Page 170 – Guideposts Articles

Desert Solitaire

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

I woke up this morning 3,000 miles from where I wanted to be. My wife Kate and I just finished a week’s vacation backpacking in Death Valley, the desert national park in California. Maybe hiking through barren, rocky canyons and sleeping in frigid mountain passes isn’t everyone’s idea of an idyllic vacation. But Kate and I needed to get away from New York, away from people and noise and city urgency—and there is probably no place farther from all that than Death Valley, a 156-mile-long, bone-dry trough surrounded by towering mountain ranges.

Death Valley is the hottest (over 130 degrees in summer), driest (less than two inches of rain per year) and lowest place in North America (282 feet below sea level). I had never been there, despite growing up in California. Kate had been once before at a pivotal time in her life. She was deciding whether to pursue ordination as an Episcopal priest. Sitting under an ancient stand of limber pines at the top of Telescope Peak (11,049 feet above the valley floor, to give an idea of the immense contrasts), she said yes to God. We thought the park would be a good place to seek what we so desperately miss in New York—the spiritual renewal of solitude.

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Well, cresting the Panamint Range, which separates the valley from the rest of California, I wondered whether we were overdoing it on the solitude. Death Valley on a winter weekday is very, very, very empty. All around rose silent, implacable mountains.

The valley floor, white with salt deposits, stretched to the limit of sight—a long way, since the dry desert air is remarkably, almost disorientingly clear. I didn’t say anything, because I know how much Kate loves the desert. But inside I wondered, Is this place too harsh? It all looked so lifeless, so indifferent. “The desert never really loves you back,” Kate said approvingly. How could that be a good thing?

Then we began walking. We explored three parts of the park: Fall Canyon, a narrow red-rock canyon winding into the Amargosa Range; sand dunes at Mesquite Flat, rising about 100 feet above the valley floor; and sagebrush country at Emigrant Pass in the Panamints, about halfway between the valley and Telescope Peak. The going each place was slow—rocky, sandy or snowy. But the slower we went, the more I began to see.

In Fall Canyon, a turkey vulture patrolled the canyon mouth, lazily riding air currents, scanning for mice and gophers—the very tip of a complex canyon ecosystem. On the dunes, I noticed something black and shiny near my foot. I bent down and saw an inch-long beetle shuffling through the sand. It turns out there are four species of beetle found only in Death Valley—along with 15 species of snail, four species of fish (yes, fish!) and a dozen species of plant. Many more desert plants and animals also call the valley home, from bighorn sheep to the puffball-sized kangaroo rat, which metabolizes water from dry seeds and reabsorbs the moisture it exhales while breathing.

The valley, it turns out, teems with life. You just have to know where to look. On our last (cold!) morning at snowbound Emigrant Pass, we awoke to a frozen tent, temperature below 10 degrees, solid ice in our water bottles—and the sound of a lark greeting the sun. From where we camped we could see the eastern side of the Sierra Nevada mountains, including Mount Whitney, highest mountain in the continental U.S.

The day before we had been on the valley floor. I realized suddenly that in this supposedly barren place we had seen, in a way, the whole world—the high, the low, the silent places, the singing birds, the sprouting sage and the dry, dry earth. Kate is right. Unlike forested mountains with chattering streams and flowery meadows, the desert does not love you back. It’s too busy surviving. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t deserve your love. You have to learn how to love it. How to look beyond its stony exterior, listen to its pregnant silence and let it live on its own fierce terms.

That sounds daunting, and I was daunted at first. But by the time we drove away, back to Los Angeles and the airplane home, I didn’t want to leave. Maybe in Death Valley I, too, in some inarticulate way said yes to God. On his own fierce terms.

Jim Hinch is a senior editor at GUIDEPOSTS. Reach him at jhinch@guideposts.org.

Deliverance Alley: Helping the Homeless with Substance Abuse

Posted on March 11, 2026March 12, 2026 by Rhonda Bellingham

The place I call Deliverance Alley is a vacant lot of grass and dirt in a neglected south Dallas neighborhood. Drive by and you won’t see much. A sign on a deli across the street reads: “No trespassing, prostitution, drug dealing, loitering, weapons or criminal activity will be tolerated.”

Why do I call this seemingly god-forsaken slice of scarred urban ground Deliverance Alley? What if I said it’s where God delivered me one afternoon almost two decades ago?

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When I landed in Deliverance Alley, I wasn’t just homeless. I was far from home in every possible way. I’d been born into a military family in Kansas City, Missouri. My dad, Wendell Gene Parker, was a lieutenant colonel in the Army. My mother, Mary Ann Parker, raised me and three younger brothers.

My dad served in Korea and Vietnam. I was five when he was transferred to a base in Europe. It was the 1960s. Dad was upfront with me and my siblings about the advantages of moving to Europe. “We are a Black family,” he said. “There is a lot less racism over there than in America. Sad but true.”

The military was one of the nation’s first major institutions to desegregate. On our base in Europe, I played with kids regardless of skin color. We traveled to European cities on vacations, visited art museums and learned German. Teachers at school taught us about the realities of slavery and the many contributions made by Black people to American life.

Everything changed when we returned stateside in the early 1970s. Just off the plane in South Carolina, I noticed “White” and “Colored” signs on the restrooms. That was illegal, but the airport didn’t seem to care.

