Sparkling Escapades Abroad with the Fairy Bra Mother

Author: sparklingescapadesabroad

  • . “The Symphony of What Matters”

    Today, I was listening to some songs that really spoke to me—stirred my heart in ways I didn’t expect. So many thoughts swirled around in my mind, and I just had to share a few.

    One of the songs was “It Matters to the Master.” Oh, it hit me all over again—whatever matters to me, matters to God. Whether it’s something small or something that feels like it’s breaking me in two, it matters. If you’re feeling lonely—it matters to Him. If you’re in pain again—He sees it. And if you’re just overwhelmed by the beauty of blooming flowers, a baby kitten playing at your feet, or a glorious sunset—it still matters. He cares deeply about the joyful and the hard things.

    Another song painted the most beautiful picture: that when we walk into heaven, Jesus’ eyes light up—just to see us. I’ve never thought of it quite like that. That He’d be genuinely glad to see me. That He’d feel the cross was worth it—just for me. And just for you.

    Then came a song that perfectly expressed a feeling I’ve had so many times: “Lord, I don’t even know what to pray.” You ever feel that way? I sure have. So often, I catch myself telling God how to fix things, as if I know better. But He sees it all—the past, the present, the future. He knows exactly what to do, and He doesn’t need my instructions—just my trust.

    Lately, it feels like bad news is everywhere. But I’ve still got a happy song in my heart—because I belong to Jesus. That peace that makes no sense? That joy I never thought I’d know? It’s real. Even when the bills pile up or the car breaks down or I’m running low on strength—He’s still there, still giving me a song to sing.

    I remember when we were young and newly married, living in Michigan. My husband worked in carpentry, and winters were hard. Sometimes we didn’t know where the money was coming from—for groceries, for the light bill… but somehow, God always made a way. More than once, an envelope showed up in the mail with just enough cash. We never found out who sent it—but I’ll never forget that kind of obedience and kindness.

    If you’re feeling weighed down today, I hope this reminds you—you’re not alone. God sees it all. It matters to Him. Keep singing your song, even if it’s through tears.

    You are loved.

    “Even the Smallest Song is Heard”

  • “Oil Leaks and Life Lessons: My Memorial Day Adventure”

    My Memorial Day wasn’t quite what I had in mind… but it sure was memorable.

    I woke up late, thanks to a rough night of pain and tossing around like a rotisserie chicken. Crawled out of bed, aching, but determined. I had pheasant chicks to pick up, and that’s one of my favorite parts of country life.

    I hopped in the trusty ol’ caravan (aka our pretend truck), and right away I could tell something was off. I tried passing a slow-moving car and the pedal went to the floor like I was in NASCAR… but the van? She said, “Nah, I’m tired too.” Honestly, I felt it in my soul.

    I texted my husband to ask if he’d noticed anything weird—he said it seemed a little sluggish last night on the way to church, but not too bad. So I kept going, stopped for gas about 25 minutes out, and noticed the smell of fuel was strong. Still, the van had a bit more oomph, so I rolled on.

    Then the oil light popped on around some curves and disappeared just as fast. Something told me to pull over. So I did. I checked the oil—and the dipstick was bone dry. Not even a glimmer.

    Thankfully, my hubby had stashed a quart behind the seat. I poured it in, checked again… and there was barely a trace. So I went back to the gas station and bought three more quarts (because when in doubt, overprepare). After two more went in, I was back on the road—again.

    That’s when Sean called and said he was heading out to meet me. Smart man. When I pulled in behind him, we saw oil pouring out from underneath the van like a crime scene. Clearly, something wasn’t sealed up right during the last oil change. So… vehicle #2 it was!

    Fueled up again, took a deep breath, and hit the road—because I love that drive. Winding through the countryside to pick up chicks (literally!), soaking in the familiar views. I’ve done it 4–5 times a year and it never gets old. I finally made it home around 6, exhausted, head pounding—but thankful I made it.


    —

    What’s the moral? Life doesn’t always go smoothly. Sometimes it sputters, leaks, or throws a curveball your way. But if you keep moving forward, ask for help when you need it, and find joy in the journey… you’ll still get where you’re meant to be.

