Page 121 – Guideposts Articles

Positive Quotes for Positive Thinking

Posted on March 11, 2026April 10, 2026 by Amy Wong

Inspirational quotes. I love them, don’t you? They’re a quick hit of positivity, a perfect pick-me-up on a busy day … which is every day, now that the holidays are here.

When I don’t have time to sit down and savor a full-length inspiring story, I turn to the quote of the day on our homepage or to The Up Side in Guideposts magazine, where we feature current quotes from positive thinkers.

I love handmade things too, and while I was searching for gifts for the people on my holiday list, I came across some inspired interpretations of inspirational quotes by artists and crafters. I really like the idea of putting a favorite quote someplace where you can see it—and be inspired by it—on a daily basis.

Check ’em out. It’s probably too late to get these in time for Christmas or Hanukkah, but they would make a lovely gift for a friend (or for yourself) in the new year.

“Yours is the earth and everything in it.” This verse from Psalm 89 is the inspiration behind Yours is the Earth, a new line of products by artists and foodies Allie Peach and Jamie Wyckoff. The calligraphy and the plummy color in this print are just delicious.

“Be not afraid of going slowly, be afraid only of standing still.” From the Etsy shop Of the Fountain, whose owner, Brandy, makes hand-stamped leather tags. The quotes she uses are travel-related (since the tags are meant for bags), but they apply to spiritual journeys too. Wouldn’t this be an excellent reminder to stick with a New Year’s resolution? (Might have to get this tag for my gym bag.)

“You are loved.” A simple yet powerful message. Artist and optimist (how great that she calls herself that!) Shanna Murray’s illustrated decals are just what she says: “happiness for your walls.”

Happiness to you and yours this Christmas! See you in 2012.

Positive Playlist: What a Wonderful World

Posted on March 11, 2026April 10, 2026 by Amy Wong

The glorious spring weather this week has had me humming “What a Wonderful World” on my walks to and from work. The aging Louis Armstrong made the song famous, singing in his gravelly voice, “I see skies of blue … clouds of white … the bright blessed day … the dark sacred night …”

Music is one of the best mood-lifters around, an extremely effective way to restore or reinforce a positive attitude. And “What a Wonderful World” is one of those songs I always find uplifting, even the slightly melancholy versions that have been released recently. To me, it’s the lyrics—they’re down to earth yet they’re also sentimental and spiritual, touching on a world greater than our individual selves, a future brighter for our children and grandchildren.

I did a little online research today and discovered that the idealistic, optimistic message was very much the intent of songwriters Bob Thiele and George David Weiss. The song was released in the fall of 1968, a year that saw America torn by racial and political conflict. A presidential election with bitter campaign fights. The height of protests against the war in Vietnam. The assassinations of two leaders committed to civil rights, Martin Luther King and Robert F. Kennedy. Riots that erupted in more than 100 cities after the killing of Dr. King.

Thiele and Weiss hoped that their song, performed by the grandfatherly 66-year-old Armstrong, whose popularity transcended race, would help heal a divided nation and remind the American people of what they had in common.

Forty-four years later, our country has changed for the better. But there are still bitter political divisions. A long and costly war. Racially charged tension after a tragic and senseless shooting. You might ask, have we changed enough? Is this such a wonderful world?

I think Louis Armstrong put it well in his intro to a performance in 1970 (check out the first video below), “Some of you young folks been saying to me, ‘Hey Pops, what you mean a wonderful world? How about all them wars all over the place? You call them wonderful? And how about hunger and pollution? … Well, how about listening to old Pops for a minute? Seems to me, it ain’t the world that’s so bad but what we’re doing to it. And all I’m saying is, see what a wonderful world it would be if only we’d give it a chance. Love, baby, love. That’s the secret, yeah. If lots more of us loved each other, we’d solve lots more problems.”

I’ll leave you with a few different takes on Louis Armstrong’s optimistic classic. Here’s to the wonderful world Pops was celebrating in words and song.

Louis Armstrong: Here’s the 1970 version with the spoken intro I mentioned.

Positive Change: A Sense of Direction

Posted on March 11, 2026April 10, 2026 by Cathy Mumford

It was the mother of all hills, a steep grade slathered in slick mud.

I couldn’t see any way around it—just the rocky river to the left of me and the thick forest to the right. One big obstacle before the next campsite at the Sheldon Springs Dam. “We can do this, Sparky,” I said to my lone companion, the 35-pound, nine-foot yellow plastic kayak I wheeled in front of me.

For 23 days, I’d been traveling the Northern Forest Canoe Trail—a winding 740-mile expedition over rivers, streams, lakes, ponds and portages first navigated by Native Americans and early settlers. I had more than 500 miles to go, and I wasn’t going to let a hill stop me.

I set Sparky down, tightened the straps on my backpack and began to climb. My feet slipped from under me. “Whoa!” I shouted. Slap! Face first in the mud. I pulled myself up and slipped and slid my way to the top.

I put down my backpack full of freeze-dried food and my bag of cooking supplies and skidded downhill. My tent and sleeping bag were next. I got them all the way to the top too. Now it was time for Sparky. I got behind the kayak and pushed. The wheels inched up the hill. Then… “Whoa!” Slap! Another face plant in the muck. Sparky tumbled down, nearly running over me. I tried a second time. And a third. But my shoes were too caked with mud. Sparky was stuck, and so was I. God, I thought, how can I do this alone?