My father always spoke his mind, and I am every inch his daughter.

“Excuse me,” I said to a passerby, pointing at the whites-only bathroom. “What color do I have to be to go in there?”

The woman regarded me with an expression of utter disdain. How dare you? she seemed to say before stalking off. Dad yanked me right out of that airport. “You have no idea what you’re doing,” he hissed. “You could get us all killed.”

We settled in Texas, where my dad was promoted to assistant commanding officer at Fort Hood and bought a house in Dallas for Mom and us kids. My brothers were good kids and had jobs after school, but they were still harassed by police almost every day.

Living in a constant state of fear wears you down. I told Dad I wanted to join the Army, but he said it was no place for a woman. I turned my back and moved to New York. I worked as a customer service manager for telecom companies. I made good money.

There was one problem. Remember how I said I was my father’s daughter? That had a downside.

Dad parented my brothers and me with military discipline. We followed a schedule, did chores and never talked back. Every weekend, he made us straighten up our rooms like little soldiers. We had to clean, fold and put everything away. When I say clean, I mean even the baseboards.

I chafed under Dad’s rules and told him I wasn’t in the Army. I even wrote him a letter when I was little telling him I was glad he’d been sent to Vietnam because now I didn’t have to clean my room. Imagine receiving such a letter from your child.

On my own for the first time in New York, I gave free rein to my contrarian side. I partied on weekends and enjoyed the nightlife. I met and married a man who’d seen combat in the military, but his PTSD contributed to him abusing me physically. I had to leave that marriage for fear of my life.

I returned to Dallas and met another man. I fell hard. They say love is blind. Tell me about it. I didn’t even realize at first that he sold drugs. He was good-looking and seemed to do well financially, and he treated me like a queen. Turned out, he was riding the 1980s cocaine wave by cooking and selling crack.

I can’t explain why, but at some point, I decided to join him. Maybe it was that misguided love, more desperation than devotion. I started doing drugs myself and dealing.

I had been raised in church, and I believed in God. I knew I was violating every moral principle Mom and Dad had tried to instill in me. I was aware that I had crossed a line and might never be able to turn back. So many addicts can’t. That is what addiction does to you. It takes over your life. Totally. Eventually even the drugs couldn’t dull my shame and self-loathing.

To this day, I am haunted by the time a little girl, just a wisp of a thing, came to the door of a crack house I ran. “Is my momma here?” she asked. “We’re hungry, and she took our food stamps.”

The woman had tried to sell the food stamps for drug money. “Go take care of your kids!” I screamed at her, surprised by my rage. But I went right back to selling drugs. It was as if I had lost my soul.

Eventually I left that bad boyfriend behind—but not the drug trade. I discovered I was pregnant with my boyfriend’s child. I vowed to go straight but was soon back selling drugs to support myself. Arrested for drug possession, I was forced to ask my parents to take temporary custody of my son.

They went ballistic at first, but I was their daughter and they did what they could to support me and my child.

I begged God so many times to help me get sober, but my contrarian spirit was too strong. Deep inside I refused to give my life to God the way I had given my life to drugs and addiction.

That’s when I wound up at Deliverance Alley. I was homeless, just released from another stint behind bars and ready to forget my troubles by getting righteously high. Night was falling, and I figured I was out of last chances.

It was 2007. Deliverance Alley was a popular spot for addicts. There was an old sofa on the grass and a bucket for a bathroom. A bunch of my drug-using friends were there, and they welcomed me back.

I sat on the couch, prepped my crack pipe, raised it to my lips. Out of nowhere, a voice spoke in my mind: “Say goodbye to all this, Rhonda.”

I jumped up, looked around. Was someone playing a trick on me? The voice spoke again, same words, even louder, clearer.

I freaked out. I ran across the street. I looked back at the vacant lot, and I didn’t recognize it. As if I’d been transported to another place.

Some kind of powerful presence seemed to come down and root my feet to the sidewalk. I heard people speaking. “Queen, you all right?” That was my street name. Everything seemed far away.

I took the drugs out of my pocket and handed them to someone. It was as if I had let go of something more than just the drugs. I felt a warmth enfold me. I broke down weeping.

The presence freed my feet and directed my steps to a place called Dallas International Street Church. They run a one-year residential discipleship program that includes counseling and addiction recovery. I laid down my contrarian spirit, admitted I was powerless and surrendered myself to that life-giving program. To this day, I can’t explain how it all happened, only that I felt as if my soul had been freed.

Fast forward 17 years. I am sober, married and the founder of an organization called Making It Count, Inc., which offers housing and street support services to people like I once was: lost, homeless and wondering if there’s any hope left for them. I help them see there is.

I reconciled with my child and my parents. Before my dad died in 2015, I made amends for the ways I had hurt him. Including that mean letter I’d sent him in Vietnam. I came to accept that for a man like him, strict discipline was the way he best knew to show love. I forgave him for that.

I am also grateful to him. I believe it was the military discipline he’d instilled in me that enabled me to form the daily responsibilities that helped me stick with recovery. God guided me, but I had to do the work.

I run Making It Count, Inc., the same way. Guests in my sober living house do chores, keep their rooms spotless and stick to a schedule. As an active addict, the only structure in your life is getting the next fix. Recovering addicts need new structures. Being contrarian and questioning the status quo are necessary sometimes. Addiction recovery is not one of those times. My guests sometimes chafe at my discipline. In the long run, they are grateful, just as I am. In recovery, surrender equals freedom.

