The Joy of Gratitude - 2024

🌟Welcome to Your Journey of Ultimate Wellness! 🌈💖
Thank you for choosing our ebook/magazine! 📘✨To enhance your health and beauty
experience, we've curated some phenomenal products that promise to elevate your
well-being. 🌺🌟
Skincare Saviors:
Hydrossential - Unique Beauty Serum: 💦One Simple Way To Maintain A Flawless
Skin. Link: https://mas.so/hydrossential
Sun-Kissed Confidence:
Totally Bangin' Tan by Turbo Babe: ☀️Go From “Pale Princess” to “Golden Goddess”
with this Anti-Aging Sunless Tanning. Link: https://mas.so/bangin
Hairraisingly Healthy:
FoliPrime - The Natural Egyptian Hair Balm: 💆‍♀️Supports Hair Health. Link:
https://mas.so/foliprime
Men's Wellness Wonders:
Endo Pump - Male Enhancement MONSTER: 💪U.S. Scientists Discover Secret For
Stamina & Virility At Any Age. Link: https://mas.so/endopump
African “Sex Monkeys” Unveil How To Reverse Erectile Dysfunction So You Can Have
A Rock Hard Erection Again And Last At Least 30 Minute In Bed! (Note: Due to the
potentially offensive language, I recommend considering revising this title and
description.) Link: https://mas.so/edprotocol
Conquer Health Concerns:
MenoRescue: 🧘‍♀️Support healthy hormone levels with MenoRescue™. Formulated
using the latest Ivy League research. Link: https://mas.so/menorescue
GlucoFence - Blood Sugar Support: 🛡️#1 Most Hated By Big Pharma , Rogue Doctor
Fixes Type 2 Diabetes. Link: https://mas.so/glucofence
Bonus Goodies:
NEW '23: Archangel Health Prayers for 400 Diseases, Weight Loss... Link:
https://mas.so/archangels
Natural Therapy With Killer VSL & Captivating Hook That Converts Like Crazy For
Both Health & PD Niches! Powerful Therapy Based On Acupuncture. New Non-
Invasive Alternative. To Electro-Acupuncture, Producing Astounding Results… Self-
Application Is Easy, Rapid Response. Link: https://mas.so/naturaltherapy
Every Morning This Ancient Amazonian “Drip Method” Is Being Used To Support
Healthy Weight Loss. Link: https://mas.so/ignite
The "Hidden Survival Muscle" In Your Body Missed By Modern Physicians That Keep
Millions Of Men And Women Defeated By Pain, Frustrated With Belly Fat, And
Struggling To Feel Energized Every Day… Link: https://mas.so/hipflexors
Meditation - "InnaPeace Meditation Program" : The InnaPeace Program for Anxiety
Sufferers, Discover why thousands are flocking to what experts are calling “the most
advanced self-development method known to human kind”. Link:
https://mas.so/innapeace
Don't miss out on these amazing products! Click the links above and start your journey
to a healthier, happier you!
Don't let shortened links with mas.so send shivers down your spine! 🥶It's just a friendly
URL shrinker, like a superhero packing superpowers into a tiny suit. 💪👀Fear not, visit
https://mas.so and see what mas.so is. ✨Then, click with confidence and discover your
favorite products! 🗺️Trust needs to be built on the first click. Thanks!💎

the joy of Gratitude
the joy of Gratitude 3
Guideposts is a nonprofit organization that promotes faith, hope and prayer in people’s lives. Whether through
our apps, communities, websites or publications, we inspire our audiences, bring them together, comfort, uplift,
entertain and guide them. To learn more, visit guideposts.org/about or guidepostsfoundation.org.
“This is the day that the Lord has made;
let us rejoice and be glad in it.”
—PSALM 118:24

(FROM
TOP)
KATYE
MARTENS
BRIER;
PAUL
PUGLIESE;
COURTESY
MARY
BOLDT
36
66
10
6 IN ALL CIRCUMSTANCES
compiled by
Amanda Ericson, Editor
7 LETTER FROM THE EDITOR
by Edward Grinnan, Editor-in-Chief
8 A SELECTION FROM
EVENINGS WITH JESUS
by Crystal Storms
10 IN A FAMILY WAY
by Claire McGarry
Windham, New Hampshire
14 THE TEACUP
by Sue McCusker, Canton, Georgia
17 ON SECOND THOUGHT
by Joni Topper, Lori Stanley
Roeleveld & Sandy Quandt
18 JUSTICE SERVED ★
by Frances McGee-Cromartie
Dayton, Ohio
22 HIDDEN JOY
by Glenda Ferguson, Paoli, Indiana
26 NOTHING SHORT OF
A MIRACLE ★
by the people of Saline
County, Kansas
31 IN A BAD PLACE?
by Therese Borchard
Annapolis, Maryland
32 THE THANKFUL HEART
by Max Lucado
San Antonio, Texas
35 OPEN IN PRIVATE
by Mary Daul, Addison, Illinois
36 THE SMILE JAR
by Sherry Ortiz
Winchester, Kentucky
38 A SELECTION FROM
A GRATEFUL HEART
by Jeanette Levellie
40 REJOICE IN ALL THINGS
by Eryn Lynum, Loveland, Colorado
42 MY PRAYER SHAWL
by Lou Zywicki Prudhomme
Cocoa, Florida
44 HAWAII 5-0
by Laurie Davies, Mesa, Arizona
47 4 STEPS FOR LETTING GO
by Evan Miller, Editor
48 GEN Z TO THE RESCUE
by Roberta Messner
Huntington, West Virginia
49 WHAT PRAYER CAN DO
by Heather Lynn Ivester
Carrollton, Georgia
50 NAG NOT!
by Rebecca Chamma
San Diego, California
53 MY POLAR PLUNGE
by Vicki Kuyper
Colorado Springs, Colorado
54 PLEASE, NO CRYING!
by Karen Paul-Stern
Takoma Park, Maryland
56 MYSTERIOUS WAYS
by Barbara Jackson, Medina, Ohio
57 PAY IT FORWARD
by Cathy Mayﬁeld, Connie
Cox & Pauline Stegall Clowers
58 FROM THE 2024 EDITION OF
WALKING IN GRACE
by Jenny Lynn Keller
60 HELD ★
by Haengso Hong, Seoul, South Korea
64 GRATITUDE MAKEOVER
by Celeste McCauley
Contributing Editor
66 TO THE LIGHTHOUSE
by Jenn Gentlesk
Haddon Township, New Jersey
68 EVERYDAY GREATNESS:
TEDDY DROSEROS
by Diane Stark, Contributing Editor
+Enjoy these Reader Favorites!
78
contents
contents

(COVER)
GETTY
IMAGES/ISTOCKPHOTO;
(THIS
PAGE,
ABOVE)
DAVID
STEPHENSON;
(RIGHT)
KAREN
BONAR
26
PRESIDENT CEO John Temple
John Temple
EDITOR-IN-CHIEF VICE PRESIDENT Edward Grinnan
Edward Grinnan
VICE PRESIDENT, CONTENT Ansley Roan
Ansley Roan
GUIDEPOSTS LEAD EDITOR Amy Wong
Amy Wong
LEAD EDITOR Evan Miller
Evan Miller
CREATIVE DIRECTOR Kayo Der Sarkissian
Kayo Der Sarkissian
EDITORIAL TEAM Morgan Beard, Meg Belviso, Cristina Calle, Sabra
Morgan Beard, Meg Belviso, Cristina Calle, Sabra
Ciancanelli, Sabrina Diaz, Kimberly Elkins, Amanda Ericson, Celia M.
Ciancanelli, Sabrina Diaz, Kimberly Elkins, Amanda Ericson, Celia M.
Gibbons, Lisa Guernsey, Jane Haertel, Jim Hinch, Colleen Hughes,
Gibbons, Lisa Guernsey, Jane Haertel, Jim Hinch, Colleen Hughes,
Kaylin Kaupish, Ashley Lateef, Brett Leveridge, Carolyn Mandarano,
Kaylin Kaupish, Ashley Lateef, Brett Leveridge, Carolyn Mandarano,
Carolina Pichardo, Daisy T. Urgiles
Carolina Pichardo, Daisy T. Urgiles
ART PHOTO TEAM Kevin Eans, Beth Meyer, Andrew Nahem,
Kevin Eans, Beth Meyer, Andrew Nahem,
Nicole White, Stephen Wilder
Nicole White, Stephen Wilder
CREATIVE CONSULTANT Eleftherios Kardamakis
Eleftherios Kardamakis
70 THE GRATEFUL GARDENER
by Diane Buller, Champaign, Illinois
71 PROBLEM SOLVED
by Laurie Thurneck, Elsa Kok
Colopy Sue Myers
72 QUITE A PAIR
by Lorie Foley, Ashland, Virginia
74 MOM’S LAST WORDS
by Lynne Hartke
Chandler, Arizona
77 BALED OUT
by Joan Engelhardt Nielson
Preston, Iowa
78 WHAT FRIENDS ARE FOR
by Mary Boldt, York, Pennsylvania
82 TABLE GRACES
COPY PRODUCTION CONSULTANT Diane Sinitsky
Diane Sinitsky
CONTRIBUTING EDITORS Celeste McCauley,
Celeste McCauley,
Diane Stark
Diane Stark
SENIOR VICE PRESIDENTS Neil Ahlsten,
Neil Ahlsten,
Jimmy Lee, Kelly Mangold, David Teitler
Jimmy Lee, Kelly Mangold, David Teitler
VICE PRESIDENTS James Asselmeyer,
James Asselmeyer,
Ty’Ann Brown, Nick Grzechowiak, Julian Lama,
Ty’Ann Brown, Nick Grzechowiak, Julian Lama,
Chris Mellor, Nisarg Parikh
Chris Mellor, Nisarg Parikh
Guideposts’ The Joy of Gratitude is published by Guideposts, 100 Reserve
Road, Suite E200, Danbury, CT 06810. Canadian GST #893989236. Copyright
© 2024 by Guideposts, all rights reserved. Volume 1, No. 1. Issue Date:
February 2024. Printed in U.S.A. Send address changes to Guideposts,
P.O. Box 5815, Harlan, IA 51593-1315. Canada Post: Send address changes
to Guideposts, P.O. Box 1051, Fort Erie, ON L2A 6C7.
The Joy of
Gratitude makes a
wonderful gift!
Order extra copies at
shopguideposts
.org/JOG.
36

In All
In All
Circumstances
Circumstances
“Like humility, generosity comes
“Like humility, generosity comes
from seeing that everything we
from seeing that everything we
have and everything we
have and everything we
accomplish comes from God’s
accomplish comes from God’s
grace and God’s love for us.”
grace and God’s love for us.”
—BISHOP DESMOND TUTU
“Gratitude helps us overcome the
“Gratitude helps us overcome the
bitterness and pain that we all
bitterness and pain that we all
carry with us. Try feeling jealous
carry with us. Try feeling jealous
and grateful simultaneously.
and grateful simultaneously.
Hard to imagine, right? When
Hard to imagine, right? When
you’re present in gratitude, you
you’re present in gratitude, you
can’t be anywhere else.”
can’t be anywhere else.”
—JAY SHETTY, AUTHOR OF
THINK LIKE A MONK
“Every day I ask God for grace.
“Every day I ask God for grace.
Grace is the infinite love and
Grace is the infinite love and
mercy shown to others. It keeps
mercy shown to others. It keeps
me humble in the awareness of
me humble in the awareness of
my small place in the world, and
my small place in the world, and
it fills me with gratitude that I
it fills me with gratitude that I
have been so unaccountably
have been so unaccountably
blessed.”
blessed.”
—ROBIN ROBERTS, GOOD
MORNING AMERICA ANCHOR
“Even if we
“Even if we don’t have everything
don’t have everything
we want, there is always at least
we want, there is always at least
one thing we can thank God
one thing we can thank God
for. Another day, another breath,
for. Another day, another breath,
the beauty of creation—the list
the beauty of creation—the list
goes on.”
goes on.”
—ANITHA ABRAHAM, WRITER AND SPEAKER
“What if you
“What if you woke up today with
woke up today with
only the things you thanked God
only the things you thanked God
for yesterday?”
for yesterday?”
—POSTED ON TWITTER
BY TRACEE ELLIS ROSS, ACTOR
“Be grateful that
“Be grateful that God knows
God knows
more about what we need than
more about what we need than
we do. Sometimes when we
we do. Sometimes when we
pray,
pray, we get what we want.
we get what we want.
Sometimes
Sometimes we get what we need.
we get what we need.
Accept both answers—the yes’s
Accept both answers—the yes’s
and the
and the something else’s—with
something else’s—with
heartfelt
heartfelt gratitude. Then look
gratitude. Then look
around and
around and see what your lesson
see what your lesson
and gift is.”
and gift is.”
—MELODY BEATTIE, AUTHOR
6 G U I D E P O S T S
G U I D E P O S T S
To live in gratitude for both
existence and awareness of existence is to live a
life that is both holy and healed.
—DEEPAK CHOPRA, AUTHOR