    Not the day I planned—but still a day worth remembering.

    How was your Memorial Day?

    #sonyasjoys

  • Trusting the Master Weaver… Even in the Midnight Hours

    Some of you know our son moved to Alabama in early March, officially making us empty nesters. For the past few nights, I’ve found myself wide awake—worrying. Up until now, he’d been living with his boss’s family, but on Saturday, he moved out on his own.

    If you’re a mom of adult kids, you know the kind of worries that creep in. He’s a single guy, living alone for the first time. I trust him… kind of. But the world is full of temptations—for the young and the not-so-young. I worry about the big equipment he operates, about him finding good friends, eating well, avoiding trouble… and not blowing all his money on that “new” truck. And goodness, I miss him.

    When I shared this with my husband, his advice? “You need to stop worrying at night and just sleep. Do your worrying in the daytime.” Ummm… sure. Easier said than done! I haven’t quite figured out how to turn off my brain when my head hits the pillow.

    And it’s not just our son. I miss my daughter too. She’s in Kansas with her family, and I couldn’t be prouder—she rebuilt her semi’s engine, cleaned it up, and even painted it herself. I never imagined back when I was “teaching” mechanics to my 7th and 8th graders (I use the term teaching very loosely, mind you!) that one of my kids would go on to do something so major.

    But still… I worry about her heart. Her marriage. Her little boy. Whether she knows how deeply God loves her. And I miss her—our shopping trips, picking up pheasant chicks in Wisconsin, laughing, telling stories, and me (of course) singing to her in the car.

    Then the other morning, I saw a quote someone had shared (see the graphic below), and it stopped me in my tracks.

    Why is it so hard to fully entrust our kids to God? Am I holding on too tightly? I know they were only mine for a time, but goodness, letting go is hard. I want to shield them from heartache, steer them away from disappointment, and wrap them up in bubble wrap forever.

    But that’s not how life—or faith—works. Each of us has a path to walk. A tapestry to be woven. And God, in His wisdom, uses both light and dark threads to create something beautiful.

    I’m still learning how to trust the Master Weaver… especially in those quiet, sleepless nights.

    “A mother’s prayers can reach farther than her arms ever could.”

  • Cold Weather and Me- A Complicated Relationship


    There’s something undeniably beautiful about snow—when it’s gently falling outside the window, blanketing the world in white like a quiet little miracle. I love the look of it.

    But feeling it? That’s another story.

    Cold weather, and I have never been good friends. As the temperature drops, my body seems to protest louder than usual. My joints ache, my back stiffens up like an old barn door, and I start to move a whole lot slower—partly because everything hurts and partly because I’m trying not to slip and fall. I walk gingerly, like I’m tiptoeing across glass, because one misstep could mean days of extra pain.

    Even my teeth get in on the drama—chattering like I’ve stepped into a freezer I never signed up for!

    So yes, give me twinkling snowflakes and cozy blankets by the fire. But also give me caution, warmth, and a whole lot of grace when winter shows up.

    Because the cold may bite—but I’ll keep showing up, carefully and bravely, one chilly step at a time.

    #chronicpainwarrior #coldweatherwoes #gentlemovement #snowlooksbetterinside #sonyasjoys

    “Winter reminds us that rest is part of the rhythm too.”

  • Confident, Curious & Over 50: Travel Tips for Solo Women Ready to Explore

    There’s something empowering—something quietly thrilling—about stepping out into the world on your own terms, especially after 50. You’ve raised families, nurtured dreams, survived loss, and now? Now you get to rediscover yourself through new experiences, places, and flavors.

    Solo travel isn’t just a getaway—it’s a return to yourself.

    Whether you’re sipping espresso at a cafĂŠ in Italy, strolling a quiet beach at sunset, or exploring a bustling local market, you’re not just traveling… you’re reconnecting with your courage and curiosity.

    Here are a few of my favorite solo travel tips for women 50 and up:

    1. Stay central and walkable.
    Skip the outskirts. Choose places close to the action where you can explore on foot, safely and easily.

    2. Learn a few phrases.
    Even just “hello,” “please,” and “thank you” in the local language will open hearts and ease interactions.