That was a question I’d asked myself often over the past year. Up until then, my life had been like this trail. I’d hit some rapids and the occasional storm, but always moved forward. Then approaching my 50th birthday, I got stuck. First, both my children left the nest. Then my husband and I divorced after almost 30 years of marriage. But the biggest wallop came when the learning center where I’d worked for 10 years announced layoffs. I lost my job as a graphic designer and photography instructor. Wife, mother, artist, teacher—everything I’d defined myself by, gone all at once. I’d never felt so lost.

This trip was my sister Beth’s idea. She knew I was feeling down, and she called me one afternoon. “I read this article,” she said. “This guy, Mike, from New Jersey paddled the Northern Forest Canoe Trail all by himself. No woman’s ever done that. You could be the first.”

Sure, Beth and I had learned to swim and paddle in the reservoir behind our house when we were kids. I’d logged many hours with my paddling buddies running rapids. But paddle from New York to Maine, solo? Was Beth crazy? Then again, I needed to prove to myself that I could make it living on my own. Maybe this journey could do that.

I asked around. People said I needed a better kayak than Sparky—“an expedition craft rated for Class IV rapids at least”—and a partner to help carry the 75 pounds of food and camping gear. But I contacted Mike from New Jersey, and he told me, “Go for it!” I could pack a transponder that would automatically send my location to a website where my family and friends could track my progress and a cell phone in case I got into trouble. I planned my trip for months, and in mid-June Beth and her husband drove me to the trailhead in Old Forge, New York.

The first two weeks, the biggest challenge was the weather. One evening, a freak thunderstorm forced me to paddle to shore and make camp at night in the middle of the woods. I set up my tent next to a large rock, hoping it would shield me somewhat, climbed inside and wrapped myself tight in my sleeping bag just as the sky opened up. Would a flash flood sweep me away? Would some large, hungry creature stumble upon me? Would the howling wind tear open my nylon tent? I was too scared to sleep.

It was nearly sunrise when the wind and rain subsided. I unzipped my tent and cautiously ventured out to make a cup of coffee. Another night like that and I’ll never make it to the end of the trail.

Then the sun broke over the horizon. The clear sky turned an awesome shade of purple and pink, illuminating the mist rising off the water and the mountains beyond. The sight was like a message, saying, You’re not alone, Cathy.

Now I sat down on top of Sparky, exhausted, wondering if I’d completely misread that glorious sunrise. No glory here, just utter defeat. Mosquitoes dive-bombed me. The sun was baking hot. And I was stuck in the mud. I started to cry. God, tell me what I’m supposed to do. Please.

Two words came to me. Get help.

Help? Out here? I hadn’t seen another soul all day. I got out my map. Closest town was East Highgate, Vermont, three miles away through the woods. What choice did I have? I chained Sparky to a tree, stashed my gear behind some trees and headed into the woods.

About an hour later, sweaty, caked in mud, I finally reached the East Highgate General Store. The first woman I talked to handed me the Yellow Pages. As if there was a section for kayak towing! I went up to the cashier, an older woman, and poured my heart out about my situation. She can’t do anything either, I thought. I really am alone out here. As alone as everywhere else.

Just then, the front door jangled. A strapping young man in a muscle shirt and cutoffs walked in. “Cody,” the cashier called to him, “can you help this lady out?”

“Sure,” Cody said, shooting me a friendly smile. “What’s the problem?”

I explained and he drove me in his truck back to where I’d emerged from the woods. Two men on ATVs were sitting there. My muddy clothes and paddling jacket gave me away. “You must be the lady who left the kayak by the hill,” one of them said. “Need a tow?”

I hopped on the back of one of the ATVs. We were off. “Whoa…shouldn’t you slow down?” I shouted over the engine.

“Can’t, we’ll get stuck in the mud!” the man yelled. I held on for dear life.

We reached the bottom of the hill and hooked the kayak up to the back of the ATV. The guy hit the gas, and Sparky’s wheels popped out of the mud. All the way up the hill, I watched eagle-eyed as the kayak bumped along behind us. I prayed the wheels wouldn’t fall off. Finally we reached the top. I scarcely had time to thank the men before they zoomed away.

Cody helped load Sparky and the rest of my things into the back of his truck. On our way to the Sheldon Springs Dam, I thought about how lucky I’d been to find a kind stranger with a truck and two more angels on ATVs to boot. “Thank you so much,” I said as we pulled to a stop.

“Not a problem,” Cody said. “Glad I could help. Good luck with the rest of the trail.”

The rest of the trail, more than 500 miles, people like Cody and those ATVers kept popping up. There were the bed-and-breakfast owners near the Canadian border crossing who met
me at a campsite and took me into town for a fried chicken dinner. There was the French-Canadian couple in Mansonville, Quebec, who spotted me limping past their house and invited me to stay and take a shower—a relief after days of low water and long portages. Or the time I thought I was lost, and a phone call to Mike from New Jersey put me on the right path again. On a portage trail in Maine, I found a package of wet wipes hanging from a birch tree with a note: “C. Mumford we love you!”—a gift left by my sister Beth. She knew my supplies were running low.

Then there were the other kinds of help—the bald eagle that flew in to visit me after a tough paddle on Umbagog Lake. The moose that gave me a wake-up call on the shores of the Penobscot. The breathtaking views that inspired me every day.