Since Making It Count, Inc., was founded in 2010, we have distributed more than 100,000 meals, 75,000 hygiene kits and 12,500 coats to people who need them. We partner with churches and other regional service providers. Every Wednesday, we launder people’s clothes for free. We have been recognized by numerous Dallas civic organizations, and I recently received a community service award from the Greater North Dallas Business and Professional Women’s Club.

I give all the credit to God and my tireless volunteers.

Making It Count, Inc., is now in the process of designing and getting permits for our new headquarters. I envision a full-service resource center for homeless people struggling with substance use. A place of love, acceptance and pathways to recovery. I’m sometimes asked if it is possible to get sober without bringing God into your life. I suppose it might be, but that hasn’t been my experience. It was God who spoke to me that day at Deliverance Alley and moved my feet and soul in the right direction. There’s no other explanation.

Guess where I plan to locate that headquarters? That’s right. Deliverance Alley. My husband and I recently bought that vacant lot. We do street ministry there now. I can’t wait until the building goes up and we can begin offering deliverance on a major scale.

Like I said, there is always hope. There is always another chance. That’s God’s promise. And God always delivers on his promises.

For more inspiring stories, subscribe to Guideposts magazine.

Delilah Has Love to Spare

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

One of my favorite things about doing my radio show is hearing people’s stories. Every night, without fail, someone will call to wish a spouse happy birthday or congratulate a child who’s graduating. Then as their story unfolds, I realize that it was the whole reason God had me in the studio that night—to make that connection, to have that conversation, to share a prayer or piece of Scripture, to share a memory or song.

Years ago, when I was in my twenties, I went to a tiny church—there were maybe 50 or 60 members—where the minister, Pastor Mike McCorkle, preached a life-changing sermon. I asked him about it recently, and he doesn’t even remember what he said. I do. I’ll never forget.

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He imagined that when he stands before the Lord, when he dies, he’s going to be asked two questions. The first is “What did you do with me?” Did you give God your best or just the scraps? Was faith just an afterthought? Did you put Jesus at the center of your being? And the second: “What did you do with the people I put in your path?” Every person you encounter, your family members, your teachers, your friends, your coworkers, even strangers, are put there for a reason. Did you honor them? Did you respect them? Did you take the time to get to know their story?

The conversations I have with my listeners are real. They know I’m going to be honest with them and they can be honest with me. Most of them know about the joys in my life and the deep sorrows I’ve had to face. None of which I could have gotten through without my faith.

I met a homeless woman on a blistering hot day in Philadelphia, and in my efforts to help her and people like her I started a charity called Point Hope (named for one of the coldest places on the planet: Point Hope, Alaska). A woman at a refugee camp in Ghana sent me an e-mail asking for help. I figured it was some sort of scam at first, but when I followed it up through friends at World Vision, I discovered she was indeed real. Since then, I’ve made dozens of trips to that refugee camp, adopted children from it and supplied it with fresh water, schools, medical stations and adult career and farming programs.

Someone was put in my path, and I felt compelled to respond.

I have 13 children—10 adopted, three biological. I’m heartbroken to say that two of them are already gone from this world. Sammy came from an orphanage in Ghana. We knew he had sickle cell anemia when he became part of our family, but he blossomed in our home. He loved to eat, to laugh, to tease, to draw, to paint, to dance. On the night the adoption was complete, he said to me, “Mama, I always thought I would die alone in the orphanage.”

As it was, he died in our arms at age 16 from complications of sickle cell. The doctors did all they could, but they couldn’t stop his heart from failing. Before he passed, Sammy pointed to me and my husband, Paul, and put his hands in the shape of a heart. Now when I am struggling and missing him, I whisper a prayer. Sometimes even within the hour, I’ll be led to something heart-shaped in nature, a seashell on the beach, a sandstone on the path. Signs from God that my son’s spirit lives on.

My world shattered a year ago, on October 2, 2017. That night, my beautiful son Zachariah Miguel Rene-Ortega, the last child I carried in my womb and gave birth to, chose to leave us. He was just 18 years old and had been battling depression. These have been the hardest months of my life and that of my family. I miss Zack every minute and hour of every day. Despite the heartache and grief, I praise God for the life I live. I know that God is looking after us, and that knowledge—along with the love and understanding of family, friends, and so many others—has kept me going.

One of my most endearing memories of my Zacky illustrates what his heart was truly like and truly capable of. When Zack was just 10 years old, a girlfriend from church let me know that the African Children’s Choir was going to perform at our church. I had been working in Ghana, West Africa, for five years and had adopted two young girls from there.

My girlfriend knew I’d love the music, and even though the choir children were from a different country, my adopted girls might like seeing other children from West Africa. We’d arrived home late the night before, after a long drive from snow-covered mountains, and woke up in time to get to the 10:30 a.m. service and the choir performance. The sink at home was full of breakfast dishes; the living room was a makeshift laundry center for ski gear. Snowboards and sleds leaned against the side of the porch.

After the service, I took my daughters to meet some of the young performers. The director of the choir, a middle-aged man from the Midwest, approached me with a broad grin, grabbed my hand and pumped my arm as he exclaimed, “Thank you! Thank you! We will be happy to come to the farm for lunch.” I tilted my head to one side and said, “Excuse me?”