    3. Don’t overbook your days.
    You don’t need to see it all. Choose a few must-dos, then allow time for rest and spontaneous joy.

    4. Be in the photo.
    Hand someone your phone or bring a tripod. These are your memories—make sure you’re in them!

    5. Honor your preferences.
    Whether it’s a luxury boutique hotel or a quirky bed-and-breakfast, your trip should reflect your tastes. You’ve earned it.

    There is no age limit on adventure. And there’s no rule that says you need a travel partner to enjoy the world. Sometimes, the best company is the woman you’ve become.

    So pack your bags, bring your sparkle, and let joy be your compass.


    What destination is calling your name next?

    “She believed she could—so she booked the flight

  • “Gotcha Day” Reflections: A Journey of Love, Loss, and Belonging. 


    Today is my Gotcha Day.

    Fifty-six years ago, I was placed into the loving arms of Herb and Jean Ensz. That tiny, fragile baby became their daughter—and big sister to my baby brother, Sheldon Ensz. What a journey it’s been.

    Gotcha Day always brings a swirl of emotions. Gratitude and joy… but also questions and what-ifs. I’ve wondered what it might’ve been like to grow up with my biological siblings, to know my roots from the beginning. There’s a soft ache for what I missed—yet an overflowing thankfulness for what I gained.

    I’ve always known I was adopted. My parents never hid that from me, and I’m so glad they didn’t. Recently, someone asked me if I wish I’d had an open adoption. And truthfully? I’m not sure. Maybe it was a gift that decision wasn’t mine. Would I have felt torn? Would I have longed for a different life? I’ll never know. But what I do know is this: all three of my families—adoptive, biological, and in-laws—have welcomed and loved me just as I am.

    As I got older, I longed to know more about where I came from. I hoped to learn who I looked like, acted like, or shared a laugh with. But I never expected to find siblings. The day I learned I had a full sister was overwhelming in the best way. And over time, I discovered five more sisters and two brothers—so far! There are still some mysteries on my biological dad’s side, and I’m okay with that. The journey continues.

    I’m so thankful for my aunts, uncles, and cousins from both the Ensz and Haynes families. And the friends I’ve made along the way, from all the places I’ve lived… they’ve added color and joy to my life in ways I could never have imagined.

    If I hadn’t been adopted, I wouldn’t have met my husband. I wouldn’t have had my two wonderful children or become a grandma to my precious grandson.

    So today, I celebrate not just being chosen—but being woven into something greater. A life full of love, mystery, laughter, pain, and purpose.

    Thank you for being part of my story. I believe, with every bit of my heart, that God knew exactly what He was doing when He brought me into this world and placed me right where I needed to be.

    “Family is not defined by our genes, it is built and maintained through love.”
    — Amara Nwosu

  • “When the Day Shakes You—Foot IVs, Fluttering Songs, and a Cracked Heart”

    Oh, life really does have its twists and turns, doesn’t it?

    Today was my first cataract surgery—my right eye. I went in nervous already, but what followed just about undid me. You see, I’m what the medical world kindly calls a DIVA: Difficult Intravenous Access. After four failed IV attempts, my sweet husband begged them to use ultrasound guidance. But no one there was trained for it. So they tried again… and again. Eight pokes in total—finally landing an IV in my foot. Yes, my foot.

    By the time they wheeled me into surgery, I was shaking. I was already scared about the procedure, and now I was hurting and exhausted. But something unexpected happened: I started to sing. I don’t even remember what started it, but singing helped my eye stay still. Every time I stopped, it wanted to move, so the surgeon asked me to sing “The Butterfly Song” again. I think I sang it at least three times. It helped me stay calm—and I think it calmed the room too.

    The colors I saw during the surgery were stunning—brilliant purples, yellows, greens, and magentas swirling like a painting behind my closed eyelid. They had to keep increasing my sedation, and at one point, they got concerned about my breathing. So the next surgery (for my left eye) will be under general anesthesia. It’s scheduled for June 2.

    I came home relieved it was over—but then life threw another curveball. I found myself in the middle of a very public controversy in my bra business. Somehow, a Google ad was circulating with my name on it—one I never created. Before I even had a chance to understand what was happening, I was accused of wrongdoing and publicly reprimanded.

