Normally when I dream, I don’t remember much—just the feelings that linger when I wake. But this morning was different. I had the strangest, most vivid dream, one so real it pulled me out of sleep with a phrase echoing in my mind.
In the dream, I had started working at a maternity clinic as a researcher-in-training. Part of my role was to observe deliveries, study every detail, and even dissect the placenta and blood after birth. On my very first case, tragedy struck—the mother died, and the baby nearly did. We immediately began examining what had gone wrong. The head doctor, a man, and his female assistant guided me. More than once, I watched them quietly lay their heads down and cry, before softly resuming their work, murmuring their findings as they went.
Eventually, the dissection ended, and it was time to move to another room. I cradled the baby in my arms as we walked together, the atmosphere heavy and solemn. To comfort her, I hummed softly as we went. Once we arrived, I was told to lay her in a man-sized shoebox and gently unwrap her. The female assistant stepped forward, prayed over the child, then turned to me with urgency in her eyes and asked:
“Do you want to turn your memory of a bad day today into a day of rest and relief tomorrow?”
The whole room—including the baby—seemed to hold its breath, waiting for my answer. Tears welled up in my eyes as I whispered, “Yes, please.” At that, everyone wept. Even the sleeping baby had tiny tears sliding down her cheeks.
That’s when I woke up—those words repeating in my mind over and over. It was about 5:30 a.m., and though I tried to drift back to sleep, the phrase kept jolting me awake until finally I got up and wrote it down.
Most of the time, my dreams vanish without a trace. Only once before—when I was 11—did I have a recurring one vivid enough to stay with me. I don’t fully know what God was trying to tell me through this dream, but I do know I want to hold on to that phrase. I choose to believe it. I will trade my hard days and heavy memories for days filled with love, rest, and peace.
Lately, I’ve found myself wandering in what I’ve started calling “meh-land.” You know that foggy, blah place where nothing quite lights you up the way it used to? Day after day, I see friends out jogging, walking, or proudly showing off the fruits of their canning and freezing projects. And while I’m happy for them, my heart just sighs… meh.
Even the things I’ve loved so deeply in the past—uplifting women, booking travel, singing, reading—don’t always chase the meh away anymore. Sometimes I’ll try mowing the grass, which is usually a surefire way to clear my head, only to end up with a silly accident and more pain added to the pile. And the meh digs in deeper.
It makes me wonder sometimes, what’s wrong with me? Why does the meh stretch on and on, day after day?
And then, God gives me a reminder that He hasn’t forgotten me—even in the most unexpected, funny, and slightly terrifying way.
Sean and I were at a shoe store the other day, and I slipped away to use the restroom. As I turned the lock, I remember thinking, Hmmm, I hope this little knob thing doesn’t give me any trouble. I should have taken that as foreshadowing.
Because sure enough, when I finished up and went to leave, the lock wouldn’t budge. That little thing sat there as stubborn as could be. I twisted, rattled, even jiggled it with a touch of desperation. Nothing. And that’s when the claustrophobia set in. My heart pounded harder with every second.
I tried again, a little more frantically this time—still no dice. And just before I crossed over into full-blown panic, I whispered a prayer: “Lord, please help me get out of here.”
Almost instantly, a thought popped into my mind: Push the lock in and turn it. I followed it, and though the lock grated and groaned like it hadn’t been moved since the 1980s, it finally clicked open. Sweet, blessed freedom!
I stepped into the hallway and leaned against the wall, whispering, “Thank You, God.” Relief washed over me, but so did something else: gratitude. Gratitude that God had heard me in that small, panicked moment. Gratitude that He cares enough to meet me even in a windowless bathroom.
It may not sound like much, but to me, it was huge. A simple, real-life reminder that even when the meh stretches on day after day, God is still near. He still hears. And yes—He even answers bathroom prayers.
So, I want to ask you: what’s a prayer God has answered for you lately? Big or small, funny or serious—I’d love to hear your stories. Because maybe together, we can encourage one another, laugh a little, and slowly climb out of meh-land one answered prayer at a time.
Lately, I’ve been asking myself, How is my faith? Some days, it feels steady and strong. Other days, it seems small and fragile. And there are times when doubts and fears creep in and threaten to overwhelm me.
