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How Music Offers a Positive Surge of Inspiration and Creativity

Posted on by Holly Lebowitz Rossi

“Life seems to go on without effort when I am filled with music,” wrote Mary Ann Evans, who wrote in nineteenth century England under the pen name George Eliot.

Many people turn to music to relax and calm down as a way of decreasing the “effort” of daily life. But music has just as much to offer when we need a boost of energy, a positive surge of creativity, focus and inspiration.

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This isn’t just anecdotal information. Scientific research has connected music with an increase in brain chemicals associated with improved mood, including dopamine, and it may also decrease brain chemicals associated with stress responses, such as cortisol. By reducing anxiety, music can help us make more space for joy in our lives as well.

There’s more good news—music can bring us these benefits whether we are listening to it recorded, hearing it performed live, or making it ourselves.

Listening to music has become a mainstay of meeting my family’s energy-boosting needs during the pandemic.

With two adults and one 4th grader all working from home, having a headset connected to a classical music playlist has done more for me than blocking out the external sounds of classes and conference calls. It’s helped me feel noticeably more focused and productive, as if the music is awakening parts of my brain that would otherwise be searching for something else to pay attention to.

I’ve seen this benefit work for my 10-year-old as well. We recently tasked him with loading the dishwasher, which sometimes elicits grumbles and claims of being “too tired” for the job. One day, not delighting in this argument, I put on his favorite playlist of pop, dance-ready songs and watched with admiration as he sprung into action. Before long, the dishes were done, and his energy was restored. Music is now a daily accompaniment when it’s chore time.

Are you using music to improve your energy and boost your mood? Try adding these to your routine:

—Sing in the shower or at the kitchen sink, or at the dinner table, or in the car, or….

–Have a family or solo dance party when you need a boost.

—Pick up an instrument and learn a new tune.

–Pair music-listening with daily tasks or have lead-in music for tasks that require extra energy.

—Watch live musical performances to benefit from the energy of the musicians.

How do you use music to keep yourself effortlessly energized?

How Martin Luther King, Jr., Found Redemptive Love Out of Anger

Posted on by Holly Lebowitz Rossi

In 1957, the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. wrote a monthly advice column in Ebony magazine. One reader wrote in with the question, “When I’m angry, I say things to those I love that hurt them terribly. How can I overcome my bad temper?”

King’s response echoes across the decades as a description of a healthy relationship with anger.

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“The first step toward eliminating any moral weakness is a recognition of a weakness to be eliminated,” he wrote, “You should also seek to concentrate on the higher virtue of calmness. You expel a lower vice by concentrating on a higher virtue…. A destructive passion is harnessed by directing that same passion into constructive channels.”

Recognizing and naming anger as an emotional reaction, holding anger in contrast with the virtue of inner calm, and redirecting passionate feelings into constructive actions—these lessons resonate with modern relationships, as well as right responses to injustice.

Containing and channeling anger in a positive direction is neither easy nor automatic for any human being. As we celebrate King’s life and achievements on a Martin Luther King, Jr. Day that falls during tumultuous times, I am focused in particular on what he had to say about anger. 

King’s defining principle of nonviolent action to confront racial injustice reflects his view of anger. Like any example of authentic positivity, King’s legacy includes the full range of human emotions, including anger.

In a 1955 address to the first mass meeting of the Montgomery Improvement Association, King sought not to erase the collective anger of those who were being mistreated and discriminated against, but to channel it into what he called “positive action…devoid of hate and resentment.” 

“If you internalize anger, and you don’t find a channel, it can destroy you,” Bernice King, CEO of The King Center, an organization founded by her mother Coretta Scott King, said in a 2019 interview with NPR. She continued, “That’s why when Daddy reiterated, ‘Hate is too great a burden to bear,’ he knew it was corrosive and erosive.”

King’s leadership style was to channel his anger into words and actions that could change the unjust systems he was confronting. His ability to stand and speak with calm power in the face of injustice and violence—including when his own house was bombed—is part of his belief in what Clarence Jones, an attorney and speechwriter who worked for King, described as “redemptive love.”

“From Dr. King’s standpoint,” Jones told NPR, “anger is part of a process that includes anger, forgiveness, redemption and love.”

Reflecting on his own overly angry moments, King returned to his foundational principles of nonviolent action. He wrote in his autobiography about an angry exchange he had with white officials in Montgomery during the bus boycott: “‘You must not harbor anger,’ I admonished myself. ‘You must be willing to suffer the anger of the opponent, and yet not return anger. You must not become bitter. No matter how emotional your opponents are, you must be calm.’”

How Keeping a Gratitude Journal Can Make a Difference in Your Life

Posted on by Rick Hamlin

Some Bible verses are so clear it’s hard to ignore them. Like Paul’s admonishment: “Give thanks in all circumstances for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus” (1Thessalonians 5:18).

“Okay, Paul,” I want to respond, “but you’re asking a lot.” How on earth do I give thanks in all circumstances? What if I don’t feel thankful? Why do it in the first place?

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Maybe Paul suggests we do it because it’s good for us.

Years ago, someone talked me into keeping a gratitude journal. The goal: put down at least three things everyday that you’re grateful for. Dutifully I did. On some days I wasn’t even sure what I was thankful for, but because I’d promised to write three things down, I’d look for something.

Even things as mundane as, “Thank you, God, for the comb I used on my hair this morning,” adding almost as an afterthought, “Thank you, God, that I even have hair to comb.”  Gray and thinning…but there it is. “Thank you, God, for my bathroom mirror, too.”  “And the light above it.”

In time I began to see the usefulness of a regular practice of thanksgiving. When I looked for stuff, especially on days I didn’t think I could find anything, things came to mind, things you’d never even thought of. Like…

“Thanks, God, for the friend who texted me this morning…”

“Thanks, God, for all the books on our shelves.” Instead of complaining about running out of shelf space, couldn’t I be grateful for the gift of reading?

“Thanks, God, for my phone.” All those things I can do with it, the world at my fingertips, not to mention the weather, the time, the news, photos, family, friends, Bible verses.

“Thanks, God, for the water that comes out of my faucet.” Clean, clear, fresh. Hot and cold running water. Amazing.

“Thanks, God, for the cup I use every morning.”

“Thanks, God, for the reading light next to my bed.”

“Thanks, God, for the opportunity to thank You.”