A small group was waiting on the beach at Ft. Kent, Maine, at the end of the trail. I paddled in to shore to the sound of cheers. I did it! The first woman to travel the Northern Forest Canoe Trail on her own.

Now, back home in New Jersey, I kayak every weekend I can. I’ve been freelancing as a graphic artist and teaching photography again, but most of all, I’ve been looking for chances to help other women who may think they’re alone out there. I know that’s not true. It took me 740 miles and 58 days to see it, but there’s always someone you can count on to help you through the rapids and the storms, the steep climbs, the long portages—wherever life’s trail takes you.

See a slide show of photos from Cathy’s trip!

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Positive as Pie

Posted on March 11, 2026April 10, 2026 by Ginger Rue

My friend Suzanne, a nutrition professor at the University of Alabama, keeps me up with the trendiest restaurants in the state, but I was surprised when she told me about a new place in Greensboro called PieLab.

“PieLab?” I asked. “What’s that supposed to mean? And why Greensboro?” My daddy’s family came from Greensboro, population 2,700. We’d visited the town on Decoration Day back when I was a kid.

“It’s supposed to be a creative destination, ‘an idea incubator,’ they call it,” Suzanne said, “a place that brings people together over a slice of pie.”

“Okay,” I said, not quite understanding. But I kept hearing about PieLab, how the idea germinated in an economically depressed Maine town where a group of young graphic designers sponsored a pie day, held on the internationally celebrated Pi Day, March 14 (or 3-14, which is pi rounded off to the nearest hundredth—get it?). Free slices of pie brought residents together to look for positive solutions to the town’s problems. People had the same hope that a nonprofit like PieLab would help the depressed economy of Greensboro.

The restaurant was even rated “one of the top 10 places for pie in America” by a national newspaper. I called my father. “Hey, Daddy, want to go to Greensboro for some pie?”

“Sure,” he said. “Haven’t been there in a long while.” On the hour-long drive, Daddy reminisced about Greensboro in the old days, how you’d see everyone in town on a Saturday trip to the general store, the barber’s and his cousin Norma’s diner. Folks stopped and talked. These days most people were hurrying into the big-box stores right off the highway.

We turned onto Main Street. It was mostly deserted…except for the cars parked in front of a white-brick café with floor-to-ceiling windows and PieLab in big letters over the door. Inside were long trestle tables and industrial chic lighting—not the old-fashioned pie shop I’d expected. The amazing aromas coming from the kitchen told me the pies were freshly baked. “They like to use whatever produce is in season,” Suzanne had said. “Farmers sell directly to them.” I glanced at the mouth-watering choices scrawled on the chalkboard: apple, chocolate pecan, coconut cream, lemon icebox, blueberry, buttermilk.

“Hi, I’m Deanna,” the lady at the cash register said. “What can I get y’all?”

Daddy and I settled on two slices of lemon icebox pie. Then he asked, “Do you remember Norma’s diner?”

“Of course!” Deanna replied. “Miss Norma was a real fixture in this town.”

I poured myself a Mason jar of sweet tea and a glass of lemonade for Daddy while he and Deanna swapped Norma stories. Then we sat down at one of the long tables next to two men. “I hope we’re not intruding,” I said.

“Not at all,” said one of them. “That’s what we do here. Meet people and talk.” He turned out to be a software developer and the other man owned a shop nearby. “Everybody comes here,” he continued, “folks from the catfish plant, farmers, students, people from other towns who want to know what the fuss is all about.”

“They’ve got special programs too,” the other man said. “Somebody put on ballroom dancing classes in the back room and after-school sessions for kids who want to take the GED.”
“So it’s not just about the food,” I said, savoring the lemony zest of my pie.

“There’s more to it than that. Main Street hasn’t been this busy since…”

“Since Norma’s diner closed down,” Daddy suggested.

PieLab, despite its name and industrial chic decor, wasn’t such a new idea after all. Put good food and people together. Let them linger and talk. If they get to trading ideas, all the better. I’d call that hospitality, right out of the Golden Rule. Cousin Norma would have understood perfectly.

Play To Win

Posted on March 11, 2026April 10, 2026 by jongordon

There was a time in most of our lives when we had no fear—that feeling when we jumped from the jungle gym and slammed our little bodies to the ground.

Perhaps it was when we went on our first roller coaster, or when we were in high school or college and felt that there was nothing we couldn’t do.

No goal was unattainable. We were an unstoppable force that would think of something and then make it happen.

Then, as time goes by, the world tells us more frequently that we can’t do what we want. The doubters laugh at our goals and try to persuade us from going after our dreams.

They say, “You’re crazy. It’s too hard. Why don’t you do this instead? You should play it safe.” They act as if dreams were meant for others but not people like us. They surround us with negative energy and try to instill their own fears and insecurities in us. We not only begin to know the word “fear,” we start to understand what it’s like to be fearful.

With so many people telling us we can’t do something and so few telling us we can, it’s hard not to let fear into our lives. Unfortunately this is how many of us go through life.

Whether you are 20 or 50, many of us become so scared of losing what we have that we don’t go after what we truly want. We play it safe and hold on so tight to the status quo that we never experience what could be. We believe the doubters and don’t take chances that will move us one step towards our dreams. I call this “playing to lose”.

We see this in sports all the time when a team has the lead. They start to think about how not to lose instead of how to win. They hold on so tight to their lead that they start playing safe and scared. You can see it in their energy and body language. As a result the other team takes chances, plays with no fear and eventually gains the momentum and wins.

