Brenda Knight Graham's Blog

I’m almost finished knitting a little blue baby’s blanket–twelve blocks, six different designs, sewn together. How exciting it is to be expecting another great grand baby! As I knit I whisper prayers for Baby Cooper, prayers for Mommy Allie and Daddy Charles D. Aside from the excitement of the project’s purpose, I do just love the rhythm of knitting. It quiets me, makes me feel put together. And sometimes God shows me a new perspective, as He has done lately.

There are designs in each rectangular block–one big heart on one, three smaller hearts at an angle in another, a big star, seven small hearts, a plain piece, and a really fun plaid (fun because it was possible, but challenging!). Every single stitch in each rectangle is part of the whole design so one small mistake is actually a big mistake. A heart might have a bump on one side, a star’s point might be missing, the plaid could look more like gobbledy-gook. In my eagerness I knit too quickly sometimes. Mistakes happen. Then I have to take stitches off the needles and work the mistakes out.

That’s what God does in my life, I think. He takes stitches off the needles and works the mistakes out. Only He does so much better than I. He often makes something beautiful of my life mistakes!

It is really fun to see the design of a heart or a star begin to reveal itself. Someone worked hard figuring out just how many knit stitches or purl stitches, and how many seed stitches should be on each row. Sometimes the pattern seems so very slow showing itself. The stars and hearts are nothing but a nursery school squiggle picture.

I was thinking about that designer the other day as I sat knitting with a cat asleep in my lap and Amy Grant singing “Amazing Grace” on You Tube. That person who worked the pattern out had a vision of the finished project. She saw the whole thing, frontwards and backwards. She knew every stitch it would take to make a perfect design.

The Lord knows us through and through. He knows the steps we need to take, and repairs our miss steps all along the way. He also prepares us for what is ahead. He sees the whole picture. He sees each block of our lives, the bad choices, the pitfalls ahead, our heartfelt repentance, our fervent desires, everything. When tragedy happens, we can’t understand why. We simply need to trust that He sees the whole block, the whole blanket, our whole life, the whole world from beginning of time to infinity.

My blocks haven’t all turned out perfectly. But I’m knitting with love, repairing mistakes as I go, and trusting that pattern maker who saw the whole design of this cot blanket, and planned every single stitch.

I’m confident God knows His plan for all of us, including Baby Cooper.

He has made everything beautiful in his time. He has also set eternity in the human heart: yet no one can fathom what God has done from beginning to end. Ecclesiastes 3:11

I was sitting in the Winn Dixie deli years ago nursing a midmorning coffee while taking notes for an article when I saw her cruising down the produce aisle. I’d seen her in the church choir the day before and couldn’t quite place who she was. In the small town of Cairo it wasn’t every Sunday one could see a new face in the choir. I waved to her. She smiled brightly and came right over. Soon we were chatting away as if we’d been friends for years.

It was a special friendship. Our grandchildren played happily together when they were little. While they played, we shared stories, memorized scripture, and talked about miracles in the making. Sally Whitfield was always three steps (or stitches) ahead of me whether we were quilting, cooking up a party, or discerning how we might help someone who found themselves in a sad plight. But though ahead of me in figuring things out, Sally was delightfully humble, sending praise to the Lord for every good thing.

The four of us—Sally, her husband, Wes, Charles and I—found fun just sitting on the porch, riding to Bainbridge for lunch by the river, looking at Sally’s orchids, or swapping wild stories. Sally and I watched Charles and Wes build a ramp for me when I had to start using a walker. Sometimes I rode with Charles when he went to check on dear Buster, Sally’s dog. For months the four of us went to Dairy Queen after church on Sunday nights. Covid stopped that nice tradition.

It was an adventure trying to keep up with Sally. For instance, one day she proposed that the two of us go to Meigs where she would show me her childhood home, owned by someone else at that time but unoccupied. When we arrived and discovered the house was locked, Sally was undaunted. She knew just how to get in. It was the first and only time I climbed in the window of a strange house.

But our greatest adventure was when we teamed up to introduce my oldest brother Orman who lived in Clarkesville, Georgia to her sister Reggie who lived 270 miles south of him in Albany, Georgia. Charles was opposed at first to my being a matchmaker but he soon realized it was really the Lord’s plan, not just ours. Orman and Reggie were married on Valentine’s Day, 2004 and had a wonderful twelve years together, a shining example of a mature romance. After their wedding Sally decided that since we were now almost sisters, we should call each other Sister-Something.

Sally and I shared the book “Heaven” by Randy Alcorn and delighted in the real images substantiated by scripture. On August 11, 2026 Sally took flight to that realm of unimaginable beauty. I love to think what she may be doing there in the presence of our dear Savior. Reggie and I were speculating the other day that she might be singing and/or playing the piano or maybe a harp, or even dancing, agile as a teenager with her new back and legs. Then we laughed at the idea of her doing all three at once. Reggie said, “What a picture that would be!”