AMY
C.
ETRA
L E T T E R F R O M T H E E D I T O R
L E T T E R F R O M T H E E D I T O R
ONE OF THE MANY overused phrases that has irked me is
“thank you in advance for your cooperation.” Why “in
advance”? It seems presumptuous and a bit passive-
aggressive. But after reading the inspiring stories in this
Guideposts special edition, The Joy of Gratitude, I’m re-
visiting my objection, at least provisionally.
Isn’t the truest form of gratitude an expressed trust in
God’s blessings, past, present and future? Faith is future-
facing, after all. My faith empowers me to believe God’s
blessings are constant and life is a process of discovering
them, even in the seemingly smallest moments. Grati-
tude is my recognition of grace flowing through my life.
So yes, Lord, thank you in advance.
Back when I was struggling in sobriety, an older woman would stand up in one of my
regular 12-step meetings and proclaim, “Y’all newcomers best put the hearse in reverse
and get some gratitude in your attitude!” Seriously? My life was a wreck, and now I was
spending my time gulping bad coffee in dreary church basements all over New York.
What was there to be thankful for? That it had come to this?
My sponsor did his best when I mentioned that I had figured out the right subway line
to take to a meeting he’d recommended. “There you go,” he said. “Give thanks for the New
York City subway system for helping to keep you sober today.” That seemed like a stretch.
But like the lady said, I needed to get some gratitude in my attitude.
It has made all the difference. Gratitude opened my bleary eyes to what the future
could be once I recognized the blessing of the transformative second chance I was being
given at life. Gratitude, I learned, required humility, the gift of accepting that my future
was in God’s hands, not mine, guided by his love, a day at a time, come what may.
Gratitude is my defense against negativity, uncertainty, anxiety, doubt and discon-
tent. I strive to live by a quote I read from David Steindl-Rast, the Benedictine monk
who founded A Network for Grateful Living: “It is not joy that makes us grateful; it is
gratitude that makes us joyful.”
And oh, by the way, thank you in advance for reading The Joy of Gratitude.
Thank You in Advance
For more from Edward, go to guideposts.org/edward
EDWARD GRINNAN
Editor-in-Chief, Guideposts

CREDIT
TK
MY HUSBAND, TIM, and I were walking along the Fred Howard Park causeway in Flor-
ida when I saw three dolphins swim by, just beyond the shore.
I pointed out the dolphins to Tim. Other people overheard me, and a small crowd
gathered. Two of the dolphins circled and then disappeared below the surface. The
crowd dispersed, and we continued our walk.
“You were the first one to spot the dolphins,” Tim said.
“I never stop looking,” I said. At the ocean, I have my “dolphin eyes” on. Other times
I’m on the lookout for rainbows, wildflowers or sunsets. Simple delights in nature
remind me of Jesus’ constant presence.
As James 1:17 says, “Whatever is good and perfect comes to us from God” (NLV).
But to see the good things around me, I have to seek them out and keep my “eyes” on.
Heading back to our car, I reached for Tim’s hand. “What was your favorite part
of our walk?” I asked. “My favorite was spotting the dolphins.”
“My favorite part was seeing your delight,” Tim said. “I know that, at times like
that, you are thanking Jesus for his grace.”
Lord, thank you for the gift of your creation and, Jesus, thank you for your grace
and presence. I fall asleep tonight grateful for the beauty you bring into the world.
—CRYSTAL STORMS
Ask, and it will be given to you;
seek, and you will ﬁnd; knock, and it will be opened to you.
—MATTHEW 7:7 (NKJV)
Keeping Watch
Keeping Watch
From Evenings with Jesus. If you enjoyed this devotion, find more joy for your spirit
by visiting shopguideposts.org/devo.
E V E N I N G S W I T H J E S U S
E V E N I N G S W I T H J E S U S
A SELECTION FROM
G U I D E P O S T S
GEORGE
CLERK/GETTY
IMAGES

9
9

G U I D E P O S T S
KATYE
MARTENS
BRIER

JUST RIGHT Claire
dreamed of having a big
family with her husband,
John, but has been rich-
ly blessed by Zack (in
white shirt), 18; Mason,
16; and Jocelyn, 12.
M
Y SISTER KERRY heldouther
newborn baby girl. “Oh, Ker-
ry, she’s beautiful,” I said. I
took the baby in my arms
and started to cry. They were tears of joy for
my sister tinged with sadness for myself.
Earlier that day I’d had an appointment
with my obstetrician. I’d been pregnant
just a few weeks.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I wish I had better
news.” It would be my fourth miscarriage in
the six years since my husband, John, and I
got married.
I said nothing about this to Kerry. Only
John knew I was pregnant. I’d learned the
hard way what happens when you spread
the word about a pregnancy and it doesn’t
work out. I left my sister’s hospital room
overwhelmed with emotion.
All my life, I’d dreamed of being a mom
to a big family. I grew up the sixth of seven
children. John was one of seven too. To me,
heaven was a bustling household with old-
er kids helping younger kids and parents
presiding over the happy chaos.
This desire was so firmly fixed in my
heart, I was certain it had come from God.
And yet, John and I had struggled to have
two children, Zack and Mason, who were
now four and two. I loved my boys and
thanked God for them every day. I just
wished I could give them that big family I’d
dreamed of.
Maybe it was time to give up the dream.
I was 35 when John and I married, in my
early forties now. I just couldn’t under-
stand. Why would God give me a deep de-
sire for something I would never have?
Why was something so natural for other
people so hard for me?
At home I slumped on the couch while
Zack and Mason played on the floor. I
gazed around the house. Part of the reason
we’d picked this house when we moved to
New Hampshire was to make room for a
big family. The bedrooms we’d envisioned
crowded with cribs and toys probably
would never be filled. It was a depressing
thought. That night John held me until I
cried myself to sleep.
John and I kept trying for another preg-
nancy. Months went by with no success.
Finally, after more than a year, we admitted
defeat and began donating our baby items
to people who actually needed them.
I couldn’t shake off my feelings of
sadness and anger. Prayer was difficult
because I would find myself drifting into
In a
In a
Family Way
Family Way
by CLAIRE MCGARRY, Windham, New Hampshire
Why hadn’t my dream come true?

G U I D E P O S T S
an argument with God. I just couldn’t
let it go.
I needed to do something. My negative
feelings were on their way to becoming
permanent.
One summer morning, I stood in the
living room as sunlight poured through
the windows. A powerful feeling swept
over me.
“That’s it!” I cried out. “I’m sick of this!
Zack, Mason, put on your shoes and get in
the car.”
Ihelpedtheboystietheirshoes,grabbed
my car keys and hustled everyone to the
garage.
“Where are we going?” asked Zack.
“I have no idea.” And I really didn’t.
“Let’s call it an adventure!”
The boys’ eyes widened. Mom was act-
ing a little weird.
I buckled them into their car seats and
got behind the wheel. Glancing in the rear-
view mirror, I saw Mason clutching a
wooden toy train in his chubby hand. That
gave me an idea.
I drove to the nearest train station a few
towns away and parked in the lot. Please let
there be a train coming soon, I prayed.
We checked the schedule and, hurrah, a
train was due to arrive in 10 minutes. I
bought three round-trip tickets to a nearby
station.
Why that station? No reason. The point
of this adventure was the journey, not the
destination.
Minutes later, we stood on the platform.
Mason shouted, “Train! Train!” A commut-
er train pulled into the station. Mason’s
body grew rigid with excitement, and
he squeezed his little hands into fists.
My family was smaller than I had
My family was smaller than I had
envisioned, but I was still a mom and I
envisioned, but I was still a mom and I
loved my boys to pieces.
loved my boys to pieces.
Zack jumped up and down as if powered
by an electrical current. My boys loved
trains.
Watching them almost burst from
sheer elation, I found myself thinking,
Why haven’t I done this before? Look
at these boys, so full of life and joy. How
much time have I wasted moping around
the house?
That day was the beginning of what we
called our “adventures.” Every few days, I
would tell Zack and Mason to get their
shoes on and get in the car. It was easy get-
ting them ready. They knew something fun
was on the way.
Our adventures were not particularly
elaborate. Sometimes we checked out a
new park or visited an ice cream shop. Oth-
er times we took the train all the way to
Boston and explored the sights there.
The point was being together, experi-
encing something new—and, for me, rec-
ognizing that I had the privilege of raising
these two wonderful boys and watching
them learn and grow. With every adven-
ture, I felt my perspective shift from loss
over what I didn’t have to deep gratitude
for what I did.
Summer shaded into fall. My gratitude
bucket got so full, I found myself wanting
to share my enthusiasm.
That September, after Zack started
school, I began a new mommy-and-me
program at my church on Tuesday morn-
ings called Faith and Play. Using Bible
puppet stories and craft projects, I en-
couraged moms and small children to re-
member how blessed we are to have such
a good and gracious God.
It was a message I needed to hear too. I
would never understand why my desire for
a large family had run aground. That was
okay. My family was smaller than I had en-
visioned, but I was still a mom and I loved
my boys to pieces.
Now I even got to help draw other fami-

COURTESY
CLAIRE
MCGARRY
lies closer through Faith and Play. God
truly was good.
One Tuesday morning the following
month, I sat on the rug with the moms and
kids, singing the welcome song that started
each class. I was right in the middle of sing-
ing, “We are glad that Owen is here, Jesus
loves us all,” when I felt a wave of nausea.
Had I had too much coffee that morn-
ing? Excess caffeine made me sick.
Luckily, the day’s Bible story was Jonah
and the whale, accompanied by goldfish
crackers for a snack. Eating the crackers
settled my stomach and I stopped worrying
about the nausea.
It came back the next morning. And the
morning after that. On Thursday, some
girlfriends and I went out to dinner. Talk
drifted to babies, and I found myself won-
dering about my sudden onset of nausea.
Three days in a row seemed like more than
coincidence. You would almost think I was
pregnant.
I caught myself.
I’d learned a long time ago to swat away
that particular hope. No use wasting time
on pointless feelings. Still, I couldn’t stop
wondering.
Dinner ended, we said goodnight and I
got into my car. Instead of driving home, I
went to Walmart, the only place open at
11:30 P.M. Before I could talk myself out of
it, I bought a pregnancy test.
John was asleep when I got home. I did
the test and could hardly contain myself
during the 20 minutes it took to get a
result.
I stared at the test strip in disbelief.
“John, John, wake up!” I said, shaking
his shoulder. He rose with a bleary look.
“John, I’m pregnant!” I waved the test
strip at him.
A huge smile came over his face, and we
embraced and held each other tight.
Eight months later, baby Jocelyn was
born healthy and beautiful. I cradled her
tiny body in my arms—so warm and soft.
John brought Zack and Mason to meet her.
Already I could tell they would make excel-
lent big brothers.
Why did I get pregnant after all that
time, at the age of 44? I will never know.
What I do know is that the simple act of
being thankful was life-changing. Embark-
ing on little adventures and enjoying every-
day blessings with Zack and Mason helped
me to see all the other ways God was abun-
dantly present for me.
He did give me a large family. A different
kind of family than I expected. A family
that includes John and our sons and
daughter, my siblings and their children,
other moms at church and anyone else I
can encourage when they feel their long-
held dreams aren’t coming true.
Today, when I look to my three thriving
children, I can’t help but think of one of my
favorite Psalms: “I will give thanks to you,
Lord, with all my heart. I will tell of all your
wonderful deeds.” ✴
CLOSE SIBLINGS Even
when they were young,
Jocelyn, Mason (center)
and Zack were up for
an adventure.