To live a life filled with positive energy we must learn to repel the energy of fear. Whether it comes from within or from another person, we must overcome fear and adopt a “play to win” mindset.

Playing to win requires a commitment to yourself that even if you fail, you will never give up and never let your goals and dreams die. Those who play to win know that success is not given to us. It is pursued with all the energy and sweat we can muster.

Obstacles and struggles are part of life and only serve to make us appreciate our success. If everything came easy we wouldn’t know what it felt like to truly succeed.

Obstacles are meant to be overcome. Fear is meant to be conquered. Success is meant to be achieved. They are all part of the game of life and the people who succeed play to win and never give up until the game is over.

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Plants, Like People, Sometimes Need Change

Posted on March 11, 2026April 10, 2026 by Holly Lebowitz Rossi

Two years ago, I wrote about a personal triumph—I had kept alive a sweet little kalanchoe house plant my aunt had brought me as a gift.

But there was more to the story than what I shared in that blog.

Months after receiving the plant, it was surviving, but not thriving. It had grown “leggy,” with long, spindly branches that seemed like they were losing the battle with gravity as they spilled over the edge of the cheerful pot it occupied. And its last flowers were too long ago to remember.

A green-thumbed friend stopped by, and I lamented my long-delayed, but now-imminent failure with the plant. It had done so well for so long, I said. Was it now time to simply say goodbye?

Not quite yet, she replied. Together, we launched into a major haircut for the kalanchoe, snipping off the long, twisting “legs” and carefully cutting around the strong, healthy growth. Some of the vine-like branches got trimmed so I could try to encourage them to put out new roots and set new branches.

Finally, after looking up the light needs of this plant, we decided to relocate it onto a spot in the kitchen where it could get more direct sunlight, especially during the winter months.

The plant had an entirely new direction—literally, as I implemented a new plan to rotate it one-quarter turn at each watering. It looked different, it was receiving different care, and without those long trails tugging them away from their nutritious soil, I’d like to think it felt better too—refreshed, ready to start anew.

As for the tiny offshoots my friend and I had experimented with potting, some are taking hold of their new homes, while others don’t seem happy with their new leases on life. Regardless of the outcomes, I’m enjoying the idea that their journeys have just begun—time, patience and care is in their future.

The experience of relocating and rejuvenating the plant reminded me that every living thing has needs that shift and evolve with time. Just like the kalancoe, sometimes we all need more light, a new look and a new vantage point from which to observe the world around us. If we are flexible enough to recognize when we need a change, we will thrive. We might even flower.

Placing Mom’s Care in Good Hands

Posted on March 11, 2026April 10, 2026 by Donna Teti

I walked up the three flights of stairs to Mom’s floor at the nursing home instead of taking the elevator, feeling my stomach tighten with sorrow. With guilt.

It’s not as if my siblings and I had any other choice for Mom. She had dementia and cancer. None of us could take care of her on our own. My brain knew that but my heart resisted. Lord, have we really done the right thing? I wondered. Have I?

I took a deep breath and pushed open the heavy door. I spotted Mom in the lunchroom, sitting at a table with some other women. I waved and her friend Rosa waved back. “Jean, your daughter is here!” she told Mom loudly.

The room smelled like a school cafeteria: meatloaf, milk, peas, mashed potatoes. I nodded hello to Janelle, the only aide on duty today. As usual, they were running shorthanded.

I pulled up a chair next to Mom’s wheelchair and kissed her cheek. “Hi, ladies. How’s lunch today?” I said, trying to sound more cheerful than I felt.

“Delicious,” Mom said. At least her attitude was good. Be grateful for that, I said to myself. I told her what her grandchildren were up to, reminding her who was who and what ages they were. The others chimed in with stories about their own children and grandchildren—stories I pretended to hear for the first time.

Mom looked across the room at Janelle. “I love her,” she said. “She is beautiful.” Janelle’s face lit up. For a brief moment I could see the mom I remembered, the woman who always had a kind word for everybody. But then she turned back to me and frowned.

“I need milk,” she said, agitated. She’d already had her milk. I looked around for something to placate her. Antonia, another of her friends, slid her own milk carton across the table. “Here,” she said. “Give this to your mom.”

Elsa, my mom’s roommate, handed me a straw for the milk carton.

“Thanks, Shirley,” Mom said.

“I love how your mom calls me Shirley,” Elsa said. She and Mom broke into giggles. “My mother always said, ‘Lachen ist gut medizin,’” Elsa went on. “Laughter is good medicine.”

“Shirley is German,” Mom whispered to me.

Lunch was over. I wheeled Mom into the lobby. She was impatient now. “I want to go to sleep,” she said. “Put me in bed.”

But I couldn’t do that on my own and all the aides were busy. The familiar feeling of helplessness, of my own inadequacy, came over me. Mom had taken such good care of me at the beginning of my life. It didn’t seem right that I couldn’t do the same at the end of hers.

Then Frankie hobbled over and plopped down in a chair. Frankie is from South Philly, a former mummer and a real kidder.

“Hey, Jean, where are you going all dressed up?” he asked.

“I’m dressed for the cemetery,” Mom muttered.

“Not yet,” Frankie said. “You have to stay here with us in Suffering Springs.”

