Page 144 – Guideposts Articles

How Crafts Are Helping People with Chronic Illness Heal

Posted on March 11, 2026April 10, 2026 by Jessica Toomer

When Karen Thomas was diagnosed with a chronic illness 5 years ago, she never thought she’d find her life’s purpose: empowering others through her online support community and craft website Conscious Crafties.

It started in 2011 when Thomas was in a car accident. After awhile, she would get sick and faint when she tried to stand up. She felt queasy just sitting on her couch. It took a year to find a diagnosis — Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome (POTS), a rare condition affecting the blood vessels and heart rate. It took a while longer to discover that her POTS was caused by Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome (EDS), a connective tissue disorder affecting the skin, cartilage, ligaments, and blood vessels of the body.

Her symptoms appeared suddenly, but Thomas says that’s how it works for many people.

“A lot of people get sick after trauma to their body, whether it is physical trauma like a car crash or emotional trauma,” Thomas tells Guideposts.org. “It’s almost as though it lies dormant and then something happens and you get sick practically overnight.”

She started going online, looking for support groups where she could connect with people managing illness the same way she was. She thought it might make her feel better, but as she began chatting with others facing similar chronic diseases and disabilities, she realized they all had something else in common.

“Everybody just felt as though their life had been stripped away,” Thomas says. “They didn’t feel that they had any purpose. It really upset me. I was lucky in that I was able to work around my sickness but so many people weren’t able to do something that was from home. And, there weren’t many sympathetic employers that would let them work around their sickness.”

That general, overwhelming feeling of uselessness spurred Thomas to act.

A lover of crafts from a young age, she realized many of the people she chatted with online shared her creative hobby.

“[Crafting] was something that really helped me because it was quite meditative; I think it is for a lot of people,” Thomas explains. “It takes you away from the stresses and strains of life for a bit. When you’re creating, making something beautiful that you know other people will appreciate, it just makes you happy. You feel useful.”

There was so much talent in her online community but many of the people with chronic illnesses that she spoke to didn’t know how to effectively sell their products online. They found sites like Etsy were too confusing and selling things on Facebook was a slow process.

Thomas decided to take her experience creating and managing retail websites, her love for crafts, and her newfound commitment to helping others and put it all to good use.

“It was almost as though everything in my life up until that point had prepared me to do something that was going to help lots of people,” Thomas says.

She bought the domain name ConsciousCrafties.com in 2011 but wasn’t able to create the website until four years later because of her illness. In the meantime, Thomas reconnected with her love of crafting, selling some of her own products online.

“I was able to escape judgment from people who couldn’t understand my illness, from worries about work, worries about money, my pain,” Thomas says. “I was focusing on something else and it was giving me a sense of achievement again.”

She was able to get Conscious Crafties up and running in 2015, building it to be both a business platform – sellers can contact her to have their shops and products added to the site – and a support group for people living with or caring for someone living with a chronic illness or disability.

“We needed a way to work around our health and we needed a way to showcase our talents,” Thomas says. “Our group isn’t just about how sick we feel today, it’s about positive things that have happened. When we have sales, we share it with the group; we all just share in each other’s happiness. It’s important for us to be successful. We want to feel more than our illnesses.”

Now, the site hosts over 200 crafties and over 7,000 products. They are inviting more people to participate. Thomas has connected with other crafties who help mentor new members. She welcomes each crafter to the site personally and offers her help in selling their goods, giving them advice on everything from how to take great photos to how to market on social media.

She’s also using her site and the community she’s building to bring attention to problems people managing chronic illness face. After fighting for so long to get diagnosed, Thomas says she still battles misconceptions about her condition.

“The hardest thing is trying to help other people understand. They’re not feeling it themselves and [we] look perfectly fine,” she explains. “You can have good and bad days and also good and bad hours. I might be able to walk my dog one minute and the next minute, I’m consciously deciding if I have enough energy to go to the bathroom. It’s so variable. When people see me on the rare occasion when I leave the house, that would be a very good day. They don’t see what really goes on with my health.”

Still, Thomas feels lucky to have found something meaningful in her struggle.

“I was a workaholic before, but nothing that I was doing was of value to anybody,” Thomas says. “It was all meaningless to me. As much as I loved my job, it didn’t light my heart up like this does. There’s a tiny part of me that’s quite glad that I got sick because it means that I’ve been able to do something that’s actually worthwhile.”

How Could She Best Care for Her Widowed Father During the Pandemic?

Posted on March 11, 2026April 10, 2026 by Beth Gormong

I’d been imagining this moment for months. Finally it was here. The big reveal. “Dad, you are going to love this,” I said, swinging open the door to the in-law suite we had spent the winter building off our garage. “Surprise!”

My husband, Jeff, had put down new carpet in the sitting area. The walls gleamed with fresh paint. My college-age daughter, Jess, had added some big potted houseplants. There was a desk for Dad to write at and a comfy leather armchair and matching footstool where he could read his Bible. Perfect!

It was March 2019, and I’d flown to Florida days earlier to help Dad drive home to Indiana after his two-month winter vacation. At 93, he wasn’t as comfortable driving long distances anymore, and I was happy for the time together.

Somehow I had managed to keep the secret to myself all those hours in the car. It went back to the promise I’d made to Mom just before she died eight months earlier. “It will be okay. You can go now,” I’d whispered. “I’ll take care of Dad.” Mom’s eyes had met mine, and I knew she understood. God had given me the chance to help Mom pass peacefully. In a way, I felt I owed it to him as much as her to keep that promise.

Mom and Dad lived two hours northeast of us, in Frankfort, Indiana. Dad had been a pastor and church district superintendent. He’d built a rich life there. Even retired, he led a Bible study, visited shut-ins, gardened and nurtured the trees he’d planted on his property.

But life without Mom wouldn’t be the same. They’d been married for nearly 70 years. I didn’t want him trying to do everything on his own. That was the beauty of surprising him with the suite. Once he saw it, he’d be won over. And if he moved in with us, I could really be there for him.

“What do you think?” I said. Dad took in the collage of family photos I’d hung on the wall above the chair, the wardrobe waiting for his clothes, the framed picture of Mom on the bookcase.

“It’s beautiful,” Dad said. “But you didn’t do all this for me, did you? The guest room was fine.” His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. I pushed down a twinge of doubt. It was late, and we were both exhausted from the long drive. “Sleep well, Dad,” I said. “We’ll talk more in the morning.”