This morning, we read the familiar verse about faith being like a grain of mustard seed. For as long as I can remember, I’ve understood that to mean—even if your faith is tiny, that little bit can grow into something much larger. A beautiful reminder in itself.
But today, I heard it explained from a different angle, and it opened my heart in a new way. Mustard seed, you see, was considered a noxious seed in Bible times. Once it took root, it spread everywhere. In fact, they weren’t even allowed to plant it in city gardens because it would completely take over. Even more fascinating—it releases something into the soil that keeps other plants from growing too close.
And I couldn’t help but wonder… What if that’s how our faith works, too? What if even the smallest seed of faith spreads out into every corner of our lives, releasing something that makes it hard for doubt and fear to take hold near us?
It was such a fresh picture for me—faith not just as something that grows bigger, but as something that spreads wider and transforms the very soil around it.
Can you imagine the kind of faith we could live out if we looked at it this way?
Hello friends—it’s been a little while since I’ve written. My mind hasn’t been in a writing mood, and I wasn’t sure what to share. I’ve been working on some children’s storybook series, but this past week gave me something very real to write about.
Have you ever had one of those moments where your life flashes before your eyes? I had that happen recently while mowing. Now, I’ve always been nervous about mowing ditches—they make me feel like the mower is going to roll right over. About three years ago, I finally taught myself to mow our berm without being too afraid, and I was pretty proud of that!
But the other day, while mowing the edge, I must have looked behind me to check for traffic at the wrong moment. Before I knew it, one of the big drive tires dropped over the edge. I tried to steer it back, but the mower had other plans—the deck lifted, the weight shifted, and for a split second, I thought it was all over.
I don’t even know if I prayed, but God must have been guiding my hands. I yanked the left bar back and pushed the right one forward, which spun me straight into the ditch. Down I went—fast. I may have even screamed like I was on a roller coaster! By the time I hit the bottom, I was facing the opposite direction and thanking God I was still upright.
By the time I made it back to the house, my legs were weak and I was shaking. Sean later told me I did the only thing I could have done—and if it had rolled, I’d likely have been badly hurt. My family was pretty concerned (and Sean checked things out right away), but the truth is, I’m still sore and may need to get checked out.
The moral of this story? 🚫 Stay out of the ditches—literally and figuratively. Life can throw us off balance in a blink, but sometimes the only thing we can do is steer the best way we know how and trust that God’s got His hand on the bars too. 💖
The kind of early where the sky is still deciding whether it wants to be morning, and the airport coffee machines are gurgling in protest.
Miss Pink stood proudly next to her owner, looking fabulous and just a little flirty, with her satin finish and her signature blush-toned zipper pulls. She sparkled. She glowed. She matched her owner’s nails.
“I was made for this,” she said to herself as the automatic doors whooshed open. “Let the vacation begin!”
Next to her, Mr. Green was a little less… bubbly.
He was sturdy. Vintage. The kind of suitcase who’s seen things. His olive-colored fabric had earned its scuffs with dignity, and his wheels creaked slightly—just enough to announce, “I’ve been on five continents and lived to tell about it.”
He adjusted his ID tag with a huff. “I hope we survive this airport. These floors are murder on my wheels.”
They rolled in tandem through the check-in line, snickering about carry-ons who thought they were worldly. But as they reached the counter, a sudden realization hit.
“Wait,” Miss Pink whispered, “are we… parting ways here?”
Mr. Green looked over, alarmed. “No… surely not! We always fly together!”
But alas—it was true. Miss Pink, being a compact and carry-on compliant queen, was headed for security.
And Mr. Green, bless his overstuffed zippers, was off to checked baggage.
“I’ll see you at the other end,” Miss Pink said, trying to stay strong.
“Don’t let them manhandle you!” he warned. “They’re rough in there!”
With a bittersweet zip, they rolled apart.
Miss Pink and Mr. Green side by side at the airport entrance, looking excited and nervous.
Miss Pink Journey:
Security was, in a word, chaos.
She was lifted, scanned, and then—gasp—sprayed by a swab-wielding stranger who mumbled something about “explosive residue.” She almost fainted.
“I am sensitive fabric!” she shrieked silently.
Then came the conveyor belt of doom, where she was plopped—yes, PLLOPPED—onto cold rubber rollers and pushed into a dark tunnel.
A large backpack bumped her.
“Watch it, trail mix!”