“Your son, the little boy in the green shirt, just told me you have a huge farm with lots of goats and cows, and then he invited me to bring the choir to lunch. Normally the church sponsors a lunch for us at the cafeteria or a local restaurant, but your pastor is not here today,” he said. “I guess no one thought about how we would feed the children.”

The man’s enthusiastic smile was met with my bewildered expression, and just as I was about to explain that my house was filled with ski gear and my fridge was all but empty, Zack appeared at my side. He put his arms around me and said, “Mom, I told him what a good cook you are and how you feed all the orphans in Africa. Can they come home and have lunch with us?” His impish face was absolutely adorable, and his smile did to me what it always did: made me absolutely incapable of saying anything but yes….

Thirty children, eight adult chaperones, plus the director and his wife. That meant 40 guests along with my own household of 10…. My mind raced into action. I hurriedly called my husband, Paul, and asked for help. He had just dropped our teenage girls off at the farm. He agreed to rush back to the farm and start picking up skis and snowboards. I called two of my adult children, Tangi and Trey Jerome, to help as well.

When I got home, the skis, snowboards and damp gloves had all been snatched up and tossed in bins, the dirty dishes in the sink were shoved in the dishwasher and a huge pot of water was already on the stove and beginning to boil. Within a half hour, the bus arrived and 30 children between the ages of five and 18 started spilling out.

It was freezing outside, and I knew their bodies had not yet had time to acclimate to the cold, so the children were not the least bit interested in staying outside to look at our goats, horses or even the zebra. They all ran into the house trying to get warm, and although my house is a good size, together we filled up every room.

The food was ready soon, and we provided lunch. Once everyone had eaten their fill, the kids sang. Even more beautiful than the songs they’d sung at church.

After two hours of breaking bread and sharing stories and songs, the director said the choir had to leave; they had a long road trip ahead of them. The kids gave us hugs and prayed for us, then filed outside. As the bus rumbled up the long drive, light snow began to fall. I was ready to collapse into a heap when I heard Zack declare, “I hope it snows really hard and the bus gets stuck and they have to spend the night here with us!” That was one time I was so grateful that his prayers were not answered!

Zack was like me in many ways, one being that he had a big heart for others, especially those who were hurting or in need.

I won’t hold my last-born biological baby again until eternity. I won’t stroke his long, beautiful hair or feel his breath against my skin. I won’t hear his voice—except for the few recordings I have—until I see Jesus face-to-face. I hope the Lord won’t mind if I rush to hold both Zack and his older brother Sammy in my arms before getting the tour of paradise.

In the days and weeks after I lost my boys, I did not know if I had the heart to go on. When Zack took his own life, I had to step away from my radio program for three weeks before I could find the strength and courage to put my voice back on the air. The outpouring of love, support and prayer from my listeners—the hundreds of thousands of you who in that moment stopped in your path to consider where my heart was—restored me.

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Decluttering Tips for Your Home

Posted on March 11, 2026March 12, 2026 by Melissa Michaels

Retreating to your home should feel like a reward at the end of a long day. It’s a sacred space and clutter is an unwelcome housemate. Not only does clutter take up space in your home, it also weighs down your spirit. Start feeling lighter and more joyful by using these tips to keep your home organized and functional today.

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1) Refine Your Closet Hanging Space

Take everything hanging in your closet out and lay it across the bed. Item by item, pick up from the bed what you would wear this week or in the next few weeks. Focus on items that fit well and are in good condition. If you have many similar pieces, get rid of the ones you can spare. Put your clothes back in your closet, from longest to shortest, category by category, left to right. If you have hanging accessories, such as belts, hang them on a belt hanger or looped through a regular hanger on the left side of the closet if there’s room. Set aside your scarves and other accessories to tackle in another project. Whatever is left can be donated!

2) Tidy Your Closet Shelves, Floor, and Shoe Area

Dust the shelves and vacuum or sweep the floors. Make the shelves functional (decide how many items you can stack without a hassle to get them out) and fold the items carefully so they look tidy. Group bags, shoes, sweaters, and T-shirts together. Shoes can be tucked into back-of-the-door or wall shoe pockets, an extra drawer, or an under-the-bed organizer for easy access if you don’t have room in your closet. Make a list of future organizers or supplies you need to make the most of the space you have.

3) Declutter Your Dressers

Empty your clothing and belongings from dresser drawers. Wipe out drawers and even add new drawer liners if you want to. Assign each drawer a purpose, with space for each category of belongings (such as socks, undies, slips, tights, pjs.). Now put back what you really use, what is in good condition, fits, and you actually like to wear. Match up socks. If you have lone socks, start a lonely sock basket, and if the mate turns up you’ll be able to return them to the dresser. If the drawers become too crowded, pare down or relocate items if you have another option. Donate or dispose of what’s left.

4) Organize your living areas

Use lidded boxes and small trunks to store phone cords, notepads, and any other random things you need in your bedroom. Use storage boxes on your desk for your labeling machine, stapler, and hole punch; and another on a bookshelf near the dining room for extra drinking glasses. Give your family a small trunk to stash all those game controllers and cords so your TV area stays neat and tidy. Use larger, tall, open baskets to store extra throw blankets or even to toss in extra bedding or throw pillows when you are sitting or sleeping.