I slipped into bed beside Jeff. “Thanks for everything,” I said. “The suite looks great.” It had taken some doing to talk Jeff into giving up his office for Dad’s suite. Had it been a mistake? Tired as I was, I lay awake worrying. One day last fall, when I was visiting Dad, he’d mentioned the possibility of downsizing. Had I misread what he wanted?

At breakfast, Dad picked at the bananas in his cereal, quiet. It wasn’t like him. “Was the bed comfortable?” I asked.

“Very.”

“You’re ready to go home, aren’t you?” I forced a smile.

“Yes!” Dad said, suddenly animated. “I need to see if the old place is still standing.”

I watched as he closed his suitcase, afraid to bring up the idea of moving here permanently. He’ll be back soon, I told myself. Of course he had to go back to Frankfort. He needed to put his house on the market. Say goodbye to his friends.

I went out to his car with him. “Come back soon,” I said.

“I will,” he said, kissing me on the cheek. “I love you.”

A few days later, I called to check on Dad. “When can you come again?”

“Let’s see…. I have Bible study on Wednesday and teach Sunday School this week,” he said. “I’m taking a friend to the doctor Tuesday. Then Bible study again.”

At 93 years old, he had more going on than I did!

“I’ll be back soon,” Dad said. “I’m looking forward to relaxing in that addition you built. Right now I need to prune my trees. I’m thinking of digging up the lily bed….”

We said goodbye. If he really liked the suite, why didn’t he want to move in? Why wouldn’t he let me take care of him the way I’d promised Mom?

Dad came to visit a couple weeks later but only for a few days. He was anxious to get back to his volunteer work, gardening, Bible study. A pattern that repeated itself every month.

At a family gathering that summer to celebrate my nephew’s graduation, my brother posed the question I’d been dancing around for months. “Dad, why don’t you sell your house and move in with Beth and Jeff?”

Dad set his fork down on his plate with a clank. “I’m not ready to sell my house yet,” he said, emphasizing each word. “I have a life in Frankfort, people who count on me. My memories of your mom are there. I’m not ready to give that up.”

I understood how hard this was for him. As much as I missed Mom, Dad must have missed her a thousand times more. Still, I was hurt. All the work we’d put into making that suite for him. I felt as if Dad was saying he didn’t want my help. And there was guilt too—I’d convinced Jeff to spend time and money on a remodeling project that wasn’t even necessary. How could something that felt so right turn out so wrong?

Summer faded into fall and winter. Dad visited every few weeks. There was nothing he needed from me to make his life better, easier, safer. Certainly not his own addition. He was as independent as ever. The one concession he made to age was letting me pick him up in Frankfort and bring him to our house for visits.

In February 2020, we began hearing about a virus making people sick on the East and West Coasts, especially among the elderly. It seemed a world away from rural Indiana. Week by week, we watched Covid-19 creep closer, not realizing it had already reached the heartland, long before test results confirmed there was no safe haven.

In late March, the governor announced that Indiana was going into lockdown. Jess was sent home from college. It felt as if we were under siege, everything uncertain: how long we’d have to shelter in place, whether we’d be able to avoid infection, the availability of food—toilet paper even.

I called Dad and told him I was coming to get him before the lockdown order went into effect. He didn’t argue. We packed up his clothes, emptied his fridge and grabbed every roll of toilet paper in his house.

Back at our place, we settled into living together. It wasn’t like Dad’s other visits, when he never seemed quite at home. He was more relaxed, more a part of the rhythms of our family. I was more comfortable too. The question of where Dad should live no longer seemed important. Every minute felt as if it was meant to be treasured.

The suite gave Dad a place he could be on his own to read his Bible or call his friends, yet still offered closeness to family and shelter from the threat of the virus. A need only God could have foreseen.

I got Dad reminiscing about his childhood and recorded his memories. Jess listened, rapt. The two of them bonded on their own. Dad would tease Jess about her preference for chicken over any other meat. Jess learned the exact amount of mayonnaise to make the chicken sandwiches that Dad pronounced sheer perfection.

As the weather warmed, Dad took to working in the yard. He pulled weeds, cleaned my tools and spread gravel around the tool shed.

One afternoon, Dad stuck his head in the door and said, “There’s a really nice hawthorn sapling that’s out of line with the rest of your trees. Would you like me to transplant it for you?”

“Sure,” I said. He strode off with the energy of a man half his age. “Wait,” I said. “I’ll help.”

By the time I caught up to him, he was already digging around the tree. What he called a sapling was taller than his six-foot frame.

“Let me take a turn,” I said. He handed me the shovel and told me where to dig. “Watch out for the roots,” he said. For the next hour, we took turns digging and resting until finally we were able to wiggle the roots free.

“Where do you want to plant it?” Dad said, holding the tree in one hand and the shovel in the other. I leaned against the shed, exhausted.

I pointed to two gingko trees he had given me the summer before. A half hour later, we were lugging buckets of water to help the hawthorn get off to a good start in its new home. Dad found some chicken wire and poles in the shed for staking the tree.

I thought of the promise I’d made to Mom. I’d imagined cooking for Dad and doing his laundry, giving him a well-earned rest after his years of service. Yet here he was doing things for me!

Living together under lockdown had reminded me of something deeper. God had shown me that the heart of caregiving was connection. It wasn’t about what you wanted or hoped to do for the other person; it was about understanding what they needed. We’d been there for each other, and I knew that would continue even when Dad returned home.

After six weeks, lockdown ended. Dad was eager to get back to his own yard, telling us what he’d plant in his garden. Jess offered to drive him home. Saying goodbye was bittersweet. I hugged him close. “I love you,” I said as his arms tightened around me. What Dad needed most wasn’t in my house. It was in my heart.

For more inspiring stories, subscribe to Guideposts magazine.

How Being a Realist Can Make You Happy

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

Those of us who spend time thinking about and working on walking a positive path through life might be best served by two simple words, according to a new social psychology study: Get Real.

Realists, those whose expectations are neither unreasonably optimistic nor heavily negative, are a group who the researchers found had the highest sense of well-being and happiness over the long term.