She barely survived with her dignity intact. One more jolt and she might’ve lost her travel-sized dry shampoo.
Miss Pink was still trying to recover her balance—both emotionally and literally. After being sprayed, swabbed, and swirled in a whirlwind of security chaos, she was unceremoniously plopped back down on her wheels. “Oh mercy,” she muttered, wobbling like a flamingo in roller skates. “Is this how they treat all designer luggage?”
She didn’t even have time to realign her zippers before being shoved forward by a grumpy duffel bag who clearly hadn’t had enough coffee. “Move it, cupcake,” he grunted. She glared. “Excuse you, this cupcake has custom embroidery and reinforced seams. Watch it.”
Eventually, she was wheeled toward the gate, only to realize something terribly upsetting—no Mr. Green in sight. Her wheels slowed.
“What if we’re not on the same flight?” she panicked. “What if he’s sent to… Baggage Claim Siberia?!”
Just then, a tiny carry-on named Lulu zipped up beside her. “You waiting for someone?”
Miss Pink blinked. “Yes… well, maybe. He’s older. Polite. Forest green. Smells faintly of cedar and regret.”
Lulu nodded. “Aw, I think I saw him going down the freight elevator. Don’t worry—checked bags get there in time… most of the time.”
“TSA and Terminal Trauma: Miss Pink’s First Brush with Authority
Meanwhile Mr. Green…
He was dreading the moment he feared most: the scale.
“Oh no. Not again,” he groaned as the agent lifted him by the handle. “Not in front of the carry-ons,” he whispered, shielding his travel tag like it was a set of private medical results.
He felt every ounce of last-minute vacation overpacking as the scale blinked dramatically before reading out the numbers.
“Fifty-two pounds,” the attendant announced flatly.
Mr. Green gasped. “I told her not to pack the backup sandals and the beach hat collection!”
Before he could protest, he was tagged and whoosh!—tossed onto the conveyor belt like a sack of potatoes at a greased-slide contest. The world spun by in flashing lights, conveyor belts, and bump after bump.
He ended up in a cold, humming underworld known only to the elite luggage society as The Badge Area.
There, suitcases from all over the world gathered in quiet judgment, waiting to be sorted. A sleek silver hard-shell from Zurich gave Mr. Green a once-over. “First time in the basement, huh?”
Mr. Green, winded and slightly unzipped, coughed. “Is it that obvious?”
Back in the badge zone, Mr. Green was loaded onto a metal crate with a dozen others. He sighed deeply. “Hang in there, Pink,” he murmured to himself. “We’ll be reunited soon. Hopefully before the humidity gets to my stitching.”
He didn’t know where they were going, what lay ahead, or whether their zippers would ever align again… but one thing was for certain:
This was no ordinary vacation.
“Weighing in on Regrets: Mr. Green Realizes Those Extra Shoes Were a Mistake”
And thus began the journey—two suitcases, separated by scanners and weight limits, destined to travel parallel paths in the name of vacation.
They didn’t know it yet, but what lay ahead would be their most unforgettable trip ever.
To be continued… (Next stop: Part Two: Turbulence, Twists & Tarmac Tales
Some days are just better than others… and this was one of them—mostly! 😄
How could anyone feel sad surrounded by all this beauty? Nassau is bursting with vibrant flowers and blooming trees right now—and don’t even get me started on that water. Ooooh la la! That crystal blue is straight out of a dream. I spent a glorious stretch floating in the ocean, totally pain-free (what a gift!)… but let’s just say the ache came back with a vengeance. I’m moving slow now and running on a cocktail of pain meds. Honestly, I wish I could sleep right out there in the waves—talk about second heaven!
Here’s how the day started: Up at 2 AM and out the door by 3. The hotel A/C barely worked, so it was a sweaty, restless night with just a couple hours of sleep. We got to the airport 2.5 hours early, only to find that Delta’s assistance desk didn’t open till 3:30 AM—and wheelchair services didn’t start till 4. So… we waited.
Then came the ol’ airport shuffle. I’ve got TSA PreCheck, but Sean doesn’t—so we braved the regular line together. Boarded the first flight, only to find the A/C wasn’t much better there either (seriously, universe?). Arrived in Atlanta early, but with just a 52-minute layover, it was go time. My wheelchair assistant—Sean guessed she was about 60—had no time for bathroom breaks. We jumped on the Plane Train from Terminal A to F (thank goodness it was working; walking it would’ve taken 45 minutes!). We made it to the gate with maybe five minutes to spare.
