It seems lately that life has developed a rather unfortunate habit of handing me one more thing.

Just when I think I have everything under control, something else lands on the pile.

Recently, our homeowners insurance company sent us a list of things they wanted photographed around our house. Inside and outside.

Apparently, they wanted to see our home from angles we had never considered.

So my husband walked around the yard with his phone, taking pictures and discovering things we had apparently trained ourselves not to see.

That needs replacing.

That needs repairing.

That needs painting.

And we’re fairly certain that wasn’t leaning like that the last time we looked.

There is something about an insurance inspection that can turn a perfectly respectable house into a contestant on Extreme Makeover: Home Edition.

By the time he finished, our list of things that needed attention had grown considerably longer than our desire to attend to any of them.

And that got me thinking about how easy it is for life to become overwhelming.

It isn't always one giant catastrophe. Sometimes it is simply the accumulation of everything.

The car needs something.

The calendar is full.

The bills keep arriving with remarkable consistency.

The phone rings.

The emails multiply.

And then there are the things that aren't ours to fix at all.

Someone has just lost a job.

Someone else has lost a spouse.

Someone is sitting across from a doctor hearing words that will change the direction of their life.

And while all of that is happening, the grass still needs cutting and the laundry doesn't seem particularly moved by anyone's circumstances.

Then there is traffic.

Traffic has become one of my particular thorns.

Maybe I've simply gotten older and less interested in participating in a NASCAR race every time I leave the driveway. I don't know.

But I have noticed that there is always someone behind me who appears to believe I am personally responsible for delaying their arrival.

They ride my bumper.

They change lanes.

They speed around me.

And then, at the next red light, there they are.

Right beside me.

I have begun to wonder if perhaps they were in such a hurry to get to that exact red light.

This is when I remind myself of my new plan.

I'm putting the overwhelm on a shelf.

Not throwing it away.

Not pretending it doesn't exist.

Just putting it somewhere I don't have to stare at it every minute of the day.

The house can stay on the shelf for a while.

The list can stay there.

The things I can't change can certainly stay there.

And when someone is driving like they're late for their own wedding, I can put that frustration on the shelf, too.

Because I don't have to carry someone else's hurry.

There will always be something waiting for us.

Another repair.

Another bill.

Another appointment.

Another problem that needs solving.

Another driver who thinks the speed limit is merely a suggestion.

Life isn't going to stop piling things on.

Maybe the trick is learning that we don't have to pick everything up.

Some things need our attention.

Some things need our action.

And some things simply need to be placed on the shelf until we're ready to deal with them.

I've decided that my imaginary shelf is going to get plenty of use.

And when the world feels like too much, I'm going to take a deep breath, picture that shelf, and remind myself:

Everything doesn't have to be handled today.

Sometimes peace begins with knowing what to put down.

And the house photos have been uploaded to our insurance company. Now we wait.

"Cast all your anxiety on Him because He cares for you." -
1 Peter 5:7

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Have you ever had someone suddenly come to mind, completely out of the blue?

No phone call prompted it. You hadn’t seen their name on social media. Nothing reminded you of them. Yet, there they were in your thoughts as clearly as if they were standing in the room with you.

I have experienced this more times than I can count.

And what makes it especially interesting is what sometimes happens afterward.

I have thought of someone I hadn't seen or spoken to in quite some time, only to learn later that they had passed away. Other times, I have discovered that something significant had happened in their family, a birth, an illness, a crisis, or some other major life event.

At first, I simply chalked it up to coincidence.

But when something happens repeatedly, you can't help but wonder.

Is it intuition? Is it a deep emotional connection that somehow reaches beyond what we consciously understand? Is our mind picking up on things we don't realize we've noticed? Or could there be something spiritual happening that we don't have the ability to explain?

I don't pretend to have the answer.

My sister has experienced the same kind of thing, which makes me wonder even more. There have been times when one of us has unexpectedly mentioned someone, only to discover later that something was happening in that person's life.

For people of faith, there may be another way to look at it.

There are times when someone is suddenly placed on our hearts, and perhaps the most important response isn't trying to figure out why.

Maybe we're simply supposed to pray for them.

Maybe we're supposed to call.

Maybe we're supposed to check on them.

And maybe, every now and then, God brings someone to our mind because that person needs to be remembered at that particular moment.

I have learned not to ignore those unexpected thoughts as quickly as I once did. When someone suddenly comes to mind for no apparent reason, I try to pause. I may say a prayer for them. Sometimes I'll send a message or make a phone call.