The study focused on participants’ financial expectations and outcomes over an 18-year period of time. Those who overestimated their financial outcomes over those years had a lower self-reported sense of well-being than those who had more unbiased expectations based on an accurate assessment of their finances. Similarly, those who negatively underestimated their financial outcomes by seeing themselves pessimistically were less happy and satisfied than those who were more realistic.

These findings are part of the case against “toxic positivity,” the overly-simplistic, ultimately harmful use of positivity in a vacuum, denying any challenging or negative realities in pursuit of uncomplicated optimism.

“We see that being realistic about your future and making sound decisions based on evidence can bring a sense of well-being, without having to immerse yourself in relentless positivity,” said Chris Dawson, an economics professor at the University of Bath, where the study was conducted.

This rings so true to me, and readers of this blog will recognize my advocacy for the term “authentic positivity” as a worthy goal. To be authentically positive is not so different from being a realist, actually. Being unreasonably optimistic about future financial success denies the possibility that financial challenges will arise, while being self-defeatingly pessimistic denies us the opportunity to succeed in unexpected ways.

So instead, let’s be optimistic enough to affirm our own possibilities, while remaining grounded in the world in which we actually live. That is authentic positivity in a nutshell—for real.

How a Teacher Saved Her Student from Addiction

Posted on March 11, 2026April 10, 2026 by Carolee Fry

The first time I saw her, Loretta barely looked at me. It was January 1989 and I had come to her junior high school to serve as its new speech pathologist. None of my students said too much to me that first day but Loretta was quieter than the rest. Dressed in a baggy black T-shirt and jeans, she sat in the back of the classroom, her hair hiding her face. But not even her wild blond locks could completely hide the sadness and need in her eyes.

I’d been teaching for nine years and loved my work. Still, it troubled me to see students like Loretta who seemed so lost. I could barely get a full sentence out of her when I called on her in class. As the semester went on, some of my students started to confide in me, but Loretta always shuffled out without so much as a backward glance. When she was absent for several days in a row, I learned from a school administrator that she had been suspended on a drug violation.

The last day of school came and I said goodbye to Loretta for what I thought might be the last time, praying silently that she would find her way.

The next afternoon I got a call. “Hi, Miss Fry, this is Loretta.”

“Loretta? What a nice surprise! What can I do for you?”

There was a pause. “Oh, nothing. I looked you up in the book. I just thought I’d call and say hello.”

“I’m glad you did. What’re you doing?”

“Just sitting in my room, listening to the radio. No one’s around.”

We made small talk for another 10 minutes, with me filling awkward silences, until Loretta said good-bye. I stared at the phone a moment after putting the receiver down. What was that all about? I wondered.

The next day she called at exactly the same time. And again the next. She never had much to say, yet she kept calling. I began asking her questions about her family life and learned she lived with her stepfather. Complaining about him was one of her favorite pastimes.

One afternoon when Loretta called I sensed immediately something was amiss. A minute or two into the conversation I realized she’d been drinking. She started talking about school. Then out of nowhere she told me that her father passed away when she was only a year old. “What about your mom?” I asked.

“She died two years ago … when I was twelve,” Loretta said.

I caught my breath. “I lost my mom when I was your age,” I said softly. I was an only child, and my mom and I had been extremely close. We’d spent countless hours talking, shopping, and cooking meals together. When Mom died suddenly of complications from surgery it was a devastating shock. I went through high school on autopilot, burying my head in textbooks. It wasn’t till senior year that I finally began to form friendships. Even at the age of 30, I still had a quiet ache in my heart from losing my mother, a fear of getting that close to anyone again.

“I know how it feels,” I said to Loretta, “but I also know that drugs and alcohol won’t make the pain go away.”

Again, Loretta changed the subject and soon ended the call. But a few days later, she called again and told me more about her mother. She was opening up to me, slowly but surely. We continued to talk all summer. I wondered if I’d hear from her once the new school year started since she wouldn’t be in my class anymore. The first day of school, though, she showed up after class to chat. She stopped by each day, revealing more about her difficult relationship with her stepfather, the bad neighborhood she lived in, and her involvement with the drug crowd. Some days I suspected she was high. “Drugs aren’t the answer, Loretta, no matter how bad you feel,” I’d remind her. “They only make things worse.”

Loretta called me late one evening that fall. “Can you come over, Miss Fry?” she asked weakly. She had a terrible cold and her stepfather wasn’t around. I hurried over. “Thanks for coming, Miss Fry,” she greeted me between coughs. She gave me a tour of her small three-room home, then pulled a photo album out of her dresser drawer and showed me old pictures of her mother and father. I couldn’t help but wonder if this was the real purpose of having me visit.

Lord, Loretta needs someone to really take care of her, I thought as I drove back home. Then, almost instantly, the thought came back, It should be you, as clear as a spoken phrase. I dismissed it. The idea of all that responsibility was overwhelming. I was young and single, busy with my career, and active in my church. How would I find room in my life for a teenage girl? But there was something else behind my resistance, a darker fear. Did I want to risk getting that attached?

Yet I couldn’t resist Loretta, especially when she seemed so eager for my company. I took her out for a bite to eat after school sometimes, and to school football games. One weekend I invited her to join me and my friends on a camping trip to Lake Kissimmee State Park. As I was finishing up breakfast Saturday morning, I glanced up and saw Loretta perched high in an oak tree. She giggled and waved. It was the first time I’d ever heard her laugh like that.

The more time we spent together, the more I felt a responsibility to this girl who seemed to have picked me out to help her. No longer would I just take off for the weekend without a second thought. Now I’d tell Loretta where I was going and when I’d be back. She’s getting to you, Carolee, I thought.

One cold Friday night in March, Loretta called me from the hospital emergency room, where she’d just been treated for severe bronchitis. “Can I come stay with you, Miss Fry?” she asked, her voice hoarse and shaky. “My stepdad won’t take care of me like you will.”

“Of course you can, Loretta,” I said. When she got to my little house and we unfolded the sleeper sofa, Loretta crawled under the covers fully clothed. “Thank you,” she whispered right before her eyes closed. I watched her sleep for a while, her slow breaths ruffling the hair that hung down over her face. Finally I went to bed.

In the middle of the night, I was awakened by Loretta’s coughing. I turned on the living room lamp and went to the sofa. I put my arms around Loretta’s rail-thin frame and she clung to me. “It’s okay, I’m going to look after you,” I promised. “You’ll be better in no time.” Stroking her hair until she was calm, I realized that though Loretta was 15 years old, she was still a lost little girl who needed someone to hold onto. It should be you, my heart said again, and this time the thought lingered.