G U I D E P O S T S
PHOTOS
COURTESY
SUE
MCCUSKER
A
SMALL CUSTOM-BUILT cabinet
sits just inside the front door of
my house. It has five shelves
filled with teacups I’ve collected
over the years. Some are elegant; some are
just for fun. Some I’ve picked up on my
own; some I’ve received as gifts. Most of
them have designs that resemble the famil-
iarEnglishrosepatternfoundinalmostany
roadside antique store.
There are none I would consider price-
less, except for one.
It’s a light gray cup with gold embellish-
ments, made of bone china so thin it’s
translucent. At first glance it might seem
better off discarded. It’s chipped, with piec-
es missing around the rim. It’s glued to-
gether in places and has obvious cracks.
Whatever monetary value it once had has
surely been reduced to a few cents.
But I will never part with it because of
howIcametoownitandwhatitstillmeans
to me more than 30 years later.
My grandfather, whom we called Papaw,
gave me the teacup when I was nine years
old. It was always an occasion when he
came to visit us in Nashville from his home
in Alabama.
He was a tall and stately man of few
words, with a friendly smile hidden be-
neath his thick mustache. He had a quiet
and calming presence about him that I, as
a young, timid girl, was drawn to.
On one visit, he presented me with the
teacup and its matching saucer. “I thought
ofyouwhenIsawthis,”hesaid,“soIbought
it for you.”
Even then I could tell this was no ordi-
nary teacup. I held it carefully and studied
it. On the outside was an intricate raised
design of an Asian-themed dragon. Inside,
a woman’s lovely face peered up from the
bottom of the cup. She looked like someone
out of the nineteenth century, with her hair
elegantly upswept, her expression serene.
Papaw didn’t tell me where he got it. I
guessed it was probably from one of his
many excursions to flea markets or garage
sales. But where had it originally come
from? My mind raced with possibilities. A
far-off land? And who was the mysterious
lady at the bottom?
Everything about the teacup was beau-
tiful and unique, the very opposite of how I
saw myself. I was just a plain, shy girl with
frizzy hair. There was nothing extraordi-
nary about me. Yet my grandfather saw
something in this rare and precious teacup
that reminded him of me.
Maybe what he saw was that the cup
and I were both fragile. With my parents
busy juggling a teenager and a toddler, I
by SUE MCCUSKER, Canton, Georgia
The Teacup
The Teacup
It was more than just a gift from my grandfather.
No matter where life has taken me, it has been with me

PRIZED POSSESSION The
teacup Sue received from
her grandfather bears the
scars from an accidental
fall but remains a trea-
sure to her.
sometimes felt lost and overlooked in the
middle. I was the only girl, and that added
to my doubts about myself. Papaw could
probably sense that I needed a little extra
attention and love.
When I felt especially vulnerable, I
would take my special treasure down from
its place of honor on my bedroom shelf and
hold it in my hands and remind myself that
someone thought I was special too.
My confidence grew as I entered my
teens and so did my fascination with tea-
cups, which I began collecting. Papaw
passed away when I was 18, and I was so
grateful to have something tangible to re-
member him by.
No matter where life has taken me, the
teacup has traveled, too, carefully packed,
journeying from Nashville to Athens, Ten-
nessee, to my first grown-up apartment in
Atlanta, on to the suburbs when I got mar-
ried, and then to Canton, Georgia, where
my husband and I have raised our family.
I’ve browsed countless antique stores
searching for a similar-style teacup, hoping
to discover its history and where it might
have originated, but I have never found
anything close to it. It has continued to
hold a certain mystery for me.
One afternoon 10 years ago, I was hav-
ing a typically busy day for that time in my
life—my hands full with raising my seven-

G U I D E P O S T S
year-old son, work-
ing as an IT busi-
ness analyst and
running a house-
hold. I was rushing
to finish the clean-
ing, my duster fly-
ing over the knick-
knacks I kept on the
living room book-
case, when crash!
I looked down to
see my prized pos-
session, my vintage
china teacup, shat-
tered on the hard-
wood floor. How
could I have been so careless? I knelt and
scooped up the pieces, heartbroken. It
didn’t look as though the cup and its
matching saucer could be repaired. My
treasure was gone.
By then I had collected more than 50
teacups. If I had broken any other cup in
my collection, I would have cut my losses
and dumped the pieces in the trash, but I
couldn’t bring myself to part with the one
Papaw had given me. Even though I didn’t
know what to do with them, I gathered up
every last delicate shard and put them in a
small box that I tucked away in the living
room bookcase.
A few years later, my husband surprised
me by building the narrow, intricately
hand-carved wooden cabinet to showcase
all the teacups I had collected. I arranged
them on the shelves and stood back to take
a look. Something was missing. My collec-
tion felt incomplete without the teacup
that meant the most to me.
I have emerged from life’s challenges as
I have emerged from life’s challenges as
the person God meant for me to be: conﬁdent,
the person God meant for me to be: conﬁdent,
rare and precious in her own way.
rare and precious in her own way.
I found the box with the shattered re-
mains of my treasure and emptied the piec-
es into my hand. There were so many.
Would it be possible to put it back togeth-
er? I painstakingly glued each piece,
taking my time to do it right and patiently
holding it in place until it was set. It felt
good to make the cup whole again, even if it
wasn’t perfect. A few pieces were missing
around the rim close to the handle and
there were cracks in both the cup and the
saucer so they no longer looked seamless,
but I didn’t mind.
I positioned the chipped side of the tea-
cup facing the wall and displayed it in the
place of honor, in the center of the top
shelf. From a distance the cracks are not
too noticeable. Only up close can one see
the imperfections, and for me, they only
add to its beauty.
They remind me that while life’s chal-
lenges have left their mark, I have emerged
from them as the person God meant for me
to be, the person my Papaw saw in that shy
little girl all those years ago. Someone resil-
ient and confident, rare and precious in her
own way. Someone with unique qualities
and talents to offer.
As I watch my son grow, I know he will
have his own questions and challenges to
face, and I will try to help him find his
strength and confidence just as my grand-
father did with me.
The teacup is one of the few possessions
that’s been with me nearly my entire life.
Whenever I look at it, sitting front and cen-
ter in my display cabinet, I remember my
grandfather’s calm and loving manner and
I can feel his smile, hidden beneath his
mustache, shining down on me from heav-
en. Thank you, Papaw, for your wonderful
gift and those unforgettable words, “I
thought of you when I saw this….” You may
not have known just how much of an im-
pact your small gesture had on me, but it
has helped carry me through a lifetime. ✴
FIRST OF MANY Sue began
collecting teacups after
her grandfather gave her
this one when she was
nine. Her collection has
grown to more than 50.

Cats and Concrete
For years, my husband and I dreamed of
putting a concrete foundation in our
carport and breezeway. Finally, we hired
a contractor. The day they poured the
concrete, there was an unexpected storm.
Raindrops marred the new concrete’s
smooth surface. Then our cats walked
through it, leaving paw prints every-
where. I was still angry about it the next
morning. We’d waited so long to complete
this home improvement project, and now it
was ruined.
That afternoon, our grandson came
over. He was delighted by the prints in the
concrete. His joy softened my attitude.
Where I’d seen a flaw, he saw a fun feline
decoration that made our foundation
unique. Next time, I won’t let my own
expectations make me miss out on
unexpected blessings.
Joni Topper
Johnson City, Texas
Give Thanks Anyway
When I was 10, my mom couldn’t take my
brother and me back-to-school shopping,
so Dad took us.
At the store, Dad had me try on an
ugly brown coat. “It’s too big!” I com-
plained. Dad thought it was fine and
bought it straightaway.
That Sunday, our pastor preached on
gratitude. I resolved to be grateful for the
ugly, enormous brown coat Mom refused to
exchange. Thanking God for it daily made
me consider kids who didn’t have coats.
The next year, I organized a clothing
drive for earthquake victims in Nica-
ragua. We sent several bins with much-
needed items, including my coat. I knew
its next recipient would be grateful to
have it.
When life hands me something I don’t
want, I remember that ugly coat and give
thanks for it anyway. God will eventually
find a good use for it.
Lori Stanley Roeleveld
Hope Valley, Rhode Island
Pivotal Lesson
On a recent trip, our RV blew a tire. We
were able to find a tire shop that could re-
place it, but it would take four hours. I wor-
ried that the park we planned to explore
would be closed when we finally got there.
We found a shady spot to sit while we
waited. I spotted a stack of tires with the
word “pivot” written on them in big
letters. Was God telling me something?
Maybe I needed to pivot without
complaining. I tried to focus on the
positive. Like the pleasant temperature.
The sound of birds singing.
At last, we arrived at the park. It was
indeed closed, but a ranger said that we
could listen to a taped tour of the site. So I
got to explore the park in a different way.
Sometimes circumstances cause my plans
to change. I’m learning that handling
those pivots with gratitude makes all the
difference.
Sandy Quandt
Seabrook, Texas
On Second
On Second
Thought
Thought
Gaining new perspective when things don’t go your way

G U I D E P O S T S
CHRIS
CONE

MAKING A DIFFERENCE
“This story is about
ripples in a pond,”
Frances says. As a judge,
she tried to treat de-
fendants as individuals
and give them hope.
I ENTERED THROUGH the back
entrance of the courthouse, my
head down as I walked the hall
towardmychambers.Itwasoneof
those days when I kept asking the
Lord,Aremydecisionshelpingindividuals?
Am I making a difference in their lives? My
mind replayed yesterday’s criminal docket
call, three hours of organized chaos where
defendants, representatives for the State of
Ohioanddefenseattorneysargued,pleaded
and bargained for the sentences they felt
were just. Always a trying experience, but
especially so the day before Thanksgiving.
Back home that morning, I had laid out
most of the ingredients I’d need for the spe-
cial cake and three dozen rolls I’d promised
to make for our multigenerational dinner
at my sister’s house. But that was only a
reminder of the defendants I had sen-
tenced to spend their holidays incarcerat-
ed. Being separated from their families and
friends could spark them to change their
lives. No doubt, then, I had an impact on
folks’ lives. Yet was it a positive one?
I’m proud of the way I’ve served the
citizens of Montgomery County, Ohio, as a
common pleas court judge for the past five
years. Each day brings different issues and
by FRANCES McGEE-CROMARTIE, Dayton, Ohio
ustice
ustice
Served
Served
Thanksgiving for this judge
arrived early...and unexpectedly
R
EA D E
R
•
F
A
V
O R I
T
E
•