Because what if?

What if that unexpected thought isn't meaningless?

What if the person needs encouragement that day? What if they're walking through something we know nothing about? What if our simple decision to reach out becomes exactly what they needed?

We live in a world that wants an explanation for everything. We want to measure it, prove it, name it and put it into a category.

But perhaps some things are meant to remain mysteries.

I don't know whether what my sister and I have experienced could ever be scientifically explained. I don't know if it is telepathy, intuition, coincidence or something spiritual.

I only know that sometimes, without warning and without an obvious reason, a person appears in my thoughts.

And when that happens, I don't ignore it anymore.

I pause.

I pray.

And sometimes, I reach out.

Perhaps the greatest lesson isn't whether we possess some mysterious power.

Perhaps it's learning to pay attention when someone is placed on our hearts. 

And as I’m finishing up on writing this column, the headlines are ablaze to the passing of Dolly Parton. And yes, she laid heavily on my mind just a few days ago.

God knows.

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The older I get, the more I realize I inherited something far more valuable than my father's eye color or his smile. I inherited his wit.

It sneaks up on me when I least expect it. I'll be in the middle of a conversation and one of Daddy's old expressions will tumble right out of my mouth. The moment I hear it, I can't help but grin because I know exactly where it came from.

Daddy had a saying for just about everything.

If someone left every light in the house burning, he'd walk through shaking his head and say, “Light equals heat.”  To this day, I still hear those words every time I flip off an unnecessary light switch. Whether the science completely backed him up or not didn't matter. It was simply Daddy's way of reminding us that electricity wasn't free.

If someone unexpected showed up, especially one of his buddies, he'd grin and say, “Oh no, it’s you.”  You knew he didn't mean a word of it. It was his version of saying, "Glad you stopped by."

Then there was his favorite expression whenever something unbelievable happened. He'd throw his hands up and declare, “I’ve seen it all now.”  Of course, life usually proved him wrong by presenting something even stranger the very next day.

If the neighborhood got a little noisier or someone new moved in who promised to keep things interesting, Daddy would chuckle and say, “There goes the neighborhood.” It was usually followed by a smile that let everyone know he wasn't being serious...well, not entirely.

And when he ran across a group of people who all seemed to act exactly alike, he'd simply shake his head and announce, “They all came from the same burlap bag.”  To this day, I have no idea where that expression originated, but if you heard Daddy say it, you knew exactly what he meant.

Back then, I thought those sayings belonged only to him.

Now I know better.

Somewhere along life's journey, those expressions quietly became mine. I don't rehearse them. They simply appear, as natural as breathing. They're woven into conversations, sprinkled into everyday life, and often followed by a smile from someone who remembers hearing Daddy say the very same thing.

It's funny how we spend our younger years insisting we'll never become our parents. Then one day, without warning, we're quoting them word for word.

And honestly, I'm okay with that.

Every one of those old sayings carries a memory. They remind me of family dinners, Saturday chores, neighborhood conversations, and a father whose humor made ordinary days a little brighter. Those expressions became part of our family language, and now they're part of mine.

Maybe that's how love survives the years, not just through photographs or family stories, but through the words we keep saying long after the voice that first spoke them has grown quiet.

Every time one of Daddy's expressions slips out of my mouth, it's almost as if he's standing beside me again, smiling that familiar smile.

Some people inherit furniture. Some inherit jewelry.

I inherited a lifetime of one-liners.

And I wouldn't trade them for anything.

“The greatest inheritances aren’t always found in a will. Sometimes they’re found in the words we still hear, and still say…with a smile.”

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(One single choice or decision someone makes today often spirals through several generations)

They arrive quietly, carried through generations like an old family heirloom nobody wanted. Fear. Dysfunction. Doubt. Silence. They settle into homes, shape childhoods, influence relationships, and eventually become so familiar that we mistake them for normal.

Then one day, anxiety shows up.

It doesn't always announce itself with panic attacks or sleepless nights. Sometimes it looks like constantly expecting the worst, struggling to trust, needing to control every outcome, or living with an uneasy feeling that never quite goes away.

Generational dysfunction doesn't guarantee anxiety, but it can leave deep wounds. A child raised in chaos often becomes an adult searching for peace, carrying emotional burdens they never chose.

Counseling and medication can be important parts of healing. They have helped countless people, and there should never be shame in seeking that help. Yet many discover there is another part of the journey, a longing deep within the soul that no prescription alone can satisfy.

I know this because my own family has lived it.

