Sometimes I stand in front of the mirror, wondering where to begin. The years have quietly gathered, and somehow I became one of the stories I used to listen to.
The freckles that once danced across my face have settled into the soft blotches of time. Roadmaps of blue trace my legs, each vein a reminder that every mile has been traveled for a reason.
My memory isn’t quite as sharp, and names occasionally slip away. That’s one of the honest truths about growing older— it asks us to laugh more and worry a little less.
There was a time when I was fearless, wild-hearted, and convinced tomorrow would wait forever.
Then forty arrived, and everything changed.
Not because my body grew older, but because my soul finally woke up.
I met Jesus in a way I never had before. He offered the Bread of Life, and for the first time I was truly hungry.
Taking that first bite rearranged everything.
Old habits lost their grip. Heavy burdens became lighter. The things that once consumed my thoughts slowly surrendered to a peace I had never known.
The wrinkles came. The gray hairs multiplied. The scars never disappeared.
But neither did God’s faithfulness.
Now I welcome every silver strand, every scar, every stretch mark, every laugh line, because each one tells the story of a life that has been lived— and a Savior who never stopped walking beside me.
Yes, these eyes need glasses. These ears appreciate a little extra volume. My knees complain before my mouth does.
But my heart? It’s never been younger.
I’ll spend whatever days remain telling anyone who will listen about the goodness I’ve found in Jesus Christ.
Every victory belongs to Him. Every chapter points back to Him. Every breath is another opportunity to give Him glory.
One day, these old hands will rest. The typing will stop. This tired body will breathe its last.
If you’re looking for me then, don’t search among the memories.
Look toward Heaven.
And if you’ve placed your trust in Jesus, we’ll meet again— where scars are healed, tears are forgotten, and growing old is replaced with everlasting life.
Until then, I’ll wear my sixty-one years with gratitude, a cheerful heart, and enough silver strands to remind the world
that God’s grace looks beautiful at every age.
Gray isn’t something to cover up. Scars aren’t something to hide. They’re signatures of survival, reminders of grace, and evidence that God has faithfully carried us farther than we ever imagined. If aging is a gift, then every silver strand is another ribbon tied around the blessing
There are some places in childhood that never really leave us. For me, one of those places was a simple wooden swing hanging in my grandparents’ yard.
When I was a little girl, my sister and I spent most of our summers at the home of our grandparents, Mimi and Papa, in Norway, Maine. They were the kind of grandparents every child deserves—the kind who made ordinary days feel extraordinary.
They had nine children of their own, who eventually married and filled the family tree with cousins. Honestly, I’ve lost count of how many cousins I have. While life has scattered us across the years and miles, I wish I stayed in touch with more of them than I do.
Growing up in the 1970s was a different kind of childhood. There were no smartphones, streaming services, or video games demanding our attention. We made our own adventures.
We picked green apples from the trees, stuck them on the ends of sticks, and—much to our delight—launched them at the tractor-trailer trucks that rumbled past the house. We explored what we proudly called the “junkyard” tucked away behind the barn, and we wandered through the garden picking cucumbers and green beans. Looking back, I suppose some people would call those chores, but to us, they were simply another day of fun.
But my favorite place was always the swing.
It wasn’t anything fancy—just a wooden board tied to a rope that had a habit of leaving behind more than a few scrapes and bruises. Yet every cousin wanted a turn whenever the family gathered, especially around this time of year as we celebrated Mimi and Papa’s birthdays.
If they were still here today, Mimi would be 112 and Papa 108.
We loved them fiercely, and not a summer goes by that I don’t think of them.
Whenever it was finally my turn on that old swing, something magical happened. I became a storyteller.
As I soared higher into the summer sky, my imagination traveled farther than my feet ever could. I dreamed of faraway places, wonderful adventures, and characters who lived only in my mind.
At the time, I had no idea those quiet moments on an old wooden swing were planting seeds for something much bigger.
Years later, those childhood dreams would become stories on paper.
Today, I’m thrilled to share that Unique the Unicorn has officially been released. What began as the imagination of a little girl swinging beneath the Maine sky has grown into a story I now get to share with children and families everywhere.
If you’d like to learn more about my books, you can visit: amazon.com/author/barbieanderson
Sometimes the smallest places leave the biggest footprints on our hearts. And sometimes, all it takes is an old swing to remind us where our stories truly began.
There’s something admirable about people who go above and beyond. They do more than what’s expected, not because they have to, but because they take pride in doing a job well. Most of us appreciate those folks. We thank them, praise them, and sometimes even come to depend on them.
And maybe that’s where the trouble begins.
There’s nothing wrong with giving your best effort. If you’re going to do a job, do it well. Sweep the floor like it matters. Write the report like your name is on it. Show up when you said you would. Those are values worth keeping.
What bugs me is when people start expecting that extra effort as if it’s owed to them.
Somewhere along the way, society seems to have become comfortable letting the workers carry the load while others stand by and watch. The dependable people keep being dependable, and the rest often feel no conviction about letting them do all the heavy lifting. Why? I honestly don’t know.
What I do know is that it bugs me.
It bugs me that I can work more than forty hours a week, come home tired, and still find time to take care of responsibilities, pursue interests, and make room for the things that matter. Yet I hear people complain they have no time at all.
It bugs me when coworkers refuse to pull their share of the load and are perfectly content letting everyone else pick up the slack.
It bugs me when people say they’re going to do something and then never follow through.
It bugs me when excuses become more common than accountability.
It bugs me when standards slip so low that simply doing what you said you would do is considered extraordinary. And then you expect an award for doing what you said you would do anyways.
Most of all, it bugs me because I know better.
I know we live in a fallen world. I know people are imperfect. I know disappointment has been part of the human condition since the Garden. Yet knowing that truth doesn’t make it any less frustrating when we see it play out day after day.
Maybe the real challenge isn’t dealing with other people’s shortcomings. Maybe it’s guarding our own hearts against becoming bitter because of them.
After all, if we allow someone else’s lack of effort to steal our joy, then they’ve taken more from us than our time—they’ve taken our peace.
So yes, it bugs me.
It bugs me when people don’t care, don’t contribute, don’t follow through, and don’t hold themselves to a higher standard.
But tomorrow, I’ll still get up, do my work, keep my word, and give my best effort—not because everyone else does, but because that’s who I want to be.
And perhaps that’s the difference between carrying a burden and carrying a conviction.
Sometimes the world may settle for “good enough.”