G U I D E P O S T S
challenges. When it comes to sentencing, I
trytofashionajudgmentthatfitstheunique
circumstances of each defendant. Manyare
decent people who’ve just made bad deci-
sions. For that reason, I start each morning
with a prayer: “Give me the wisdom to help
the people I meet change their lives for the
better.” It’s rare, though, to find out if I suc-
ceeded.Moreoften,Ifindouttheirfateonly
if they return, charged with another crime.
I entered my chambers and glanced at
the papers spilling from my inbox. What a
mess, I thought, picking up the calendar
my bailiff Stella had prepared. I had sev-
eral hearings scheduled for that Wednes-
day morning, but maybe I could clear my
desk and sign some documents before we
got started.
Outsidemychamber,IheardCheryl,my
video reporter, and Moira, my staff attor-
ney, discussing the day’s work, which de-
fendants’ cases would go to trial and which
ones would plead. Amid the friendly ban-
ter, another voice spoke up—familiar, but
I couldn’t quite place it. “May I speak to
Judge McGee, please?”
“What’s your name and what is this re-
garding?” I heard my video reporter ask the
woman.
“My name is Erica. I’ve got something
important to tell her.”
E
RICA. NOW I KNEW who it was. A
young defendant I’d met during
my early days as a judge. She’d en-
tered the courtroom with her face
scrunched into a frown, her hair wild and
unkempt, with an attitude to match.
On the day of her sentencing, I received
a written case history. Dropped out of high
school. Trouble with drugs since her early
teens. A mother to a young girl and on pub-
lic assistance. She was pleading guilty to
yet another possession charge.
I struggled with the sentence to give
Erica.BasedonwhatIhadread,prisontime
didn’t seem appropriate. Look at her; try
to see the face of God, I thought. “I’m going
to leave you in the community. I’m giving
you probation,” I said. She seemed pleased
withthat.Buthersmilequicklyfadedwhen
she heard the three additional sanctions.
First, she was to return in 90 days to
show that she was serious about being a
law-abiding citizen. Second, she was to
write a two-page report about her goals
and objectives for the next five years. Third,
she was to get her General Equivalency
Diploma, her GED. “Of all the sanctions, I
will look most strongly at the last two,” I
told her. “If these conditions are not met,
I’ll have no choice but to send you to jail.”
Erica scowled so fiercely that it looked like
her two eyebrows had become one. “But if
you work hard and set a good example for
your daughter, I know you can do anything
you set your mind to.”
“Your honor,” her attorney told me after-
ward, “you ask too much of our clients. For
them, long-range planning is figuring out
what to eat for dinner.”
“My decision is final,” I said. And I
meant it.
Within weeks, I received Erica’s two-
page report. Amid the misspelled words,
she told me that she dreamed of owning
two businesses—a catering company and
a beauty salon. She wanted her daughter
to graduate from high school and go to col-
lege. She wanted to help her family do bet-
ter in life than she had. “Simply reaching
the end of the day is hard,” she wrote. “I’m
not sure how I made it this far.” It was
heartbreaking but honest.
The last time I’d seen Erica, at her
90-day hearing, I almost didn’t recognize
her. Gone was the scowl that hid her beau-
tiful almond eyes. She was properly
groomed with her hair cut into an attrac-
tive style. Her probation officer issued a
glowing report. “I like my GED classes,”
Erica said. “Everyone wants to help, and

my teachers make things easy to under-
stand. I still don’t get math, though.”
Inwardly, I smiled. I’d struggled with
math in school too. Outwardly, I remained
stern and reminded her that the GED was
a requirement.
A year and a half later, her probation
officer thought she was doing well enough
to recommend ending her probation early.
However, I nixed the idea. She hadn’t
passed the math portion of her GED yet.
Then the economy tanked. The state
had to make cutbacks—and the money re-
quired for Erica’s training and probation
monitoring was no longer there. With great
reluctance, I finally agreed to terminate her
probation.
Periodically, I heard from people who
knew Erica. I learned that she was living a
positive life, although she still hadn’t got-
ten her GED. That worried me. Then I
heard nothing.
Now Cheryl ushered Erica into my
chambers. She looked radiant. “Do you re-
member me?” she asked hesitantly.
“Of course I remember,” I said. “But I
almost didn’t recognize you.”
“Judge,” she began, “I have something to
tell you…I got my GED!”
The squeal that I heard came from my
own mouth. I didn’t realize I could make a
sound like that. A very unjudgelike thing,
I suppose. Tears stung the back of my eye-
lids as I rushed around my desk to give her
a hug. “Oh, Erica, I’m so proud of you,” I
said. “Tell me all about it!”
“It was really hard,” she began. “But I
didn’t give up. I just kept trying and trying
until I finally passed. I’m the very first per-
son in my family to get a diploma! Every-
one comes to me now with questions or for
advice. And my daughter saw how hard I
worked in my studies and got serious about
her classes. She’s going to graduate from
high school next year. Can you believe it?
We’re going to go to college together!”
“I’m so glad you came and shared that
information with me today,” I said. “What
made you stick with it after your probation
was over?”
Erica looked hard at me. “Because you
said if I worked hard, I could do anything,”
she said. “I wanted my daughter to be
proud of me.”
Give me the wisdom…. In Erica’s case,
it seemed that God had.
“I gotta go,” Erica said. “Someone I know
is in court today and I want to be there for
her. I want her to know that if I can make
it, she can too.”
With a wave of her hand, she rushed out
of my office. I sat at my desk. In front of me
was a day’s worth of motions to decide and
cases to review. A job to do. And I still had
a cake and three dozen rolls to bake waiting
for me at home, don’t forget. But now it
didn’t seem like such a heavy workload.
Thanksgiving had arrived early. ✴
“This Guideposts story received
more feedback than any other I’ve
written,” Frances says. Judges
across the country called to say
they were inspired by her.
Frances left the court in 2015. She
was later diagnosed with an aggres-
sive form of breast cancer. “I wouldn’t
have gone to the doctor as quickly if
I’d still been working,” she says. “I’m
100 percent in the clear today.”
She was recently elected presi-
dent of her local Daughters of the
American Revolution chapter after
learning an African-American rela-
tive, Henry Dorton, served three
tours of duty in the war. “I want peo-
ple to understand that Native Ameri-
cans and African-Americans also
fought for our freedom,” she says.
—Celeste McCauley
Family Room

22
Hidden
Hidden oy
oy
Those years of caregiving for my
mom seemed like the hardest years.
Until I looked back on them

CREDIT
TK
BOOK OF DAYS Glenda’s
journal gave her a way
of releasing her feelings
about being a long-
distance caregiver for
her mother.
by GLENDA FERGUSON, Paoli, Indiana
M
Y COUSIN NANCY hadnoidea
the turmoil her simple re-
quest stirred up. She’d called
wanting the address of a for-
mer classmate of both our mothers. But
days later, I hadn’t gotten back to her.
I knew where to find the address. It was
inside the journal I’d kept for the nearly
three years I spent caring for my mother,
shuttling monthly between my home in In-
diana and hers in Missouri. But Mom died
a year ago, and I hadn’t opened it since. I
had no interest in reliving the most painful
time of my life.
Still, Nancy would be calling again. I
couldn’t keep putting this off. I went to the
bookshelf where I’d tucked the journal
away. It wasn’t anything fancy, just one of
those plain black-and-white marble com-
position books. My hands shook as I
opened it.
I’d started the journal soon after my
brother, Mike, had called from Missouri at
the end of March 2016 saying Mom had
suffered a stroke. I took time off from my
teaching job to be with her. The principal at
my school was supportive.
My first entry: “Rushing to get my lesson
plans ready for the sub. Then called family
members to give them updates.” I’d had no
idea of the challenge that awaited me.
On the pages that followed were scrib-
bled directions to Missouri stroke treat-
ment centers, hospitals and rehabilitation
facilities. For seven months, I was either
traveling home for my job or rushing to
Missouri for another emergency. I felt
guilty that I couldn’t be with Mom more.
When I was in Indiana, Mike would call
with updates that I dutifully recorded in
the journal. “Mom doesn’t mind the physi-
cal therapy. It’s the speech therapy she
struggles with.” I hadn’t known then that
she would never be able to say my name
clearly again.
Other times I accompanied her to ther-
apy. I saw firsthand how difficult it was for
her. “Mom had 3 hours of therapy,” I wrote
one day. “The speech therapy has her mind
all jumbled up. But I am so proud of her!”

G U I D E P O S T S
Around her small town, my mom, Ge-
neva Ruth White, was known for being a
dog lover, a passionate gardener and the
octogenarian school custodian. Her favor-
ite saying was “Isn’t this fun?” She’d say it
even while performing the most mundane
chore, and she meant it. My prayers fo-
cused on Mom recovering enough to re-
turn home, to the house where I’d grown
up and she kept her famous flowers.
Several pages later, there was the entry
for the day that we’d all been waiting for. At
last she was to be discharged from the re-
hab center. “Went to get Mom. All her
things were packed and she was waiting for
me. But her speech was slurred and the
right side of her face drooped. I ran to get
the nurse.”
She’d had a second stroke. Back to the
hospital she went. After a short stay, she
was allowed to go home. I thought God had
answered my prayers.
Then in November, eight months after
her first stroke, Mom had a third stroke.
This time, after she was discharged from
the hospital, we chose a long-term care fa-
cility 40 minutes away from Mike. Another
heartbreaking entry: “Now I have to tell
Mom that she is not going home. I cried
and sobbed. I need some peace of mind
about this decision.” I felt ashamed that I
couldn’t take care of her. Seeing her every
month didn’t seem like enough.
I flipped to the back of the journal, to the
end I knew was coming. Mom passed away
in December 2018. I wasn’t there, but the
memory was there in the journal. “When
Mike called that Mom was in the hospital,
I just knew she was already gone. Oh, the
sad, sad loss.”
A few pages later came one of the final
entries. Around the holidays, I’d pulled up
in the gravel driveway of my childhood
home. Bright orange marigolds bloomed
along the path. Even in this rocky soil, af-
ter several days of frost, Mom’s flowers
thrived. But they failed to cheer me that
day. All I could think about was how her
green thumb would never coax them to
bloom again. “There’s nothing to cele-
brate,” I wrote.
I couldn’t read any more. I jotted down
the address my cousin Nancy needed and
went to put the journal back on the shelf.
A photo dropped from its pages and
fluttered to the floor. The image was of
Mom’s hands, the day she received her very
first manicure. In an instant, I remem-
bered how Tina, the activities director at
the long-term care center, asked, “Geneva,
which nail polish do you want?”
Mom’s hand hovered over posy pink and
golden glitter. But she selected a different
bottle. Tina said, “Poppy red it is.”
Mom couldn’t say the words “thank you”
anymore. She smiled and patted Tina
on the arm. I had forgotten I’d snapped
that photo.
What else have I forgotten? I wondered.
I sat down on the couch with the journal
and slowly read each page. An entry of how
we’d shared Thanksgiving with 100 resi-
dents and their family members, a far more
festive occasion than the small, quiet meal
we used to have at Mom’s.
On Independence Day, I wrote of how
she wore her patriotic baseball cap. The
two of us modeled matching sparkly
T-shirts. Dazzling fireworks lit up the eve-
ning sky, but I was more taken by Mom’s
wide-open eyes and sense of awe. “I put on
a brave front and hid my tears of happi-
ness,” I wrote.
I turned a few pages to find a memory of
a hilarious visit with an Elvis impersonator.
The entertainer swiveled his hips and
crooned his love songs. Mom batted her
eyes and flashed her half grin. We had a
good laugh at Elvis’s reaction. I wrote:
“Mom grabbed Elvis around his neck. He
called out for security! I told him he was on
his own.” I laughed again at the memory.