5) Clean up your kitchen

Don’t let your pantry look cluttered and feel disorganized. Small open baskets are perfect for grouping pantry items to give you a streamlined and clutter-free pantry or cabinet while making it easier to find what you want at a glance! I have a baking basket in my pantry. When the urge to bake strikes, I can easily grab it and find all the little baking items I need, such as baking powder, baking soda, vanilla, almond extract, salt, and measuring spoons. Utilize the vertical space under the sink by adding stackable drawers, shelf risers, or adjustable units specifically made to fit around sink pipes. Fill the drawers or shelves with cleaning supplies under the kitchen or laundry sink, and cosmetics and toiletries under the bathroom sink.

6) CELEBRATE!

Curl up with a good book and a cup of tea and delight in how wonderful it feels to have such a pretty and organized home. Sleep tight!

Death—the Bridge to Life

Posted on March 11, 2026March 12, 2026 by Elizabeth Peale Allen

When we lose a loved one, there is a great empty place in our lives that seems impossible to fill. Yet we must go on.

The Gospel of John tells us that Jesus made a remarkable statement when he walked in the temple courts of Jerusalem during the Feast of the Dedication—what Jews today call Hannukah, the Festival of Lights. “I am the light of the world,” Jesus said (John 9:5). He continued, “My sheep hear my voice, and I know them, and they follow me; and I give unto them eternal life; and they shall never perish, neither shall any man pluck them out of my hand” (10:27-28).

The Light of the world drives away the darkness and sadness we associate with death. His light is life, eternal life, and no one within that radiance need fear anything. Dr. Norman Vincent Peale once said: “Darkness is powerless before the onslaught of light. And so it is with death. We have allowed ourselves to think of it as a dark door, when actually it is a rainbow bridge spanning the gulf between two worlds.”

Death is a fact of life. It is wise to accept it and plan for its consequences. The grief it causes is entirely natural. But remember: Death does not have the last word. The risen Son of God gets the final say, and he is all about light and life!

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Dear Aging: Thank You

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

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Aging brings certain things in life into perspectives, like the ability to move and take on the opportunities ahead. Guideposts.org teamed up with Arnicare for the “Dear Aging” contest to find out. Readers were asked to share their growing older stories, wisdom and experiences, from writing about how their bodies have changed to what they’re doing to stay healthy.

For Linda, growing older and wiser does come with some aches and pains, but also opportunities to love, learn and be more present and open to joy. She shares what it means to trust in the uncertainties that life brings by being grateful.

Dear Aging,

Are you my friend? Are you my foe? Some days you are both. Aging is not for the faint of heart, yet I’m so grateful to have the gift of life each day. Opportunities to live and love and continue to learn.

Aging, you have taught me much. I’m not as impulsive or explosive as I once was and I’d like to think I’m kinder; even to myself. My body hurts more often now and I often blame you, so in fairness, I must give you credit for all you’ve done to help me value my body. I respect what it needs now, I’m mindful of what I put into my body and exercise is no longer a chore. Aging, you have made me love to move just because I can!

Aging has made me realize how little I knew and how much more I know now. I don’t have all the answers but I trust God with the uncertainties. I’ve learned to be present and to grasp the lovely moments of joy that are gifted to me daily on this journey of life. And the seasons of sadness and grief can be teachers too. Without your tutelage, Aging, would I have ever realized that? I think not.

Lastly Aging, I’m learning you are more friend than enemy, because of you I can advise the “ youngers” to be in the moment and enjoy the journey, not just the destination. The only one that taught me that is you, dear Aging. For all that you are and will be to me, even though you confuse and frustrate me at times, just know I’m truly thankful for you.

Sincerely,

Linda

Dear Aging: How It Feels to Get Older

Posted on March 11, 2026March 12, 2026 by Carolyn Bolz

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What are some of the wisdom, changes and perks of getting older? Guideposts.org teamed up with Arnicare for the “Dear Aging Contest” to find out. Readers were asked to share their growing older stories, wisdom and experiences, from writing about how their bodies have changed to what they’re doing to stay healthy.

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For contest winner Carolyn Bolz, the win comes full circle with Guideposts Magazine.

“Can you believe that when I was in high school, I was one of the winners in Guideposts Magazine’s Youth Writing Contest?” Bolz wrote in an email. “My story about how my sister Judy and I participated in a Christmas program for Deaf students was awarded a $500 college scholarship.” Bolz said both she and her sister are not Deaf, but know sign language and were asked to join the Deaf students in their program that year. Bolz wrote a poem on her changing body and the hopes she has for the future.

Dear Aging,

As I have gotten older,
I’ve learned to be strong
And not to worry
That things may go wrong.

My life has definitely
Changed for the best,
Although at times,
I have to stop and rest.

Of course, my hair
Has begun turning gray.
Plus, I notice wrinkles
Almost everyday.

I also need my glasses
To read the fine print
Or I can find myself
Having to squint.

Despite these troubles,
I feel just fine,
Even if my health
Isn’t perfect all the time.

I want to stay hopeful
As I start growing old.
I can’t wait to see
The next years unfold.

Yes, I have learned
Being joyful is the key
To aging gracefully!
(Don’t you agree?)