As soon as I stepped on that 737, I bee-lined it to the bathroom—and wowza, those things are tiny! I was touching both walls while sitting and nearly bumped my head trying to stand up. 😅
Arrived in Nassau and had a super sweet wheelchair assistant who told us there are 700 islands in the Bahamas—did you know that?? Met a pirate (naturally!), grabbed a taxi, and made our way to the Grand Hyatt Baha Mar.
Our room was ready (hallelujah!), and my scooter was waiting. We cranked the A/C down to 67°, flopped down, and just soaked in the peace for a while. Around 4 PM, we met up with our group—so many hugs and happy reunions! After catching up, I got back in that gorgeous water, then came up to shower, and now? This girl is wiped out and ready for bed.
In a cozy nest of hay and thread, Beneath the barn near the flower bed, A mama mouse gave birth one day To squeaky babies, pink and gray.
Six little fuzzballs, round and small— But Mousekin was the boldest of all. With a twitch of his nose and a curious stare, He asked big questions with thoughtful care.
“Mama, what’s that rumble and boom? Why do the shadows race past the room? Why does the wind sometimes whisper ‘run’?” And Mama sighed, “Well, little one…”
“There’s much to learn in this wide old place. There’s wonders, yes—but danger’s face. Giants roam both near and far— And not all wish to know who you are.”
Daddy Mouse stepped in with pride, His whiskers curled and eyes wide-eyed. “There’s one great beast, bright, loud, and red— It growls and chomps and fills us with dread.”
“It zooms across the fields with might— Blades spinning fast, a fearsome sight. We call it the Lawn Roarer, son, And when it comes, you leap and run!”
Mama added, “You must beware Of traps with treats that lure and snare. Some smell like peanut butter bliss, But one small nibble—and you’re missed.”
“There’s sticky boards that never budge, And snap traps sprung by just a nudge. And cats—oh, they are quick and sleek, With padded paws and eyes that peek.”
“There’s dogs who bark and chase with glee, Not knowing we just want to flee. And high above, the birds patrol— With wings like sails and eyes like coal.”
“They dive from clouds, without a peep, With talons strong and dives so steep. You see their shadow—don’t ask why. Just drop and dash, or say goodbye.”
Mousekin shuddered. “Is that the worst?”
Mama smirked, “You haven’t heard the first! There’s womenfolk with ears too keen, Who shriek like banshees when we’re seen!”
“They jump on chairs, they throw their shoes, Like we’re a headline on the news! They flail their arms, they stomp and spin— As if we brought the plague again!”
Daddy grinned, “And men, oh boy— They treat the chase like some big toy. They’ll grab a boot and stomp around, Like hunting mice is honor-bound!”
—
But Mama Mouse, with a gentle sigh, Looked down at Mousekin eye to eye. “The world’s not just a scary place— There’s joy and hope in every space.”
“There’s clover soft and puddles sweet, And sunshine warm on tiny feet. There’s porch-crumb feasts and tunnels deep, And dandelions when we can’t sleep.”
—
Then came the day, bright as gold, When Mousekin felt the earth unfold. The Roarer growled, its engine loud— It tore through grass like thundercloud.
A woman rode it, firm and fair, White hair piled high with gentle care. Pink sundress flowing, brace on her back, She mowed with style, strength, and knack.
Mousekin heard the buzzing hum— The ground began to shake and thrum. “Now’s the time,” he told his toes, And off he zipped before it closed.
He darted left, he veered to right, He danced with grass and beams of light. Past bugs and birds and butterflies— With dandelions blooming where danger lies.
He didn’t stop, not once to peek— He sprinted fast, he didn’t squeak. And when he reached a shady log, He laughed and sighed beside a frog.
—
🌼 The Moral: The world is loud, the giants stomp, Some shriek and point, some boots will clomp. But even small ones, brave and bright, Can face the day and flee the fright.