But some of us were raised to believe that if a thing is worth doing, it’s worth doing well.
And that conviction, bugs and all, is still worth keeping.
There are weekends when life hands you a lesson disguised as a lawn mower.
Last weekend, our faithful mower officially “shit the bed.” For those who have never heard that, that’s New England language for it’s dead and not coming back. Not exactly the way we planned to spend a Saturday.
Tall Cool 😎ne spent the entire morning—and a good part of the afternoon—trying to resurrect it. After enough tinkering, troubleshooting, and muttering under his breath, he came to the conclusion that the starter would need to be rebuilt. Unfortunately, the grass had no interest in waiting patiently for repairs. It was still growing, and growing fast.
So off to Home Depot we went.
After about twenty minutes of comparing models, reading labels, and debating features, Tall Cool 😎ne made his decision. Four hundred dollars later, we were headed home with a brand-new push mower riding proudly in the back of the truck.
There was only one small concern.
The box had a crushed hole in the side.
I suggested we open it up and make sure everything looked okay before leaving the store. Tall Cool 😎ne assured me it would be fine.
Well… mostly fine.
Once we got home and unpacked it, there it was—a respectable scratch on the side exactly where the box had been damaged. Nothing that affected performance, but enough to make you wonder if people still take pride in doing a job well.
I suppose I could have called and asked for a discount. But then I thought, is it really worth the aggravation? It’s a lawn mower. If it’s doing its job, scratches are inevitable. Still, when you buy something new, you expect it to arrive looking new.
But the grass wasn’t getting any shorter while I pondered customer service standards.
Once the mower was assembled, fueled, and ready for action, the real fun began.
Tall Cool 😎ne tackled one side of the yard while I raked magnolia pods into piles. Magnolia trees are beautiful, but when they were designed they clearly were never meant to be on a small piece of property. Between the pods, leaves, and assorted yard debris, they create enough work to qualify as a part-time job.
Before long, we settled into a rhythm, tag-teaming per say, taking turns pushing the mower across the yard. An hour and a half later, we stood there exhausted—hot, sweaty, dusty, and thoroughly worn out.
But the lawn looked great.
All 0.61 acres of it.
As we admired our handiwork, a thought crossed my mind.
People pay monthly memberships to gyms so they can walk on treadmills, push weighted sleds, and work up a sweat. We spent $400 one time, got a full-body workout, enjoyed fresh air, accomplished something useful, and ended up with a freshly cut lawn.
Of course, there is one difference.
The gym doesn’t keep growing back every week.
The grass, however, has already scheduled our next workout.
Crackerberries Wisdom: Sometimes life gives you a choice between a gym membership and a lawn mower. One builds muscles. The other builds muscles and character. Either way, you’re going to sweat.
This morning I woke up and found a sticky note attached to my monitor. I have absolutely no recollection of writing it. The note simply said:
“Flossing teeth and confessing sins has to be intentional.”
Now, where that thought came from is beyond me, but since I promised myself I would try to post weekly, I figured I’d give it some thought.
The Flossing Struggle
I’ll be honest—flossing is not my favorite thing. The floss gets stuck, and every now and then I’m convinced I’m about to pull out an old filling. Nothing ruins a morning quite like that feeling.
Dental visits aren’t exactly high on my list of favorite activities either. In fact, this sticky note reminded me that I need to call about a bill I still have sitting on my desk.
But whether we like it or not, flossing requires intention. You have to get in between every tooth, behind every nook and cranny. It takes effort.
Personally, I prefer dental tape over regular floss, but everyone has their preferences. Tall Cool ☺ne uses a water pick. I haven’t quite mastered that yet—it usually results in water splashed across the mirror and down the front of my shirt and all over the rest of the bathroom. If you’ve ever used one, you know exactly what I mean!
The Connection
The more I thought about that mysterious sticky note, the more I understood where it was going.
Confessing our sins is a lot like flossing.
If we truly want to repent and move forward, we have to be intentional about it. It’s easy to offer a quick, general prayer:
“Forgive me, Lord, for I have sinned.”
And God certainly hears sincere hearts.
But sometimes real growth happens when we get specific:
“Lord, forgive me for judging someone before I knew the whole story.”
“Lord, forgive me for speaking harshly when patience was needed.”
“Lord, forgive me for putting my own desires ahead of Your will.”
Intentional confession requires us to examine the hidden places of our hearts—the areas we’d often rather avoid. Much like flossing reaches the places a toothbrush misses, honest confession reaches the places surface-level prayers can overlook.
Progress, not perfection
The goal isn’t perfection. None of us will achieve that this side of heaven.
The goal is a growing relationship with Christ.
Being intentional doesn’t mean we’ll get everything right. It means we’re willing to look honestly at ourselves, acknowledge where we’ve fallen short, and bring those things before God.
That’s a start.
And sometimes a start is exactly what we need.
Final Crackerberries Thought 🍓
Maybe that’s why that sticky note showed up on my monitor.
Whether it’s caring for our teeth, nurturing relationships, growing our faith, or confessing our sins, the things that matter most rarely happen by accident.
They happen when we choose to be intentional.
What’s your take? Is flossing teeth a good comparison to confessing sins when it comes to being intentional? What do you need to be intentional about? I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments.
Until next time, keep finding the berries hidden in everyday life. 🍓
Did you know a Blue Moon is the second full moon that occurs within a single calendar month? It only happens about once every two and a half years. That rare event is where we get the familiar saying, “once in a blue moon”—something that happens very infrequently.
Well, today I’m thinking about those things we’ve always said we might do once in a blue moon. Sometimes life surprises us, and those opportunities finally arrive.
Last weekend we hosted one of our little family get-togethers. Not everyone we invited showed up, but that seems to be the way these things go. Even so, a good time was had by all. At one point, Tall Cool ☺ne joked that three energetic children can create more chaos than 300 adults combined. I believe it! Those little creatures keep everyone on their toes.
My friend Jody recently declared that they’ve officially become “party goers” instead of “party throwers.” I have to agree with her. Being the guest is certainly easier than being the host!
Speaking of celebrations, I’d like to indulge in a little self-promotion.
A while back, I mentioned that I was working on a new project. Using inspiration from my A–Z Blogging Challenge posts, I compiled them into a 26-Day Devotional Journal complete with Scripture, reflections, prayers, and space for personal notes. (Available on Amazon) Because of this project, some of my letter writing has taken a back seat while I’ve focused on creating something I hope will leave a meaningful legacy.