Somehow writing things down made thankfulness more real. I had tangible examples. I could read them back and smile.

Then one day after a series of disappointments and setbacks and an overwhelming sense of failure, a gloomy depression came sinking over me. I knew I needed a big dose of thankfulness. This was the chance to test Paul’s dictum of “in all circumstances.”

I went outside, notebook in hand, sat on a bench and started writing. I’d put every little thing I could think of that I was thankful for. My church, the names of friends, my colleagues at work, a favorite teacher. By the time I was finished I’d filled a whole page.

Most importantly, my mood had changed. The gloom began to lift. I was more myself.

My thankful self. Because it is that self that knows God and feels God and loves God as God loves me. 

There, one more thing to be thankful for!

How Jesus Became One Man’s Best Friend

Posted on by Michelle Cox

I was just on faculty for the Blue Ridge Mountains Christian Writers Conference. Sweet conferee Dee Dee Parker wrote this article for one of the contests at the conference, and it so touched me that I asked if she’d mind if I shared it with you. I’m glad she agreed to let me do that… 

The church bus arrived at its usual time carrying its usual passengers. A man both slight in stature and younger in face than his actual age sat in the front seat, most certainly not in usual church attire. Buddy was wearing an Indian headdress.

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Entering the sanctuary, Buddy moved down the aisle, still wearing his headgear. He spoke to everyone he passed and after shaking their hands, took a seat next to an elderly member.

The older man, Amos, as well as the entire congregation knew and loved Buddy. Amos greeted Buddy then pointed to his own hat sitting beside him on the pew. Buddy, understanding Amos’ gesture, removed the headdress and like Amos, sat his “hat” on the pew.

I glanced across the isle at Buddy; his eyes focused on the pastor, listening to every word, the lesson exploring friendship from a biblical viewpoint. The pastor read several Scriptures where Jesus declared He was mankind’s friend. Wondering how much of the teaching Buddy comprehended, I said a silent prayer asking Jesus to open his mind to understanding.

At the end of the lesson the pastor passed a flower sign-up sheet. Our church is small, and to keep expenses down, members volunteer to provide flower arrangements for each week of the year. On the sign-up sheets were boxes indicating if the flowers were to be provided in memory or honor of, or being offered in the celebration of a birthday or anniversary.

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Knowing I was responsible for the flowers, Buddy asked me to explain the purpose of the boxes on the sign-up sheet. I smiled and did so. Satisfied with my explanation, he disappeared into the crowd. Retrieving the sign up-sheet I checked to see if all the weeks were covered with flower donations. Near the end of the list of names, crudely written, was Buddy’s.

I decided when Buddy’s turn came to provide flowers I would bring an arrangement, giving it in Buddy’s name.

Several months later, Buddy’s Sunday finally arrived, and I walked through the front door stopping short of the flower table. In a mason jar were three faded, plastic flowers.

I was certain I knew the origin of the petals. Our church sits next to a cemetery, and the bus parks in front of the cemetery gate. Next to the gate is a large trash barrel used to dispose of discarded flowers.

I spotted a piece of paper beside the flowers, and I read the heartwarming words. These flowers are from Buddy in honor of his BEST friend, Jesus.

Buddy had understood the Scripture concerning friendship; indeed, he’d understood it better than most. Jesus is not only our Lord and Savior, but also our best friend. And Buddy gave because Jesus commanded us to give.

I believe a more beautiful bouquet never bloomed. I also believe Jesus smelled the sweet fragrance of Buddy’s flowers in the very halls of heaven.

Is Jesus your best friend? Do you listen to his commands and strive to honor Him?

“You are my friend if you do what I command you.” (John 15: 14)

How I Found Forgiveness After Dale Earnhardt’s Death

Posted on by Michael Waltrip

I knew it was there. And for nine long years, I tried not to think about it: a DVD of my first NASCAR victory, after 16 winless seasons and 462 tries, at the 2001 Daytona 500—the biggest, most important race of them all. My sister Connie had recorded the race for me, like all my races, and slipped the DVD inside a case she’d decorated with stars and smiley faces.

The DVD was tucked in the top drawer of the entertainment center in my living room. I walked past that drawer every day. But I never opened it. That would have meant opening up the feelings I’d kept a lid on all these years. Yes, I’d finally gotten the win I’d prayed for, ending years of public and personal doubts about my abilities. Yes, I’d driven into Victory Lane at Daytona, the dream of every driver. But watching the ending was more than I could bear.

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I’ll never forget the moment I climbed out of my car. Everyone important to me was there, showering me with wild whoops, confetti and champagne. My wife Buffy. My two beautiful daughters, Caitlin and Macy. The rest of my family. My race team. All but one. The one I wanted to see most. My buddy and mentor, who had hired me to drive for his team, who had coached me to win that day. “Where’s Dale?” I asked.

To NASCAR fans Dale Earnhardt was The Intimidator, the fearless, mustachioed man in the black No. 3 car. The most swashbuckling driver since Richard
Petty. Dale owned the car I raced.

The last I’d seen him, in my rearview mirror on the final lap, he was running third, behind me and his son, Dale Junior. Just like he drew it up for us a few days ago, I thought. Whoever gets to the front, stay there and the others will work to protect his lead.

I kept waiting for Dale to come up and hug me, flash that big old smile of his. I didn’t know then that seconds before I crossed the finish line, there’d been a bad crash behind me.

On the final lap, two cars had hit between turns three and four. They bounced off the wall and spun around, smoking, then slid across the track and came to rest, mangled, in the infield. One driver climbed out of his car, unhurt. The other driver had to be cut from his car. It was Dale, killed when his car hit the wall.

How did this happen? I asked myself. People said Dale had never raced like he did that day. Instead of trying to win, he’d kept his competitive fire in check, playing defense, maneuvering to keep other cars from taking a run at Dale Junior and me. Was I to blame? I sensed it everywhere. At the supermarket. At the track. The worst was at the race-team headquarters. There were a couple hundred people working there, and every morning I wondered if they were thinking, If it weren’t for him, Dale would still be here.

I tried not to think about it. When I did, I found myself agreeing with them. Sure, it had been Dale’s race strategy, but if he hadn’t been trying to help me…. God, why? What’s the point of finally winning when it cost my friend’s life?