A feeble joke but it worked. They both laughed. Then it was time to go. The minute I stood up, Mom said, “Don’t leave,” and I felt guilty all over again, as if I were abandoning her. I bent down to kiss her and Frankie started in on a new joke.

Only when I was in the car did I put it together. Her friends, her sweet roommate, Frankie and his jokes, Janelle and the other aides…they were almost like family.

Mom’s care was too much for one person, but I didn’t have to worry. She had a whole team to look out for her—and of course, the One who looks out for all of us from the beginning to the end.

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People, Not Pawns

Posted on March 11, 2026April 10, 2026 by Edward Grinnan

One day, deep into my research for a book about World War II, I encountered a photo that stopped me cold. Suzanne Spaak was a lovely woman in her 30s with a soulful gaze. Who are you? I wondered, searching the photo for clues. The caption linked her to an espionage ring in Paris, but that didn’t give me much to go on. What was the story behind this mysterious woman?

In 2009 I finally tracked down her daughter Pilette, an 80-year-old knitting instructor in suburban Maryland. I gave her a call. “Everyone thinks Mama was a spy,” Pilette told me, “and I wouldn’t care if she was, but she was actually something very different.”

It turned out that her mother’s principal activity was organizing a network that rescued hundreds of Jewish children from deportation to Auschwitz. But amid all the publications about World War II, Suzanne Spaak’s story had never been told.

She was born into a wealthy Catholic family and married into a political dynasty that was Belgium’s version of the Kennedys. Her brother-in-law, Paul-Henri Spaak, was Prime Minister and a wartime leader. His writings were published and collected in the national archives. But as a wife and mother, Suzanne was omitted from the archives, and as a member of the Resistance, she worked in secrecy.

A few months after we spoke on the phone, I met Pilette in person. She was a spritely grandmother. She’d been through more ordeals by the age of 20 than many experience in a lifetime, but she maintained a puckish sense of humor and an indomitable spirit. I got into the habit of buying her lunch on my trips to Washington, scribbling notes as she ate.

Her mother Suzanne received an education in embroidery and household management, but she pursued her own passions for literature and social reform. She was especially moved by the plight of penniless immigrants. As a young wife in Brussels, she joined a women’s group and met Jewish women who had fled persecution in Eastern Europe. One of them, a social scientist named Mira Sokol, shared her love of reading and reform, and needed her support. The two became close friends.

Suzanne’s husband, Claude, was a difficult man with a short fuse, who moved the family to Paris in 1938 to advance his playwriting career. Mira and her husband moved to Paris a little later, and Suzanne found comfort in Mira’s friendship. When the Germans invaded in 1940, the Spaaks joined millions of Parisians fleeing the city. They planned to leave for New York, but German forces cut off their route to the sea and they returned to Paris.

The Spaaks’ money and privilege shielded them from the worst hardships of the Nazi occupation. Mira and her husband were not so lucky. Over the course of the occupation, Suzanne watched with dismay as Jews were deprived of the right to use public parks, go to the movies, own a bicycle or a radio. Suzanne offered her help to the Jewish underground, even though she had to convince them that as an outsider, she was sincere. When the Germans arrested Mira and her husband, it increased Suzanne’s determination.

Because Suzanne was not Jewish, she could travel freely, knocking on doors and asking for funds and assistance for the targets of the arrests. She listened to BBC broadcasts illegally and shared the news with friends. She sheltered Jewish fugitives in her home, employing them as “tutors” and “maids.”

Suzanne enlisted her children in her efforts. Pilette, 15, joined her mother in the kitchen to forge documents. She learned how to lift the old signatures from the ID cards with a hot iron and a damp cloth, leaving a space to write in the new identity. Her little brother, Bazou, carried messages to members of the French Resistance.

Things got worse, much worse. The French police began by registering immigrant Jews, then arresting them and finally deporting them to an unknown destination in “the East.” The French were used to deportations. Millions of French prisoners of war and workers had been shipped on railway cars to work on German farms and in factories. At first, the public assumed that the immigrant Jewish men were experiencing the same fate. Then, in July 1942, the Nazis ordered a massive arrest of over 11,000 Jewish men, women and children. It was obvious that something more dire was going on. By October 1942, the Jewish underground had begun to receive credible reports of the extermination camps, though the details were far from clear.

In February 1943, Suzanne learned that the Nazis were planning to make a mass arrest of children in Jewish orphanages, and deport them to Auschwitz. She had heard that Pastor Paul Vergara, from the Protestant church near the Louvre, had preached stirring sermons denouncing the persecution of the Jews. She showed up at his office and told him what was about to happen.

Pastor Vergara was joined by Marcelle Guillemot, who ran the church soup kitchen. The trio hatched a plot. The next Sunday, Marcelle Guillemot slipped a note to female members of the congregation she regarded as most trustworthy. On the morning of February 15, some 25 Protestant women and 15 Jewish women showed up at the orphanages singly or in pairs, volunteering to take the children for a walk. The children would never return.

That morning Suzanne told Pilette she would be skipping school; her mother needed an extra pair of hands. They headed to the Protestant soup kitchen at dawn. Gradually the women arrived with the ragged, hungry children, 63 in all, ranging in age from 3 to 18. Those over the age of six wore the required yellow star. Suzanne and her friends briskly registered their names, preparing records for relatives who might claim them after the war. They received a hot meal and a change of clothes, and their yellow stars were burned in the stove. Next came temporary lodging. Pastor Vergara called his parishioners to take children in, and welcomed a group into his own family. Suzanne sent a dozen children to her country house in Choisel. The grand Countess de la Bourdonnaye took in five, and so did a humble concierge.

