When My Brother Ran For Help

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January 14, 2026

Lying in the middle of the road with the sun in my face and gravel poking me everywhere was secondary to the pain in my foot, twisted and caught between the spokes of my brother’s bike.

I looked to make sure no cars were coming, though there wasn’t much I could have done about it anyway. I couldn’t get up. The bike had me trapped. I was scared I would be run over.

I listened for the sound of cars but heard nothing and was only slightly reassured that I would probably see a plume of dust before I actually heard one. The blind hill about 200 feet in front of me was worrisome, because cars usually came up over it pretty fast.

Just before that, my brother Monty, had been giving me a ride on his new bike. He told me to hold my feet out and away from the spokes so they wouldn’t get caught. I listened, and I did try—but accidents happen anyway.

Watching him run away from me toward the house scared me, too. I knew he was going to get Mom, but I felt so alone. It seemed like I had been lying there a long time, but it probably wasn’t more than five minutes, since we weren’t far from the house.

Finally, I saw Mom and Monty hurrying down the driveway toward me. I was so glad to see them. Mom gently removed my foot from between the spokes and carried me back to the house, where she examined my foot and determined that no bones were broken.

Looking back, it’s clear to me that even then, my brother had my best interests at heart.

Dickie and the Horse

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January 11, 2026

Dickie and his family lived on the farm next to ours. They had a horse that I often saw standing at the pasture fence beside their house. It was big. Bigger than the horse my father used to bring cattle in from the field—and that horse was already off-limits to me.

This one wasn’t.

I don’t remember how I got up there. Someone may have lifted me onto his back, or maybe Dickie and I climbed up on the fence and stepped over from there. What I do remember is being suddenly very high up, sitting bareback on a wide brown horse, my legs stretched farther than they were used to going.

The horse moved in a slow, steady rhythm. It felt a little like rocking in a rocking chair. My feet might have dangled, but at five years old or so, the width of his back probably kept them from going very far.

Dickie was casual about the whole thing. He wasn’t much older than I was—maybe seven—and that made it feel even more special, like this was something we were simply allowed to do.

The adults knew. Dickie had permission to take the horse out of the pasture and ride him down the road to take me home. It wasn’t a secret.

Still, I remember my mother being surprised when she saw me coming down the road, sitting so high up on that horse’s back. I don’t think she knew ahead of time.

I loved it. I was proud. I felt like I was on top of the world.

When we reached my house, Dickie stopped the horse in the front yard. My mother came out and lifted me down. I was sorry to get off. I would have happily stayed there longer.

The Pink Wall

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January 8, 2026

I remember standing in my crib, holding on to the side rail, quietly looking at the wall across from my crib, comparing it to the white woodwork in the doorway to my room. I was fascinated by the color. 


I thought about that wall often, in brief flashes. For years, I didn’t know where we had lived then. I only knew that I was very little. One day when I was about 30 years old, I happened to think of it while my mother was visiting. I asked her where we had lived where the wall in my room was a deep pink with white woodwork.

A little shocked, she replied, “You couldn’t possibly remember that. You were only 10 months old.” 

She paused, then added, “It wasn’t supposed to be that dark.”

Except, I do remember. Many decades later, I can still see that wall in my mind’s eye. And I still have the feeling of being tiny. Why it made such an impression on me I can’t say. But pink always has been—and still is—my favorite color.

The Day I Went to School With My Brother

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January 5, 2026

I wasn’t school age yet. I must have been four or five — sometime around 1956 or 1957. After watching my brother get on the big yellow school bus every morning, my mother sent me along to school with him one day.

It must have been late spring because I don’t remember needing a coat, and I’m fairly sure I wore a dress—because girls wore dresses to school then. It was one of those mild, sunlit days. That’s why I’ve always thought of it that way. 

The teacher gave me a little chair to use beside my brother’s desk. I was the only “extra” child — for which I am sure the teacher must have been grateful, but I remember feeling like one of the big kids as I colored beside him.

Recess was quite an adventure for me. There were so many kids to play with where I normally spent most of my days playing alone or with my dog, Brownie, while my brother was in school.

When recess was over, the teacher rang the bell for everyone to come back inside. It was a handheld bell, not the electric kind schools have today.


I have often wondered what led up to going to school with my brother, and why it was allowed, but there is no one left to ask how it came about. It may have been one of those end-of-the-year “bring your sibling to school” days—but that’s only my best guess.

Stepping Into 2026, Gently

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January 1, 2026

2025 was a year of awakening and transformation for me. As the world around us has changed outwardly, so have I changed inwardly in myriad ways. 

Life after great loss brought me to a threshold, where I had to choose between staying stuck and stepping forward. I chose to step forward. 

I learned a great deal in 2025—particularly about what I want in my life, and where I am going next. What surprised me most was not the clarity itself, but the quiet confidence that came with it. For the first time in a long while, I feel grounded enough to move forward without rushing, without bracing for impact, and without needing to prove anything to anyone.

I am stepping into 2026 more gently than I have stepped into years past. Not cautiously, but intentionally. I am no longer interested in rushing toward what comes next or measuring my life against some imagined timeline. I want room to breathe, to notice, and to enjoy the life that is unfolding in front of me. If there is a theme for this year, it is presence—showing up fully, without armor, and trusting that where I am is enough to begin.

This space will reflect that same intention. It will be a place for honest words, remembered moments, and stories told without urgency. A place where grief and joy are both allowed to sit at the table, and where nothing needs to be fixed before it can be shared. If you’ve found your way here, you are welcome to rest awhile. There is no agenda, no expectation—just room to be human, together.