Now, I’m not usually one to toot my own horn, but I admit I’m a little proud. After all, it’s not every day—or even every year—that someone like me gets the opportunity to publish a book.
You might even say it only happens once in a blue moon.
This morning felt a little different. I sat with my coffee, journal open, enjoying a slower start to the day. Tall Cool ☺ne had a class this morning, so we skipped our usual 5 a.m. walk. Instead, I decided to sit quietly and write for a bit. I’m working on a new project, but it’s good to mix in a little fun with the serious stuff once in a while.
As I sat there thinking, my mind drifted back to what Memorial Day weekend meant when we were kids. Back then, it signaled the beginning of summer — vacation days, Kool-Aid mustaches, camping trips, and marshmallows toasted over an open fire. Simple things. Good things.
I remember my grandparents making a trip to the cemetery every Memorial Day to place real flowers on the gravestones of loved ones. Not the silky artificial flowers we often see today, but fresh flowers carefully planted with intention and remembrance. It made me stop and wonder — do people still take the time to truly remember those who gave their lives? Probably not as many as should. Truthfully, I’m guilty myself. I haven’t kept up with the cemetery visits the way earlier generations did.
We did, however, buy a new American flag this year. The old one had proudly flown for several years and was beginning to fade. There’s something meaningful about raising a fresh flag for Memorial Day weekend. A quiet reminder that freedom always came at a cost, and it still does.
This year we’re keeping things simple with a backyard get-together and a few friends. I joked with Tall Cool ☺ne that our crowd has officially become “The Geritol Crew.” He laughed and agreed. We’re definitely not twenty anymore, and chances are slim that anyone will be playing kick-the-can or hide-and-seek before the night is over.
But that’s alright.
We’ll grill some food, share stories, laugh about old memories, and catch up on life. And honestly, that sounds pretty perfect to me.
Memorial Day weekends may not look the same as they once did. Time changes people. Bodies age. The spirit may still feel young, but the joints too often remind us otherwise. Still, there’s value in gathering, remembering, and appreciating the season we’re in.
Maybe that’s what makes a weekend truly memorable after all.
Hope you all have a memorable up coming Memorial Weekend.
As of May 15, while writing this post, I noticed only ten people have signed up for the Road Trip challenge. Honestly, that surprised me a little. Life gets busy, though, and I understand how easily things can slip to the bottom of the list.
I considered putting my own name on the list, but I seriously hate failing at commitments. Still, even though I’m not officially participating, I’ve tried to support those who are. I’ve already visited and commented on several posts from the bloggers who signed up, and I even selected a few favorites along the way.
I did mention recently that I wanted to become more intentional about blogging again, and this weekly post is part of that effort. Today’s post is also a little personal promotion mixed with reflection.
Many years ago — okay, not quite a million, but close enough — I wrote a children’s book when my daughter was just a baby. She’s almost 38 now, which tells you how long this project has been sitting in my heart. The first version (in 2014) was created using clip art because, truthfully, I’m no artist. Over the years, I asked several artist friends and even some talented children if they would help illustrate Mildred for me, but life always seemed too busy for those kinds of projects.
So, I finally decided to take matters into my own hands and create the images myself using the tools everyone seems to use these days. And honestly? I think it turned out pretty good. I’m grateful that both my mom and dad are still alive to see this playout as both of them play a part in the book. You’ll find out who is who once you read it. Always honor your parents.
I struggled with the book cover, I just could not get the bleed right so I ended up having to use one of the premade templates but I am still happy about it.
You can check out the short video on you tube… there were some edits that needed to be corrected after the video was made so it’s not the final cut for the book, but you get the idea.
And you can buy the book on Amazon here. The book is actually set up so that children can color their own version of Mildred the Strawberry Moose. I remember finding my books marked up by my children (in those days I was mad, but I cherish them now.)
The best part of all this is that I also have another project already in the works. The A–Z Challenge helped put inspiration back into my muse, and for that, I’m thankful.
*By Barbie Anderson— Adapted and formatted for blog publication*
♥♥Every Girl Wanted a Prom Date♥♥
The alarm went off and I reached over to stop the monotonous beeping.
“Great,” I thought. “Another day closer to the prom and I still don’t have a date. What a wonderful school year this has been.”
My little sister Sarah pounded on the bedroom door.
“Mama says get up!”
“I’m up,” I groaned, kicking off the covers.
Everyone was already gathered around the breakfast table. Dad hid behind the newspaper with his coffee while Mom cooked eggs at the stove. Jeff and Sarah were arguing over fabric softener commercials like it was a national emergency.
“I want the bear one!” Sarah insisted.
I stared at them in disbelief.
“Mom,” I said, raising my voice, “this is the end of the world. The end of my life — and you’re discussing fabric softeners?”
Dad lowered the newspaper just enough to glance at me.
“Didn’t see anything in here about the end of the world,” he said calmly before returning to the sports section.
“I don’t have a date for prom,” I snapped. “It’s less than two weeks away.”
Jeff immediately smirked.
“Have Melvin take you.”
Sarah nearly choked laughing.
“S’Melvin! Melvin!”
“You’re both jerks,” I said, blinking back tears.
Dad finally sighed and folded the paper.
“Jessica, don’t talk to your brother and sister that way.”
“It’s not a phase,” I protested after Mom tried to calm everyone down. “I really don’t have a date.”
Then came the dramatic declaration:
“I’ll be miserable until I get one!”
My family rolled their eyes in perfect unison.
“Oh, Lord, please give her a date,” my brother Jeff groaned, clasping his hands together in mock prayer. “Spare us this agony.”
Dad finally lowered his newspaper and looked straight at me.
“Why don’t you take her, Jeff? You don’t have a date for the prom either.”
“No way!” Jeff squealed. “I’m not dressing up in a monkey suit.”
“And I’m not going with my own brother,” I snapped. “How embarrassing would that be?”
At the time, I thought going to prom alone was the worst thing that could happen.
A week later, I would have given anything to go with my brother instead.
—
## The Missed Bus
Four days before prom, I missed the school bus.
At first, I figured it wasn’t a big deal. School was only a short walk away, and missing first period gave me extra time to finish the English assignment I had conveniently “forgotten” to do.
I sat down at the bus stop bench, digging through my backpack for my book.
That’s when I noticed an old newspaper crumpled beside me.
Underneath it sat a beat-up, ratty old sneaker.
“Whatcha got there?” a raspy voice asked.
I jumped.