In the days following “le kidnapping,” Suzanne rode the trains across France. Her practice was to find a village with a Catholic church, go into confession, and ask the priest for names of families who might host a child on a long-term basis. Then the children would be shuttled from Paris to the countryside. Suzanne took the lead in organizing the funds to pay for their upkeep until the end of the occupation.

I spent nearly eight years piecing together the story of Suzanne Spaak and her network. I found two of the rescued children—now in their 70s—a few weeks after they had left a wreath at Suzanne’s grave, unaware that she had children of her own. I introduced them to Pilette more than 60 years after she helped her mother save their lives.

Pastor Vergara and Marcelle Guillemot are also long dead, but I visited their soup kitchen and sanctuary. Each spot bears a small plaque recognizing their efforts. But when I told the pastor I was writing a book about these acts of courage and compassion, he looked at me quizzically. “Why?” he asked. “It was the natural thing to do.” His congregation was guided by love, in fellowship with Suzanne Spaak.

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Pecan Pie Muffins for Daddy

Posted on March 11, 2026April 10, 2026 by Kathy Schendle

I missed Daddy an awful lot. I couldn’t go into the kitchen without thinking of him.

He was the cook in our family, always trying out new recipes and methods. Once he rigged up a big metal fish fryer so he could fry catfish over a firepit in our yard.

Then he took sick. That was the only time I ever came up with a recipe for him.

He’d come down with cancer and had lost his appetite. Our family doctor made house calls just to plead with him to eat. I tried too. “Please eat something, Daddy,” I said one day, stroking his hand. “You need to keep your weight on.”

“I’d love to have some pecan pie,” he finally said with a mischievous glint in his sunken blue eyes. Pecan pie. His favorite. But it was made mostly of butter, nuts and corn syrup. The doctor thought it was too rich.

I had to whip up something just as good that would be good for Daddy too. I messed around with a few recipes and, after some trial and error, baked a batch of pecan pie muffins. I thought they were delicious. But would Daddy?

You bet he did. He was crazy for them. Even when he didn’t feel like having any he’d wrap one up and put it in a drawer, “just in case.”

Pretty soon his visitors wanted muffins too. Even his nurse, Winnie. “Sorry,” he’d tease, “but my daughter made them just for me.” It was the one thing I could do for him while doctors, chemo and everything else did its best. It was our special bond through a very hard time.

Daddy died in August 2003. I quit making the muffins. It was too painful. Then one morning Winnie called. “I was thinking of your daddy and those pecan muffins. Think you could make a batch for me?”

It was the least I could do for the woman who’d taken such good care of my father. I chopped up the pecans and added the other ingredients, tears rolling down my cheeks. Lord, I said, I miss Daddy. Help me with my grief.

Six muffins. I wrapped them in a towel and put them into a basket to take to Winnie. I cried and laughed on my way over, remembering how Daddy would hoard them all. I pulled up to Winnie’s and checked the muffins again. I counted them…and counted them again. There were only five muffins! They’d never left my sight, yet somehow one was missing.

Daddy might have been gone, but at that moment I could feel him close to me. Like the warm lingering smell of a fresh-baked muffin.

Try these Pecan Pie Muffins in your kitchen!

Peace Is the Presence of God

Posted on March 11, 2026April 10, 2026 by Carolyne Aarsen

Carolyne Aarsen, under the pen name Kathleen Bauer, is the author of Before the Dawn from the Guideposts Books series Home to Heather Creek.

Garth Brooks' song “The Dance” talks about a young lady he loved who left him for someone else. In the song he thinks he could have saved himself pain had he not invested in the relationship. But then, he would not have had that dance.

This song has resonated with me after the loss of our foster child, Justin. Like Charlotte in the Home to Heather Creek series, who was devastated after the death of her daughter, I leaned on my faith and my family to keep going.

We made the decision to become foster parents because we wanted to share what God had blessed us with: a loving, secure family. Our first foster child was Justin, a malnourished one-year-old baby with cerebral palsy (CP). The doctors and nurses who cared for him knew that if he stayed in the hospital, he would simply fade away, give up and die. So social workers placed him in our home.

The first few months were a blur of learning to feed him via stomach tube, counteract the build up of mucus in his lungs and, later on, manage oxygen equipment. We learned how to work with atrophied limbs and muscles, teaching him to use them again.

Justin thrived in our busy home of four children age four and up. He was cuddled, played with, hugged and kissed with abandon. He now had a reason to live, and live he did. Against all odds, he learned to talk, to handle his own toys, to use a spoon and feed himself the pudding he loved.

After four years in our home, we started to see a future for Justin. We were building a new house and incorporated wider hallways for his wheelchair, planned a room with a wall of cupboards for all the equipment he needed.

Before the house was finished, Justin went into the hospital for surgery to his hips, which were pulled askew by his CP. The day before he was supposed to come home we got the devastating phone call that Justin had died in the hospital of a grand mal seizure.

The darkness that fell on our family was profound and long lasting. I remember being thankful we had the house to build to keep me busy and keep me away from our home and reminders of Justin.