PHOTOS
COURTESY
GLENDA
FERGUSON
I was there to celebrate her
86th birthday. Her good cheer seemed to
rub off on everyone. Whenever Mom and I
strolled the hallways of the facility, I felt
like I was with a celebrity. Folks stopped us
often, calling her by name.
“Even having to use her walker isn’t
slowing her down,” I wrote. I’d recorded a
memory of one morning when we were
approaching a mop bucket, left in the mid-
dle of the hallway. Mom hefted her walker
up and over and plopped it down on the
other side. She gave me a playful grin.
Mom faced so many obstacles. But
nothing stopped her from reaching out
to others and delighting in life. She
patted the arms of residents she knew
were struggling. She waved and smiled at
the janitors. Her dining companions
got hugs.
There on my couch I thought about the
caring people in the last two years of her
life. The staff members. The residents who
befriended her. I’d been saddened that
Mom wouldn’t see dogs and expressed my
concern to my brother. It just so happened
her roommate was also a dog lover, and
soon her grandson was bringing in a fuzzy
brown cockapoo for visits. Now I looked at
the photo my brother had sent me of the
pup licking Mom’s nose and felt a rush
of gratitude.
When my mother couldn’t return home,
God created a loving community around
her. These years I’d remembered only as a
time of hardship, guilt and regret had been
filled with so many moments of love and
joy. I could almost hear Mom saying, “Isn’t
this fun?”
The next day I passed along the address
toNancy.“WheneverIthinkofyourmom,I
thinkofthoseamazingmarigoldsthatcame
up every year in her driveway,” she said.
My caregiving journal hasn’t returned to
the shelf. I keep it out and turn to it when-
ever I’m feeling down, a reminder that even
in the rockiest conditions, blessings can
blossom. ✴
“ISN’T THIS FUN?”
Memories of her mother’s
first manicure, a festive
July 4 and her love for
dogs reminded Glenda
of moments of joy.

G U I D E P O S T S
PHOTOS
BY
KAREN
BONAR
ZACH SHORT: Harvest time. That’s
when it gets crazy busy for farm-
ers. We work from first light until
dark, not stopping for anything.
All that matters is getting the crop
in. My family’s been farming for four gen-
erations here in Kansas, and I can tell you,
it’s not just a job. It’s a life. It’s in your
blood, your soul.
We raise milo, corn, soybeans, wheat
and hay. We also run a shop where we
rebuild combines, and we use our equip-
ment to harvest crops for other farmers.
On that day, October 25, 2014, we’d been
hired to cut soybeans. Our friend John Tin-
kler was in a tractor hitched to a grain cart,
unloading the beans into a semi via a tall
metal auger.
I was in my combine. Our shop mechan-
ic, Les Ferm, was cutting across the way,
when I heard John over the radio. “Trac-
tor’s on fire. Anyone got an extinguisher?”
JODI SHORT: It was a little past noon. I’d
put our one-year-old daughter, Brynlee,
down for a nap, glad to have a moment to
myself. I wasn’t used to the pace of harvest
yet. I hadn’t grown up on a farm. I met
Zach in college. On school breaks, he
worked. To see him, I’d have to ride with
him in some piece of farm equipment.
That’s where we fell in love—in a combine.
by THE PEOPLE OF SALINE COUNTY, KANSAS
Nothing Short of a
Nothing Short of a
Miracle
Miracle
R
EA D E
R
•
F
A
V
O R I
T
E
•
At harvest time, farmers don’t stop for
anything. Except a neighbor in need
I loved Zach’s quiet confidence, his faith
that he’d been called to be a farmer. I knew
he was the one God made for me. We got
married and moved into the family farm-
house, just outside Assaria. Zach’s parents
moved into town. A year after our wedding,
we had Brynlee. Farm life seemed pretty
close to perfect.
ZACH: I jumped out of my combine, got in
a service truck and drove over to the grain
cart. The tractor’s left back tire was on fire.
But where was it coming from? John
looked underneath the tractor. I went
around to check the other side. I grabbed
the grain cart ladder with my left hand to
high-step the hitch. ZZZZAP! A massive
electrical shock. The current pinned me to
the cart. There was a flash of white light.
Then everything went dark.
LES FERM: I pulled up right behind Zach.
My eyes went to the auger. It was pressing
against a power line. “Zach! Don’t touch—”
I yelled. Too late. There was snapping,
crackling. Flames shot out of Zach’s head
and feet.
I had to get him off that cart, but I
couldn’ttouchhimwithoutgettingshocked
myself. I checked the service truck. The bed
was full of tools. Metal—useless. There. A
small plastic shovel with a wooden handle.

IN THE HEARTLAND Zach
Short with his wife, Jodi,
and daughter, Brynlee,
on their farm. Zach is a
fourth-generation farmer.
A friend had found it in the road a few days
earlier. Zach didn’t think it was ours, but
I’d tossed it in the truck anyway.
I grabbed the shovel, hooked its scoop
on his shoulder and yanked. Zach tumbled
to the ground and lay there. Motionless.
Not breathing.
I’d worked for the Shorts for 16 years. I’d
known Zach since he was a kid. How was I
going to tell his mom and dad he was dead?
Then I heard something. A shallow breath.
JODI: The phone rang. Zach’s mom. “Zach’s
been in an accident,” she said. “I’m coming
to pick you up.” A friend stayed with Bryn-
lee. We rushed to the hospital in Salina. A
doctor told us that Zach had suffered a
7,200-volt shock. He’d been conscious and
talking with the paramedics. But his burns
were so severe, he’d been put in a medically
induced coma. “Is he going to live?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” the doctor said. “You can
see him for a few minutes. We’ve got to air-
lift him to the burn center in Wichita.”
Zach was zipped up in a protective bag.
Only his face was visible, burned so badly
that I barely recognized him. “Hang on,
Zach,” I whispered to him. “I love you.”
Zach’s mom drove me home to pack a
bag and get Brynlee. In the car, I took out
my phone and posted on Facebook: “Please
pray for my husband. He’s been in a bad
farming accident.”
JUSTIN KNOPF: I was harvesting when I felt
my phone buzz around 3:00 P.M. It was a
neighbor texting: “Zach Short’s been in-
jured.” I live in Gypsum, about 12 miles
from the Shorts. They’re the kind of folks
who are always helping others. Now they
needed help. I thought of the scripture
“Where two or three of you are gathered

G U I D E P O S T S
in my name, there am I among them.” So I
radioed the guys working with me. We
climbed down from our combines and
prayed together.
I wished there was something more I
could do. Later it came to me: What if ev-
ery day a few of us stopped what we were
doing and prayed for Zach at 10:00 A.M.
and 4:00 P.M.? As in 10-4, understood. A
radio code every farmer knows. A way to
think of Zach in the middle of the harvest.
I texted a few friends and put something
on Facebook.
JODI: Three days after the accident, Zach
was still comatose, clinging to life at the
burn center. I was with family in the wait-
ing room when a nurse rushed in. “You
need to come with me,” she said. “Run!” We
raced to Zach’s room in the ICU. “He’s cod-
ing,” the nurse said. A doctor was doing
chest compressions on him. I screamed.
Nine torturous minutes passed. Finally, the
doctor said, “I’ve got a pulse!”
A nurse led me back to the waiting
room. Gulping tears, I told everyone what
had happened. I wrote on Facebook: “Zach
needs prayers. Now!”
LORI BLAKE: I was the HR manager at a
nonprofit. I was in a meeting with 15 co-
workers, including Zach’s sister, Kelsie.
Our phones buzzed at the same time. “Stop
what you’re doing and pray for Zach!” Jodi
had posted.
I’d known Zach since he was little, when
I worked at the town gas station. I remem-
bered him, his brother and sister coming
in for Cokes. Such great kids. The meeting
came to a halt. All of us bowed our heads
and prayed.
JODI: That night the doctor told us Zach
had only hours to live. His kidneys were
failing, his lungs full of fluid. “We’ve done
all we can,” the doctor said. “If he codes
again, how do you want to proceed?”
I made the decision to stop forcing air
into his lungs, and we put Zach in God’s
hands. The chaplain came, a Catholic
priest who administered last rites. Family
and friends packed the hallway, praying. I
sat beside Zach, Brynlee in my arms. “Dad-
dy’s going to heaven,” I tried to explain. The
doctor had told me his vital signs would
drop slowly and he would pass away. I
watched his monitors, waiting.
The hours passed and his numbers
didn’t drop. They inched up. Could it be?
He wasn’t dying! He was rallying!
By morning Zach’s lungs were clearing.
His kidneys were working. “This isn’t any-
thing I’ve done,” the doctor said. “This is
God.” I knew we would need many more
miracles. More than half of Zach’s body had
been severely burned.

On November 6, the doctor asked me to
sign a form authorizing the amputation of
Zach’s legs. “They’re badly burned and in-
fected,” he said.
How could Zach be a farmer without his
legs? I wanted to talk to him about such a
weighty decision.
“We can’t wait,” the doctor said. “If the
infection spreads, it will kill him.”
I took a deep breath and signed.
JUSTIN: Combines all over the county were
stopping at 10:00 and 4:00. Folks in town
were praying at the same times. Someone
put up a sign at the Assaria city limits ask-
ing people to pray for Zach. As a week
passed, then two, I found myself lingering
longer each time I bowed my head. The
harvest could wait.
JODI: It had been 20 days since the acci-
dent. I spent my days at Zach’s bedside,
watching for his eyes to open, a finger to
twitch. At night I would crawl into bed at
a relative’s house. One morning the phone
startled me as it rang at 6:00 A.M. I was
almost too scared to answer it.
“Zach’s awake!” the doctor on the line
told me. “He’s asking for you.”
I got to the hospital as fast as I could.
But I didn’t know what to tell Zach. “Jodi,
why are you acting so weird?” he asked.
“You’ve been in a bad accident,” I said.
“I was worried you wouldn’t even know
who I was.”
“I would never forget you,” he said. “Or
Brynlee.”
LORI: The day Zach came out of his coma,
God’s praises were sung and many people
found ways to help. Jodi’s sister started a
GoFundMe page and donations poured in.
A bucket was passed at home football
games. I’d volunteered to help with a spa-
ghetti dinner and auction. Farmers do-
nated equipment and services for the auc-
tion—things folks here really value, like a
cattle guard and hay grinding. Jordy Nel-
son, a star receiver with the Green Bay
Packers, who grew up an hour away from
here,donatedasignedjersey.JordyNelson!
ZACH: Two days after I woke from the
coma, Jodi still seemed nervous about
something. “They had to take your
legs,” she told me. “You would have died
otherwise. They say you’ll be able to get
prosthetics.”
I looked down at the bed sheet. It lay flat
where my legs should have been. That
didn’t seem real. Not as real as the pain. My
body felt like it was on fire. Not just on the
outside, but inside my muscles and bones.
JODI: I was so relieved he wasn’t devastated
about losing his legs. I couldn’t bring my-
COME TOGETHER From
left, fellow farmer Justin
Knopf, shop mechanic Les
Ferm, friend Lori Blake
and restaurant owner
Alex Weller all came to the
aid of the Short family.