An older woman sat beside me. I had never seen her before. She looked rough around the edges — oversized coat, overstuffed bag, and a toothless grin that somehow managed to feel both unsettling and warm.
She picked up the newspaper and made herself comfortable.
“Sit and talk awhile,” she said. “I ain’t gonna bite ya.”
I sat back down, carefully leaving plenty of space between us.
— ## A Strange Conversation
“You go to school?” she asked while pulling a chocolate bar from her bag.
“Yeah. I’m supposed to be there right now.”
“Never got the chance to go to high school myself,” she said. Then she held out the candy. “Go ahead. It ain’t poison.”
I accepted a tiny piece out of politeness.
Then came the question I was tired of hearing.
“You going to the prom Saturday?”
“Not unless I magically find a date,” I muttered.
The woman studied me for a moment.
“Pretty girl like you ain’t got a date?”
“Not by choice,” I answered.
She raised an eyebrow.
“How many boys have *you* asked?”
I stared at her.
Ask a boy to prom?
That wasn’t how things worked.
As if she could read my mind, she shrugged.
“This is the ’90s, sweetheart. Girls can ask boys too.”
I imagined asking Jerry Davis — the best-looking guy in school — to prom.
Just the thought made my face burn.
“You shy?” she asked.
Maybe.
Or maybe I was just terrified of rejection.
—
## The Sneaker Idea
The woman picked up the old sneaker and turned it over in her hands.
“I got an idea,” she said.
I should have walked away right then.
Instead, I listened.
“Pretend you’re a princess in a fairy tale,” she said. “Take this sneaker to school and find the boy it fits.”
I blinked.
“Are you crazy?”
“Depends how desperate you are for a prom date.”
The worst part?
I *was* desperate.
She pushed the sneaker into my hands.
“Sometimes miracles need a little encouragement,” she said before shuffling away.
And somehow for some weird unknown reason… I took the sneaker with me.
—
## The Search for ‘Prince Charming’
By lunchtime, the entire school knew about the sneaker.
I pretended the idea had been mine all along.
At first, everybody laughed.
Then they joined in.
One by one, boys tried on the old sneaker while the cafeteria cheered them on.
Even Jerry Davis tried it.
No luck.
After what felt like the hundredth failed attempt, I finally sighed.
“I guess Prince Charming doesn’t go to this school.”
That’s when Jeff pointed across the cafeteria.
“You didn’t try *his* foot.”
Sitting alone at a table stacked with books was Melvin Ingstrom.
Melvin was… different.
He looked like he’d stepped out of the 1950s. Horn-rimmed glasses. Greased hair. Penny loafers. Cuffed jeans.
Definitely not the guy I pictured taking me to prom.
“Not Melvin,” I whispered.
Jeff ignored me.
“Melvin! Get over here!”
The entire cafeteria watched as Melvin slowly walked toward us.
Jeff shoved the sneaker onto his foot.
And it fit.
Perfectly.
“Looks like Jess found her Prince Charming!” Jeff shouted.
Everyone applauded.
Melvin smiled.
I wanted to disappear.
—
## Prom Night
Now it was prom night.
I stood upstairs staring at myself in the mirror, trying to calm my nerves.
Any second, Melvin would arrive.
I was convinced the evening would be a disaster.
Then the doorbell rang.
“Jessica, Melvin is here!” Mom called.
Before I could move, my little sister Sarah burst into my room, completely out of breath.
“Jessie,” she gasped, “he doesn’t even look like Melvin anymore!”
I hurried downstairs.
And for the first time, I realized something important.
Maybe I had been so busy chasing the idea of the *perfect* date that I never gave anyone real a chance.
Maybe fairy tales don’t always begin with glass slippers and princes.
Sometimes they begin with a beat-up old sneaker at a bus stop.
—
## Final Thoughts
This story is a reminder that expectations can blind us to unexpected opportunities.
We often build perfect images in our minds — about people, relationships, and even ourselves. But sometimes the people we overlook are the ones who surprise us the most.
And sometimes, all it takes to change your story is the courage to try something completely unexpected.
Would you have taken the sneaker to school?
Cheers,
I wrote this story for a class I was taking to be a children’s writer. I’ve been going through some of those old copies and decided before I threw them out, I’d document them here. One day there may not be internet, but for now, it’s better than the fading typed papers.
The 2026 A–Z Blogging Challenge officially wrapped up on April 30th, and I’ll admit — there were moments when I wondered if I would make it to the finish line. Balancing headaches, work, kids, cats, and everyday life made this year’s challenge feel heavier than usual. But somehow, letter by letter and post by post, it all came together.
Last year, I copied and pasted my responses directly to the A–Z Reflection questions. This year felt different — more thoughtful, more personal. Instead of simply answering prompts, I found myself genuinely reflecting on the experience and what it meant to me as both a writer and a blogger.
One thing about me? Reflection has a way of revealing whether something truly mattered, whether it truly worked. And I’m happy to say I finished this challenge feeling proud, inspired, and already thinking about what comes next.
My top commenter this year was actually a friend who doesn’t even participate in the challenge and only comments on Facebook. Funny how encouragement sometimes comes from friends closest to us rather than from within the blogging world itself. Terry was also the only person who commented on Facebook, while my blog itself received around 50 more comments than last year. That’s pretty sweet.
People don’t always realize how much those little notifications matter. Comments are like finding mail in the mailbox — proof that someone stopped by, read your words, and connected with them. They were all my favorite, so if you took the time to stop by and comment here is a virtual hug for you. Thank you, I appreciate you more than you know.
One thing I’ve noticed is that I don’t always respond to comments the way some bloggers do. I was going to do name dropping but you know who you are so I don’t have to tell you. I visited many blogs this year, though I’ll admit I wasn’t as consistent as I had hoped to be. Life has a way of pulling us in different directions, especially during a month-long writing commitment. I do intend to stay active throughout the year and I will be hitting the Master list so I can check each one off.
Still, one of the best parts of this challenge was forming new relationships within the blogging community. Even though we may never meet face-to-face, there’s something meaningful about encouraging one another through creativity, stories, humor, and honesty. In a way, we hold each other accountable — cheering one another on until the very last letter. (I really wish it was all year long.) Heck, I’m even hoping one day I might get chosen to do a guest blog on the A-Z website.
I also realized how much I miss some of the original blogger’s posts. Blogs evolve. Writers step away or die. Seasons change. The blogging world may not be as active as it once was, but that doesn’t mean it’s gone. It simply means we have to keep showing up, keep writing, and keep sharing our voices.