So run with heart, and keep your spark— You can be bold when life feels dark. Be swift. Be smart. Be soft. Be sly— And never be too small to try. 💖🐭 🌼
“Just a gal, her mower, and one very concerned mouse. 🌼🚜🐭
Yesterday was my follow-up appointment for the MRIs I had done recently. I’ll be honest—I was nervous. I’ve been told so many times in the past that “there’s nothing wrong” or that the pain is “all in my head.” And every time I hear that, I want to shout, “No, it’s not in my head—it’s in my spine!” But like a good girl, I bite my tongue.
The doctor walked into the room and said, “Mrs. Nightingale! You look good!” (I always wonder what that even means…) Anyway, we got to talking and started going over the imaging.
First, we discussed my sacroiliac joint fusions from last year. I told him about the pain in my right hip—how it feels like a rubber band tightening when I walk. Some days I can make it a block without too much pain, and other days I can barely get from my chair to the bathroom without tears. He said that was actually expected—he sees this kind of “flip-flop” pain often, where one side gets overworked as I try to protect the other. That may go on for another 6 months or so.
Then we moved on to the shooting pain and numbness down my left leg. He said it could be related to the SI joint fusion, but there’s also a bulging disc pressing on my spinal cord. Still, he doesn’t want to jump straight to surgery.
Next, he asked about my mid-back. He touched the area where I had a fusion in December 2022. That spot actually doesn’t hurt—but just above it, about two finger widths higher, the pain is awful when I sit in a hard chair, stand too long, or walk. It takes my breath away. He looked at my thoracic MRIs and confirmed there’s a ruptured disc pressing on the cord. Again, he doesn’t want to rush into surgery unless absolutely necessary.
Then came the neck. I already have three fusions: C3-4, C4-5, and C6-7. I told him my arms sometimes go numb, even in positions where they shouldn’t. Sometimes it’s my left side, sometimes my right—once I even had my right arm go completely dead while lying on my left side. He reviewed the imaging and, sure enough, another disc is pressing into the spinal canal.
He asked how many PT sessions I’d had—just four so far. He said that’s not enough and originally wanted to try a steroid injection, but I don’t tolerate those well. So instead, he wants me to increase PT, wear a neck brace for support, and follow up soon.
I also brought up how weak my hands and arms have been feeling. After examining me, he rated my arm strength at a 4 minus—which, for those who don’t know, means serious weakness, not just a little fatigue. That clearly got his attention. He ordered a CT scan to better look at the bone structure in my neck and spine and moved my follow-up to 1–2 months instead of the usual 4–5.
And at one point, he looked at me with this half-sigh and said, “Well, you just have not been blessed with good cartilage.” Not exactly a blessing I’d hoped for—but at least now I understand more of what’s going on.
But here’s what stuck with me most. Throughout the appointment, he repeated something that brought tears to my eyes: “Your pain is REAL. You have a structural problem that is causing this pain.”
Do you know how much that meant to hear? After years of being brushed off, that validation was everything.
My husband and wellness coach are helping me focus on healing from the inside out—working on weight loss, nutrition, and ways to support my body naturally. They’re hopeful we can avoid more surgeries… and while I’d love that too, I’m not holding my breath just yet.
With my cataracts recently done, I’ve now had something like 30 surgeries—including:
Wisdom teeth (yes, twice!)
Hernia repair
Complete hysterectomy
Gallbladder and appendix removal
8 spine surgeries
3 right shoulder surgeries
2 SI joint fusions
2 cataract surgeries
Tubal ligation
Lysis of adhesions
5 diagnostic laparotomies
A bleeding stomach ulcer repair …and I’m probably forgetting a few.
My mama always says I’ve had enough surgeries for several lifetimes—and she’s not wrong.
—
So yes, it’s been a long road—and it’s not over yet. But for the first time in a long while, I left an appointment feeling heard. Validated. My pain isn’t “all in my head.” It’s real. It has a name, a reason, and most importantly—it’s being taken seriously.
And that? That gave me peace.
I don’t know what the next steps will be. I’ll keep doing the work—physical therapy, healing from the inside out, bracing when needed, and leaning on the people who’ve been lifting me up when I can’t do it alone.
To those of you silently struggling, wondering if your pain is “real enough”—I see you. Your pain matters. YOU matter.
If nothing else, remember this: You don’t need to prove your pain to anyone. You deserve to be heard and helped.
And I’ll keep blooming, one day at a time, like the bluebonnet in the sunshine.
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.
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.
Sparkling Escapades Abroad with the Fairy Bra Mother 