That weekend I looked after Loretta round-the-clock, making her soup, seeing that she took her medicine. By the time she went back to her stepdad’s Monday morning, I was looking forward to some time alone. But when I came home from school that evening, the house seemed terribly empty.

Loretta soon recovered from her illness. Then one day after school she stumbled into my classroom, her knees about to buckle under her. “I took some new pills,” she croaked. She could barely keep her head up. Panic jabbed through me. What do I do? I rushed to the school office and got the vice principal.

When the drugs wore off, Loretta was fine but I was terrified. First, because I knew she was getting deeper into drugs. But mostly because I’d had to report to the vice principal what was responsible for her condition, and he assigned her to a disciplinary school for 60 days. Lord, I’m the only lifeline this kid has. What if she doesn’t trust me anymore? I couldn’t bear to think about her hurt and alone, sinking deeper into substance abuse, losing her way again after reaching out for my guidance. I called her that evening. “I’m so sorry, Loretta,” I blurted out. “I never meant for things to turn out this way.”

“It’s okay, Miss Fry, I know you were just trying to help me,” she said.

Loretta had fallen so far behind in class that she had to go to summer school, except she had no transportation to get there. This time I knew what I had to do. I asked her stepdad if she could stay with me so I could drive her to school. Reluctantly he agreed. It was a huge step, having Loretta live with me full-time, if only for the summer. I wanted everything to be just right, which meant finding a place with enough room for her. I went house hunting and took Loretta to see my favorite one. “What do you think?” I asked. She gazed around slowly, then looked at me, her eyes shining. “It feels like home,” she said. That was good enough for me. I signed the papers on the house the next week.

The first week of June Loretta moved in. She had all of her belongings in two large plastic bags—clothes, rock-and-roll posters, a boom box, a softball bat, stuffed animals, even an old box of Legos. I sat her down and made it clear she could not use drugs or alcohol while under my roof. “You can’t stay here if you do,” I said. “Those are the rules.”

It was a struggle for Loretta to break free from drugs and alcohol after using them to numb her pain for so long. She often woke me to tell me she’d had a nightmare. “That’s the past chasing you, honey,” I told her. “The more you feel safe and loved, the less it’ll haunt you.”

Gradually she started sleeping and eating better. Her pasty cheeks turned rosy. And most afternoons she went Rollerblading instead of lying on the sofa listening to the radio.

After summer school ended, Loretta’s stepdad allowed her to keep staying with me. Each day there seemed to be a new challenge. I still wasn’t used to having another human being completely dependent upon me. I’d pray over every little thing. Often some small problem would set Loretta off and she’d run to her room and slam the door. We spent many a night—me sitting on her bed or her sitting on mine—having heart-to-heart talks. My mother and I had talked about everything, and I wanted Loretta and me to have the same kind of relationship.

“What’s gotten into you?” my friends would ask me, incredulous. “You’re focusing your whole life on this girl.” It was true, and the more time and energy I invested in Loretta—the more emotion —the less scared I felt of getting close to her. I had become convinced that she must have been guided into my life and that I was meant to take care of her.

One night after dinner, Loretta forgot to clean up yet again. “How many times do I have to tell you, Loretta? Put your dishes in the sink!” She flew into one of her tantrums, the worst yet, and stormed off to her room. I followed, knowing something deeper was troubling her. Finally she admitted her stepfather used to throw things at her when she didn’t do the dishes.

Loretta looked up at me. “I never want to go back there again,” she whispered. I knelt in front of her. “Do you want me to ask for custody of you?” Her eyes lit up. “Yes,” she said hugging me tightly. “Yes, please, Miss Fry.”

“All right, Loretta, I will. But you’re going to have to stop calling me Miss Fry,” I said, laughing.

Her stepdad refused to give up custody, but I persisted, calling him every week. In the meantime, I tried to give Loretta all the attention my mom had given me. We went everywhere together—hiking, shopping, the movies. I arranged for her to see a counselor. Every night I helped her with her homework. It turned out she had dyslexia and had fallen into a pattern of giving up when an assignment seemed too difficult. “Being learning disabled doesn’t mean you can’t learn—just that you have to work harder. Don’t let circumstances rule you—run your own life,” I told her, remembering how my mom had encouraged me. Slowly Loretta’s grades improved.

Finally, in April of 1991, after Loretta had lived with me for nearly a year, her stepdad consented and gave me custody of her. By July what had already happened in my heart became official: Loretta was my daughter.

Loretta graduated high school and went to junior college, the first in her family to do so. Today she is 25 years old, has a full-time job, and lives in her own home about a half hour away from me. I see her often, and each time I do I marvel at how God brought us together and at how good it feels to give of myself without holding back, to love completely and unconditionally again. “If it wasn’t for you, Carolee, I wouldn’t be here,” Loretta sometimes tells me. I was right—Loretta needed someone. What I hadn’t realized was just how much I had needed someone too.

This story first appeared in the January 2001 issue of Guideposts magazine.

How a Root Canal Helped Me Think Positive

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

“No doubt about it, the nerve is infected,” my dentist said, peering at my problem tooth. “I have to do a root canal.” I had known that was a possibility when I came in for my appointment this morning, but I’d been hoping all I needed was a deep filling. Now negative thoughts raced through my head. How much would this end up costing? How many more visits till a permanent crown was in place? How badly would it hurt?

“I’m giving you more anesthetic,” Dr. Gonzalez said. “This might sting a little. Don’t forget to breathe.”

Breathe, I told myself, trying not to flinch as the needle went in. And stop with the negativity. Start thinking positive.

I know when you’re feeling down, counting your blessings really lifts your mood. That’s what I was going to try here. While Dr. Gonzalez went to work on my tooth, I put my mind to work on the pluses of this particular dental procedure. (Hey, it helps to be specific in your prayers so why not in counting your blessings?)

One, this root canal will probably save my tooth.

Two, my dentist is really good about explaining what he’s doing as he goes along, which makes everything much less scary.

Three, I put aside enough in my flexible spending account to cover what insurance doesn’t.

Four, I get to hear what’s happening with the U.S. Open in real time. (Dr. Gonzalez is a golf fanatic and has his TV tuned to the tournament coverage.)