Your friend,
Carolyn

Deanna Favre Opens Up About Defeating Her Husband’s Addiction

Posted on March 11, 2026March 12, 2026 by Deanna Favre

That first week of October 2004 was tough, one of those weeks where right out of the blue your life will never be the same again.

My younger brother Casey had died in an ATV accident down at our home in Hattiesberg, Mississippi. The funeral was on Saturday. My family went through the motions in shock.

The next day we flew back to Green Bay where my husband, Brett, was quarterback for the Packers. The Packers lost their game on Monday night against the Tennessee Titans, 48 to 27.

On Wednesday I went in for my regular gynecological exam. I had my doctor check a lump I’d found during a self breast exam two months earlier. Immediately he sent me to the Van Dyke Haebler Center for women. I told myself not to worry. I had no family history of breast cancer. I was 35 and in excellent health.

Life was good and Brett and I counted our blessings. We’d had our ups and downs, but things were strong between us now and this didn’t seem like something to get too worked up about.

But I was still grieving my brother’s death. And this cancer scare just seemed like too much to take in. After a mammogram and ultrasound the radiologist said we needed to do a biopsy.

I felt my heart pound. “Will the biopsy tell us right away…if I have cancer?” I could barely say the word. “We’ll call you tomorrow,” he replied carefully.

Every time the phone rang the next day it was Brett calling from the Packers’ practice facility. No matter how many times I told him I’d let him know as soon as I heard, he kept calling. “Go run some laps,” I teased him. “Study your playbook, sign some autographs, throw a few footballs. Don’t call me again until after 12.”

The phone rang right after 12. Not Brett again, I thought. It was the doctor. “I’m sorry to tell you,” he said in measured tones, “but you have breast cancer.” A trembling rose from somewhere deep in my bones and a buzzing filled my ears. Cancer. Brett was on the phone in minutes. All he could say was, “Oh, God.”

It seemed like Brett and I had known each other forever, and we almost had. We grew up together in the small Mississippi town of Kiln. We went to the same school through 12th grade. I remembered his cute blond cowlick and the way he sat in the bleachers in high school with the laces of his high-top sneakers untied.

We got to know each other playing two-on-two basketball—I was just as much a jock as he was. One day he called me up and I could hear a lot of voices in the background saying, “Ask her, ask her.” Finally he drawled out, “Will you go with me?”

We were officially a couple, but most of what we did together was sports. We played catch on our dates and for a present he bought me a glove and a catcher’s mitt. When his dad saw Brett firing fastballs at me, he came running out of the house. “Boy,” he said, “you can’t throw that hard to a girl!” It didn’t stop Brett. Or me, for that matter.

I loved him, even if he wasn’t the most romantic guy. On the way to our senior prom he drove off with his wallet on the top of his car so he couldn’t even pay for our dinner. In college he courted me with a plastic red rose—following a spat when I wouldn’t speak to him for a month.

Then he gave me a second red rose the next date. The third one appeared in his car shortly thereafter. “I guess this is the last one,” I said, inspecting it. “Why do you say that?” he asked. “Because the tag on it says three for ninety-nine cents.”

Brett got drafted from the University of Southern Mississippi to Atlanta, then traded to Green Bay. After years of soul-searching I followed him up there, only to find out that the quiet, kind Brett I knew and loved had become a loud, rough party animal.

For the first time I saw a mean streak in him and I didn’t know where it had come from. He had mood swings that he’d never had before. He disappeared sometimes without even telling me where he was going.

One day I discovered a plastic bag filled with white pills. Painkillers. He was horribly addicted to painkillers, partly as a result of all the injuries he played with. We got through that. He went to The Menninger Clinic and got help. We went through counseling together and he was once again the best friend I’d ever had—and by now my husband. I prayed for him through countless games, praying he’d make it through without an injury.

There were wonderful thrilling trips to the Super Bowl and tragic bittersweet moments like the night he played against the Oakland Raiders right after his dad’s death, making the game a tribute to his father. That night he threw for a total of 399 yards and four touchdowns…with tears in his eyes.

All that confidence and strength evaporated when I got the cancer diagnosis. I’d never seen Brett so shaken up. He was pale and in shock. We hugged for a long time and then Brett studied the breast cancer material I’d been given as though it were a playbook. Which, in a way, it was.

I told our two daughters, Brittany, 15, and five-year-old Breleigh. “I’ll be okay,” I reassured them. My cancer was stage II, considered early, and the doctors felt they could treat it with a lumpectomy, not a mastectomy. I went to New York for surgery and Brett called constantly (it was mid-season). “Don’t worry about anything,” he said. “Just be strong and get through it.” “Pray for me,” I urged.

The surgical team was confident, but they insisted on four rounds of chemo and six weeks of radiation. How bad could that be? I wondered. The first round of chemo was right before Thanksgiving. I’d never felt so sick in my life. It was like the worst flu you can imagine. I’d promised to make cornbread dressing for the holiday dinner we’d have with friends. What usually took about 30 minutes took all day.

Losing my hair was painful too, more than I would have thought. In the morning my white cotton pillowcase looked like it had been transformed into black satin—covered in hair. I didn’t want to have patches of bald spots. I told my hairdresser to shave my head. I bought wigs and Packers knit caps to wear.

Once, Breleigh came into the bathroom after I had taken my shower. Her eyes locked on my bald head. Finally she said, “Mommy, your hair looks really pretty.”