I spent a lot of time praying the pain would leave. We stumbled through days, wondering what our purpose was now that Justin was gone. I wondered if I would ever smile again. Grief held our family in a fierce grip for many months but as we negotiated our way through this valley, we slowly realized God’s grip was stronger still. I learned that peace is not the absence of pain; peace is the presence of God. My faith was shaken but God held our family firm. I know for a fact that the pain would have been more profound had we not had the comfort that in life and death, we are not our own but belong to Christ.

There were times when I saw my children crying over Justin that I wondered what our lives would have been like had we not taken Justin in. We could have missed the pain.

But we would not have had those blessed moments of him calling out the kids’ names when they picked him up from the church nursery. Those times when he grabbed us around our necks and hugged us with pure joy.

If we hadn’t taken him in we would have missed the pain, but we would have missed the blessing of our “dance” with him.

Pawsitive Change: Teen Raises Money for Animal Shelters

Posted on March 11, 2026April 10, 2026 by Megan Troise

Back in March, 13-year-old Avery Sontheimer of Corry, Pennsylvania, won a baking contest and received a $25 gift card to Walmart. Without hesitation, she knew exactly what she wanted to buy: more gift cards. Avery decided to purchase five $5 gift cards and send them to local animal shelters. “She’s always been an animal lover,” says Avery’s mom, Kim. “She wants to save them all.”

Kim helped Avery set up a GoFundMe page where people could donate to her cause. By mid-October, Avery had sent out 914 gift cards to shelters all over the U.S. “Receiving the donations, buying the gift cards and packaging them for the mail brings her such joy,” Kim says. “It’s amazing to watch her be so motivated about something. You want your child to find a passion in life and this is hers.”

Avery, who is currently undergoing treatment for Ewing’s sarcoma, a rare cancer that usually grows in the bones or in the surrounding cartilage, is preparing more gift cards to send out soon. Despite enduring multiple rounds of chemotherapy since her diagnosis in July, Avery always find the energy—even when she is bedridden, surrounded by her own six cats—to keep up with her mission. Connecting with her Facebook followers by responding to their prayers and messages, Avery and her mom post positive videos and photos of her latest medical and fundraising updates. “What an inspiration you are to all of us,” wrote one follower recently. In turn, Avery, whose ultimate goal is to open her own animal shelter, draws the inspiration to keep going by doing this meaningful work. Says Kim: “She’s never going to take a break from helping animals.”

Follow Avery’s mission on Facebook at Avery’s Pawsitive Change.

Pat Summitt: Coaching with Faith, Courage and Commitment

Posted on March 11, 2026April 10, 2026 by Mickie DeMoss

We were sorry to learn of the passing on June 28, 2016, of Pat Summitt, legendary head coach of the University of Tennessee’s Lady Volunteers basketball team. As a tribute, we offer this 2012 story from one of Summitt’s longtime assistant coaches, Mickie DeMoss:

The phone call came out of the blue one spring day in 2010. I wasn’t surprised to hear from Pat Summitt, the legendary University of Tennessee women’s basketball coach and my mentor.

I’d been one of her assistants for 18 years. We’d worked together until 2003, coaching the Lady Volunteers to six NCAA titles, and we were still good friends. But I was surprised to hear Pat say, “I want you to come back to Tennessee.”

Why now? I’d been away for seven years. When I’d left to run the University of Kentucky women’s basketball program, no one had been more thrilled for me than Pat. And she knew I was happy in my current job as an assistant coach at Texas.

“Come on, Mickie,” Pat said. “Let’s finish out our careers together.”

I couldn’t put my finger on why, but there was something beyond the usual insistence in her voice. It was like having my sister say, “Come home. I need you.”

So I didn’t hesitate. But in the back of my mind I thought, When had Pat ever needed help? She was the toughest, strongest, most capable person I knew. She was the one I leaned on when I went through the hardest struggle in my life—my mother’s long struggle with dementia.

Pat came with me on visits home to Mom in Louisiana. She gave the eulogy at Mom’s memorial service. Pat did so much for me that I sometimes wondered, Lord, how can I repay her? Please don’t ever let me let her down.

The day I arrived back in Knoxville, I drove straight to Pat’s. She said I could stay with her till I found my own place. True to form, she filled me in on the team right away. But she seemed oddly distracted and after 10 minutes, she stood abruptly and left the room.

She probably had a million things going on, too much even for a champion multitasker like her to keep up with. Maybe that was why she asked me to come back.

One night not long after that, Michelle Marciniak, a star point guard for the Lady Vols in the mid-1990s, called and said she’d be in Knoxville the next day. Could she stay at Pat’s? “Sure,” I heard Pat say. “It’ll be great to see you.”

The next morning at breakfast I mentioned I was looking forward to catching up with Michelle. “She’s coming today?” Pat said. “I didn’t know that.”

READ MORE: AN INSPIRING HOOPS HERO

“She called last night, around ten,” I reminded her.

“I remember now,” Pat said. But I could tell by her expression she didn’t.

Pat was notorious for being so focused on her work that she’d forget where she put her keys or parked the car. All of us assistants teased her about it. But forget even the smallest detail about one of her players? That wasn’t the Pat I knew.

I felt a flicker of unease. This was how things had started with my mom, these little lapses. Pat’s just overworked, I told myself. Mom was in her late seventies when she showed symptoms of dementia. Pat was only 57. Way too young for Alzheimer’s.

When we first met, back in the early 1980s, Pat was already like Wonder Woman. She had this aura about her. People were drawn to her, both players and coaches.