Five, this doesn’t hurt! I feel some pressure but no pain.

By the time Dr. Gonzalez set his instruments down, I was actually in a good mood. And it got even brighter when he said, “No eating until the numbness is completely gone. If you really have to have something soon, get a milkshake.”

Doctor’s orders to have a milkshake? Now that’s one blessing I didn’t count on!

How a Retiree Found New Purpose Helping Homeless Young Adults

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

In getting homeless youth off the streets, Kathy Tillotson found that volunteering benefits not only those being helped but the volunteers as well. That’s something the people at Good Samaritan Society–Ambassador, in New Hope, Minnesota, have experienced. We talked to them about how volunteering does you good:

1. It gives you new purpose. This is especially true for people who feel lost when their working days are over. George Rosch came to Ambassador as a rehab patient after brain and spinal injuries landed him in a wheelchair, ending his career as a truck driver. “He was very depressed,” says customer engagement coordinator Barb Burger. “He had no idea how to find meaning in life. I reminded him God works in mysterious ways. We were looking for a concierge, and I thought, Who better to talk to patients than someone who’s been through it?”

Rosch is now in his fifth year as a full-time volunteer. “I do many different things here, and I love it all,” he says. “It feels good to know I can help other people. This is my job now.”

2. It improves mental and physical health. Volunteering helped Rosch recover from depression and traumatic brain injury. Studies have shown that seniors who volunteer have fewer physical limitations, less depression and better cognitive function than nonvolunteers.

3. It lets you meet people. Social interaction is vital to well-being. Rose Marie “Toots” Holland, a resident at Ambassador, packs nutritious weekend snacks for local elementary students and makes fleece blankets for women in shelters. “My husband passed away, and I need to keep myself busy,” she says. “It’s fun to meet the other ladies volunteering.”

4. It helps you develop new skills. Georgia Helvick, originally a pet therapy volunteer, liked the seniors at Ambassador so much, she asked her church to do more outreach there. “‘Sure,’ they said, ‘but you’ll have to lead the ministry.’ That was new for me!” she says. Rosch, meanwhile, went from not wanting to touch the computer to “I can do this!” His tasks now include scanning documents.

5. It helps you grow spiritually. Volunteers find their compassion for and interest in others deepen. Rosch says he’s become “more understanding, more caring toward people.” Helvick adds, “You can’t tell from the outside what an interesting life someone has led. You only find out when you sit down and talk to them.”

Visit good-sam.com/guideposts to learn how volunteering benefits both the volunteers and their communities and to watch a video about George Rosch’s accident and recovery.

For more inspiring stories, subscribe to Guideposts magazine.

How a Police Veteran’s Faith Helped a Victim He Knew

Posted on March 11, 2026April 10, 2026 by TIM MONTANARI

One of my officers tapped me on the arm right after I got off the radio telling the precinct that we’d made a bust. “Sarge,” he said, nodding toward the squad car. “The girl says she knows you.” Yeah, I wanted to say. Right.

I’m in charge of the St. Petersburg, Florida, vice squad, and we’d just busted a drug deal in an alley off Fourth Street, a notorious neighborhood. I was focused on the dealer, not the prostitute we’d caught him selling a rock of crack cocaine to.

I glanced at her, huddled in the backseat of a squad car. Typical crack addict: pale and thin to the point of emaciation, with short, dirty hair. How did she know me? Had I arrested her before? The officer handed me her driver’s license. The young woman in the picture looked so different—long hair and big brown eyes—I checked the name. Melissa Collora. Age 21. I almost dropped the license. I did know her. When I was a kid, the Colloras lived right next door. This was the little girl I used to babysit.

I went over to the squad car. “Melissa? What are you doing?”

Her sunken brown eyes were glazed but unmistakable. “What do you think?” she said, then looked away.

“Is there anything I can do to help you?”

“If you can’t get me a rock, just leave me alone,” she snarled.

I didn’t ask the question I really wanted to ask. What happened, Melissa, to the girl I used to know?

I’m a man of faith. I try to see the best in people, as I know God does. That’s not easy with a job like mine. I’m a 15-year police veteran. The past seven years I’ve run the vice squad. I see the worst that people do to one another—and to themselves—and I deal with some truly hopeless cases. Cases so terrible and heartbreaking I can’t afford to let myself get emotionally involved. I couldn’t imagine that Melissa Collora was one of them.

I remembered being at the Colloras’ house on steamy summer days when I was 15 or so. Melissa would have been about three. Her brothers and I played football in the yard. Melissa would sit on the swing-set clutching her teddy bear, watching us with those big brown eyes. So sweet. So innocent.

I remembered her father too. All the boys on our block loved Mr. Collora, a big guy with a great sense of humor. He owned a gas station and an auto lot, and he’d let us kids play around in his jalopies. Then about the time Melissa was eight, Mr. Collora died. I went into the Army shortly after that. I hadn’t seen Melissa or her brothers in the 13 years since.

I called my mother as soon as I got home that night. “Guess who I arrested today,” I told her. “Melissa Collora.”

“That’s terrible, Tim,” she said. “I’d heard she was in trouble.”

Mom filled me in. Mrs. Collora remarried. Melissa’s step-father abused her. In 1993 her mother committed suicide. Melissa went to live with relatives outside New York City. That’s where she discovered crack and life on the street.

I hung up the phone, depressed. Not because it wasn’t a familiar story. It was. This time, though, I had actually known the girl before her life went wrong. That’s what really hurt.

The next time Melissa and I crossed paths, she was getting arrested on yet another prostitution charge. “You see her a lot?” I asked the arresting officer.

“Melissa? She practically owns the corner of Forty-eighth and Fourth. Even wrote her name in the cement to keep the other girls away.”

She had a black eye and bruises all over her arms. “Melissa, what can I do?” I asked, though hard experience told me not much. I was a vice cop, not some bleeding-heart social worker.

“I told you before,” she snapped. “Just leave me alone.”

Since age 18 Melissa was booked more than a dozen times for drug possession and prostitution. Sooner or later she’d rack up enough convictions to send her to state prison for a very long time.