“Thanks, sweetie,” I said, “but I know it doesn’t.” We both giggled.

Eventually both Brittany and Breleigh cut their hair off to show support. Brett got into the act too. The night he came home with his hair totally shaved, I was overcome.

Cancer can make you feel so alone. Love and support are the only antidotes. Brett used his experience getting off painkillers to share his strength with me. It wasn’t my strength or Brett’s. It was our strength.

Brett went public with my cancer. I started receiving hundreds of letters. The prayers gave me strength on days when all my energy was spent. Each woman in my Bible study picked a Bible verse to encourage me, and an artist arranged them around the verse from Philippians: “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.”

At night, when I was too weak to do anything, I sat on the chair with the ottoman in the living room—Brett’s chair, we call it—and answered all those letters. Encouraging others with cancer made me feel better.

In mid-May, when I had just a bit of hair on my head, I drove to a broadcast station to record what I thought was a radio spot for breast cancer awareness. “No, Deanna,” I was told. “It’s TV.” Not only that, they wanted to take a picture of me for a poster. Without a wig. No way. I felt so vulnerable. But I remembered all the people who’d written to me. Okay Lord. If this helps one person get through what I’ve been through, then sure. Help me through it.

In the spring I got a clean bill of health. Brett was ecstatic. So were the girls. But life will never be quite the same for all of us. Cancer changes you. It might sound trite, but Brett and I both have a renewed sense of how precious life is, how blessed we are. It’s as if even the everyday things are vivid.

No matter how often we speak to each other during the day, we always say “I love you.” We’ve both become big note writers and card senders, encouraging each other. Just the other day I discovered a letter Brett had hidden in my vanity drawer when he went off to training camp.

God has given us strength to do more than we ever thought possible and he’s knitted us into the partners he knew we could be. Not long ago we were at Disney World with a group from Breleigh’s cheer squad.

Suddenly I noticed Brett pulling a pink blossom from a flower bed, giving it to Breleigh. Then he said with a smile in front of the group, “Give this to your mother and tell her how much I love her.”

I thought of the boy with his three-for-ninety-nine-cents roses, and gave thanks for who we were now. Cancer and the trials we’ve faced could have driven us apart. By God’s grace we were driven toward each other—for support, for strength, for love.

This story first appeared in the October 2007 issue of Guideposts magazine.

Dave Coulier: His Sources of Inspiration

Posted on March 11, 2026March 12, 2026 by Brett Leveridge

– Hi Guideposts, I’m Dave Coulier, here on the shores of where I grew up on Lake St. Clair here in Michigan.

Well, you might know me from Full House or Fuller House and I have to tell you about a new series that I’m doing called Live and Local and it’s going to be streaming on Pure Flix and it’s faith-based network and this show is a heck of a lot of fun and it’s a real departure for me. I get to play kind of a curmudgeony radio host on a small-market radio station that’s no. 1, but I am not going to change very much. I’m really excited about this show.

Light for Life NASB Study Bible in Article

We all go through tough times and this past year has certainly been my time to go through those difficult moments in life. I lost my younger brother, Dan, who took his own life tragically and then I lost my father this same year and then I lost a brother, Bob Saget, who a lot of you know as Danny Tanner from “Full House.”

Going through those tough times really kind of held up a mirror to my own life and that’s when I found sobriety. I was actually very happy that it was so emotionally raw and if I hadn’t found my sobriety, I wouldn’t have been able to experience those moments on the same level that I did. I know that sounds strange, but I realized throughout my life that I was missing a lot of those moments and for the first time in my life that extreme pain was right here at the top, it wasn’t buried below several levels of alcohol abuse. And so for that, I am forever grateful.

You know I always heard through scriptures and Bible verses that there are angels on earth and in the heavens and I really think dogs are angels here on earth because they love you unconditionally. And that to me is pretty much a little miracle. A dog can reshape your whole day. You walk in that door and man, that dog’s tail is wagging and they just can’t wait to give you tons of love and give you a kiss. I know it’s a really simple thing, but I just love dogs.

We never know when we’re going to find inspiration or where we’re going to find it and if my story can inspire you to maybe make a change in your own life, even one person, then I feel really good about that. It’s never too late to make a change in your life. So good luck to you.

Cultivate Positivity in the Garden of Life

Posted on March 11, 2026March 12, 2026 by Holly Lebowitz Rossi

When the tomato plants need extra support as their heavy fruits tug at the stalk in late August, or when the peach tree bends low under its fruity weight, I think with pleasure of the words of Galatians 6:7: “A man reaps what he sows.”

Of course I would add a woman also reaps what she sows… But the idea in that verse fills me with an inspired sense of pride that I have managed to sow seeds and seedlings that have matured into something worth reaping—right onto my dinner plate, for the nourishment of myself and my family and friends.

As we look ahead to September and the official end of the peak growing season, I reflect on what else I have sown in my life, in my relationships, in my home and in my work. What did I plant that bloomed into emotional connection, love and fun? Were there seeds I neglected to plant? Some that, to reference another biblical image, did not fall on fertile soil?

Even some parts of my otherwise prolific garden did not give me much to reap. My yellow zucchini plants, after producing a steady stream of firm, shiny fruits early in the summer, fell victim to a borer or some other pest, and withered before my eyes.