For weeks afterward, nothing went right. Not at the track, where I kept getting beat, and no wonder, because for the first time in my life my heart wasn’t in racing. Not at home with Buffy. Nights, after little Macy had gone to bed, Buffy tried to get through to me. “I can see it’s eating you up inside,” she said one night. “Talk to me, Michael.”

“I can’t,” I said. How could I tell her about the voices that haunted my dreams, saying I’d let Dale give his life for me? The guilt and sadness I woke up with every day? I couldn’t talk to anyone about it. Not Buffy. Not Dale Junior, not Dale’s widow, not a pastor.

So Buffy gave me the space she thought I needed. “It wasn’t your fault,” she kept telling me. But how could she know, when I couldn’t be sure myself?

I’m a racer. I had to get back in the game. I hung my hopes on the July 4 race, the Pepsi 400, at Daytona. One of my favorite races. If I can win this one for Dale, I can get my life back to normal. As the day grew closer, I started feeling like my old self. I wasn’t just driving to win the race. I was driving for redemption.

When Dale Junior and I rolled onto the track that night, the crowd cheered like I’d never heard before. It was so cool. The green flag dropped. I tore off the line. For 395 miles I scratched and clawed for position. With a few laps to go, my teammate Junior grabbed the lead. I closed the gap, till just one car separated us.

Gripping the wheel, I tried to press that gas pedal through the floorboard. I roared past the second-place car. The white flag dropped. Final lap. I set my sights on Junior. Go get him, Mikey, I told myself.

Junior’s car got bigger and bigger in my windshield. Time to make my move. I gritted my teeth, but I couldn’t quite hold back my feelings. I thought of Dale and how much I missed him, and how badly the last five months had hurt. I thought of how tough it had been for Buffy. I thought about Junior and what he must be feeling right now.

I pulled up to his rear bumper. Put him away, I thought. Pass him. The win’s there for the taking! Wasn’t that what Dale Senior always preached?

My competitive juices reached a boil…but I didn’t pass. I stayed on Junior’s bumper. I protected his lead, just as he and Dale had protected mine back in February. The checkered flag came down. Junior won. I followed in his wake.

After his victory lap, we stopped in the infield for a celebration with the fans. The cheers were even louder than before. They weren’t just cheering for Dale Junior and me, they were cheering for Dale Senior too.

Junior grabbed me and we hugged each other hard. I knew somewhere in heaven Dale was flashing that big old grin of his. Perhaps finally I could feel at peace. I’d done for his son what he’d done for me.

Except it hadn’t cost me my life.

Soon as the euphoria of Dale Junior’s win wore off, those voices haunted my dreams again. I woke in the morning feeling as guilt-stricken as ever. Buffy could tell the minute she saw my face. “Michael, what’s wrong?” she asked.

I stopped her. What good would talking do? “I don’t want to discuss it,” I said. “I don’t want you counseling me. I’m sick of this. I’m just going to deal with it on my own.”

After that, it was like something froze up between us. Buffy got counseling from a church outreach program a lot of drivers and crew attended. She tried to get me to join her. No way. Macy was the only one who could make me smile. She was too young to ask what had happened and why. I was Daddy, and that’s all she cared about. My happiest times were spent in our backyard with my little girl, hitting golf balls around.

Buffy and I stumbled along, trying to keep our marriage together for Macy. I loved Buffy, but it was a struggle, what with me still in denial, never wanting to talk about what had happened.

I won the Daytona 500 a second time in 2003. Eventually formed my own racing team, building the business from a shop behind my house to a garage the size of a Walmart. But every night I came home and passed that entertainment center in the living room. Maybe once a month I’d reach into a drawer and pull out a DVD of a race so I could study other teams’ strategies. But never that DVD from the 2001 Daytona 500. Never.

Lord, I know I need to sort out my feelings. Give me the courage to watch that race. Help me to forgive myself, to let go of this awful guilt.

One night last April, I somehow found the courage to slip the DVD into the player. I watched the pre-race interviews. I heard Dale tell reporters in his confident drawl, “You better keep your eyes on Michael.” He was talking to them, but I knew his message was for me. The losing is over, Michael. You’ll win for me.

The race began. Dale Junior and I got to the front of the pack early. Dale was behind us. He was battling back there, blocking. I never knew what he was dealing with. Drivers making charges, Dale fending them off. I know I couldn’t have done what he did. Junior couldn’t have done it, either. Maybe the way Dale raced that day did play a role in his death.

The final lap. I fixed my eyes on the screen. When we went into the third turn, I saw something that made me sit up straight. By that point we were home free. There was no catching Junior or me. Dale knew that. He wasn’t blocking or playing defense anymore. He was racing for himself, trying to finish third behind his buddy and his son—or maybe even win it all, if we slipped up.

Dale wanted me to win, but he wasn’t going to let me win. I bet Dale said, I got a chance to make a run on you two. Here I come.

He cut low on the turn to make his move and made contact with another car, sending him into the wall. Dale had died doing what he loved—racing, not blocking. It didn’t ease the pain of losing him.

But my relief was so tremendous I broke down sobbing. God, I’m sorry I didn’t come to you with this nine years ago, I prayed. If only I had trusted in your forgiveness and forgiven myself.

Every so often, I replay that DVD. It still makes me sad, but I don’t blame myself anymore. Now when I watch it, I’m reminded of a verse from 1 Corinthians 15: “It will happen in a moment, in the blink of an eye…those who have died will be raised to live forever. And we who are living will also be transformed.”

My friend and mentor Dale Earnhardt lives on through all those whose lives he touched, people he changed forever. Like me.   

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Her Son’s Homemade Star Brought Holiday Joy to Their Family

Posted on by Kelly Gallagher

Grocery bags in one hand, I helped my seven-year-old son, Hudson, out of the car. It wasn’t easy to hide my excitement as we walked toward the house. Hudson didn’t know it, but there was a surprise waiting for us inside: a Christmas tree. A real Christmas tree. My husband, Alan, and I had never put up a live tree in all our 14 years together.

We’d made careful plans the day before. Alan would sneak out to buy an evergreen and get it in its stand while Hudson and I were out. We hoped the tree might make an impression, that it might get Hudson excited for Christmas in a way that would add a whole new level of holiday joy for us. But we could never be sure what might touch Hudson’s spirit.