I’d see her every week, either at the station house or walking the streets. She wouldn’t look me in the eye. Sometimes I ignored her. My cop instincts said she was never going to change. That’s what the streets do to you. I’d seen it a thousand times. The damage starts young. By the time they start taking drugs and selling their bodies, it’s too late. But then I’d think, How can I turn my back on this kid? Invariably, though, Melissa would tell me to get lost.

“That girl’s a lost cause,” the guys on the squad said. “Why do you keep trying?” But no matter how many times I told myself it was pointless, I kept picturing that wide-eyed little girl in her swing, who’d had her whole life ahead of her.

One day I gave a presentation about prostitution to a St. Petersburg civic group. One of the slides I used was a booking shot of Melissa. A woman in the audience asked who she was, and I told Melissa’s story.

The woman came up to me afterward along with a friend. “I’m Linda Cheney, from Praise Cathedral,” she said. “This is Tracy. We’re looking for a woman to sponsor for the Walter Hoving Home in New York, a recovery program for prostitutes. How about Melissa?”

“I don’t think she’s your girl,” I said. “Melissa, she doesn’t want to recover.”

Linda slipped me her card. “Call me if anything changes.”

“All right,” I said. “But I doubt it will.”

There I was again, the hard-nosed cop.

I stuck Linda’s card in my desk drawer. I probably would have forgotten about it, except for a few days later. My team cornered a prostitute and her client in a rubble-strewn lot off Forty-eighth Avenue. It was Melissa. I turned and walked away. I had a sick feeling in my stomach. Melissa was looking at hard time now. At least 10 years. She was barely in her 20s.

“She wants to talk to you,” one of my officers said.

I walked over slowly and leaned into the window of the squad car. Melissa was hunched over in the backseat, her hands cuffed behind her. I didn’t say anything. Just stood. What was there left to say?

She stared at her feet. “I think … ,” she began. She lifted her head. Those big brown eyes looked straight into mine. “I think I need help.”

My instincts said, don’t trust her. Crackheads use anybody and anything to get what they want. She was in deep and she knew it. She’d say anything. Drugs strip you of your soul. I thought about the first time we’d busted her. She told my guys she knew me. Why? She didn’t have to. Had that been a cry for help? That one part of her the streets hadn’t claimed? Was it enough? “I’ll see what I can do.”

Back at the precinct, I fished Linda Cheney’s card out of my desk and called her. “I think I found one for you,” I said. “I’ll take it from here,” she replied.

She called back the next day. “The Hoving Home will take her,” she said. “My church will cover the plane tickets and fees. All we need now is the judge’s approval.”

“I’ll talk to the prosecutor, but don’t get your hopes up,” I warned her. “You’ll have to convince the judge that Melissa wants to turn over a new leaf.”

“Tracy or I will testify,” Linda said. “We met with Melissa in jail this morning. She told us she’s accepted Jesus. She wants to start a new life. That’s why she asked you for help.”

Don’t kid yourself, lady, I wanted to say. But I kept my mouth shut. I would have to testify at Melissa’s trial. You don’t lie on the stand. I wasn’t going to say anything I didn’t believe, no matter what Melissa claimed. What if she was sincere, though? Linda and Tracy believed her, but they were church ladies. Turned out the prosecutor was on board. What about me? What did I believe? I wasn’t sure.

The judge was a real hardliner. He scowled at Melissa as the bailiff led her into the courtroom. He was ready to send her away right then.

“Your Honor,” the prosecutor began, “the state recommends that Melissa Collora’s sentence be commuted to treatment at the Walter Hoving Home in New York. A church group is willing to sponsor the treatment.”

The judge looked incredulous. Tracy took the stand. She spoke of Melissa’s faith conversion and said she believed it was sincere. “Who are we to know what is truly in a person’s heart?” she asked.

The judge looked at her. “If I had a nickel for everybody who comes into my court and says they’ve changed their lives, I’d be a rich man.”

I was next. The judge fixed me with his sharp eyes. “Your Honor,” I said, “if I had a nickel for everyone who tells me that they’ve changed their lives, I’d be a rich man too.”

“So what makes this young woman different?” he countered.

“It’s my understanding,” I continued, “that Melissa Collora has had a transformation. I believe faith can change lives. I believe it can change Melissa’s.”

There was dead silence in the courtroom. Finally the judge spoke.

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” he said. “A veteran police supervisor testifying on behalf of a prostitute?” He turned to Melissa. “Young lady, I was going to sentence you to ten years. I commute your sentence to treatment at the Walter Hoving Home. A lot of people are sticking their necks out for you—me included. Do not violate this trust. Don’t blow this chance. It’s your last one.”

He banged his gavel and Melissa was led away.

Melissa called me from Linda’s cell phone on the way to the Hoving Home. “Tim, I just want to thank you … ,” she started to say. Then the signal faded. I didn’t need to hear anymore. What I did for her wasn’t much, but I think it was the best thing I could have done. Even a vice cop can’t go through life letting it harden him. Maybe that’s where I’d changed. I believed in her.

It’s up to Melissa now. And to the One who made sure our paths kept intersecting until we both saw what he did—a young woman with a whole new life ahead of her, a life in him.

This story first appeared in the July 2004 issue of Guideposts magazine.

How Ann Reinking Helped Her Son with Marfan Syndrome Feel Accepted

Posted on March 11, 2026April 10, 2026 by Ann Reinking

You guys know why you’re here, right?” I strode across the wood floor and spread my arms. The kids in the room stood with their backs hunched, eyes downcast to avoid looking at the wall lined with mirrors. I could see their anxiety.

It reminded me of how I’d felt as a little girl on Good Friday. I’d loved going to church. Except for Good Friday. The pre-Easter service filled me with dread. The sanctuary was dark, the cross in the center covered with a shroud. There was no singing or communal Eucharist. Everyone was solemn and silent.

Kind of like the kids in front of me at the dance studio. Lord, help me show them the truth about who they are. I asked. Like you helped me with Chris.

Ann with her son, Chris

Chris was my 18-year-old son. “He’s going to be a basketball player!” a friend exclaimed the first time she saw him as a toddler. Other friends told me that his long fingers meant he was destined to be a pianist or a swimmer. Sweet compliments. But inside I knew. Something wasn’t right.

I’d known about Marfan syndrome, a rare genetic disorder that affects the body’s connective tissue, for years. As a little girl, I’d had an unusual celebrity crush…on Abraham Lincoln. I’d read that experts believed he may have suffered from Marfan, which would explain his gangly body.