And that’s where I’ll leave this reflection:
Readers are plentiful. Thinkers are rare. Writers who keep going? Even rarer.
When I said I would be posting weekly, I had no clear idea what I would write about. I may have mentioned before that writing, for me, is a kind of therapy. It helps me sort things out. It helps me vent. It helps me hold on to a little sanity when life feels heavy.
Yesterday was one of those hard days.
Tall Cool ☺ne and I had to make the heartbreaking decision to give Chow Maine back to the Lord. Her time had come. Seventeen years in cat years is a long and full life. Truth be told, by that point I’d probably be ready for a long nap too.
Fourteen years ago, we had to make the same painful choice for our beloved Little Big Bear Penobscot. As you can probably tell by their names, they reflected where we’re from and became a huge part of our story. They were never “just pets.” They were family, companions, and steady little presences woven into our everyday lives.
I once started writing a book about Bear, but it was too painful to finish. Even writing this now weighs heavy on my heart. There is a tribute to Bear on YouTube, and when I recently watched it again, I noticed there are even pictures of Chow Maine as a kitten tucked inside it. Somehow, that feels fitting now. It makes the tribute belong to both of them.
If you have ever had to say goodbye to a pet, then you understand this kind of sorrow. It is a quiet ache that settles deep in the heart. Yet along with the sadness comes peace in knowing we made the right decision, and comfort in believing they are in a happier place.
I love zebras. They are striking creatures—bold, beautiful, and unforgettable. If I were going to be an animal, that is what I would choose. Black and white. No in-between. No gray areas. Just yes or no, clear and certain.
Wouldn’t life be easier if everything were that simple? Maybe. But real life rarely works in neat stripes.
Relationships fall apart. Families disagree. Friendships strain. People see the same situation through completely different eyes and walk away with opposite conclusions. Life can be messy, complicated, and sometimes painful. There are seasons when nothing feels black and white at all.
As we come to the end of the A–Z Blogging Challenge, I find myself reflecting on this journey—the posts, the reactions, the comments, and the kindness from readers along the way. Every note of encouragement has meant more than you know. I truly love hearing from those who stop by to read.
These posts take time, thought, and heart. I try to write each one with a little Crackerberries flair—and with a certain zeal.
You know, the name Crackerberries came to me more than twenty-five years ago. It was once meant to be the name of my dream restaurant. That dream took a different shape, but dreams do not always disappear—they sometimes reinvent themselves. So now I have my virtual restaurant over at Crackerberries Kitchen, and this little corner of the world for the stories you might have heard if you had ever pulled up a chair at one of my tables.
The challenge may be ending, but this year has rekindled something important in me: the zeal to write.
I plan to keep going—at least once a week—so if you get the chance, check back throughout the year. There will be more stories, more laughter, and a few surprises waiting.
Isn’t it frustrating when people tell you they’re going to do something—and then don’t follow through?
We all understand that life happens. Emergencies come up. Plans change. A sincere yes can turn into an honest apology: I’m sorry, something came up.
That’s life.
But when it becomes a pattern—again and again—it stops being an exception and starts revealing character.
It’s the coworker who can’t seem to log in on time… even when working from home. The friend who shows up late to every lunch. The volunteer who signs up with enthusiasm but vanishes when it’s time to serve.
And yes—even the Christian who walks into church every Sunday after the announcements are over… late, again, as if time—and other people—don’t matter.
Individually, these may seem small.
Repeated enough, they’re not small at all.
They erode trust.
And trust matters.
Common sense and common courtesy are where integrity begins. Show up when you said you would. Return the call, text, email. Pay the bill. Finish the task. Keep the promise.
These aren’t heroic acts—they’re daily evidence of character.
So here’s the harder question: What have we said yes to… that we quietly let fall through the cracks?
I know this about myself: when I say I’m going to do something, it doesn’t leave me alone until it’s finished. It wakes me up in the wee early hours of the morning until the blog is written, the letter is sent, the task is done.
Not because I’m perfect—but because my word is supposed to mean something.
And that’s where the tension is.
We are quick to reach for grace—and rightly so. We are imperfect people serving a perfect God. We fall short daily.
But somewhere along the way, grace has been stretched beyond recognition. It’s no longer covering weakness—it’s excusing patterns. Repeated lateness. Broken commitments. Half-hearted follow-through. Chronic inconsideration.
At some point, “life happens” stops being the exception and starts becoming the habit.
Kindness and carelessness are not the same thing. One requires intention. The other thrives on neglect.
And when someone asks for help, “it depends” may be truthful—but it reveals something deeper. Love that waits on convenience isn’t really love—it’s preference.
Jesus didn’t say, “Love your neighbor when it works for you.” “Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.” This is the first and greatest commandment. And the second is like it: “Love your neighbor as yourself…” (Matthew 22:37–40)
If that’s the standard, then our words shouldn’t be casual—and our commitments shouldn’t be optional. A life marked by love should also be marked by follow-through.
So today’s reminder is simple:
When you say you will—do it. When you can’t—own it quickly. Find a way to make it up. When you give your word—honor it.
There simply aren’t many words to choose from, and “X marks the spot” felt a little too easy. So this year I’m leaning into something that feels far more fitting for the times we’re living in:
eXtreme measures.
Because if we’re being honest, that’s exactly where we are.
The other day Tall Cool ☺ne filled up the gas tank and walked away $80 lighter. Tomatoes? $4.99 a pound. And deep down, we all know the truth.
It’s not getting better anytime soon.
Even with a shift. Maybe a little change (no pun intended). But most definitely not without… eXtreme measures.
And then there are the everyday moments that make you stop and shake your head.
After Sunrise Service on Easter, we went fishing. On the way home we passed a truck pulled over on the side of the road. An older gentleman—about our age, maybe older—got out, picked up a piece of trash, walked about fifty or seventy-five feet ahead…
…and tossed it right onto someone else’s property.
I couldn’t believe it.
Who does that? What makes someone act so carelessly… so small?
It’s easy to point fingers.
It’s harder to look inward.
Because the truth is, we’re all navigating a world that feels stretched thin. We hear whispers of another pandemic. Prices keep rising. Paychecks don’t. Stability feels less like a promise and more like a fading memory.
And whether we like it or not, getting through what’s ahead is going to take more than wishful thinking.
It will take discipline. It will take preparation. It will take intentional living.
It will take eXtreme measures.