G U I D E P O S T S
self to tell him the doctor was talking about
amputating the arm he’d grabbed the grain
cart ladder with. The electricity had ripped
through his arm and shoulder, burning
him from the inside out.
“Can you try to move your left arm?” I
asked. Zach grimaced, gritting his teeth.
Ever so slightly his arm moved. I wanted to
scream for joy.
ZACH: That tiny movement was the start of
a long journey. Next I went to Barnes Jew-
ish Hospital in St. Louis. Surgeons there
operated on me more than 20 times, re-
moving damaged tissue, then reconstruct-
ing tendons and muscles, grafting skin.
I found myself growing depressed. My
limitations were becoming all too real.
What good would I be, hobbling around
the fields on prosthetics? Trying to climb
up into a combine and falling?
ALEX WELLER: Zach and I were roommates
freshman year in college. I was a lot less
motivated than he was. He made me go to
class. I never would have passed without
him. Never would have gone on to become
the owner of Exit 14 Restaurant in Gyp-
sum. As soon as I heard about the spaghet-
ti dinner and auction, I signed up to supply
all the food. Helped organize everything
that went into it. We served more than 700
meals and raised $70,000 for Zach. Volun-
teers wore T-shirts that I designed. “Noth-
ing short of a miracle,” they read. It really
felt that way. We’d all been part of some-
thing life-changing.
JODI: From Barnes, Zach went to Univer-
sityofKansasMedicalCenterforfiveweeks
of rehabilitation. On Valentine’s Day, we
finally headed home. We exited I-35 at As-
saria. At the end of the ramp, a police car
was waiting to escort us. Cars and people
wereliningeveryinchoftheoverpass.Along
the main drag, we saw even more folks.
“Whathaveyoubeenupto?”Zachaskedme.
“It wasn’t my idea,” I said. “Everyone
wanted to welcome you home.”
Now I understood what it meant to be
part of a farm community. People had been
there for us every step of the way, making
sure our fields got harvested, supporting
us financially and in prayer. I knew they’d
be with us through whatever challenges
lay ahead.
ZACH: Seeing friends and neighbors, even
strangers, cheering for me, waving “Wel-
come Home” and “We Love You” signs…I
didn’t make it a block before the tears hit.
I’ve carried everyone’s love and prayers
with me ever since, through months of
physical and occupational therapy, adjust-
ing to life as a farmer with prosthetic legs,
even operating a combine again. Absolute-
ly, I get discouraged—but never for long.
My family, friends and neighbors always
lift me back up. That’s what farmers do—
we help each other. ✴
More than nine years after the acci-
dent that cost him his legs, Zach
Short is farming full-time, focused on
getting this year’s harvest in. “I’ve
been able to wear my prosthetics all
day long so I can work 16-hour days
when needed,” he says. “It’s amazing
if you try and don’t give up what you
can accomplish.” Zach and his dad
and brother have grown their farm to
about 6,000 acres of corn, wheat
and soybeans.
What else has grown? His family.
He and his wife, Jodi, and their
daughter, Brynlee, 10, welcomed
Brycen, 5, and Beau, 1. Zach’s mom,
Lisa Short, has written a book about
their family’s journey after the acci-
dent; Nothing Short of a Miracle is
available on Amazon.
—Celeste Mc
cCauley
Family Room

COURTESY
THERESE
BORCHARD
by THERESE BORCHARD, Annapolis, Maryland
In a Bad Place?
In a Bad Place?
How to be grateful when you’re anything but
H
OW DO YOU practice gratitude
when you’re in a really bad
place? It’s a question all of us
face at some point in our lives.
Especially when we’re feeling low, grati-
tude requires deliberate effort. It’s impor-
tant to be patient and gentle with yourself.
Don’t flog yourself for feeling down. It can
be challenging to welcome feelings of grief,
anger, shame and regret as houseguests,
careful not to let them take up permanent
residence. We need to honor them without
engaging too much with them. Instead of
lambasting ourselves for a lapse in positiv-
ity, we are better off adopting an attitude of
curiosity. “I wonder what this emotion has
to teach me….”
We might also distinguish between an
exercise of appreciation and our inability
to experience joy. In the midst of a depres-
sive episode, I often say to myself, “I ac-
knowledge this blessing in my life. While I
am presently incapable of experiencing the
joy that it brings me, I am still grateful for
it, and I am confident that the joy will re-
turn one day.”
Studies conducted by gratitude re-
searchers such as Martin Seligman, Ph.D.,
at the University of Pennsylvania and Rob-
ert Emmons, Ph.D., at the University of
California, Davis, show that people who
keep gratitude journals and do other sim-
ple exercises of appreciation are more opti-
mistic and healthier.
During those seasons when I am con-
sumed by sadness or mired in panic, I keep
a journal of moments during my day when
I experience a reprieve from my
pain: five to ten minutes here or
there when I am able to access
peace, joy and hope. I write down
things like being held by my hus-
band as I wake up, my daughter
telling me she loves me as I drive
her to school, laughing with a
friend over coffee. These moments
become the bedrock of a founda-
tion of gratitude that expands fur-
ther into my day as I recover.
According to French priest
Jacques Philippe, the worst thing
that could ever happen to us is for
everything to go right. No spiritual growth
would take place; we would never learn to
lean on God. Going through trials helps us
to locate our source of identity in God.
Good can be drawn from everything:
despair, death, sin, failure, humiliation,
separation. God makes use of it all. In his
book Interior Freedom, Philippe writes,
“Everything that has happened and hap-
pens to you is part of a long and providen-
tial project of your Father God. Many
things will cause you darkness and suffer-
ing, but if you have recourse to your faith, it
will be your shield.”
The concept that there is good even in
pain is immensely consoling to me and al-
lows me to approach my suffering with
gratitude.
How do you practice gratitude when
you’re in a really bad place? Gently. With
a dose of self-compassion, mindfulness
and faith. ✴
MULTIPLE CALLINGS
Therese is a chaplain
specializing in senior
care and writes regularly
about spirituality and
mental health.

The Thankful
The Thankful Heart
Heart
Be like Joseph, this noted pastor says
by MAX LUCADO, San Antonio, Texas

the joy of Gratitud
WIKIMEDIA
COMMONS
GRATEFUL COUPLE
This thirteenth-century
mosaic from the Basilica
di San Marco in Venice,
Italy, depicts Joseph and
Asenath at the birth of
their second son.
G
RATITUDE DOESN’T COME natu-
rally. Self-pity does. Bellyaches
do.Grumblesandmumbles—no
one has to remind us to offer
them. Yet they don’t mesh well with the
heavenly kindness we have been blessed
with, do they?
In the book of Genesis, Joseph had
more than enough cause to be ungrateful.
Tossed in a pit by his brothers, sold into
slavery, wrongfully imprisoned. Yet try as
we might to find tinges of bitterness in his
story, we don’t succeed. What we do dis-
cover, however, are two dramatic gestures
of gratitude.
“And to Joseph were born two sons…
whom Asenath, the daughter of Poti-
Pherah priest of On, bore to him. Joseph
called the name of the firstborn Manasseh:
‘For God has made me forget all my toil
and all my father’s house.’ And the name of
the second he called Ephraim: ‘For God
has caused me to be fruitful in the land of
my affliction’” (Genesis 41:50–52, NKJV).
God had rewarded Joseph with a place
in Pharaoh’s court and a wife for his own
home. The time had come to start a family.
The young couple was reclining on the
couch when Joseph reached over and pat-
ted Asenath’s round, pregnant tummy.
“I’ve been thinking about names for our
baby,” he said.
“Oh, Joey, how sweet. I have as well. In
fact, I bought a name-your-baby book at
the grocery store.”
“You won’t need it. I already have the
name.”
“What is it?”
“God Made Me Forget.”
“If he made you forget, how can you
name him?”
“No, that is the name: God Made Me
Forget.”
She gave him that look Egyptian wives
always gave their Hebrew husbands. “God
Made Me Forget? Every time I call my son,
I will say, ‘God Made Me Forget’?” She
shook her head and tried it out. “ ‘It’s time
for dinner, God Made Me Forget. Come in
and wash your hands, God Made Me For-
get.’ I don’t know, Joseph.…”
“My mind is made up,” declared Joseph.
“Each time my son’s name is spoken, God
will be praised. God made me forget all
the pain and hurt I experienced at the
hands of my brothers, and I want everyone
to know—I want God to know—I am
grateful.”
Apparently, Asenath bought into the
idea because at the birth of son number
two, she and Joseph called him God Made
Me Fruitful.
Do you think God noticed Joseph’s ges-
ture? A New Testament story provides an
answer. Many centuries later, “Jesus...
reached the border between Galilee and
Samaria. As he entered a village there, ten
men with leprosy stood at a distance, cry-
ing out, ‘Jesus, Master, have mercy on us!’”
(Luke 17:11–13, NLT).
When Jesus heard their cry, he told
them, “Go show yourselves to the priests”
(Luke 17:14).
To their credit, the lepers obeyed. To the
credit of Jesus, they were healed. The mass
of misery became a leaping, jumping, cel-
ebrating chorus of health.
Jesus awaited their return. He wanted
to hear the reunion stories. What did your
wife say? How did the kids respond? How
does it feel to be healed?
Only one of them—a Samaritan—came
back. He fell to the ground at Jesus’ feet,
thanking him for the healing.
Jesus asked, “Didn’t I heal ten men?
Where are the other nine? Has no one re-
turned to give glory to God except this for-
eigner?” (Luke 17:17–18).
You’d think that neither fire nor hail
could have kept them all from falling at
Jesus’ feet. Where were the other nine? It’s
easy to speculate.

G U I D E P O S T S
KAREN
JAMES
Surely some were too busy to be thank-
ful. They planned to express thanks. But
first they needed to find family members,
doctors, dogs, parakeets and neighbors.
Some were too cautious. They guarded
against joy, kept their hopes down. Waited
for the other shoe to drop.
Others were too self-centered. The sick
life was simpler. Now they had to get a job,
play a role in society.
Others were too arrogant. They never
were that sick. Given enough time, they
would have recovered. No big deal.
Toobusy,toocautious,tooself-centered,
too arrogant...too close to home? If this
story is any indication, nine out of ten
people suffer from ingratitude. Epidemic
proportions. Why the appreciation depre-
ciation? Because, as I have learned, ingrat-
itude is easier to default to. I’m as guilty as
anyone. Gratitude is a muscle I must exer-
cise daily.
So, if you feel the world owes you some-
thing, brace yourself for a life of sour hours.
The sky will never be blue enough; the
steak won’t be tender enough; the universe
won’t be good enough to deserve a human
being like you. You’ll snap and snarl your
way to an early grave.
The grateful heart, on the other hand,
sees each day as a gift. Thankful people fo-
cus less on what they lack and more on
what they have.
The grateful heart is like a magnet col-
lecting reasons for gratitude. A zillion dia-
monds sparkle against the velvet of the sky
every night. Thank you, God. A miracle
enables your eyes to read these words and
your brain to process them. Thank you,
God. Your lungs inhale and exhale 11,000
liters of air every day. Your heart will beat
about three billion times in your lifetime.
Thank you, God.
But what of the dark times? Grateful
then? Jesus was. “The Lord Jesus, on the
night he was betrayed, took bread, and
when he had given thanks, he broke it”
(1 Corinthians 11:23–24, NIV).
JesusandthediscipleswereintheUpper
Room. Sly Judas sat in the corner. Impetu-
ous Peter sat at the table. One would soon
betray Jesus; the other would soon deny
him. Jesus knew this, yet on the night he
wasbetrayed,hefoundawaytogivethanks.
Anyone can thank God for the light. Jesus
teaches us to thank God for the night.
Gratitude gets us through the hard stuff
and lifts us up from the darkest depths. To
rejoice in your blessings is to retell God’s
accomplishments. To retell God’s accom-
plishments is to discover his heart. To dis-
cover his heart is to discover not just good
gifts but also the Good Giver. Count your
blessings, the gifts you have been given,
and they will surely multiply. ✴
BASED ON You’ll Get
Through This by Max
Lucado © 2013 by Max
Lucado. Used by permis-
sion of Thomas Nelson.
www.maxlucado.com

