pound.

Then another. And another. My blood pressure dropped by 20 points and I was down a dress size by the end of the month. My joints weren’t so sore. Best of all, I could make my rounds without taking so many breaks. Coworkers took notice. The hospital cafeteria even named a special low-calorie, low-carb sandwich after me.

I called Ellen faithfully every Monday with a status update on my weight. And to get a pep talk. Her calm, scientific way of thinking was strangely comforting. Sooner or later, she said, the weight would come off, because I was consuming fewer calories, eating the right things and moving around more. It was simple science.

One morning, we got to talking about some new recipes, and before I knew it, we’d been on the phone for half an hour!

“You’re going to need new clothes,” Ellen said. “I saw some lovely things at the mall the other day.”

I went shopping after work and stopped by Ellen’s house with my finds. She had me model every outfit. Ellen wasn’t really into girly activities, but we still had a blast. We barely talked about calories or carbs. When I left, she hugged me goodbye. Like friends. Sisters, even.

After that, I didn’t wait until Mondays to call Ellen. She was the first person I called when I needed advice buying a new car. We even prayed about my decision together.

The weight came off too, just as she promised. Every month, another three or four pounds. I lost 45 pounds that first year. And Ellen wasn’t finished with me. She introduced a new goal every month, taught me how to make smart choices when eating out.

I started to crave vegetables. Whenever I slipped, she was there to pick me up. “This diet isn’t about just one day,” she told me. “It’s about a lifetime. Hour after hour of making the right choices.”

Thanks to Ellen’s coaching, I lost 94 pounds over two years and have kept the weight off. My health problems haven’t disappeared, but I no longer search for the nearest chair when entering a room.

And the red scooter? I never bothered straightening out the mix-up. I booked my first vacation in over a decade, confident I’d be able to walk long distances without pain.

I even buy my jeans at Chico’s. The saleswoman has gotten to know me.

“Losing weight slowly is the way to go,” she said recently. “Your sister had the right idea.”

I smiled at her use of the word sister to describe Ellen, but didn’t bother correcting her. I couldn’t have said it better myself.

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The Sign We Couldn’t Miss

Posted on March 11, 2026March 12, 2026 by Rita Knorr

My husband, Gil, and I had finally reached Perry, Georgia, a quaint little town west of Savannah. We’d been RVing for weeks, touring the South and exploring the cities and towns tucked along the way. Gil guided us through the tree-lined streets, dotted with boutiques and charming restaurants. There was so much to see! I looked over and shot Gil a smile. But he was grimacing. “Gil, what’s wrong?” I asked.

“Nothing,” he said, flatly. “I’m fine.”

I could tell by his clenched jaw and stiff grip on the wheel that he was in pain. “Gil, what’s the matter?” I pressed.

“Well…I don’t want to ruin our trip, but my arthritis has been flaring up for the past few hours. I should probably get to a doctor,” he admitted.

A doctor! I knew he had to be in severe pain to mention that. Gil was always so strong. Where would we find help out here though? We’d never been to Perry, and the nearest hospital or clinic could be miles away. I kept my eyes peeled while Gil steered us down the main road in town.

We passed a hardware store, an ice-cream shop, a library…everything but a clinic or hospital. It had been almost an hour and now we were in the neighboring town of Warner Robins. Every second that passed, my worry grew. “The pain is getting worse,” said Gil. Lord, please send us a sign to let us know you’re with us, I prayed aloud.

Just then, we drove by a church. A sign with large, bold letters stood out front, almost as if it were calling out to us. Gill and I saw it at the same time. “Are you looking for a sign from God? Well here it is.” Gil let out a loud, hearty laugh, and so did I. I felt my worry disappear. I could tell Gil was less tense too.

Just down the street, there stood another sign. One for a walk-in clinic.

These Volunteer Retirees Are Ready to Save Lives

Posted on March 11, 2026March 12, 2026 by Mari Pack

The Sun City Center Emergency Squad is a volunteer organization that provides the Sun City Center, Florida senior living community with Basic Life Support (BLS) services and ambulance transportation – as well as wheelchair, crutch, and cane lending. Guideposts spent the day with one of their teams, while members answered phone calls, practiced CPR and more.

The Self-Love Diet: A Healthy, Hearty and Happy Approach to Weight Loss

Posted on March 11, 2026March 12, 2026 by Mary Lou Carney

“Let’s get your weight first,” the nurse said at my six-month cardiology checkup. I slipped off my shoes, stepped on the scale, listened to the metallic counterweights sliding back and forth. No need to look. I already knew what I weighed—too much. For several years, my cholesterol had been borderline, but I was already on two blood pressure medications and didn’t want to add another pill for cholesterol. So I convinced myself I could get my numbers down with diet and exercise. Whenever I would lose some pounds, for a class reunion or a beach trip—usually with some quick-fix fad diet—the weight always came back.