    It hurt more than I can say.

    To be honest, I didn’t read all the comments. The ones I did see were harsh and disheartening. I eventually spoke with the CEO and we tried to sort it out. She took the post down, which I appreciated—but the damage to my spirit was already done.

    What hurts most is this: I had just found my spark again. I was excited. Reenergized. Ready to show up for women who need support—not just in bras, but in life. And now? I feel crushed. Like maybe I don’t belong. Like maybe I’m not strong enough for this space.

    People say “trust it to God,” and I do try. But on days like this, when my body aches and my spirit feels small, it’s not so easy. Especially when old feelings of not measuring up come rushing in like waves.

    Later, I told a friend about how I sang during surgery—how it was the only thing keeping me grounded. I expected sympathy, maybe a wince. But instead, she lit up and said,
    “You have the most amazing days! Singing during surgery? Truly! I’m glad to call you my friend. I know that was hard! Like I said—so amazing and such a witness. God has such interesting ways to use you.”

    And suddenly… I saw it differently.
    Maybe I wasn’t just getting through the day.
    Maybe I was being used in the midst of it.

    So I’m choosing—for today, anyway—to believe that God can still write beauty into broken places, even when I’m too sore or sad to see it clearly.

    If you’ve ever felt misunderstood, judged too quickly, or doubted yourself in a space you love—please know you’re not alone. And if you have a gentle way you get through deep disappointment, I’d love to hear it.

    “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”
    —Psalm 34:18

    He sees the pokes, the pressure, the passion, and the pain. And even when it feels like the pieces are scattered, He’s already holding them together.

  • Travel Tips for Bold Solo Women 50+

    Ladies, your passport doesn’t expire just because your knees creak a little louder! If you’ve been dreaming of seeing the world—solo and fabulous—here are a few golden travel tips just for you:

    1. Pick places that light you up – Whether it’s peaceful beaches, vibrant cities, or fairy-tale villages, choose destinations that bring YOU joy, not just what’s trending.


    2. Plan with confidence – Book transfers ahead, know your accessibility needs, and keep your documents organized. A little prep goes a long way in smooth sailing.


    3. Dress for joy and comfort – Forget fashion rules. Comfy shoes, a pretty scarf, and layers you love can carry you through museums, markets, and magical sunsets.


    4. Stay social (safely) – Join a group tour for a day or dine where locals chat. Solo doesn’t mean lonely—and the world is full of kind strangers.


    5. Trust your intuition – You’ve lived enough life to know when something feels off. Trust that. Walk with purpose and keep your sparkle guarded but glowing.



    Traveling solo after 50 isn’t about escaping—it’s about becoming. Becoming bolder, freer, and more YOU.

    Where to next, brave beauty?

    #SoloTravelOver50 #TravelTips #WanderWoman #JoyfulJourneys #sonyasjoys #SparklingEscapadesAbroad

  • Where Lost Socks Go

    Where the Lost Socks Go
    A Cozy Sock Tale in Rhyme

    By the Fairy Bra Mother

    Once upon a laundry spin,
    In baskets deep and dryer din,
    Lived Stripey and Dot, a perfect pair,
    Who danced through life without a care.

    They peeked from boots in happy hues,
    They snuggled close in tennis shoes.
    But then one washday—oh, the shock—
    Dear Stripey vanished from the sock!

    Dot sat folded, neat and clean,
    But felt a space where he had been.
    No fluff, no thread, no static zap,
    Just quiet where they’d overlap.

    Yet humans don’t know (though they try to explain)
    With theories of dryers who snack on the plain—
    That when socks disappear from the folding parade,
    They’re called to a realm where heroes are made.

    Behind the dryer, tucked from view,
    A portal glows in linty blue.
    Only socks well-loved and worn,
    With stretched-out tops and colors torn,
    May enter Socktopia’s snuggly land,
    To serve with honor, foot in hand.

    Stripey, proud in faded thread,
    Was sent to where small dragons tread—
    A baby beast with claws so cold,
    And dreams too dark for him to hold.
    Stripey became his nighttime guard,
    A sleep-sock warm, a dragon’s bard.