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Most kids didn’t need any encouragement when it came to Christmas. But Hudson wasn’t a typical child. Because of his autism, he sometimes seemed to float between two worlds, the one I lived in and the one in his head. Looking forward to future events, even Christmas, didn’t come naturally to him. Neither did answering questions or interpreting words and gestures. He had his own way about him. I singled out the house key on the ring. So what if Hudson prefers the sound of crinkling wrapping paper to the gifts inside the box? But a real Christmas tree… Before I could stop myself, I was picturing Hudson’s eyes lighting up at the sight of it.

Kelly Gallagher with her husband and their son Hudson; Photo Courtesy Kelly Gallagher
Kelly Gallagher with her husband and their son Hudson; photo courtesy Kelly Gallagher

I unlocked the front door and opened it wide. Alan was waiting with a camera to record Hudson’s reaction to the gorgeous evergreen tree now standing in our living room. “Hey, buddy,” Alan said. “What do you think?”

Hudson looked at the tree. His eyes didn’t light up. He didn’t smile. He might have been looking at a new piece of furniture. “Tree,” Hudson said simply. “Pine needles.” All the hopes I’d told myself not to have came crashing down.

Alan turned off the camera. His eyes were shiny with tears. “It’s okay,” he told me quietly. “We’ll decorate it together. Hudson will like that.”

Or not, I thought as Alan got out the ornaments. I knew it wasn’t fair for me to put my expectations on my son. It was my constant prayer not to let myself do that.

God had given me the perfect child, autism and all. Hudson could never fail me. But at times like this, I feared I was failing him. I felt helpless to find something about Christmas that spoke to my son. I hooked a silver ball and handed it to him. I hung another one on the tree. Hudson stared at the blinking lights, the ornament dangling forgotten from his finger. God, bless Hudson. Help him enjoy Christmas in some way. In his own way. Even if I don’t understand it.

A few minutes later, Hudson was inspecting some tiny detail on an ornament I’d hardly looked twice at. Alan and I hung most of the ornaments ourselves. When the tree was finished, I unplugged the lights. Then I realized we’d forgotten one thing—the tree topper. “Do we still have that star you made last year?” I asked Alan.

“The jagged piece of cardboard I cut out at the last minute?” He laughed. “I threw it out after we took down our fake tree.”

“Good. This tree calls for a proper topper. We’ll buy a shiny star this year. Or a beautiful angel.”

“Star,” said Hudson.

Alan and I turned to him in surprise. “Star on the top,” he said.

Alan and I exchanged glances. “Okay, then, star it is,” I said. “Let’s go online and pick one right now.”

Hudson shook his head. “I want to make another star,” he said firmly. “Don’t throw it away.” Alan and I almost fell over each other, grabbing up art supplies.

“What color do you want your star to be, Hudson?” Alan asked. Hudson chose a yellow crayon. We watched him color intently. When he was satisfied, I cut the star out for him. Alan climbed the stepladder, affixed the star to the top of the tree and turned on the lights.

“I love my star!” Hudson exclaimed. I didn’t need a camera to remember this moment forever.

“We will definitely save your star for next year,” I said. “Okay?” Hudson didn’t answer. He was looking up at the tree topper, his face split in a wide smile. The wise men themselves couldn’t have been more joyful as they gazed at the star leading the way to Bethlehem. Alan and I had our tree; Hudson had his star. God had touched each one of us in his perfect way.

How a Sense of ‘Awe’ Can Help You Stay Positive

Posted on by Holly Lebowitz Rossi

“I lift up mine eyes unto the hills,” says the lovely language of Psalm 121, “from whence cometh my help.” 

My mind rested on this famous verse recently when I was reflecting on the feeling of awe, that sensation we get when we are in the presence of something ineffably bigger than ourselves. There are (at least) three ways to connect with this feeling during the current stressful and anxious reality of the coronavirus pandemic. Each, for me, comes back to this verse.

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1)  Natural Awe

Sometimes, the “hills” in Psalm 121 are translated as “mountains,” but whatever their physical form, the verse invites us to stop and notice the grandeur of nature. Simply being in a natural space—from a vast starry night sky to a trickling creek, a majestic ocean, thick forest or towering mountain peak—is an instant moment-catcher. Even if your encounter with nature is as close to home as a tomato ripening on your backyard vine, you can marvel and find solace in nature’s enduring presence. Draw on that positive perspective the next time you need to see yourself as part of a larger whole. 

2)  Spiritual Awe

Is there any more elegant image to describe prayer than “I lift up mine eyes?” With just that simple gesture, you are immediately brought into connection with whatever form of spirituality is meaningful to you. Whether you are part of a traditional faith community or have a personal sense of spirituality, raising your gaze can cue you to feel held in an awe-inspiring realm. Even when unseen, that place is deeply present, alive and available as a source of support and, as the psalmist writes, “help.”

3)  Self-Awe

Who raises their eyes? Who has faith in the help that resides in the hills? Why, you do! Awe, by definition, is an understanding of yourself within a larger context. But you can also marvel at the small and grand ways in which you show up for yourself. Especially during the pandemic, have you stayed calm in a stressful moment? Encouraged a friend? Set a healthy boundary? Let go of self-sabotaging expectations? Learned a new skill? Developed an improved sleep, nutrition or fitness routine? Practiced self-compassion? Don’t miss the opportunity to see yourself as an ever-evolving, growing and authentically positive presence in this world.

How an Ex-Cop Was Inspired to Become a ‘Trail Angel’

Posted on by Steve Scarano

The bright orange tarp is spread out on the hard-packed desert sand and filled with strawberries, cherries, cupcakes, Twinkies, hot sauce, Pop-Tarts, Milky Ways and our homemade PB&J burritos. We have gallons of ice-cold lemonade and iced tea ready to pour and lots of vitamin I: ibuprofen for those aches and pains that come with serious hiking. We’re on the Pacific Crest Trail, a hundred miles north of the Mexican border. Day Six for most thru-hikers.

They start coming at 9:30 in the morning, boots kicking up dust. I don my angel wings—a big feathery appendage from the Dollar Store—to greet them. Our sign says Majik, the words spelled out in pink duct tape. Trail magic is what hikers call it, the unexpected blessings that appear on their journey. Doing this year after year has proved a blessing on my own life journey. But it wouldn’t have come about without prayer.

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I was a police officer in the coastal town of Oceanside and, before that, a Marine. When I retired, I stayed busy volunteering. I taught wilderness skills to kids, and in another program we paired at-risk youth with first responders to do a ropes course, teaching them teamwork and leadership. I served on the Eagle Scout review board. I liked being outdoors and getting exercise. “You seem pretty happy being retired,” my wife, Emmy, observed. I was.