But not just in how we spend, save, or prepare.
In how we live. In how we treat others. In how we anchor ourselves when everything around us feels uncertain.
So let me ask you something.
What eXtreme measures are you taking?
Have you made your peace with God?
Because at the end of the day, that’s the one measure that matters most. The one decision that outweighs every rising cost, every uncertain tomorrow, every fear we carry.
Salvation isn’t passive.
It’s a choice. A step. A surrender.
And there is no more powerful, life-changing, or truly eXtreme measure you can take than that.
When I set out to write my A–Z challenge this year, I didn’t have a polished plan. My “theme” was surprise. Each letter was going to be a wing-ding—whatever the muse nudged my pen toward in that moment. No overthinking. No over-planning. Just showing up and letting it unfold.
And looking back? I’m surprised in the best way.
There’s a richness woven through these posts I didn’t expect—a thread of lived experience, hard lessons, and quiet growth. A whole lot of wisdom, gathered not from textbooks, but from life itself. Not bought. Not borrowed. Not handed over on a silver platter.
Earned.
Years ago, I remember hearing a sermon from Charles Stanley where he said the three greatest things you can pray for are: Godly wisdom, Biblical knowledge, and Spiritual discernment. I took that to heart—and I’ve been praying for those things ever since.
But let me tell you something honest…
Sometimes, I’ve been tempted to hand that discernment right back.
Because once you see, you see. It doesn’t turn off.
You start recognizing things in people, in situations—things you might rather not know. And that can feel heavy. It can make you question: “Is God showing me something for a reason? Am I meant to step in, to speak up, to help?”
Or is it just my vivid imagination running wild?
Maybe it’s a little of both.
But wisdom teaches you this: not everything you see is yours to fix—but some things are yours to understand.
We should never stop learning. Never stop asking questions. Because wisdom isn’t just knowledge—it’s sound judgment. It’s knowing what you know… and using it well.
And somewhere along the way, in all these wing-ding posts, I realized something else…
This challenge didn’t just fill pages. It revealed pieces of me.
Growth I didn’t notice. Strength I didn’t name. Wisdom I didn’t realize I’d been carrying.
Funny how that works.
So now I’m curious…
What about you?
What nuggets of wisdom did this challenge leave in your hands? Did you follow a theme… or did you just wing it?
Either way, if you showed up, you earned something.
I’ve been sitting with the letter V for a while now—reading through my own words, tweaking, polishing, getting ready for today’s post. And I’ll be honest… I’m a little proud of how far I’ve come.
Not just in writing—but in voice.
Because voice doesn’t just appear. It’s built. Over years. Through life. Through lessons you didn’t ask for but learned anyway.
And if you’ve ever written something and quietly wondered, “Does this even matter?”—then you already understand the pull of validation.
We all want to be heard. We all want to know our words carry weight— that they land somewhere meaningful.
But here’s where it gets real…
There’s a difference between voice and validation. And if you’re not careful, you’ll trade one for the other.
I look back at my early writing and—wow—the growth is undeniable. Eighteen years of blogging. And if I pulled out my journals from the ’80s? Let’s just say humbling might be the kindest word.
Back then there were no blogs, no “publish” buttons—just pen, paper, and honesty. Stuff you didn’t want to share with anyone, stuff from the heart. (And yes, journaling stuff from the heart is still my daily routine.)
What’s changed? It isn’t just how I write. It’s what I value.
Because as we grow—older, wiser (hopefully), a little more grounded—our values don’t disappear. They shift. What mattered at 20 doesn’t sit the same at 40… and at 60, the values from 40 and 20 are history. I can only imagine what 70 or 80 might bring if I’m blessed to get there.
Values? They shape your voice.
They decide what you speak on, what you stay quiet about, and what you’re no longer willing to pretend doesn’t matter.
Here’s the part most people don’t say out loud:
You can have a strong voice and still crave validation. That doesn’t make you weak—it makes you human.
But if your voice depends on validation… that’s when you start losing yourself.
Not everyone will agree with what you value. Not everyone will understand your perspective.
Some will support you. Some will question you. Some will scroll right past without a second thought, because they don’t care one way or the other.
And still… your voice matters.
Because it isn’t built on applause.
It’s built on truth.
Your truth. Your growth. Your lived experience.
So yes—respect the fact that we all seek validation in different ways. There’s no shame in that. Just don’t let it become the filter that edits your voice down to something smaller, quieter, easier to digest.
Say what you mean. Stand in what you value. Let your voice reflect the life you’ve actually lived—not the one that earns the most approval.
Because in the end…
Values matter. Voice matters. And the courage to hold onto both?
That’s where the real story lives.
What about you? Where is that voice that wants to speak on something you value so much but you haven’t had the courage? Let it out…say it loud, say it proud!
That was the word of the day. Strong. Bold. A little sharp around the edges.
But if I’m being honest… it didn’t quite fit.
Not here. Not for me. Not today.
Because when I sit with it long enough, unapologetic feels like resistance—like standing firm, yes—but maybe also standing alone. And that’s not the message that kept tugging at my heart. There is enough loneliness in the world today and no one wants to stand alone.
So here’s your curveball.
U is for United.
As in—together. As in—in unity.
My mind drifts back to that familiar echo from Rodney King: “Why can’t we all just get along?”
It sounds simple. Almost too simple.
But maybe the answer isn’t complicated at all.
We don’t get along because we’re different. Different thoughts. Different lives. Different ways of seeing the same sky.
And yet…
Every animal on Noah’s ark was different too. Different sizes, different instincts, different temperaments.
But they survived.
Not because they agreed. Not because they liked each other.
But because they understood something we keep forgetting—
Unity isn’t about sameness. It’s about survival.
Maybe that’s why seasons like the pandemic shook us so deeply. For a moment, we remembered. We moved carefully. We looked out for one another. We were aware.
And then…
We drifted.
We stopped sanitizing every surface. We got comfortable again. We forgot how quickly life can shift beneath our feet.
How quickly everything can change.
So I’ll ask you what I’ve been asking myself:
What are you doing, in your small corner of the world, to bring people back together?
Not united in politics. Not united in opinions. But united in something that actually lasts.
In Christ.
Because the truth is—He didn’t come for a select few. He didn’t go to the cross for those who “fit.”
He came for all. So none would perish. So every one of us would have the chance at something eternal.
A gift.
Free. Undeserved. Still waiting.
So now the question isn’t about the world.
It’s personal.