My cardiologist sat down in front of me, flipping through my chart. “Well, you’re the only patient today who has lost weight. Three pounds,” he said. “It’s a start.”

Right. Losing 10 times that amount still wouldn’t put me at my “ideal weight,” the dreaded number that had stared at me accusingly from charts in waiting rooms for years.

I couldn’t remember the first time I went on a diet. I had always been chubby. “Pleasingly plump,” my grandma would say. I was aware, even at a young age, that other girls were smaller than I was. I noticed it in pictures, when my middle was wider than my friends’. I noticed it when we dressed for gym and my thighs were not sleek beneath my shorts.

“Do you think you could lose five more pounds?” my cardiologist asked. “Most people don’t realize what an impact extra weight has on their overall health.”

Though my husband, Gary, loved me just the way I was, I already knew those extra pounds were hard on my body. My hip had been giving me trouble. I couldn’t walk in sand anymore, which ended my beloved beach walks along the shores of Lake Michigan. Climbing the bleachers at my grandson’s basketball games had become almost impossible. Even lying on my hip in bed at night was painful. I’d tried physical therapy. Pain pills. But it wasn’t enough. My orthopedist had advised hip replacement surgery. Then my left knee had started acting up and I had to be fitted for a brace right before a dream trip to Italy. I’d needed a cane to navigate the stairs at the Basilica of St. Francis in Assisi. Much as I loved traveling, I couldn’t imagine doing more of it when my body was slowly but surely breaking down.

“Sure,” I told my cardiologist. “Five pounds.”

He closed my chart with a satisfied slap. “Great. See you in six months, five pounds lighter.”

I drove home, mentally flipping through my repertoire of diets. Which one this time? High-protein? Low-fat? South Beach? Scarsdale? I had tried pretty much everything: Eat this—don’t eat that. Eat these foods together. Weigh your food. Count points for your food. Exercise like crazy to burn off extra calories.

My family had what I called fat genes. Almost everyone in my family was overweight. And dieting was something we didn’t discuss when we got together, which was almost always to share a big, home-cooked meal. What we did talk about was food.

Old recipes. Grandma’s famous dumplings. An aunt’s delicious chocolate pie. Momma’s melt-in-your-mouth biscuits, topped with the sweetest pear preserves in Indiana. How could those things be so harmful? Food was how we celebrated and how we consoled each other. “Eat something—you’ll feel better,” I’d heard dozens of times as a child. So I ate. And, it was true, I almost always felt better. Until, of course, I didn’t. Those eating habits had given me a lifetime of weight problems.

Eventually, I convinced myself that my body was the weight it wanted to be. It must be how God wants me, I told myself. I learned how to dress to camouflage my weight issues: lovely flowing clothes, lots of layers, dramatic jewelry and saucy hats. But I couldn’t camouflage the strain the extra weight was putting on my health or the limitations it was adding to my lifestyle. And really, did God want me to be so unhealthy?

This time, things had to be different. My motivation was different, and my strategies would need to be too. I went straight from the doctor’s office to the grocery. Instead of the fat-free and low-calorie foods I would normally buy to start a diet, I shopped in the “fresh” aisles. Lots of fruits and veggies. I skipped the cereal aisle. Ditto with the low-fat chips and cookies, the frozen meals and nutrition bars. Those foods were more like a punishment than good nutrition. This effort had to be more about taking care of the body God gave me than about just losing weight.

I spent more time in the kitchen. I pushed my can opener to the back of the counter and prepared fresh green beans. Shucked corn. Sliced tomatoes. I made thin cornbread, crunchy and hot from a black skillet. And I made salads—lots and lots of salads, topped with pickled beets and black beans and chunks of cheese. I cut out fried foods. I discovered that organic steel-cut oats cooked all night in the slow cooker were nothing like those packets I used to open and dump in hot water. I bought local honey to use as sweetener. Gary and I ate out less often. He seemed to be enjoying the meals I was creating. I trolled the Internet for muffin recipes, tweaking ones I liked to make them hearty and healthy. I started making my own tea bags, filled with black tea and cardamom pods and cinnamon. I even gave myself permission to drink it with half-and-half—something I never would have done in my rigid dieting days. I began to look forward to these new foods. It had been three months since my cardiologist visit, and I was already down 15 pounds. Yet this didn’t feel like a diet. In fact, it felt as if I was eating better than I ever had.

I decided to buy a new fancy digital scale. I brought it home and set it up in the bathroom.