Then in 2007 our good friends Marty and Norma decided to thru-hike the Pacific Crest Trail, starting down at the Mexican border and going all the way north to Canada. Five months of the great outdoors, five months of facing the elements. I’ve done my share of backpacking, going to the top of Mount Whitney and the bottom of the Grand Canyon, but hiking one end of the PCT to the other—a trek of some 2,600 miles—was out of my league. They invited us to see them off at the southern terminus. We couldn’t pass up the chance. “It’s amazing all the work and planning they’re putting into this,” I told Emmy.

There’s a mighty short window of opportunity for thru-hikers. Some years, they can’t start earlier than late April because of snow in the Sierras and can’t go later than mid-May because of snow in the Cascades. The last weekend of April, we joined Marty and Norma at the start of the trail, before they headed off toward the Anza-Borrego desert. It was almost like a party: booths set up, vendors selling gear, friends and family cheering on loved ones.

Emmy, Marty, Norma and I gathered at the southern terminus early in the morning. We held hands and prayed. We waved goodbye as, laden with backpacks, our friends stepped out on a narrow sagebrush-lined path. “I’ll be praying for you,” I promised.

And I did. I could imagine what it would be like, the stunning views, the starlit skies, the wildlife, the flowers. But also the fatigue, the burnout, the aches and the blisters, the blazing sun, the bitter winds.

I looked at a map and figured out where they’d be after one hundred miles, a spot called Eagle Rock because of a magnificent raptor-like rock formation. It would be easy enough for me to meet them there. I could drive to Warner Springs and then hike in four miles with some food and drink. A welcome surprise, I hoped.

I went to McD’s, bought some burgers and fries and drinks for them—and for whoever else might show up. I put the food in a backpack, and then we hiked toward Eagle Rock. We met Marty and Norma before we reached it, midmorning. Together we sat under a scraggly elderberry tree. They seemed really glad to see us. So did the other hikers. We chatted, and they ate voraciously. One lady who claimed to be a vegetarian didn’t seem to mind getting a burger. She dubbed me “Hamburger Helper,” and the name stuck. (Okay, I also ended up making a laminated label for myself from a Hamburger Helper box.) “You’re a trail angel,” someone else said. Hence the wings from the Dollar Store.

It was great to see Marty and Norma. But even more fun to see how many others could use my help. I have been doing it ever since.

I’ve seen how popular some things are, like Tabasco sauce packets (“I’ve been dreaming about this stuff all week,” said one guy) or frozen mini Snickers bars carried in an insulated pouch (“You’ve done this before,” said someone else). Some hikers are woefully unprepared, glad for bandages or new laces. We came across one lady sitting by the trail with her socks and boots off, crying, rubbing the blisters on her feet.

“This shouldn’t be happening,” she said. “I’m a veteran hiker.” We offered bandages as well as emotional first aid.

For that inaugural weekend in April, I take along some buddies. We bring in enough trail magic to feed 35 to 40 hikers. We have our own trail names, such as Sundance, Raven and FireKapten (a fire chief before he retired). And we’ve met up with some similarly named hikers like Sweet Tooth, Dance Party and Guy-on-a-Buffalo. Perhaps my favorite was Free Refill, who appropriately enough praised us for our drinks.

I like pointing out the grinding hole in the rock on the edge of the trail, where Native Americans turned acorns into flour. And I once had to explain to a hiker that the “white golf ball” he saw on top of a hill was actually the observatory on the top of Mount Palomar. But some questions are easier to answer than others.

“How much farther to Eagle Rock?” one fellow asked plaintively. He practically levitated when I told him it was right behind him. Ain’t that often the case? We don’t always know how close we are to our journey’s goals.

As you might expect from a former policeman and Marine, I have a few rules. We begin hiking back by 3 p.m., and we leave no trace behind. Everyone is asked to sign the log I bring, and no cash donations are accepted. The notes in the log give me much pleasure at home: “Thanks for the confidence booster,” “You have restored my faith in humanity,” “Thank you for welcoming us as Christ would….”

Funny about that last one. That is exactly as I like to see it, even if I don’t always say those words. I remember once getting an e-mail about a hiker who desperately needed new insoles. I made a special trip to the store and bought them for him, ready to receive what I figured should be overwhelming gratitude. All he said was “How much do I owe you?”

I was a bit put out. But then I reminded myself, Who am I doing this for? For me or for them? I should be thanking hikers for the opportunity to help.

That, I’ve discovered, is the key to retirement. Doing for others. I do other volunteer work closer to home, like maintaining the Coast to Crest Trail for San Dieguito River Park. And I’ve been known to bring trail magic to other hikers—don’t ask me about the time a bunch of cattle mistook me for one of their own because of what was in my backpack. But I’m especially committed to those thru-hikers at Eagle Rock.

They helped a Hamburger Helper discover his angel wings.

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How a Moment Changed Zach Williams’ Faith

Posted on by Kaylin Kaupish

When Zach Williams sat down to write his new album, he thought about all the moments in his life that led him there. There were moments as a child growing up in Jonesboro, Arkansas. Moments as a young man when he made some bad decisions. And a moment on a bus when God changed Zach Williams’ faith forever. This album is his most personal. It tells his life’s story, which wasn’t always easy.

Zach Williams Finds His Calling

Williams grew up with faith and music. His dad was a worship leader and musician, and his mom sang in the church choir. “At a very early age the seed was planted and took root,” he told Guideposts. “I had that foundation.” However, in his young adult years, Williams took some wrong turns. He started using drugs and alcohol and ended up dropping out of high school. When he went to work for his dad’s construction company, it was not what he wanted to do. “I just remember thinking it’s over,” he said, “that my life was done.”

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Determined to do something else with his life, Williams got his GED and entered junior college through a basketball scholarship. Unfortunately, college did not turn out to be a better situation. He drank even more. “I was always the guy that wanted to impress everyone and be the best at everything,” he said. “So, I made it my point to be the best partier in school.”

His antics turned worse when he hurt his ankle before the start of his freshman season. Stuck in his room unable to play, he felt like he was back where he started— having no idea what to do with his life. Then his eyes caught sight of his roommate’s guitar. “Here I am holding this guitar, thinking this is what I want to do with my life,” Williams said. “I didn’t realize then that God was going to do something with it in the future.”