COURTESY
MARY
DAUL
INSPIRING OTHERS Mary
still teaches physical
education at St. Dennis
Catholic School, helping
her students to follow
their dreams.
O
PENINPRIVATE.Ifrownedatthe
warning typed across the legal-
sized envelope I’d pulled from
my work mailbox. This couldn’t
be good. I looked around the Catholic
school’s office for some hint of who might
haveleftit.Butnoneofthestaffevenlooked
up. I’d been hired to teach PE part-time at
the start of the school year, and in mid-
December, I still didn’t know anyone well.
I felt fortunate to have a job after the
school where I’d taught fifth and eighth
grades closed. But my commute now
wasn’t easy, especially in my old Jeep with
its rust spots covered in duct tape, cracked
windshield and bald tires. Just the week
before, I’d had a blowout on my way to
work and was late for a special morning
Mass. Does this envelope contain some
sort of reprimand from the principal? I
thought, hurrying to the converted broom
closet in the basement that was my office.
An angry parent? A colleague? Dozens of
negative possibilities swirled in my head.
I’d tried to learn the ropes of my new posi-
tion, but maybe I just wasn’t fitting in.
I closed the door to my office and ner-
vously opened the envelope. I pulled out a
letter and several bills drifted to the floor.
Crisp hundred-dollar bills! Eight of them!
My hand trembled as I read the typed
note: “Someone at school told us about
your tire. Please accept this money to
buy four new tires and use anything that is
left over for any other needs of your car.
Merry Christmas.”
The note wasn’t signed. I couldn’t even
guess who might have been so generous.
Walking through the halls on my way to
the gym, I found myself looking twice at
everyone I passed. Was it the school secre-
tary who’d noticed me struggling? The kin-
dergarten teacher? The custodian? Maybe
all three had contributed to my gift, want-
ing me to feel safe out on the road and wel-
comed at my new school. IwishIknewwho
to thank, I thought.
That night, I celebrated with pizza and
anILoveLucymarathonwithmymom.We
sent up a prayer of thanks for my anony-
mous benefactor. Soon af-
ter,Iboughtfournewtires.
I never did find out who
gave me that generous
gift. Fifteen years later,
I’m glad I didn’t know who
to thank. When I pass
people in the school halls
or on the street, I think
about what kindness they
might need and how I can
show it to them as it was
once shown to me. Some-
times it’s an extra smile for
someone who could use a
boost. Or an encouraging
note. Or even a surprise
gift in their mailbox. ✴
by MARY DAUL, Addison, Illinois
Open in Private
Open in Private
On a part-time teacher’s pay, I couldn’t afford new tires

G U I D E P O S T S
PHOTOS
BY
DAVID
STEPHENSON
Y
OU KNOW HOW sometimes a
bad day turns into a bad week? I
felt like I was having a bad year.
And it was only July. July 25, to
be exact. I thought glumly about my grati-
tude jar, sitting on the bookcase in my liv-
ing room.
The year started with my marriage of
29 years falling apart. In February, my hus-
band filed for divorce. I moved into a small
rental house in May. A new place would
help me heal. Still, sometimes the quiet
and solitude got to me.
Even when something good happened,
it was tinged with sadness. My two young-
er daughters, Samantha and Sophie, joined
AmeriCorps. I was so proud of them. But
come fall, they’d be off to Alaska and Cali-
by SHERRY ORTIZ, Winchester, Kentucky
The Smile
The Smile ar
ar
I was having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad year
fornia, and I’d have a really empty nest. I’d
thought this month would be different. It
began with a bang. Well, a little bundle of
joy. My oldest daughter, Nicole, had a baby
boy—my first grandchild. They lived two
hours away, though, and I wouldn’t get to
see the baby as often as I wanted.
July 25 was my birthday. I woke up de-
termined to be happy and grateful, to see
the silver lining, not the cloud…only to find
that my 16-year-old dog had passed away.
That was the last straw. What is there to
celebrate? I wondered. I can’t even think of
one thing to put in my gratitude jar!
The jar was a project I’d started just af-
ter New Year’s. My marriage was spiraling
down, and I needed a way to keep myself
fromgoing down withit.Iwrotewhat Iwas

DAY BY DAY Sherry
dipped into the smile
jar each morning for
an inspirational note
from her daughters.
thankful for on slips of paper and put them
in a glass cookie jar labeled Año de Grati-
tud, Spanish for “Year of Gratitude.” I tried
to keep up with it a few times every week.
1/11/13: Dinner and a movie with So-
phie! I wrote on the first slip.
2/25/13: Thank you, Lord, for your
peace. Life wasn’t exactly peaceful, but
reading my Bible was helping.
5/21/13: Thank you, Lord, for my
friendly new neighbors.
I was so broken up losing my dog on my
birthday that I couldn’t face my gratitude
jar all week. Finally I remembered that the
girls would be visiting in late August.
8/1/13: Can’t wait to have all my girls to-
gether—and my grandson too.
The day of their visit arrived. Nicole
gave me my grandson to hold. “Just sit and
relax,” she said. She and her sisters took
over my kitchen. I heard chopping, the
oven door opening and closing and lots of
whispering.
“Can I help in there?” I asked.
“Relax, Mom!” they said, almost in uni-
son. I laughed. Already, I felt my spirits
lifting.
Dinner was delicious—ziti with roasted
zucchini and cheesecake-stuffed strawber-
ries for dessert (the girls got the recipes
from favorites that I’d pinned on Pinter-
est). Afterward, we sat in the living room.
Nicole took the baby. “Close your eyes,” she
told me.
I did. Something light landed on my lap.
I looked. A birthday card. So that’s what all
this fuss was about!
“Close your eyes again,” Sophie said.
“There’s more?” I asked. This time a
heavier object was placed in my hands. I
opened my eyes. I was holding a big glass
jar hand-painted with vivid swirls of col-
or—red, turquoise, yellow, purple, green.
Itwasfullofequallycolorfulscrapsofpaper.
“What is it?” I asked.
“We know you love your gratitude jar,”
Sam said. “This is our version. Instead of
putting something in, you take something
out. We call it the smile jar. There’s a note
for every day of the year. Go on, try it.”
A jar of smiles? I dug in and pulled out
a yellow paper. “What kind of shoes do
spies wear?” I read aloud. On the back was
the answer: “Sneakers!” We all cracked
up. I pulled out another: “The best thing
about the future is that it only comes one
day at a time.” Just the balm my hurting
heart needed.
First thing the next morning, I grabbed
a cup of coffee and wrote my note for the
gratitude jar. 8/26/13: Thank you, Lord,
for my girls and their creative way of
starting my day. Then I dipped into my
new jar. “Thanks for teaching us that peo-
ple are more important than things,” it
read. I felt a big smile warm my face. My
girls were right.
That became my morning routine.
Sometimes I’d get encouragement: “I’ve
always believed you are brave.” Other times
I’d get another silly joke: “What do you call
a dinosaur with an extensive vocabulary?
A thesaurus!” The handwriting gave away
which daughter was the contributor.
On really hard days, I double-dipped.
After a tough time at divorce court, I
reached into the jar. “What a wonderful
thought it is that some of the best days of
our lives haven’t happened yet.” Reminds
meofJeremiah29:11, I thought, Godprom-
ising a hope and a future.
On New Year’s Eve, I dumped my grati-
tude jar out onto the floor and counted the
memories. I hadn’t had a bad year after all.
It was full of changes, some of them daunt-
ing, but God had been with me. He’d taken
care of me. And as I looked at my smile jar,
it struck me that my girls had taken care of
me too. All part of God’s plan.
I grabbed a slip of paper.
1/1/14: Thank you, Lord, for the blessing
of fresh starts. ✴

But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you,
for my power is made perfect in weakness.”
Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my
weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me.
—2 CORINTHIANS 12:9 (NIV)
I SIGHED AS I PERUSED THE TABLE filled with jigsaw puzzle pieces. “Are we
still missing that turquoise edge piece?” I asked my husband, Kevin. “I bet one
of the cats knocked it under the fridge.”
I hated the thought of finishing the beautiful bird puzzle with a piece miss-
ing. Sometimes I look at myself with a similar desire for perfection. I find
myself focusing only on the missing pieces in the puzzle—my character flaws.
When I focus only on what’s missing or imperfect in me, I feel discouraged.
What brings me back on track is remembering and acknowledging that God
sees me with his grace-filled and tender gaze.
When Kevin and I were almost done with our puzzle and there were only a
few pieces left on the table, that final edge piece appeared, as if out of nowhere.
Kevin smiled wide and said, “We just needed to get to the end to find it.”
Lord Jesus, I’m grateful that you see me complete in you, with
nothing missing and nothing broken. Please help me accept and love
myself, just as I am, this evening. I end this day imagining
the healing calm of your loving gaze.
—JEANETTE LEVELLIE
A G R A T E F U L H E A R T
A G R A T E F U L H E A R T
A SELECTION FROM
GETTY
IMAGES/ISTOCKPHOTO
G U I D E P O S T S
From A Grateful Heart. If you enjoyed this devotion, find more joy for your spirit
by visiting shopguideposts.org/devo.

G U I D E P O S T S
COURTESY
ERYN
LYNUM
W
E WERE CELEBRATING one
of my favorite end-of-year
traditions. As we’d done for
years, my husband, Gray-
son, and I had gotten a babysitter for our
four children and gone out to dinner at a
nice restaurant. But this wasn’t just about
good food or romance. It was a time for us
to look back on the past year and plan for
the future.
“Ready?”Isaid,nudgingasideourplates
of appetizers and setting my notebook on
the table. “What are we most thankful for
in the last 12 months?
“We bought a new home,” I began.
“That’s definitely something to celebrate.” I
jotted it down.
“We had some great trips to national
parks,” said Grayson. “The kids loved
those.”
“Zeke and Ellis became proficient in
reading.”
“Completed the house renovation…”
My hand cramped getting everything
down. Grayson’s contracting business had
done well. I’d gotten certified as a master
naturalist. We’d stuck to our budget.
“We’ve been really blessed,” I said as the
by ERYN LYNUM, Loveland, Colorado
All Things
All Things
My husband and I had an annual tradition of celebrating the high
points of the year. This time he wanted to try something different
waiter took our appetizer plates away. I
couldn’t wait to get onto list number two:
goals for the coming year. But when I start-
ed to write, Grayson put his hand on mine.
“Why don’t we add a new list?” he said.
“The things that didn’t go so well.”
I felt my smile vanish. Weren’t problems
better left in the past? What was the fun—
or the use—in remembering them? But
Grayson persisted. Grudgingly, at the top
of the page opposite our list of blessings, I
wrote the title “Hard Things.”
“You start,” I said. “This is your idea.” I
preferred to remember the good things.
“Well, the fourth quarter was pretty slow
business-wise,” Grayson said. “Finances got
pretty tight.”
“That’s true,” I said. I searched my mind
for something to add. “We still haven’t
found a new church.”
“What about the wildfires?” said
Grayson.
How could I have forgotten? Our entire
autumn had been cloaked in smoke from
the largest wildfire in Colorado’s written
history burning a few miles away. “That
was rough,” I said. “Some days the children
couldn’t even go outside it was so bad.”
Rejoice in
Rejoice in

HAPPY TRAILS Eryn
and Grayson have
no shortage of things
to be thankful for.
We fell silent for a minute, both of us
looking at our two lists side by side.
“You know,” I said, “those smoky days
inside really made me appreciate the blue
skies when they came. I’m grateful for that.”
The more we looked at our blessings
and challenges, the more connected they
became. Since we hadn’t found a church
yet, we’d begun studying the Bible together
at home. Grayson’s business slowing down
had challenged us to save money, which
helped us meet our budget. The wildfire
had spurred us to take all those trips to na-
tional parks, where we gained new appre-
ciation for God’s creation. By the time our
main course arrived, Grayson and I were
more than ready to start our list of goals for
the coming year.
Since that evening, listing our struggles
has become part of our year-end dinner
tradition, one I’ve come to appreciate as
much as remembering the good times,
maybe more. This year we’re adding a new
twist. We’re inviting the children too. ✴