I had prayed about losing weight before—weighing myself several times a day, obsessing over every pound, ashamed to say I was hungry because I thought people would think I shouldn’t be eating. I didn’t want to go back there. I took a deep breath, tapped my toe on the edge of the scale, gazed down at the glowing zeros. I heard a voice encourage me. This is your chance—not just to look good but to feel good. I will help you with this.

I stepped up on the scale and waited for the results. I hope I’m still in the ballpark of 15 pounds.…

I was down 20 pounds! But it wasn’t the pounds that mattered so much. Twenty was just a number. That number didn’t define me. What mattered was I’d finally gotten it right. I’d learned to take care of my body, not starve it.

Soon, it was time for my six-month checkup. I’d promised my cardiologist five pounds. He was in for a surprise.

“Twenty pounds!” the doctor said. “This is fantastic!”

It was. The pain in my knee was better. My hip issues weren’t as debilitating. Even my feet complained less when I took long walks.

Now, a year after the three-pound loss, I’m down 50. I dropped from size 16 jeans to size 8. My hip pain is completely gone. My knee discomfort has diminished to an occasional twinge. My orthopedist is no longer talking hip replacement. My knee brace and cane are buried in a dark corner of the spare closet. I have discontinued one of my blood pressure meds and was able to cut the dosage of the other one in half. My cholesterol numbers are all in normal range—something I haven’t seen in 30 years!

“The more time you spend in the kitchen, the skinnier you get,” Gary teases me. This new lifestyle has been good for both of us—even he is down 15 pounds.

All my life, I wanted to be thin. God wanted me to be healthy and whole. His, of course, was the better idea. One that allows me to do what I love—travel with friends, walk the shores of Lake Michigan with my husband, climb the bleachers at my grandson’s basketball games. And live the way I was meant to live.

Try Mary Lou’s Hearty Banana Muffins at home!

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The Secret of Spiritual Contentment

Posted on March 11, 2026March 12, 2026 by Karol Ladd

Contentment is the opposite of self-pity. If our hearts are content because we trust in God as our loving provider, then we’ll tend to keep our eyes off our troubles. But if we dwell on our wants or our difficulties (great or small), we will lose sight of the provisions God is granting us.

The Old Testament character Job learned this secret of contentment. Amazingly, after losing everything–his home, his wealth, his family, even his health–he was able to say, “Naked I came from my mother’s womb, and naked I will depart. The Lord gave and the Lord has taken away; may the name of the Lord be praised” (Job 1:21).

In all of his sorrows, Job continued to believe in God’s goodness. He refused to charge God with wrongdoing, even when his complaining wife urged him, “Curse God and die!” (Job 2:9).

Job resisted the temptation to be angry with God. He knew his peace and security came not from having a multitude of things, but from knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that God was faithful.

Our church in North Dallas helps with a wonderful ministry called Voice of Hope that provides an after-school program in a Christian environment for underprivileged kids.

Several years ago my family, along with others, agreed to help deliver holiday turkey dinners to some of the families that were being served by Voice of Hope. Our simple task was to deliver the dinners to the people’s homes and sing a few Christmas carols.

At virtually every house, we were greeted by wonderfully warm and grateful people. Each visit went the same way: we presented the dinners, sang our songs (even though none of us could carry a tune), then said our goodbyes.

To my surprise, almost every household asked if they could offer a prayer before we left. Their prayers typically went something like this:

Dear Lord, you have given us so very much. We do not deserve your rich blessings! Thank you, Lord Jesus. Thank you for your loving-kindness, your forgiveness, and your mercy. Thank you most of all for your son, Jesus, in whom we have abundant life.

Thank you also for these kind people who have brought us a bountiful turkey dinner. We are so grateful! In your wonderful son’s name we pray. Amen.

These were contented people! They had very little in the way of possessions, but they were rich with peace and joyfulness.

My family and the other volunteers learned an incredible lesson that day as we got back in our SUVs and returned to overindulgent, discontented North Dallas. We learned that contentment is not based on what you have; it is based on how you choose to view life. It is an issue of the heart.

Paul’s Potential Pity Party
Consider the apostle Paul for a moment. Now, here was a man who deserved a pity party! He was thrown into a Roman prison not for committing a terrible crime, but for sharing the gospel of Jesus throughout Asia Minor.

Certainly he could have whined, shaken his fist at God, and cried, “It’s not fair!” We wouldn’t have blamed him, would we? Haven’t we all said those words at some time in our lives?

Many situations in life are not fair, especially for mothers. We work hard serving our families and the needs of our households, and we don’t get enough appreciation for all we do. It’s not fair!