At the time, there was no genetic test to confirm whether Chris had the disorder. Doctors gave me conflicting opinions. All any of us could do was wait for symptoms to manifest. And manifest they did. Chris’s eyesight was poor. His spine began to curve. By the time he was six, it was official. Chris had Marfan syndrome.

The trajectory of my life changed with his diagnosis. Before having Chris, I’d been an award-winning dancer, singer and actress. I’d made my Broadway debut in Cabaret at age 19, and the legendary choreographer Bob Fosse soon became my mentor. I went on to star in shows like A Chorus Line, Chicago and Sweet Charity and in movies such as Annie and All That Jazz. But when I got pregnant, I was ready to retire. My husband and I were then living in Florida, and I was running the Broadway Theater Project, a performance program for high school students.

Marfan changed everything. I needed to go back to work to provide for Chris’s care; the situation became even more urgent after his father and I divorced. Only one place had the best performance opportunities and medical care in the world. I moved back to New York City with Chris. He had one procedure after another. Physical therapy. Heart monitoring. Scoliosis required rods to be put in his back. Four operations on his right leg. Three eye surgeries. More back surgeries. Surgery to replace part of his aorta, the large artery that carries blood away from the heart.

Medically, our move to New York made sense. Spiritually I struggled. I missed our Florida church community. Marfan magnified the normal anxieties of motherhood until they threatened to overwhelm me. Chris looked different from other kids. Would he be able to make friends? Would he find a place where he belonged?

I wanted Chris to have a haven to turn to when life got tough, and for me that haven had always been my faith and the church. I wanted him to feel the somber dread of Good Friday and experience the joy of Easter Sunday, when the shroud was lifted and the sanctuary covered in flowers. I remembered exclaiming to my mother when I was little, “How did they do this? It was so sad on Friday. And now it is wonderful!” I’d thought it was a miracle.

Now I needed another miracle—for myself and for my son. If we were really going to make New York home, we needed to find a spiritual community.

I enrolled Chris in Sunday school at the Church of Heavenly Rest, on Manhattan’s Upper East Side. The first time I walked up to the church to drop him off, I felt that Good Friday dread welling up inside. What if someone made fun of Chris? What if the teacher didn’t reach out to him?

The moment I walked through the imposing wooden doors, I was greeted by a woman. “I’m Pippa!” she said brightly. “And who is this little guy?”

He clung to me. “This is Chris,” I said.

Pippa walked us to Chris’s class and introduced me to his teacher. “He’s in good hands,” she assured me.

I had my doubts. Chris stood out. He was taller than the other kids and looked older. Would they accept him? Would the priests know how to interact with someone so different? Chris seemed to like school, but I still worried.

On Palm Sunday, my nerves were at an all-time high. The church was celebrating by giving each parishioner a palm and having us march in a parade around the block.

“Can I walk with the other kids?” Chris asked. I nodded, trying not to let my worry show. What if they ignored him? Or, worse, mocked him?

I took a palm from the priest and stepped onto the sidewalk. The sidewalk was crowded. I clutched the palm in my hands and stood on tiptoe, keeping an eye on Chris. He was ahead of me with a few other kids.

The procession was led by a man holding a banner. Behind him, choir members in long red and white robes rang bells as they walked. The younger children had maracas and shook them as they ran down the sidewalk. All I could think about was Chris. I craned my head to get a glimpse of him. Was he okay? What if he was looking for me?

He was talking with some of the kids. At one point, the teacher leaned down to say something and Chris laughed.

“He fits right in,” Pippa said.

I held the palm to my heart and watched as my son exchanged smiles with his new friends. He had found a place where he belonged. In fact, we both had. My Easter miracle had arrived a week early.

During Chris’s teenage years, when the differences in his appearance became starker, our church friends made sure there was a place for him. He took confirmation classes with his friends and was confirmed at age 14. He played Lazarus in the church play. He carefully set bananas at each plate when the church served meals for the less fortunate. He was never the odd man out.

Walking down the street, I’d sometimes hear people whisper, “What is wrong with that kid?” At church, no one whispered or stared. Chris was accepted—and loved—just as God made him.

Our church community’s embrace of Chris’s differences inspired me to celebrate beauty and uniqueness wherever I found it. That’s how I’d ended up in that room full of frightened teenagers—at a national conference of The Marfan Foundation.

Those teens were there because I had choreographed a dance specifically for them. My background as a dancer helped me see the beauty of elongated figures. Part of a choreographer’s job is creating the right dance for the dancer’s body. I’d trained for this special assignment my whole life! I choreographed a dance that would highlight the long-stemmed and lithe bodies of Marfan kids.

“You know why you’re here?” I asked. “You’re here to celebrate the beauty and grace of your bodies. You’re here because you’re unique and beautiful. If you were a Giacometti or Modigliani, you’d be worth millions of dollars!”

No one moved.

“Can anybody here make their knees go flat on the ground?” I asked. “It’s a lovely move. Chris, can you show them?”

Chris smiled and dropped to the floor. He lay down with his knees together and his lower legs straight out to each side in an L shape. Because Marfan had given him flexible joints, his knees stayed flat against the floor.

“Can anybody else do that?” I asked. A couple kids nodded. “Wonderful! Let’s get to work.”

I spent a week working with the kids, watching them dance and laugh and become close friends. On our final day together, we filmed the dance for a documentary being made about Marfan syndrome.

Choreographing that dance was like Easter Sunday all over again. I found beauty and joy in the disorder that had once filled me with anxiety and dread. Dance is all about taking what you have and making it work. That’s what life is all about too. My son, and my faith, remind me of that day after day.

For more inspiring stories, subscribe to Guideposts magazine.

How an Art Class Gave This Worried Mom Hope

Posted on March 11, 2026April 10, 2026 by Heather Henry

My heart broke a little with each step my 18-year-old son took toward the white Volkswagen idling in the dark at the end of our neat suburban driveway. I’d never felt so powerless.

He climbed into the car, his shoulders slumped. He looked so sad. I took my husband David’s hand and squeezed hard. Together we watched the taillights fade into the darkness.

We’d given Tim every chance to get clean from drugs and alcohol. All we got in return were two years of lies and half-hearted attempts. Finally we told Tim that if he continued doing drugs he would have to move out. He defiantly refused to quit. This time, we insisted he take an at-home drug test. It came back positive. Tim went to his room and called his girlfriend. Then he packed a bag and left.