    Dot missed him still, that much is true,
    But then one day, a note came through—
    Tied in yarn to an argyle toe,
    With magic only socks could know:

    “Dear Dot,” it read, “I’m doing fine,
    I warm cold claws and guard dreamtime.
    Tell the humans, near and far:
    Mismatched socks are never bizarre.
    We’re chosen, Dot—we’re brave and bold,
    With cozy tales yet to be told.”

    Dot smiled wide, her thread aglow,
    And wore her single like a bow.
    For every sock, both lone and paired,
    Is stitched with love and slightly dared.

    So when you find a sock alone,
    Don’t toss it out, or start to moan.
    Just know it might be on a quest—
    To warm a heart, to do its best.

    Because in the realm of lint and light,
    Lost socks go on to do what’s right.
    They’re not misplaced, nor gone in vain—
    They’re simply snug… beyond the drain.

  • Love Twice: A Reflection on Adoption, Loss, and the Power of Being Chosen

    In honor of my upcoming “Gotcha Day,” I’ve been reflecting on what adoption means—not just to me, but to so many others who carry a similar story. It’s not just about being chosen… it’s about being fought for, prayed over, and loved twice.

    The Post That Disappeared
    I first wrote this post on the flight home from Jamaica. I poured my heart into it, planning to tweak it later. But when I opened the app back home… it was gone. Poof. And so came the question: start over, or let it go?

    I decided to try again—because this story matters

    My Beginning
    I was born to a 14-year-old girl and an 18-year-old boy who were no longer together. They already had one child—my sister—born just 13 months before me. After her birth, my grandfather told my mother that if she ever got pregnant out of wedlock again, he’d kill her and the baby. That’s the terrifying place my story begins.

    My dad was pursuing my mom’s older sister and trying to use my mom to get to her. My mother, in desperation, moved in with a boyfriend’s relatives and worked as a nanny—trying to stay hidden from her father’s wrath. A month before I was born, she found a place in a home for unwed mothers.

    When I asked her years later what that time had been like, she told me she’d blocked out most of it. One nurse had slapped her during labor and said, “Shut up! You got yourself into this mess. Now deal with it.”


    Tiny But Strong
    I was born full-term but only weighed 4 lbs. 13 oz. My lungs weren’t fully developed, so I spent five weeks in the hospital. My first “bed” was a man’s shoebox.

    At five weeks old, I went to a foster home. At six months, I was adopted.

    The Day I Was Chosen
    On May 15, 1969, I came home. My mom has always told me, “You were a prayed-for child,” and I believe her. My little brother came to us straight from the hospital at two days old, when I was four.

    My baby book was special—it was pink, with a padded cover and silver letters spelling out “Sonya Joy.” Inside was this precious quote:
    “You didn’t grow under my heart, but in it.”

    The Teenage Years
    Adoption didn’t cause me much struggle early on. But in my early teens, things shifted. I felt… different. Misplaced. I didn’t enjoy the same things the other girls did. I wasn’t the “practical” type—no love for baking, sewing, or gardening. And that difference made me feel like I didn’t quite measure up.

    At one point, instead of running away, I went to live with an aunt and uncle for a while—trying to find where I belonged.

    The ACE Score That Shaped Me
    If you’ve fostered or adopted in the last decade, you’ve probably heard of ACE scores (Adverse Childhood Experiences). There are 10 categories. The higher the score, the more likely someone is to face serious health and emotional struggles.

    I score a 7.

    Even if a baby is adopted straight from the hospital, whatever trauma the birth mother experienced while pregnant can impact that baby’s developing brain. It’s real, and it matters. But it’s not hopeless


    A Note to Those Considering Adoption
    Don’t give up on these children.
    They’re not broken. They’re not defective. They’re brave survivors.

    What they need most?

    Love.
    Prayer.
    Kindness.
    And love again.
    (Yes, I meant to say love twice.)

    Many adopted children and adults wrestle with reactive attachment disorder. We crave love but don’t always know how to trust it. When someone finally gives it to us freely, we cling to it.

    So if you’re in the adoption or foster journey—or even just thinking about it—thank you.
    You could be someone’s answered prayer.