In other words, sowing—even sowing with great care—isn’t enough to guarantee a harvest. Investments we make in friendships, work projects and self-improvements don’t always bear fruit either. And yet we continue to cultivate positivity, kindness, generosity and compassion—all the values we know make the world a better place when they do mature and come to fruition.

So whether your literal or proverbial harvest is rich and ripe, or sparser than you would prefer, don’t be afraid to gaze on the garden of your life and feel proud that you had the courage and foresight to sow hopefully and positively. Have faith that whether today or tomorrow, you will get the pleasure and privilege of reaping what you have sown.

Create a Peaceful Home Office

Posted on March 11, 2026March 12, 2026 by Serena Norr

Ideally, our homes are a place of peace and solace—a respite from the sometimes rough world of work. However, this is 2020, and most of us are embracing the new normal, which often means working from home and juggling phone calls, Zoom meetings, and, for some, remote learners in the background (aka, the living room). While staying safe at home during this time is a blessing, it does present its own unique set of challenges while trying to stay focused and productive. Creating a peaceful home office can make you feel (relatively) sane and help you focus on both work and the rest of your life.

Location, location, location. Find a space that is conducive to your work environment. For some people, this might mean working in a closed space, with a door, for daily Zoom calls; others find it easy to work in an open-air space like their living room. Consider moving your desk to an area that would be the best for your work/home situation.
Declutter. Some of us are prone to having wayward papers and files that take over our desks. Clutter can be overwhelming, distracting, and just plain annoying. Go through everything on— and in—your desk and create piles for recycling and reorganizing. For the papers that you can’t throw out, file them away in a cabinet or draw for future use.
Minimize. Now that you’ve decluttered, make sure to only keep a minimal number of objects on your desk, like your computer, phone or a notepad. You can also include a light or a small plant to bring life and color to your work area.
Refresh with color. Color has the power to heal and inspire. Consider reviving the walls in your space with bright tones such as yellow, pink, orange, or lilac. There are also many vibrant wallpaper patterns that you can use to brighten and refresh your home office. You can also pray for inspiration to better connect with colors that are meaningful to you.
Add some greenery. Nature has the power to revive and add warmth to your space. Consider getting low-maintenance plants, such as succulents, a Peace Lily, or ZZ Plants that will allow you to appreciate and soak in their beauty during busy moments.
Add a board with to-do’s. Checking off a list of daily to-do’s is a great way to stay on top of all of your tasks. Hang a bulletin board or dry erase board near your desk—and refer to it multiple times each day.
Inspire yourself. Make sure that your space reflects your personality. A powerful quote, a picture, a prayer, or piece of art is a great way to add some heart to your office and to put a smile on your face during a particularly hard day.
Light it up. Lighting is an essential, although often overlooked, part of creating a serene space. In addition, ample lighting will help you avoid eye strain and headaches. With so much time being spent on your computer and video meetings, it’s important to find lighting solutions that minimize glare, as well as portray you in a good light to your co-workers. Try to include both overhead and task lighting.

We hope these tips will bring you peace and serenity, as well as inspire you to be productive in your new home office.

Craig Melvin: How His Father Was Changed by Sobriety

Posted on March 11, 2026March 12, 2026 by Brett Leveridge

Hi Guideposts. Craig Melvin here, news anchor for the Today Show over on NBC. Also a husband, father of two and author of the book “Pops.”

My dad is Lawrence Melvin, and when I was younger, he was physically present but emotionally absent, because he suffered from quite the addiction—first to alcohol, then to gambling, then to both. And he got swept up in it because it’s a disease. It’s genetic. And he worked the third shift at the post office and he used it to cope. And what started as a hobby soon came to consume him.

I don’t think a lot of people realize that addiction is a family disease. We certainly didn’t realize it until I was much older, but you know, when Dad was in the throws of his alcohol addiction and his gambling addiction, it affected all of us, directly and indirectly. You know, with the gambling addiction, him squandering away much of his savings. With the alcohol addiction, that kept him from being emotionally present, physically present.

As a result, me and my brothers, we ended up having to lean on surrogate fathers and my mother as well, who for a long time played the role of Mom and Dad.

So my dad decided to finally get some help in 2018, after he’d gotten into a car accident and he was drunk at the time. That was the catalyst; that was the impetus that led to an old-fashioned intervention. We drove him to an inpatient facility in Statesboro, Georgia, where he got weeks of help and treatment, and he’s been clean ever since.

So when he got out of rehab, almost instantly he was a different person. This man who had become, for the most part, estranged from our family, all of a sudden had become re-engaged. And the dad that we did not have was quite the contrast. When you look at the grandfather he’s become to his six grandchildren, he’s a different person in the best possible way.

So my message for anyone who has a loved one who’s struggling with addiction who doesn’t want to get help yet is be patient. Don’t give up. My dad was in his late sixties when he decided to turn his life around and it’s remarkable on so many levels, but we had probably given up on him a few times and up until 2018, we wouldn’t have guessed that he’d be the guy that would encourage so many others to turn their life around.

But it’s also a story of resilience. I mean, you know, he climbed many a mountain and we didn’t know about a lot of them until I sat down to write the book. And it’s also a story of family and love and how true family sticks together through thick and thin.

OUTREACH & PARNTERSHIPS