The Rock Star Life

In 2007, Williams formed a band called Zach Williams & The Reformation. They did well and toured the world playing Southern rock music. During that time, Williams got married and started a family. Despite Williams’ success, his dad felt like he needed to do something different. “My dad would constantly tell me, ‘I don’t feel like this is the music you’re supposed to be playing,’” he said. “He always prayed that God had a different plan for my life.”

It turns out his dad’s prayers were needed. Even though the band was about to sign a major record deal, Williams’ personal life was on the ropes. His constant touring, partying, and “rock star” life was becoming too much for his family. His wife, Crystal, didn’t think she could take it anymore. She told him she was thinking about leaving with the kids.

The Moment that Changed Zach Williams’ Faith

Williams was on a tour in Europe at the time, far from home and feeling lost. Not sure what else to do, he prayed. “I just started praying that God would reveal Himself to me,” he said.

While on a long drive in his tour bus, Williams sat in his seat and stared out the window listening to music. At one point he paused the music and took his headphones off. The bus driver scanned the radio for a new station. Over the speakers, the crackle subsided and rested on a song—“Redeemed” by Christian band Big Daddy Weave.

“It stopped me dead in my tracks. I went to the hotel that night, looked up the song, and listened to it again,” said Williams. “It struck me that God saw me in a way that I could see myself. It really hit home.” That moment on the bus changed William’s life forever. He called his wife and told her he was cancelling his shows and quitting the band.

Williams returned home ready to recommit himself to his faith and get his life back together. In 2012, he started attending church with his family. He became a worship leader, just like his dad. Still, Williams could not forget one of his true loves: music. He still felt called to play, except this time, he wanted to do something different with it. And he knew where to start. Williams once again had his dad’s faith to thank for this.

During his years working construction, William’s dad knew his son wasn’t going to church. To bring a little faith to his son’s life, he would play Christian music all day long on the job site. “I didn’t realize how much that affected me,” Williams said. “When I started going to church and playing music there, it was like all those songs had been ingrained in my DNA. And all the music I’d grown up on as a kid, it just all came back to me. It’s funny how God works on you and prepares you for certain things.”

Working with Dolly Parton

His album Chain Breaker (2016) was a huge step in Williams talking about his faith through his music. Then his next album Rescue Story (2019) included a single titled, “There Was Jesus” featuring country music legend Dolly Parton. They performed it together on stage at the 2019 Country Music Awards. The two formed a bond after that song. This year, Williams will appear on her Christmas special Dolly Parton’s Mountain Magic Christmas, along with other music icons, including Willie Nelson, Billy Ray Cyrus, and Miley Cyrus.

Zach Williams and Dolly Parton together before performing at the CMA awards for a story of faith
Zach Williams and Dolly Parton at the 2019 CMA awards (photo courtesy Dolly Parton)

For Williams, working with Parton has been an inspiring experience that taught him some important lessons. “She stayed so true to her roots, and she never forgot where she came from,” he said. “You can tell she had a very humble beginning. She never stopped rooting for the underdog or championing the generations coming out behind her.”

 

Getting back to his own roots is a major part of Zach William’s new album, A Hundred Highways. For him, this album is a culmination of all his experiences that led him to where he is today. The good and the bad. The mistakes and the wrong turns. The decisions he made and the lessons he learned. And perhaps most importantly, it’s about what he found.

“I tried everything to fill the hole [in me] to make me feel better,” he said. “Material things I could buy or things I could do. It wasn’t until I was at the end of my rope that I tried Jesus. It was the last place I looked, but I’ve been looking for Him all this time.”

Zach Williams’ album A Hundred Highways is available on streaming sites and online stories. He will appear on Dolly Parton’s Mountain Magic Christmas in December 2022.

He’s Passing Lessons Learned from His Dad to His Sons

Posted on by Bear Grylls

I’ve been dropped into some of the most dangerous places on earth. Pinned in white-water rapids, bitten by a vicious jungle snake, narrowly avoided being eaten by a huge croc in the Australian swamps and had to cut away from my main parachute some 5,000 feet above the Arctic plateau.

I had no idea how many remote jungles, stinking swamps, searing deserts and forbidding mountain ranges we have on this planet until I started making the TV show Man vs. Wild.

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I wouldn’t have made it out of any of those tough spots if I hadn’t learned a thing or two from my parents. My own three boys at their young age have already shown a tendency toward adventure: climbing very tall trees, catching worms and bugs, possessing a magnetic pull toward mud and ooze.

On my flights back and forth from our home in England, I wrote a memoir describing my adventures (Mud, Sweat, and Tears was published this May). It’s full of advice my mum and dad gave me and that I hope to pass along to my children.

If I had to sum up the secret of my survival in four words, it would be a combination of heart, hope, doggedness and faith. After all, we’re all survivors of some sort, even if we don’t climb mountains or jump out of airplanes.

So before I’m off on my next adventure, let me share a thing or two that I’ve learned on my travels.

Be the most enthusiastic person you know!
When I was a kid in London, Mum would take me every week to a small gymnasium for budding gymnasts. Mr. Sturgess was a military man and it showed. He ran the classes with iron discipline.

We loved it, even though we were only six. We would line up in rows beneath a metal bar, some seven feet off the ground, then one by one we would say: “Up, please, Mr. Sturgess,” and he would lift us up and leave us hanging.

The rules were simple: You were not allowed to ask permission to drop off until the whole row was up and hanging. And even then you had to request: “Down, please, Mr. Sturgess.”

I took great pride in being the last man hanging. Mum said she couldn’t bear to watch as my little skinny body hung there, my face purple and contorted in blind determination to stick it out.

One by one the other boys would drop off, and I’d be left hanging, battling to endure until even Mr. Sturgess called it quits. I would then scuttle back to my mark, grinning from ear to ear.

“Down, please, Mr. Sturgess” became a family phrase for hard exercise, strict discipline and sheer determination. To this day Mum says that I seemed destined to be a mix of Robin Hood, Harry Houdini and John the Baptist.

Give your family the bulk of your time, energy and love, and you will be happy.
Dad was a loyal, hardworking member of Parliament for over 20 years but he never reached the higher echelons of political office. He didn’t seem to want that. What he aspired to most in life was to be close to his family.

