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"If you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can say to this mountain, ‘Move from here to there,’ and it will move.” From St. Matthew 17:20 When heavy days begin to bend the spine, And shadows turn the sharpest path to gray, We struggle looking for a clear design, While doubts and quiet fears get in the way. The weight of daily grief can start to grow, And wear down every promise in the heart, Until the light ahead is faint and low, And staying strong becomes the hardes

Every year, millions of people set New Year's resolutions with high hopes of transforming their lives. Yet, by February, many have abandoned these promises. The tradition of making sweeping resolutions often leads to frustration and disappointment. The real key to meaningful change lies in setting a few clear, achievable goals—both short-term and long-term—that challenge you and support growth in all areas of life: mental, spiritual, financial, and physical. A journal with ha

History has a way of burying its darkest secrets in the shallowest of graves. For decades, the story of Ben Chester White was one of those secrets—a narrative of calculated cruelty meant to disappear into the mud of Mississippi. But the earth does not always keep what is hidden, and justice, while agonizingly slow, has a way of surfacing. This is the story of a man whose murder was intended to be a spark for a fire that never ignited, and the family who spent a lifetime ensur

A nation's breath beneath the burning sun, Where hope and weary prayers are spun. We lay the United States, our home, our fray, Upon this altar at the close of day. The Sacred Heart of Jesus Christ we invoke, To heal the heavy chains of every yoke, Inviting grace to mend the fractured land, And guide us with a firm, compassionate hand. Asking that hope be more than passing light, But strength to pull us from the edge of night, To trade our pride for peace that will not cease,

For years now, I have researched and written a series of short stories entitled "Killing Kennedys," a direct quote from something Jackie Kennedy Onassis once said. I also have a series of short stories in that series about the many women victimized by the Kennedy men and the machine in and around them. This is one. Today would have been the 100th birthday of Marilyn Monroe, and in her memory, here is my story, based on years and years of research and study, on how I believe M

Hail Mary, full of grace... The gold light of a Roman evening settles over the Vatican Gardens, hushing the day into a soft, holy quiet. The Holy Father bows his head, fingers resting on the wooden beads, the bells of the city ringing for peace. The Lord is with thee... He speaks of torn spirits and aching hearts, of the weary and the outworn. "The Lord is never far away," he tells us, "He comes in search of us even when we lose our way." He calls us to be instruments

The morning rain pours down like heavy tears, To wake a memory lost for all the years. I hold a piece of plastic and metal in the garage, amidst the cardboard and the inventory of a routine evening, and feel the sudden jolt of a lightning rod. There it sat, on the very top of the plastic tub a tiny, forgotten echo from a CVS aisle in Griffin, where my father once laughed out loud, seeing

Dust off your sunbonnets and get the wagon ready because the Ingalls family is officially returning to our screens. After years of rumors and speculation, Netflix has confirmed that we are headed back to the frontier. Whether you grew up watching Michael Landon’s iconic portrayal or reading Laura Ingalls Wilder’s beloved books, there is plenty of reason to be excited about this new adaptation. Netflix has officially set the release date for the first season of Little House on

To My Ian I take down April’s memories, Of six and twenty years ago, When heavy clouds hung dark and full, And rain began to flow. I felt a weight depart from me, A sudden, hollow fear "Is he alive?" I screamed, afraid, That you were no longer near. For silence filled the heavy room, As shadows of a loss once felt Stirred within the sudden gloom, And all my courage dealt. But you were being warmed and held, While your father, in the grace Of those years when love was still ou

The rhythm of the season begins not with a purchase but with a palm full of dirt a quiet defiance against the fluorescent hum of grocery aisles it is the art of turning a handful of copper colored seeds into a summer of abundance There is a distinct grounding magic in watching a dollar’s worth of effort stretch into baskets of heavy sun warmed tomatoes and greens that snap with life the budget breathes easier here the receipt is written in sweat and rain instead of ink cuttin

In shades of pink and morning dew. The weeping willows softly sway, Above the pond where light will play. No edges frame the quiet scene, Just shifting clouds and murky green. The garden breathes in silent oil, Released from every earthly toil. #monet #poetry #Impressionist

La Pietà: A Villanelle for Good Friday, 2018 By Anne Hendricks, M.Ed. and Edited by John T. Hendricks, Ph.D. (In Style of Dylan Thomas) The marble breathes a mother’s heavy grace, To hold the silent Word upon her knee. The light of Easter hides its morning face. No lines of anguish mar his quiet face, From every debt of soul and flesh set free. The marble breathes a mother’s heavy grace. She keeps her station in this hollow space, A monument to love’s dark decree. The light

What is a pangram? A pangram is a sentence that contains every letter of the alphabet at least once. Pangrams are often used in typography, calligraphy, and testing fonts, as they provide a comprehensive representation of the alphabet. What is an example of a pangram? An example of a well-known pangram is: "The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog." This sentence includes all 26 letters of the English alphabet. The cozy, fluffy Easter bunny jumped over six quick, waxed

Easter Sunday in the Deep South has long been a day of tradition, family gatherings, and, notably, the wearing of special dresses. These dresses are more than just clothing; they represent cultural values, social status, and personal memories. Reflecting on my own childhood in the 1970s and observing how Easter dresses have changed over the decades reveals a fascinating story of fashion, identity, and community in this unique region. The 1970s: Classic Elegance and Tradition

The morning light fell soft and still, Upon the stone and window sill. A sudden brightness filled the room, To chase away the quiet gloom. An angel stood with wings of white, Reflecting God’s eternal light. He spoke a word of grace and love, Sent down from holy realms above. Though startled by the heavenly guest, She felt a sense of peace in her chest. "Behold the handmaid," Mary said, A s golden rays shone round her head. With a gentle heart, she gave her vow, To which the

“Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about its own things. Sufficient for the day is its own trouble.” — Matthew 6:34 (New King James Version) In the quiet of my study in Corinth, Mississippi, these words are not merely a suggestion; they are a retaining wall. The silence in this house has a physical weight, the pressurized echo chamber of a modern sociological craze that has redefined the American family's landscape. I am the mother of an only adul

March arrives on whispered rain, A silver hush on field and lane. She lifts the frost from brittle ground, And scatters green where none was found. Soft winds untie the winter’s seam, And wake the buds from fragile dream. O March, step in with gentle light Unfold the day, grow longer night. #March #Spring

From 1979 to 2023 I lived in Griffin, Georgia and never belonged. Forty-four years is long enough to raise children, to memorize the turn of every street, to know which pecan tree drops first in October and which church lets out earliest on Sunday. Long enough to bury a dog, to plant azaleas twice, to learn the rhythm of cicadas and the red dust that settles on porch rails no matter how often you wipe it away. Long enough to be known. And yet— I was always slightly mis-shelve

I never imagined that I could fall in love with a dog. I always embraced the idea that dogs drooled and cats ruled. The house was quiet. Mr. Popcorn, my tabby, had passed a few weeks ago, and I still felt the hollow ache of his absence. Fifteen years. Fifteen years of soft purrs, dough making, and the quiet companionship that no human ever quite matched. He had been there before marriage, curled up on the sofa while I studied in grad school, his warm body a comfort against

Somnolent. In the soft descent of lids unto cheeks, in the body’s yielding to the hush of bone and breath, I reach for the arms of Morpheus as one reaches for a grave’s cool earth— not in despair, but in aching need. The night will not have me. It keeps me pacing like a restless tenant in a house lined with ghosts, each corridor echoing with old names, old loves that never learned how to die. Insomnia calls me out upon the moors, where grief roams feral and barefoot, crying H