Five years ago-this month, I lost my brother at the age of 57. He grew up thousands of miles away. As I looked back over his life, I couldn't help but see how the hardships of his childhood led him down many dark alleys. The wounds he carried were real, and they shaped so much of the man he became. His life, and his death, remain a sobering reminder that unresolved pain can echo across generations. Thrown into this mix, he was surrounded by others who chose a quick fix for their escapes. They, too, were also escaping demons from their past. Like a boiling pot of water on the stove with no one watching, most often than not, this combination never ends well.

But I also believe this: what has been handed down doesn't have to be handed forward.

By God's grace, cycles can be broken. Fear can give way to faith. Anxiety doesn't have to have the final word. Healing is possible, and every generation has the opportunity to write a different ending than the one they inherited.

Perhaps the greatest legacy we can leave our children isn't found in a bank account or a family name. It's the courage to face our wounds, seek help when we need it, trust God with what we cannot carry alone, and pass on peace instead of pain.

Place every burden you carry into the hands of the Savior who has already promised that HE cares for you.

“He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.” - Psalms 147:3

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Some stories are too remarkable to dismiss as mere coincidence.

Nearly eight years ago, a man said goodbye to his faithful dog, Teddy. Like anyone who has loved a loyal companion, he carried the ache of that loss long after the final farewell.

Not long afterward, an unexpected package arrived in the mail. Inside was a breathtaking painting of him and Teddy together. There was no return address, no note, no signature—nothing to reveal who had created such a meaningful gift. Over the years, he treasured the painting, but the identity of the artist remained an unanswered mystery.

Life moved on.

Then yesterday, while visiting a relative recovering from an accident in a rehabilitation facility, something extraordinary happened. As he was leaving, he paused to chat with one of the employees at the front desk. Their conversation was ordinary—until it wasn't.

The employee smiled and casually asked, "How did you like the painting of you and Teddy?"

For a moment, time seemed to stop.

Speechless, he asked, "How do you know about that painting?"

The employee replied, "My sister painted it for you."

Eight years of wondering were answered in a single sentence.

Out of all the places, all the people, and all the conversations that could have happened that day, the mystery was solved in the most unexpected way imaginable.

Some would call it coincidence.

He calls it God's perfect timing.

Perhaps the artist never imagined that one day the story behind her gift would be revealed through her own sibling in a rehabilitation facility. Perhaps the recipient never imagined that after all those years, the answer would come when he wasn't even looking for it.

That's often how God works.

He has a way of connecting people, moments, and circumstances that seem unrelated until suddenly the whole picture comes into focus. What appears random to us is often part of a much larger design that only He can see.

Sometimes God doesn't answer our questions immediately. Sometimes He lets the pieces remain scattered for years. Then, in His perfect time, He gently places the final piece into the puzzle, reminding us that He has been orchestrating the story all along.

Maybe the greatest lesson isn't simply discovering who painted Teddy's portrait.

It's realizing that our lives are woven together by a God who misses nothing, forgets no detail, and delights in reminding us that He is always at work—even when we cannot see it.

As Proverbs 16:9 reminds us, "In their hearts humans plan their course, but the Lord establishes their steps."

Perhaps that unexpected conversation wasn't just about solving a mystery.

Perhaps it was heaven's quiet reminder that God is still connecting the dots.

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There was a time when preparing for a trip meant buying a road atlas, arguing over whose turn it was to unfold it, and praying nobody sneezed before it was folded back into its original shape, which as we all know, was humanly impossible.

Today, we have GPS. A pleasant little voice calmly telling us to "proceed to the route" after we've ignored her last three suggestions. She never raises her voice, never rolls her eyes, and somehow always knows where the nearest coffee shop is. 

Travel itself has become an Olympic event. We stand in security lines with our shoes in one bin, our laptop in another, and our dignity somewhere back by the metal detector. By the time we reach our gate, we deserve a vacation from preparing for the vacation.

Then there are family road trips. Somebody is always hungry five minutes after leaving home. Someone else has to find a restroom immediately after passing the last exit for thirty miles. And no matter how carefully you pack the car, there's always one suitcase that has to be unloaded first because the snack bag is somehow underneath everything else.

But for all the comedy that comes with traveling, I've come to believe the most important journeys don't involve reservations or boarding passes.

They're the ones we never saw coming.

The journey of becoming a spouse. Learning to put someone else's needs alongside your own. The journey of raising children and then discovering they somehow became adults while you were still wondering where all the grocery money went.