David was right: Tim was an adult. Our son had made a choice—drugs over his family. I cried for days afterward, but other emotions surfaced through the tears. Anger. Resentment. Over and over, I justified our ultimatum to Tim, as if to trying to convince my heart. He knew the rules. How could he do this to our family? To himself? He was becoming someone I didn’t recognize and couldn’t stand it.

Other times, I felt guilty. How could I not have caught this? I worried Tim would die and I’d never see him again.

Tim was the second of four children, spiritually mature at a young age. He got baptized in our church as a teenager, never missed youth group, studied his Bible. Then he turned 16. And everything changed.

I tried to chalk it up to typical teenager angst, yet a nagging sense told me this was something more. He seemed depressed, and I grew increasingly concerned. One day, I opened his phone and read through his messages. I didn’t feel as if I had a choice. To my horror, I scrolled through text after text about smoking pot. Worst of all, they were all from older kids in youth group.

David and I confronted Tim that evening. “I’m not going to stop!” he said. “Even my teacher says smoking pot is better than drinking alcohol.” He turned and retreated into his room, into himself.

Loving Christian families didn’t have kids doing drugs. What would people think? I was filled with anger at the friends who had introduced him to drugs.

Tim grew more distant from us, like a kite being torn from our hands by an unyielding wind. Getting kicked out of high school? Check. Staying out all night without telling us where he was or who he was with, or lying about it? Check. Endlessly protesting that he wasn’t addicted to drugs when we knew he was? Check. It was a list we thought happened to other families, not ours.

People we thought were friends at church stopped talking to us, literally turning their backs to us as we walked through the door. I stopped going, but David continued taking our other three kids. I kept praying every day, on my knees, but it felt as if God had abandoned me.

One thing helped keep my head barely above water: a newfound gift of painting and drawing. A friend had invited me to a painting party she was hosting. I didn’t really want to go. I was barely leaving the house those days. But my friend was persistent, and I relented.

It was only after the class that it hit me: I’d spent two hours barely thinking about Tim. I hadn’t worried, cried or felt guilty. I came home and told David I was buying art supplies, even though I’d never painted before and my work was mediocre. I just knew I couldn’t wait to paint again. I started painting day and night.

Eventually I got good enough to teach my own painting parties. Soon after Tim walked down our driveway and left us, I was scheduled to teach a painting party for a women’s Bible study. I was terrified I couldn’t do it.

Parked on the street outside the party host’s house, I struggled to pull myself together, wiping away my tears. Inside a dozen women were chatting and laughing. I couldn’t wait any longer.

I set up an easel, canvas and paints in front of each woman. They looked at me expectantly.

“I never picked up a paintbrush until I was 42,” I said. “My son fell into addiction at the same time God gave me the gift of art. When I paint, my mind gets a break. I hope in these next two hours, your mind gets a break too.”

The outpouring of support I got from those women was humbling. Still, I yearned to feel a divine presence. I’d heard nothing from God for seven months. Desperate, I went on a women’s retreat. During a break between sessions, I went outside, wanting to be alone. A sudden cool breeze washed over me. Then a thought, like a command, shot through my mind: You will minister to addicts.

Tim turned 19, but what was there to celebrate? I was running errands one day when my phone rang. “May I speak to Heather Henry?” a man’s voice said.

I took a deep breath. Was it about Tim? Had something happened? “This is Heather,” I said.

“I got your name from someone who attended one of your painting parties,” he said. “They were impressed with your compassion…. Would you consider teaching at a rehabilitation center?”

My mind was a jumble. You will minister to addicts. Those words came back like that sudden cool breeze at the retreat. I’d forced them out of my head until this moment.

My palms were damp as I stood before my first class, two rows of facing tables in a big conference room. “My name is Heather,” I said. “I’m the mother of an addict. I’m here to teach you painting, and I have only one rule. You are not allowed to talk negatively about your art.”

I demonstrated overall concepts: color, shape, space, texture. I worked with each student one-on-one. Talk came easily, naturally, not like with Tim, where conversations were tense standoffs. I felt a strange affinity for the people in my class. Maybe I wished Tim were among them. At every class, I told my students that they were worth the work it takes to stay clean and hugged them as they left the room.

One day, a student asked how Tim was doing. I told her he had just relapsed again and we didn’t know where he was.

“He’s not doing this to hurt you,” she said. “He doesn’t want to be this way, but he doesn’t know how to stop.”

All this time, I had been so angry at Tim for not trying hard enough to overcome his addiction, not caring enough to change, but as those words sunk in, I realized that I had misunderstood his struggle. Now all I felt was pity. My heart was broken for him, instead of because of him.

Tim couldn’t do this on his own any more than I could. Neither one of us was any match for the disease of addiction. It was in the recognition of that need for help that I found God again waiting to meet me. It was a relief, flooding me with compassion and love.

That evening, David and I agreed to rebuild our relationship with Tim. That didn’t mean enabling him. We couldn’t give him money or allow him to live with us while he was using. It wasn’t easy. Tim continued to relapse, but we committed to seeing him each week, and in those conversations, I found hope. Every time we met, in exchange for the food we brought him, Tim had to endure my crying, praying, pleading for him to enter the faith-based residential recovery program run by Adult & Teen Challenge.

In April 2020, I asked Tim if he would take a one-hour drive with me to visit a Christian retreat center and addiction treatment center. Tim agreed.

“Mom, I’m miserable,” he said, sobbing. “I just want to be normal.” His body was emaciated, covered with sores I knew were the result of using methamphetamines and heroin. This felt like his last chance. We talked the entire way, honestly, heart to heart.

We arrived and drove down the winding road, passing trees with Scriptures attached to them. One read, “I will restore the years the locusts have taken.”

“Do you know what that Scripture means?” I asked. Tim shook his head no. “It means these last four years you’ve been doing drugs, God can restore to you.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “All we can do is trust God.” It felt like a message I was telling myself as much as Tim.

By the grace of God, Tim decided to attend Adult & Teen Challenge and has been clean now for more than a year, a day at a time. Recovery is a miracle, one I will never stop being grateful for. At our lowest point, when we felt most helpless and hopeless, God met each of us—Tim and me—and changed our hearts.

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