At prep school I was chosen for the under nines’ rugby team. Well, to be more accurate, I was chosen to be linesman, a kind of assistant referee and water boy, because I wasn’t good enough for the actual team.

It was a cold, miserable winter’s day, and there were no spectators, which was uncommon. Normally at least a few boys or teachers would come out to cheer the school matches. On this blustery day the sidelines were deserted, except for one lone figure: my dad, standing in the freezing drizzle.

I hadn’t even made the team and he had still come down here to watch me run up and down waving a silly flag. When the halftime whistle blew it was my big moment. On I ran to the pitch, a plate of oranges in my hands for the team, with Dad applauding.

Lives are made in such moments.

Dad had a great imagination and on holidays he could turn a hike into something bigger. We would pretend that German paratroopers held the high ground on top of a sheer 150-foot chalk cliff. We had to climb silently and unseen and then grenade the German fire position at the summit.

In reality this meant lobbing clumps of manure toward a deserted bench, but what a great way to spent a day when you are age eight (or 28).

It is a sign of great strength to need Jesus.
As a young boy my faith in God seemed so natural. It was a simple comfort, unquestioning and personal. But once I went to school and was forced to sit through daily chapel services with prayers in Latin and people droning on, I thought that I had got the whole faith deal wrong.

Maybe God wasn’t intimate and personal but was tedious, judgmental, boring and irrelevant. The natural, instinctive faith I had known was tossed out with this newly found delusion that because I was growing up, it was time to “believe” like a grown up.

Then I hit a low point. My godfather Stephen died. He’d been my father’s best friend and was a second father to me. He came on all our family holidays and spent almost every weekend with us in the summer, sailing with Dad and me. He died very suddenly of a heart attack.

At school the day I got word of Stephen’s death, I climbed a tree and sitting there amid the branches, I prayed the simplest, most heartfelt prayer of my life: “God, if you’re like you were when I used to know you, will you be that again? Comfort me.”

Blow me down if he didn’t do just that!

My faith is about being held, comforted, forgiven, strengthened and loved. Faith in Christ has been the great empowering presence in my life, helping me walk strong when so often I feel weak.

Failure is a stepping stoneon the road to success.
I was never a very good student and I hated when my school reports arrived in the mail. I would always grab the official letter before anyone could open it. I would sprint down to the end of our garden where there was this gorgeous big sycamore.

It had amazing limbs, perfectly spaced for monkey-style climbing. From my perch in the sycamore I had a commanding view of the whole village.

When I opened up the reports I had the space to keep things in perspective. Okay, so I flunked another math exam and the Latin teacher says I must stop “sniggering in class,” but from here, the world looks all right.

By the time I came down I’d be ready to face the music. Not as if I had anything to fear from Mum and Dad. They loved me and that helped so much. My marks didn’t matter as long as I worked hard and did my best.

Dad had always been hopeless at sports and academia, yet he had done well and was greatly loved. That was good enough for me. I’ve never minded risking failure because I was never punished for failing.

Follow your dreams. They are God-given.
At age 18, I visited India for the first time. In the Himalayas I rose early one freezing mountain morning and witnessed one of the most wonderful sights of my life: the sun rising over Mount Everest.

I bought a large laminated poster of Everest and vowed that one day I’d climb the highest mountain on earth.

I had no idea then what such an expedition really involved. I had minimal high-altitude experience and was far too young to make a serious high-altitude mountaineer. But I had a dream.

Five years later, when I was in the Special Air Services and no closer to my dream, I was in a terrible parachuting accident. Three of my vertebrae were fractured and I came within a whisker of severing my spinal column. I could hardly move without excruciating pain.

Whenever I got out of bed I had to wear a big metal brace. I was stuck in my bedroom at home for three months, angry, scared and frustrated.

Mum always taught me to be grateful. I had to remind myself that I had survived. I realized I needed to do something bold with what I was being given. Life doesn’t often give us second chances. But if it does, be bloody grateful.

That old poster of Everest still hung on my bedroom wall. The mountain seemed to peer down at me. If I ever recover, I told myself, if I ever get well enough to climb again, I’m going to follow that dream to the max. I vowed to be grateful to my Father in heaven for having somehow helped me along this rocky road.

On May 25, 1998, 18 months later, I was at high camp on Mt. Everest, 28,000 feet above sea level and a thousand feet from the top of the earth, the night before our final push. I reached into the top pouch of my backpack and pulled out a few crumpled pages wrapped in plastic.

“Even the youths shall faint and be weary,” I read, “and the young men shall utterly fall. But those who wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength. They shall mount up with wings like eagles. They shall run and not be weary. They shall walk and not faint.”

The next morning we reached the summit. I stood at the top of the world with tears pouring down my frozen cheeks and gave thanks to God. I scooped some snow into an empty vitamin bottle.

Years later, my wife and I would christen our three boys with this snow water from Everest’s pinnacle, water that almost touched heaven.

I’ve never stopped dreaming and pursuing my dreams. If you see me on TV, mud on my face, knee-deep in a swamp or snow, the weather ungodly cold or insufferably hot, don’t let that fool you. The greatest adventure of all is faith.
 

Download your FREE ebook, The Power of Hope: 7 Inspirational Stories of People Rediscovering Faith, Hope and Love

Her Recipe for Joy

Posted on by Robin Davis

Thanksgiving morning I chopped bacon and Brussels sprouts—ingredients for a surprise dish I was serving with my traditional turkey dinner—and tried to calm my nerves. Robin, you’re a good cook, a professional food editor. Don’t worry, you’ve got this.

But it was the first holiday I’d be cooking for my new husband, Ken, and my three stepchildren—along with 25 guests. What if they didn’t like this recipe, or anything I made? Lord, I prayed, please don’t let me blow this!

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It was funny, really, me in this scenario. Because I never thought I’d have a husband and kids to cook for. Or that I’d be talking to God. Or that I’d be living back home in Ohio.

I was the classic small-town girl with big-city dreams. Right after I graduated from the University of Dayton, I fled the state for culinary school in San Francisco. I was smitten with the city. I found the perfect job—restaurant critic for the San Francisco Chronicle.

My career was my passion. I’d decided I didn’t want to get married. Marriage didn’t fit into my plans. Neither did God. I hadn’t grown up praying or going to church. Why start now? My life was busy enough.

Then, 13 years after I’d left Ohio, for good, I thought, my dad passed away. Suddenly big-city life didn’t seem so fulfilling. I longed to be near my sister and three brothers, who’d all stayed close to home.