She taught us to believe not just in her and in the team and the program she’d built from scratch at Tennessee but also in ourselves, which was probably the even bigger challenge.

That didn’t mean she wasn’t tough on us. If you follow women’s college basketball at all, you’ve seen the stare. That laser-like look that could burn holes in the hardwood. Its message was clear: I expect more from you. A heck of a lot more!

If a player or assistant didn’t live up to her standards, she didn’t hesitate to deploy the stare and call us out. It didn’t matter if it was a passing drill we ran every day at practice or the nervewracking final seconds of the NCAA championship game, Pat demanded that everyone give their all at all times.

She asked no less of herself, and let me tell you, that was powerful. When you see your role model put her heart and soul into her work, you try your best to do the same.

READ MORE: CARING FOR B. SMITH

Pat cared deeply about us off the court too. When I left to become the head coach at Kentucky, she promised she’d always be there for me. Boy, did I test that promise my first year at UK. I must’ve called Pat three times a week.

I’d inherited a last-place team and it seemed like we lost more games in a month than we had in all my years with the Lady Vols. Nothing I tried worked. My patience with my players got shorter.

One night after we’d blown yet another game, I called Pat to vent. “I’ve been tough on these kids, made them practice harder, but we’re still not winning. I’m not getting anywhere with this team!”

She let me talk myself out. Then she said, “Look, Mickie, one of your great gifts is your personality. If you’re focused on being tough, your team won’t see your best side. Let the kids know you. Care about them as much as you care about winning. Then they’ll play hard for you.”

I took Pat’s advice and eased up a little at practice, let more of the real me show. Guess what? Over the next few weeks, the team loosened up and we won a game. Then another. My last two years at Kentucky we had back-to-back 20-win seasons.

I had to thank Pat—she’d always been good about giving her assistants responsibility, preparing us for the next step in our careers.

Then came that 2010-2011 season, my first back at Tennessee. Pat seemed to be pulling back more than usual and letting the other assistant coaches, Holly Warlick and Dean Lockwood, and me take charge.

There were more of those little blips. Pat would hesitate calling a play or forget what time we’d scheduled a meeting. The change in Pat probably struck me more than it did Holly and Dean since I’d been away for so long. They’d been working side by side with her, and a slow erosion is less obvious when you’re with someone day to day.

We sensed something was wrong, but we didn’t talk about it. Out of respect for Pat. And maybe even more to protect ourselves. It shakes up your whole world when the person who’s always been your rock starts to crumble.

Typically it was Pat who faced her problem first. One day last April I was going to see my family in Louisiana. “I’ll drive you to the airport,” Pat said. We got on the highway and she started right in. “I just got back from the Mayo Clinic. They confirmed I have early onset dementia.”

She glanced at me and tried to gather herself but couldn’t. She got emotional. So did I. Mom’s decline was one thing; she’d lived a long full life by then. But Pat! She was in her prime. Lord, I wondered, how can this be happening to her? I could hardly bear to ask. “What are you going to do?”

“The doctors told me I can still coach if I want to,” she said. “And I do.”

My two biggest role models—my mom and Pat. What were the chances that they’d both be stricken with dementia? I didn’t understand Mom’s disease at first. I got impatient at having to repeat myself and frustrated by her unpredictable moods.

I’d go see her between games and recruiting visits, but my sister, who lived near Mom, was the one with her day to day. She got me to understand that we had no control over Mom’s mental state. I had to learn to take things not one day but one moment at a time.

Lord, is this how I can help Pat? I asked. Show me what to do for her.

READ MORE: THE HEALING GIFT

That summer Pat redistributed some of her duties among Holly, Dean and me, especially in-game coaching and recruiting. She went on medication to manage her symptoms and loaded up her iPad with crossword puzzles, Sudoku, all kinds of brain games.

In August, she told us, “It’s time our players knew.” She called a team meeting in the film room at the basketball complex. She stood up in front of us, like she had in a thousand meetings, and announced, “I’ve been diagnosed with early onset dementia, Alzheimer’s type.”

Stunned silence.

Pat’s face was fierce, determined. “I wanted all of you to know,” she said. “I also want you to know it will not change the way we work in practice, or play as a team. I’m not going to forget your names. And I’m not going to stop yelling at you. I’ll be your coach as long as the Good Lord is willing.”

Our players broke down. Me too. I tried to hide my tears, but you can’t slip anything by Pat. “DeMoss,” she said, “we’re not having a pity party for me.”

Then it hit me. Pat taught me everything I knew about coaching, and she was teaching me still. Showing me that with clear-eyed honesty, courage, faith and a little humor, we would face this like any other challenge and carry on.

This past season Pat set the tone for the Lady Volunteers. She still burned to win, still turned that famous stare on us, but I noticed she had a lighter touch with players. She’d talk to them one-on-one if they needed motivation instead of calling them out in front of everyone.

She still loves having people over to her house. She invited us coaches to dinner not long ago, and cooked up steaks and chicken, asparagus and squash, and some jalapeño corn. She jokes around more than she used to and stays positive.

One day I left my cell phone down on the court. She brought it to my office. “Look what I found,” Pat said. “And I thought I was the one with dementia.” I had to laugh at that.

I’m taking my cues from her, day by day, moment by moment, like I did with my mom. You know, I don’t think there are a lot of coincidences. I believe I was meant to be back with Pat for this time in her life, being there for her the way she’s always been there for me.

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