There's the journey through loss, where each day feels like another mile on unfamiliar roads. The journey of forgiveness that asks us to lay down burdens we've carried far too long. The journey of growing older, where our bodies may slow down, but our appreciation for life's simple blessings somehow grows stronger.

God has a remarkable way of using the unexpected detours. We complain because the road is winding, only to discover later it led us exactly where we needed to be. We question the delays, only to realize they protected us from rushing past something precious.

I've found that the people who leave the deepest footprints on our hearts aren't always the ones who traveled the farthest. They're the ones who faithfully walked beside us when the road became steep.

In the end, it isn't the number of miles we've traveled that matters most.

It's who we've become along the way.

Because some journeys change your location.

The ones you'll treasure forever change your life.

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I enjoy writing small messages in a card from time to time. Sometimes they are sent to close friends, but often they find their way to people I have never met.

When I moved to my current neighborhood over 30 years ago, Ms Ethel Hall lived just one block over. She was known as the (card lady). It was her ministry to send out cards to so many people. Even those who didn’t live here. She did this faithfully and never missed an important date.

Just the other week, a friend of mine in another state told me about one of her home health care clients who was celebrating her 102nd birthday. The moment she mentioned it, something stirred within me. Before the day was over, I had already decided that this remarkable lady deserved a birthday card from a stranger who simply wished her well.

The next morning, I mailed it.

Will I ever meet her? Probably not.

Will she remember my name? Most likely not.

But perhaps for a few moments, she smiled knowing someone took the time to think of her.

We live in an age of instant communication. Text messages arrive in seconds. Emails travel around the world in the blink of an eye. Yet there is still something special about finding an envelope in the mailbox with your name written on it. It says, "Someone thought enough of me to sit down, pick up a pen, and send a little piece of kindness."

As the years pass, I find myself appreciating that more and more.

One day the tables will turn, as they always do. We will all grow older. We may find ourselves spending more time at home, with fewer places to go and fewer people dropping by. And when that season arrives, a simple card in the mail may brighten our day more than we can imagine.

Until then, perhaps we should keep sending them.

After all, kindness doesn't require a reason, a relationship, or even an introduction. Sometimes it only requires a stamp, a few heartfelt words, and the willingness to let someone know they matter.

“A card is more than paper and ink. It is a reminder that someone, somewhere, thought of you today.”

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Opening packages just ain’t what it used to be.

There was a time when a package arriving at your doorstep was cause for genuine excitement. You'd wonder who it was from, carefully cut the string or tape, and savor the anticipation of discovering what was tucked inside. A delivery wasn't an everyday occurrence, it was an event.

Today, compared to years gone by, packages arrive with such regularity that we've nearly become accustomed to hearing the rumble of the delivery truck before it even turns onto the street. A box on the porch is no longer a surprise; it's often an expectation.

Need a birthday gift? Click. Need cat food? Click. Need a replacement light bulb, a new shirt, or that kitchen gadget you suddenly decided you can't live without? Click, click, click.

A few days later, or sometimes a few hours later, it magically appears on the doorstep.

I recently found myself doing something that once was routine but now feels almost nostalgic. My great-niece was celebrating her sweet sixteen birthday, and instead of ordering a gift online, I headed out to the store. I walked the aisles, looked at different possibilities, picked up items, put them back, and thought about what a sixteen-year-old girl might enjoy.

Imagine that.

Actually leaving the house to shop.

As I wandered through the store, I noticed something interesting. There was a certain satisfaction in seeing things firsthand instead of through a screen. I could touch them, compare them, and leave with my purchase in hand rather than waiting for a tracking number to update.

Of course, I'm not giving up online shopping anytime soon. It has made life easier in countless ways. For those of us who remember spending half a Saturday driving from store to store searching for one elusive item, home delivery feels like a modern miracle.

And speaking of miracles, my hat's off to the delivery workers who make it all happen. Through blazing summer heat, pouring rain, holiday rushes, and neighborhoods filled with barking dogs, they keep showing up day after day. They deliver more than packages; they deliver convenience, relief, and occasionally the very thing we forgot we desperately needed.

Still, every now and then, it does a person good to wander into a store, browse the shelves, and remember how shopping used to be. Not because the old way was necessarily better, but because it reminds us how much the world has changed.

And if we're being honest, there's something a little amusing about ordering a package online while sitting inside a house already filled with unopened packages from last week.

Maybe that's progress.

Or maybe it's just Christmas on the porch, 365 days a year. 

“The conveniences we enjoy today were once the luxuries we never imagined we’d have.”

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