One night I caught myself praying. Maybe not quite praying. The prayer seemed to say itself, but it came from me. Lord, if you want me in Ohio, give me a sign. The prayer kept saying itself. That had to be my sign, right? I headed home.

I had been back for about a month when I attended a University of Dayton alumni dinner. A handsome man with sparkly green eyes approached me.

“Hi, I’m Ken,” he said, extending his hand.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Robin. Class of eighty-seven.”

“Me too!” he said. Ken and I hadn’t known each other in college, but talking to him felt so easy and familiar. I told him that I’d recently lost my dad and he confided that he’d lost his wife to breast cancer a year earlier. He was raising their children, 10-year-old Ben and 8-year-old twins, Molly and Sarah.

At the end of the night, I gave him my phone number—something I’d never done before.

We started dating. It didn’t take long for me to see that Ken’s faith was what had carried him through his wife’s illness and death. I wondered what it would be like to have that kind of spiritual sustenance.

“I’d like to pray more,” I told him. “How do I do that?”

“Pray often and everywhere. Just talk to God. You’ll get the hang of it.”

The more I prayed, the more I felt certain that it was God who’d brought me back to Ohio—to this wonderful man and his beautiful children. Two years after we met, Ken and I were married in his church, which became my church too.

Suddenly I was a stepmom. I didn’t know much about kids, but I could bring one thing to the table: food. I made dinner, school lunches, breakfast on the weekends, and took the kids food shopping.

One day after a trip to the market, Sarah ran up to Ken. “Dad! It’s amazing! Robin knows everything at the grocery store!” she said. We all laughed. Food connected us, bringing us even closer.

Still, standing here in the kitchen on our first Thanksgiving together, I was nervous. All these people, including my new family. Could I really pull it off? Can I, Lord?

I prepared the classics—turkey, gravy, stuffing, mashed potatoes. Then added the Brussels sprouts with bacon for the vegetable dish.

The recipe was one I’d developed at work. It mixed the steamed and halved sprouts with chopped bacon and apple juice—a delicious intermingling of flavors. But would my guests agree?

I finished cooking and set dinner up buffet-style in the kitchen. Everyone filled their plates and raved about the food. Only the Brussels sprouts were hardly touched. Oh, no…

Then I heard Sarah talking to Molly, Ben and their cousins. “You guys should try these. They’re awesome!” she said. Her plate was piled high with sprouts. On her recommendation, everyone else had a taste. Then they came back for seconds and thirds.

Today that dish is part of our family Thanksgiving tradition. And it’s a reminder to me that when we’re open to God’s plan, he fills our lives with an abundance of blessings.

Try Robin's Brussels Sprouts with Bacon recipe for yourself!

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Her Dream Came True When God Answered Her Long-Time Prayer

Posted on by Pam Walker

addOur annual fall get-together with my aunts and cousins in southern Indiana was a “girls only” weekend event I always looked forward to. My mother had died when I was 19, and I found much comfort in being surrounded by the women on her side of the family. We were staying at a charming bed and breakfast, where we told stories on the front porch, played euchre and took turns pushing each other on the tree swing. The weather was perfect. After a full day of warm hugs and laughter, I was ready for a good night’s sleep.

The year before, I’d shared a room with my aunt Sue and cousin Ann. We’d stayed up late, talking in our pajamas. It was almost like I was with my own mom and the sister I never had. But now that I had a young daughter at home and was pregnant with my second child, my relatives wanted to be sure I got the rest I needed. They’d insisted I take a room all to myself. Although I was grateful for their thoughtfulness, I found myself feeling lonely, and maybe even a little jealous.

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I had loved growing up with a brother, but had always wondered what it would be like to also have a sister. Someone to share a room with, to share clothes with, and to share advice and giggles about boys. I prayed for God to make my dream real. Alone in my room at the inn, imagining the sisters in our group together in theirs, it looked like my longing was still as strong as ever.

While I knew it was too late for me to have a sister, that didn’t mean it was for my daughter, Natalie. I got into bed and snuggled under the covers. God, I’d love to give Natalie the sister I never had. Of course, I would love whatever child God gave me, just as I loved my brother. But wouldn’t it be wonderful to have another girl, I thought as I drifted off to sleep.

The traditional fall weekend came to an end, and we said our goodbyes until next time. “You’ll be old enough to come with us one day,” I promised Natalie when I got home. I gave my husband updates on family members and shared the highlights of the trip during dinner over the next few weeks. There was always lots to report. Then, one afternoon, I got an odd phone call from my father. He asked if I was sitting down. “Dad, is everything okay?”

Pam Walker, left, at her sister Lisa's (right) Surprise 60th birthday party
Pam Walker, left, at her sister Lisa’s (right) Surprise 60th birthday party

“I have some interesting news,” he began. “First, I have to explain something to you.” At that point, I did sit down. It wasn’t like my straight-shooter dad to draw out a phone call. “Before your mother and I got married,” he said, “she had a baby who was given up for adoption.”

I was shocked beyond measure. My mother had never said a word about this part of her past, and Dad had kept her secret. So why was he suddenly telling me this now?

“I just got off the phone with your sister, Lisa,” he said.

“My sister?!”

“She’s been searching for her birth mother,” Dad went on. “She wants to meet you and your brother.”

It was almost too much to take in. I hadn’t even met her yet, but I already felt angels drawing us together. The sister I’d long ago stopped praying for had been real all along!

Dad put Lisa and me in touch, and in our first phone call, she made plans to visit. Seeing her in person was a dream come true. She looked just like my mother—short with curly hair and a bubbly personality. It was like having a little bit of Mom back in my life again. We talked over one another in a long gab session, firing questions and filling in the details of our lives, until we knew everything there was to know. “I was adopted by a wonderful family,” Lisa assured me. “Our mother gave me a great life.” It turned out we’d even lived close to each other for years without knowing it—and we shared the same wedding anniversary!

When the next get-together rolled around, Lisa was welcomed as the newest sister and female cousin to our family. We chose a new inn for our reunion that year, a bed and breakfast whose proprietors had given quaint names to all the guest rooms. Lisa and I bunked together in “The Sisters Room.”

It’s been 25 years since I found Lisa. Today we’re closer than ever. Oh, and the baby I had? That would be Natalie’s sister, Amanda. God answered all my prayers.

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