As we enter 2026, I wish you peace, happiness, and everything you need to sustain you. 

Brenda

Brownie and Me

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December 31, 2025

When I was about three years old, we lived on a farm. My playmates were the barn cats, my dog, Brownie, and my brother who was in school all day. 

Brownie was a mixed-breed dog, but to my young eyes he looked very much like a border collie. He was mostly black, with white boots on his feet and soft brown markings just above them, where the white fur met the black. His face was dark, except for the brown eyebrows that always delighted me—I had never seen a dog with eyebrows before. He was beautiful to me, and he was mine.

One day, Brownie and I wandered into the chicken yard adjacent to the house. The chickens were long gone, and my Dad had placed an empty rabbit hutch there. 

Curious, I walked over and opened the door, which was only latched with a scrap of wood and a nail. To lock or unlock the door, all you had to do was turn the piece of wood. 

I unlatched it and climbed in. As the door shut, the latch fell into place and I couldn’t get out. So, what does a little kid do when she’s scared? I cried. And cried. And then cried some more. 

The more I cried, the more agitated Brownie got. Soon, he took off for the house and started barking his loudest at the back door. Mom tried to make him hush, but he wouldn’t stop. She finally came outdoors where she heard  me crying. 

Still barking, Brownie took off for the chicken yard, stopping every few steps to make sure Mom was following. It only took her moments to reach me, but it was such a relief to finally be in her arms. 

Brownie was somewhat of a legend in our family. Mom knew he could be trusted to look after me. That wasn’t our last adventure, but it was the last rabbit cage I tried to crawl into!

A Quiet Grief

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December 22, 2025

When my husband died, I died too. Not in the same sense, of course, but the life and love I had known for 52 years were gone in an instant. I was lost. I didn’t know what to do or how to go on without him. And yet I did, whether I wanted to or not.

Those first days were surreal. I didn’t know what to do with myself, and I couldn’t get away from the pain. Even brief distractions only reminded me of what I had lost.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months. Then the firsts began. The first Thanksgiving without him. The first Christmas without him. His first birthday in Heaven. 

I had sweet memories of our lives together and returned to them often, picturing where we were and what we were doing. Sometimes, they were how I soothed myself to sleep.

I thought the second year might ease a little. It did in some respects, but there were the seconds — second-year celebrations marked by the empty chair at the table and his recliner no one would sit in.

During this time I stopped doing so many things that had once been enjoyable for me. Carl and I had a multipurpose basement that was part storage and part recreation. His computer sat in one side of the basement, and my paper crafting area sat in the opposite side. He used to go downstairs and peruse social media while I made greeting cards and other paper crafts. When he died, I lost all interest in paper crafting. 

It was during the summer of the third year that I had a sudden revelation that shocked me. I realized that I had been suffering a quiet depression — quiet because it didn’t look dramatic or urgent. It consisted mostly of apathy. I lost interest in nearly everything in my life except my children. I gave up my driver’s license for several reasons and stopped going out except for doctor visits and food. 

Looking back, I can see that the holidays during this third year were still hard — but they landed somewhat softer. His birthday still lies ahead. I haven’t forgotten him. I never will.

Once I realized that, things began to change. I had been in coasting mode with my health, so I took charge of it and made improvements that needed to happen.

It was also during this time that I rediscovered my love for writing. I wanted to start a blog, and what you see here is the result of that.

As they always do, the holidays came around again. I opted not to spend time with my family for Thanksgiving this year. I treated myself gently and spent the day in bed, not from depression, but as a kindness to myself to rest and recharge. I woke up that afternoon feeling good, really good, for the first time in years. I don’t know where it came from, only that it felt like part of my healing — and I was grateful for it.

The Patched Dishcloth

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December 20, 2025

One day, long after I was married and had children of my own, I was at my mother’s house, cooking and doing dishes as we prepared for a family dinner. I reached into the drawer where she kept her dishcloths and towels. A scrap of multicolored terrycloth with white stitching caught my eye, and I reached in to pull it out of the drawer. 

I immediately started laughing. Turning without comment, I held it up in front of her. She recognized why I was laughing, then she began to laugh along with me.

What I held in my hands was a patched dishcloth. It was a solid piece of fabric, clearly made from two different cloths — one pink, one lavender — stitched together with white thread to form something new. It represented her life in so many ways — and how she cared for her family.

Both of my parents’ lives were shaped by the Great Depression and the years of World War II where they learned the value of taking care of what they owned and mending what was broken. In this case, a torn dishcloth, insignificant by itself, was made into something useful once again. 

I thought of the other things she mended without ceremony. Socks turned inside out and mended as she watched television with the family, hems let down or taken up as we grew, small tears stitched before they became big ones. She crocheted doilies to decorate our home, kept the house tidy, and somehow made ordinary days feel cared for. None of it was showy. It was simply how she cared for us. 

Everything that she did in life was to see that we were warm and fed and had everything that we needed and almost everything that we wanted. As a child, I may not have appreciated that fully. As an adult and the mother of four, I understood precisely where her heart was and what it takes to make a home.

After Mom passed away, I took that patched dishcloth and put it away as a cherished memento — not just of her life, but of the quiet, ordinary care she gave us every day.

This Christmas

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December 25, 2025

This holiday season of 2025 is the first one since Carl passed away three years ago that I didn’t long to make it be something that it can never be again. And it is okay. I was standing at the kitchen sink looking out at my neighbor’s Christmas lights when that thought occurred to me. I believe I have finally stopped struggling against what was, and accepted what is.