Paul could have said the same thing. “I’ve given my all to tell others about Jesus, and what has it gotten me? A jail cell!” Paul could have grumbled and complained and given up on the mission God had called him to. But he didn’t.

Instead, Paul faced this challenging situation by choosing to look up and not down. He did not focus on how bad the circumstances were but on what God could do through the circumstances.

And what did God do? For one, he opened up many opportunities for Paul to minister to the prison guards, the officials who tried him, and the visitors who came to see him each day. Second, he made sure Paul had some ink and some papyrus and prompted him to begin writing.

Today we can open our New Testaments and refer to the letters Paul wrote to the early churches from his prison cell. We can see–and benefit from–the awesome work that God did through Paul in prison.

Paul was able to write these words during his time in jail: “I have learned to be content whatever the circumstances” (Philippians 4:11). Now if Paul could say this from his prison cell, I wonder if we could say it from our laundry rooms? The good news is that Paul did not leave any confusion as to how he was able to be content.

In the next two verses he gives us the key that unlocks the prison door of self-pity: “I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want. I can do everything through him who gives me strength” (verses 12–13).

Perhaps you have heard that last phrase before. You may have even memorized it in another translation: “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me” (NKJV). It is truly a wonderful–but often misused–verse.

Did you realize that Paul was talking about contentment when he wrote it? He was giving us the key to unlocking our prison of self-pity: believing that with God’s strength, we can get through whatever life brings.

Can we still be content if our child doesn’t get the best teacher in the first grade? If our friend disappoints us? If our husband is not always sensitive to our needs?

Through all the stressful and challenging situations of life, we can still find contentment when we fix our eyes on and place our hope in God–the only one who can give us strength to make it through.

Heading Off Bitterness and Anger
When we forget that key to contentment, we can spend all of our time dwelling on the negative in situations–and that’s dangerous. When we continue to rehearse our discontented thoughts and attitudes over and over, anger and bitterness set in, threatening and sometimes destroying the relationships we hold most dear.

Recently our family took a cruise to the Caribbean. We enjoyed visiting many wonderful tropical islands and seeing the sights as our large ship sailed from port to port.

Standing on the deck one afternoon, we watched in awe as smoke billowed out of a mountain on the nearby island of Montserrat. We realized we were looking at an active volcano. What an impressive sight!

That volcano comes to mind as I think about the danger of anger in relationships. As it rumbles within us and heats up over time, anger can erupt and overflow.

And just as the hot lava of a volcano destroys everything in its path, so our outbursts of anger, rooted in resentment, bitterness, and self-pity, can destroy the people around us.

I think about Suzette, who married a wonderful man but was discontent from the moment she returned from the honeymoon.

She didn’t feel that her husband’s job provided her with the income she desired. The home he could afford wasn’t in the “right” neighborhood. He never seemed to help out enough around the house and with the kids. And he certainly wasn’t sensitive to her feelings!

Over time, the bitterness and anger festered and grew inside of her. What began as a spirit of discontent led Suzette to begin looking for greener grass–and eventually to an affair with her husband’s best friend, Rick.

The devastation and heartache caused to both families has been incalculable. If only Suzette’s discontent had been checked at the door of her heart before she began each day, perhaps this picture would have turned out differently!

How do you keep anger from overtaking your heart? You cut it off at the pass! Here are three simple steps you can follow daily:

1. Recognize the roots of bitterness and anger.
The first step toward fighting an enemy is recognizing it. If you are developing a bitter attitude toward someone or something, then you need to identify it. You may even want to write down or journal what is simmering inside you and why you feel the way you do.

If you find yourself grumbling, complaining, or rehearsing a pity party, it is time to recognize it and determine to move in a new direction.

2. Change your perspective.
Determine to stop focusing on what is wrong. Quit playing the “I am hurt” tape in your brain. For that matter, quit trying to make sure the other person knows how much they hurt you.

Do not play the blame game of pointing the finger and saying it is all his or her fault. This is negative, unproductive thinking and will only keep you in a pity party prison.

Choose to change your focus on what is good. Focus on the hope in each person and every situation. God has not left you. He can bring hope out of seemingly hopeless situations. It is your choice what you will dwell on.

3. Ask God to give you strength and direction.
Seek God’s help in forgiving others and moving forward. The Bible reminds us that we must forgive others, because we have been forgiven of everything (Colossians 3:13). Dear friend, as we look to him, we begin to see a loving God who is able to help us forgive and move forward.

Moment by moment, ask God for direction, strength, and help to move past the anger and toward a whole new attitude. Ask him to replace your hate with love and your anger with forgiveness. He is able to weed out the roots of bitterness in your life as you seek his help.