Are you living united… or standing apart?
Because in the end, it won’t be about what side you chose.
It will be about whether you reached out your hand— and took the gift that was always there.
I’ll say this gently—I don’t quite understand the excitement around tattoos these days.
Before anyone tenses up, hear me out. I’m not against them. I actually have one myself—a tiny, slightly questionable Rolling Stones tattoo on the top of my foot. A little souvenir from a younger, wilder season of life. That version of me has long since moved on… and if I’m being honest, the meaning behind that ink has faded too.
And that’s really where this begins.
When people talk about why they get tattoos, I often hear, “It reminds me of where I’ve been.” And I do understand that—to a degree. There’s something meaningful about remembering where you started and how far you’ve come. Growth matters. Your story matters.
But I keep coming back to this:
We’re not meant to stay there.
We’re not called to live in old chapters on repeat. God’s Word points us forward—toward renewal, restoration, redemption. It calls us to become new, not to permanently anchor ourselves to who we used to be.
Scars feel different to me. You know, the kind that are ugly and are imbedded in your skin from accidents, falls, battles, the kind that make-up doesn’t cover up.
Scars come from living. From healing. From surviving something that once felt like it might take you out. They carry weight because they weren’t chosen for display—they’re simply part of the life you’ve lived.
Tattoos, though, are chosen reminders. Permanent ones.
And I can’t help but wonder—especially for the younger generation covering themselves in meaningful designs—has there been a pause to consider how those choices might feel years down the road? Not just how they’ll look on aging skin, but how they’ll sit emotionally… even spiritually.
Because what feels deeply meaningful today might not hold the same truth tomorrow.
And that’s really the heart of it.
This isn’t about judgment—it’s about perspective. It’s about asking whether we’re holding onto moments we were meant to grow beyond, or stepping fully into who we’re becoming.
Because truth doesn’t need ink to last.
It shows up in how we grow. How we change. How we keep moving forward without constantly looking back.
And that kind of truth only deepens with time.
Even when it’s uncomfortable
Truth sounds simple… until it isn’t.
We say we want honesty—real, unfiltered truth—but when it starts pressing against our comfort, something shifts. Why is it so hard to simply tell the truth? Is it fear of what people might think? Or fear of how they’ll respond?
Because if we’re honest…
Truth isn’t always gentle.
Sometimes it lands heavy. Sometimes it reveals more than we’re ready for. Sometimes it asks something of us.
And maybe that’s why we tiptoe around it.
But here’s the thing—truth, told the first time, stands on its own. It doesn’t need managing or maintaining. It doesn’t require layers.
Lies do.
Truth is steady. It’s real. It doesn’t bend.
And yet…
We live in a world where truth is often filtered. Where stories are shaped before they ever reach us. Where even in our homes, truth gets softened—out of love, out of protection, or simply to keep the peace.
But there’s another layer we don’t always like to admit:
Sometimes we say we want the truth… but we’re not sure we’re ready to feel it.
So where does that leave us?
Maybe it’s not just about telling the truth—it’s about how we carry it.
Empathy matters. Kindness matters. Tone matters.
We can offer truth gently. We can speak it with compassion.
But we shouldn’t reshape it into something easier just to make it more comfortable.
Because truth—even when it feels heavy—is still truth.
And beneath all of this—beneath tattoos, memories, stories, and the versions of ourselves we cling to—there is a deeper truth still:
A storm is coming.
Not one you can see on the horizon, but one that brings everything into the light.
Jesus is coming.
Not only in comfort—but in judgment. Not only in promise—but in fulfillment.
And He will come for those who have remained faithful.
That truth isn’t meant to scare us or leave us fearful—it isn’t meant to wound the heart. It’s meant to awaken it.
Because here’s the grace in it: It’s not too late. Not too late to face the truth. Not too late to live it. Not too late to choose it.
Truth isn’t meant to scar us—it’s meant to shape us. To refine, not to harm. To bring clarity, not damage.
Truth doesn’t bend to fit us… but it will always invite us to rise and meet it.
Life teaches you about standards—usually not gently.
They aren’t built overnight. They’re forged through trials, mistakes, and quiet perseverance—the kind that shows up like when you’re dancing in the kitchen when no one’s watching.
And yet, everywhere we look, standards are slipping. Not because they’re wrong. Not because they’re too high. But because someone couldn’t—or wouldn’t—rise to meet them.
That’s the tipping point. Where integrity starts to bend.
Because it’s easier, isn’t it? Easier to lower the line than hold it. Easier to adjust expectations than demand growth. Easier to say, “this is fine,” than admit, “this falls short, step it up.”
But standards aren’t meant to be convenient. It’s not the “Bell Curve“. But they are a measure. A reflection of what you value. A declaration of what you will—and will not—accept.
The question isn’t whether standards are hard. They are. They should be.
The real question is:
Do you hold them high… or quietly let them slip?
Every time you lower them, you don’t just change the outcome—you change the expectation. And over time, surprise! That becomes the culture.
Hold the line. Especially when it hurts. Especially when no one else does.
Because standards don’t just shape results—they shape you.
Crackerberries truth: Your line is your life. Don’t bend it.
How about you? Do you have have a set of standards that without exception will not bend?
We all carry a backbone inside of us—some a little sturdier than others, some tested more times than we care to count. And when life presses in, when the weight feels unfair and the stories around you get louder than your own, it’s easy to wonder if you’ve got enough strength left to stand.
But here’s the truth we don’t say often enough: resilience isn’t about never falling—it’s about refusing to stay down.
Everyone has a story. Some wear theirs like a badge, while others quietly carry it like a stone in their pocket. And yes, there will always be voices trying to measure suffering, as if pain could be ranked or compared. But your struggle? It matters. Your breaking point? It’s real.
Still… you’re here.
Scripture reminds us that God is faithful—He will not allow us to face what He hasn’t already equipped us to endure (1 Corinthians 10:13). And that one word tucked into that promise—believers—it matters. Because resilience, the kind that holds when everything else gives way, is rooted in something deeper than willpower.
Maybe right now feels like sinking—like you’re stuck in that red clay kind of struggle, where the harder you fight, the deeper you go. You’re tired. Frustrated. Wondering if you’ll ever get free.
Look up.
See that hand?
That’s Jesus—steady, patient, unshaken. He’s not rushing you, not scolding you. He’s simply waiting… for you to reach back.
Now let’s be honest—grabbing hold doesn’t magically erase the storm. The struggle doesn’t disappear overnight. Life doesn’t suddenly turn easy.