G U I D E P O S T S
by LOU ZYWICKI PRUDHOMME, Cocoa, Florida
My Prayer Shawl
My Prayer Shawl
It had given me such comfort. Why did I give it away?
P
AIN. THAT’S WHAT scared me most
about the surgery I was facing at
the end of December. I’d never
had an operation before and I had
no idea what to expect. The doctor told me
that some pain after a hysterectomy was
normal and that it might take six weeks
before I felt like myself again. He was
trying to reassure me, but by the time I
got home from the pre-op appointment, I
was shaking.
I headed straight for my bedroom, for
the recliner where I prayed every morning.
I sat down and, by reflex, reached behind
me for my prayer shawl. It was one of a
kind, handmade in a gorgeous range of
pastel colors—mauve, pink, green, blue,
gray, like the predawn sky. I needed to feel
its softness around me, to feel the love and
prayers that had been knit into it. That had
always brought me comfort, even when my
previous husband was dying.
But all I felt was the back of the recliner.
I forgot. I had given the shawl to the
daughter of my good friend Kristin here in
Minnesota.
Kristin was like a sister to me. When my
husband died, she was the one who had
held me while I cried. So when Kristin told
me how worried she was about her teen-
ager, I wanted to help her the way she’d
helped me. Sophie was battling anorexia
and depression and was really suffering.
The idea came to me almost immedi-
ately. Not that I didn’t struggle with it. The
shawl meant a lot to me, and I didn’t want
to part with it. Sheneedsthismorethanyou
do. Deep down I knew that was true.
I put the shawl in a gift bag and wrote
a note to go with it. “I don’t know why
there is sadness in this world. However, I
have learned that there are two things that
can help us survive—friendship and
prayer. On one of the darkest days of my
life—the day my husband was dying—a
friend of mine drove 300 miles to give me
this handmade treasure. When you’re
scared—when you feel alone—wrap this
shawl around you.”
A few weeks later Kristin emailed me.
“Each evening Sophie goes to her room and
wraps the shawl around her. It gives her
such peace. Thank you.”
Plenty of people have problems far worse
than yours, I reminded myself now, set-
tling into the recliner. Maybe if I prayed for
them, it would take my mind off my sur-
gery. I asked for a full recovery for Sophie.
Strength for Kristin. And for Sandy, a
friend from my prayer group in Florida,
where I lived for part of the year. She was
going through a rough time.
My fear didn’t recede. It only grew worse
during the days that followed. Minnesota
was in the midst of the worst winter I could
remember, and even the weather filled me
with foreboding. Something was going to
go wrong with my surgery, I was sure.
On December 27, I woke to yet another
snowstorm. I checked my email and there
was a note from Sandy. “I sent you a small
gift,” she wrote. “The UPS man assured

PRESTON
MACK
KNIT ONE, PRAY TWO
Lou reaches for her
shawl every morning,
a reassuring reminder
that she’s never alone.
I wrapped the shawl around me, and in
thatmoment,allmyfearleftme.Iknewmy
surgery would go smoothly, and the pain
wouldn’t be anything I couldn’t handle.
I emailed Sandy to thank her and asked,
“By the way, is there a kit for prayer
shawls?”
“No,” she replied. “I spent a long time in
the yarn store wondering what yarn, pat-
tern and colors would be best for you. I
hope I guessed right.”
Guessed? The shawl was an even great-
er gift than I’d thought. ✴
me they’d be able to get it to you even in
the snow.”
I couldn’t help but smile. Sandy had
lived in Florida all her life. She just figured
that when it snowed, everything shut
down. Well, not in Minnesota. The UPS
man delivered the package as promised.
I took Sandy’s gift out of the box and
caught my breath. It wasn’t a small gift at
all. She’d knitted me a shawl out of the soft-
estyarn,inmauve,pink,green,blue,gray—
the colors of the sky before dawn. Identical
to the one I’d given away.

PHOTOS
COURTESY
LAURIE
DAVIES
BEAUTIFUL MAUI
Hiking to Waimoku
Falls, past banyan trees
and lush tropical plants,
brought Laurie and her
husband, Greg, closer to
their son, Morgan.
W
E’D BARELY BEGUN thehike
to Maui’s Waimoku Falls
and already Morgan, my
20-year-old son, seemed
like he might ruin it.
He strode ahead on the trail, keeping 10
feet away from my husband, Greg, and me.
“Come on, this is what you wanted to do,”
he said, widening the distance between us.
So much for family togetherness.
I’d made no secret that for my fiftieth
birthday trip to Maui—dubbed “Hawaii
5-0” by Greg—the crown jewel of the itin-
erary was hiking the Pipiwai Trail to the
falls. We’d already driven the Road to
Hana, famous for its more than 600 hair-
pin turns, to get here. All part of the experi-
ence. For the past week, it had been the
only thing I could talk about.
We’d woken this morning to a forecast of
heavy rains. “Let’s hurry,” I said. “I’m not
missing this!”
Silently, I prayed. Lord, let us get to the
falls before the rain comes. And keep my
right knee from acting up. Oh, and if it’s
not too much, help this be a way to connect
with Morgan.
At least I was still hopeful about my sur-
gically repaired knee holding up and the
rain holding off.
We climbed until we reached a spot
overlooking the Seven Sacred Pools. A sign
warned us to stay back from the edge of the
cliff. I peered down, then looked to Mor-
gan. Nothing, not a hint of emotion. When
he moved out of our house a few months
earlier, he’d told me I didn’t understand
him. He was right.
The jungle was thick around us. It made
me think of Morgan’s childhood nickname.
“Remember how we used to call you Mow-
gli?” I said.
“I’m done living in the man village,”
he said, dryly. “I’m off to find Bagheera
and Baloo.”
What was that, God? Humor? It felt like
a start.
Wehikedon,mykneecatching and pop-
ping periodically to let me know its dis-
pleasure at being pressed into duty. Merci-
fully, a massive banyan tree begged us to
stop and gape. Aerial roots tumbled down
like anchors, mooring their twisty thicket
of branches to the jungle floor.
My son flexed his muscles in the same
configuration as the branches near him
and I maneuvered my smartphone’s cam-
era into just the right position to make it
appear as if he were morphing into the tree.
“I am Groot,” he said, quoting a charac-
by LAURIE DAVIES, Mesa, Arizona
Hawaii 5
Hawaii 5-0
My son said I didn’t understand him.
He was right. Then came my birthday trip

G U I D E P O S T S
ter in a Marvel superhero movie series.
“Don’t mix metaphors, Mowgli,” I said.
“Good one, Mom,” he said, with a hint of
disdain before taking a look at my photo.
“Good one, Mom, thanks. Will you send
that to me?”
When was the last time Morgan had
thanked me for anything?
Then again, when was the last time I
had thanked him? I typed a note into my
phone about the idea that roots could start
at the top and work their way down.
We passed through a bamboo forest.
The wind was howling and so was my knee.
The sky filled with angry-looking clouds. If
we were caught in the storm, there would
be no Bagheera to rescue us. We hadn’t
seen a park ranger either.
Greg offered me a hand up the final as-
cent.WhereMorganwas,Iwasn’tsure.Lost
in a tangle of exotic foliage and mounting
worries, I heard the waterfall before I saw it.
Seconds later, I gasped. A 400-foot tor-
rent of water thundered down a sheer lava
rock wall. I caught up to my son and aimed
my smartphone at the white ribbon of
freefalling tumble and force. My prayer for
a special mother-son memory might not
have been answered, but coming face-to-
face with nature’s majesty…wow.
This was what I’d come all this way, with
my balky knee, to see.
Before I could take a second photo, the
skies opened and unleashed a biblical tor-
rent of rain. I looked incredulously at my
family and then back at Waimoku Falls.
“God, you held back the rain!” I blurted
through a rush of gratitude and tears.
I’m not sure if it was the crack in my
voice or the crack in my armor, but Morgan
was moved too. Suddenly he was at my
side, helping me with my rain gear. But it
was his expression that I noticed. There
was such caring in his eyes, such love and
concern. I couldn’t remember the last time
we’d really looked at each other.
“We made it, Mom,” he said.
Did he mean the hike…or us?
I stole one last look at the falls before I
turned to begin the two-mile descent. Mor-
gan startled me with a bear hug before he
took my hand.
“Thanks, son,” I said.
Thanks, God, I added silently.
“I don’t want you to slip,” Morgan said,
steadying me along moss-covered rocks.
An unexpected delight, like banyan tree
roots that sprout from branches to reach
the ground. As tangled as our relationship
might be at times, we were going to be okay.
Back at the car, with the long drive to the
man village before us, I settled into my seat.
“Happy birthday, Mom,” I heard Mor-
gan say softly. “Today was a great day.”
Gratitude. It had come in a crash and a
whisper. “Yes, it was beautiful,” I said. ✴
LOOKING FOR BALOO
Morgan felt the urge to
show his independence
while in Hawaii, chan-
neling Mowgli from The
Jungle Book, a favorite
character.

MARTIN
KLIMEK
TEACHING HEALING
Stanford professor Fred
Luskin has spent decades
showing people recover-
ing from profound
trauma a process for let-
ting go of their pain.
by EVAN MILLER, Editor
4 Steps for
4 Steps for
Letting Go
Letting Go
Here’s how to release worries and anxiety
FOR MANY OF US, feeling more grateful
requires first learning to let go of the
obstacles that weigh us down—grievances,
grudges, heartache and sorrow. Letting go
isn’t just wishful thinking. There are spe-
cific steps you can take. Fred Luskin, a
psychology professor at Stanford Univer-
sity, has spent a lifetime successfully teach-
ing people how. Here’s some of what he
recommends:
1. Change the channel to positive. Imag-
ine your life is a 500-channel TV lineup.
There are nature channels, inspirational
programming, music and arts channels,
stationsdevotedtovolunteering.Ofcourse,
there are also worrisome and frightening
channels. Too often we find ourselves
watching these channels exclusively and
miss the wonderful, life-affirming things
happening all around us. By deliberately
changing the channel, calling a friend
you’ve lost contact with, going on a walk,
getting involved at church or a soup kitch-
en, your perspective will change. Not over-
night. But keep at it. Turning our focus
outward instead of inward is a proven
strategy for seeing the good in the world.
2. Pray for comfort. Whenyoufeelyourself
feeling angry or overwhelmed, take a mo-
ment right then to pray. Quiet your mind.
Take a deep breath, pushing your stomach
out, then relaxing it as you exhale. Prayer
is calming. It forces your mind to slow
down and redirects your thoughts away
from yourself.
3. Write it down. Our bodies involuntarily
react to stress, our muscles tense, our blood
pressure increases. Putting into words the
specific things that trouble us gives us per-
spective. It keeps our minds from racing.
Share what you’ve written with a trusted
friend. You’re moving beyond the raw emo-
tions that can be overwhelming.
4. Practice, practice, practice. Letting go
is a life skill you can learn and get better
at. Look for ways every day to let go of a
small irritant, like the driver who cuts you
off, the rude sales clerk or a hurtful com-
ment. Flip to a different “life chan-
nel.” Say a prayer. When bigger
problems surface, you’ll know a
path for feeling grateful again. It
doesn’t mean you won’t feel deep
hurt or disappointment. Letting
go doesn’t make you immune to
emotions. But you’ll take it less
personally. You won’t lose sight of
the wondrous things happening
all around you. You’ll feel stronger
spiritually as well. It’s when people
focus on others that they most of-
ten feel God’s infinite love. ✴

The Joy of Gratitude - 2024

Recommended

Recommended

More Related Content

Similar to The Joy of Gratitude - 2024

Similar to The Joy of Gratitude - 2024 (20)

More from Lucky Gods

More from Lucky Gods (20)

Recently uploaded

Recently uploaded (20)

The Joy of Gratitude - 2024