No sir.
But what does come is peace—the kind that settles chaos without needing to explain it. A quiet assurance that even in the middle of the mess… you’re going to be okay.
I know trials. I know the kind that leave marks you don’t talk about. And I know there are more ahead—because that’s part of this life. But I’ve made peace with that truth, because my future isn’t tied to temporary battles. It’s anchored in eternity.
So let me ask you something…
Do you want to be resilient? Do you want to rise—buoyant, steady, unbreakable in the places that used to shatter you?
Do you want that promise—no more tears, no more sorrow, no more pain?
Then don’t just sit in the struggle.
Reach.
Ask.
Because resilience isn’t just surviving… —it’s knowing exactly the ONE Who is holding you while you do.
Just leave a note in the comments below and I’ll pray for you. Or….
Is it truly quiet—or just the absence of everyone else’s noise while your own thoughts run a full marathon?
Maybe it’s just me, but I’ve never quite fit the mold of what “quiet time” is supposed to be. I like mine early—before the world stretches, before the sun fully commits, before responsibility starts knocking. Bible open. Coffee nearby. Journal waiting. Sometimes even a letter or two if time allows… though time has a funny way of slipping through our fingers while we’re busy talking about how little of it we have.
We all get the same 24 hours, they say. But wouldn’t it be something if, just once in a while, we got a little extra tucked in our back pocket?
Today (the day I wrote this ) I took some.
I clocked out early—not because everything was done, but because I wasn’t. The noise of people, expectations, and unspoken frustrations was louder than I cared to entertain. The house? A mess. My mind? Even messier. So I chose quiet… even if it wasn’t entirely silent.
Because here’s the truth: quiet time isn’t always about stillness. Sometimes it’s about stepping away before things escalate. Sometimes it’s medicine—whether that’s prayer, reflection, or yes… a little help from Claritin and a deep breath.
So now I’m wondering—
How much do we really need? And should we stop waiting for it… and start taking it?
Because maybe quiet isn’t found. Maybe it’s chosen.
How do you make time for yourself and how often do you take it? What does your quiet time look like?
Cheers,
PS… I’ve not had much time to visit other blogs but I will catch up. I appreciate all who are continuing to check in.
Perspective, especially, has been written about, preached on, and analyzed from every angle. And rightly so—there is, as Ecclesiastes 1:9 reminds us, nothing truly new under the sun.
And yet…
Each of us moves through life convinced that our version is the version. It’s like a family reunion with 28 different potato salads. Aunt Marie insists hers is the best. Uncle Mike adds his own twist. And Tall Cool ☺ne? He doesn’t even like shrimp and grits— but somehow Jody is still convinced: “He’s never tried my shrimp and grits.”
Bless it.
Because in the end, shrimp and grits is still shrimp and grits, and potato salad is still potato salad.
So perhaps—just perhaps— it isn’t perspective that deserves our scrutiny.
Maybe it’s prestidigitation.
(Try saying that twice without stumbling.)
Sleight of hand. Distraction. The subtle art of directing your attention here… while something entirely different unfolds there.
I came across the word in my old scrapbook dictionary. It stopped me. I looked deeper and found it still surfaces in unexpected places—even in games like Dungeons & Dragons, which says something about how long it’s been since I’ve rolled any dice.
But bring it back to our table. Isn’t that what’s happening all around us? We hear one narrative. We see one angle. We’re presented with one version. But are we truly getting the full picture? Or are we being guided… redirected… captivated by something deliberately placed in front of us?
Because behind the table— beneath the surface— just outside the spotlight— That’s often where the truth resides. And if we’re honest, some days it’s easier not to look. People hesitate before turning on the news. Before asking the harder questions. Not because they don’t care to know— but because they’re beginning to question what they’re actually being shown… and told.
And then, just like that—
Surprise. A revelation!
Something unexpected pulled from the hat— and no, it’s not a rabbit.
This isn’t limited to headlines or broadcasts. It shows up in schools, in communities, in churches— even within our most personal relationships.
So I’ll leave you with the same question I had to ask myself: What’s your perspective?
Because it may not be about seeing more clearly— it may be about recognizing what’s been hiding in plain sight all along. Cheers,
Every day, something shows up in our hands that looks like opportunity. Thomas Edison once said “Opportunity is missed by most people because it is dressed in overalls and looks like work.” Most days it’s not opportunity at all.
It’s ownership…just dressed up a little prettier than a grungy old pair of overalls.
It’s ownership of what we said. Ownership of how we reacted. Ownership of the choices we made when nobody was watching—and nobody was warning us either.
Some days that feels like a win. Other days, it feels like something we’d rather hand back and pretend we never signed up for.
But it doesn’t work that way. If it’s yours… it’s yours.
Now it’s easy—real easy—to start pointing fingers when things go sideways. Blame your mother. Blame the system. Blame the fine print. Blame the timing, the people, the whole tangled mess of it. Blame our president because I’m sure a lot of us are (not ashamed to admit it).
I get it. I truly do.
I sit in front of a screen full of folks hurting and frustrated, wanting answers about why their insurance increased tied up neat with a bow…when the truth just doesn’t come packaged that way.
And if we’re really being honest here? Most of us don’t read the fine print until life makes us.
Not in contracts. Not in relationships. Not in the quiet, creeping consequences of our own decisions.
We want the harvest… but we don’t always want to talk about what we planted.
But ownership doesn’t wait to be invited in. Nope not at all. SURPRISE! It just shows up.
Every single time.
Scripture says it plain— Galatians 6:7 we reap what we sow.
No wiggle room. No small print tucked in the corner. No getting around it.
So maybe it’s time we stop calling everything an opportunity like it’s optional. And start calling it what it is.
Ownership. Own the choice. Own the consequence. Own the lesson that came knocking right behind it.
Because it will come— in hours, in days, sometimes in years. But it always comes. And when it does, you’ve got a decision to make— stand in it…or try to outrun something that already knows exactly where to find you.
Around here I don’t do much running anymore. I’m too old for that. I try to introduce things a little better. I try to choose my words a little wiser. I try really hard to bite my tongue when it doesn’t want to be bitten. And when I miss it—and I do and man that hurts but you know what? — I own that too.
Because that’s where the wisdom happens.
Not in the opportunity…
but in the ownership
Say it honest. Own it fully. Live through it.
How about you, where can you take ownership in missed opportunities?
CRACKERBERRIES 