I miss my Sister-Something very much. I miss her calling to share a Bible verse, comment on one of my blogs, brag on her great grand babies, ask me to pray for someone, or just to say “It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood!”

I love my four wonderful sisters and my eleven sisters-in-law (you can ask me how I had that many!), but God saw fit to bless me also with a Sister-Something!

Red was the first turtle to welcome us to our new home in 2014. It was strange really. Turtles cannot make any sound, cannot wag a tail, cannot smile (well, maybe a little), shake hands, or stand on their heads. Yet we did feel welcomed by Red. He just showed up at the back door one day and, instead of tucking his head safely inside his shell, he kept his eyes open. Charles gave him a nibble of cat food which he ate clumsily before heading back to some vague turtle home under a mass of azalea bushes.

As time passed, three other turtles came to visit. I took pictures of them and we noticed each had a distinct pattern on their shells, totally unique. Also, Charles marked each one’s back with a dab of paint. Thus we could easily recognize Red, Blue, Yellow, and Green. Of course they were always solo visitors. Occasionally we would see one of them on the edge of a lily bed or slowly crossing the driveway. Sometimes when we drove into the carport, there would be Red expectantly nudging around the cats’ feeding station.

Sometimes Charles or one of the children would set a turtle on the porch and we’d all watch his progress as he investigated everything. Red was the boldest and most curious one. He never hid in his shell but seemed to observe every chair leg, every shadow, every small cat food nibble, even bumping noses with Dinji the cat.

The mystery? Since Charles died in December, we have had no turtle sightings, not one. I kept watching for them in the spring. When I heard a rustle in the monkey grass, I looked eagerly for a turtle friend. When walking my “track,” (our driveway), I looked for them, knowing their shell patterns keep them camouflaged. Summer passed without a sign of Red, Blue, Green, or Yellow.

No, turtles are not cozy pets by any means. Yet I do kind of miss them. Did they all four pack up and leave? I guess I’ve never given turtles credit for being terribly smart. But they may have figured out that the gentle man who lived here and gave them nibbles of cat food is now gone.

Ever since the pandemic we’ve ordered and picked up groceries from Wal Mart and been thankful for that service. I’ve been amused (and sometimes vexed) at some of the mistakes I’ve made, like getting the great large box of oatmeal when I thought I was asking for the small one, enough oatmeal to last until pigs fly. Or, like getting a half-pint of mayonnaise when I meant to get a quart, or receiving a gallon-size jar of dill pickles instead of the pint. Good thing Charli is a total pickle eater!

This kind of grocery shopping produces dozens upon dozens of plastic bags. I never run out of handy little trash can liners. If I ordered three boxes of cereal, each one would be in its own bag. A bottle of Pepto Bismol would be individually bagged, as would a tiny container of ground ginger.

A shopper is given an opportunity to swap items if something is unavailable, or to have something shipped later if it is out of stock. But that’s when things can get pretty funny sometimes.

I’ve learned that Wal Mart uses various means of shipping. Once, I ordered a jar of applesauce which, with no word from management, was not part of my pickup. Where was my applesauce? Oh well, I supposed I must not have ordered it. By and by, I began to receive messages saying some stray item would be arriving on such and such a day. Finally, a package appeared in the US mailbox, heavy and clumsy. What in the world….? Oh, my! Applesauce in the mailbox!

Sometimes a strange car drives up and a delivery person brings a box of instant pudding or a package of paper plates up on the porch. I have been a bit overwhelmed a few times by big Fed Ex trucks scraping under the magnolia limbs or a UPS truck pulling into the driveway.

I was mystified weeks ago by the absence of a can of spinach in my order. What had happened to my spinach? I’m not crazy about it like Popeye, but I really wanted that can of spinach. I’d found a spinach casserole recipe that sounded interesting. Weeks went by. Then I began getting text messages indicating I was about to receive something from Del Monte. Finally, the message read “Your merchandise has been delivered.” Where? No sign of it in the mailbox or on the back ramp or porch. I finally found a box at the top of the steps at my seldom-used front door. Opening the box with a feeling of anticipation and mystery, I found, rolling back and forth in the box, my can of spinach. I had to laugh. Somehow, receiving a can of spinach in a brown package on the front porch was like—finding a package of noodles under the Christmas tree.

When I visited Wal Mart recently with Esha I used one of their electric scooters, holding my breath for fear I would knock over a tower of merchandise or, worse still, bump into somebody. I saw an employee with a cart stacked with crates. She was navigating the store, filling numerous orders from people like me. Though riding the scooter was fun, I thought to myself, letting someone else find applesauce and spinach is a whole lot safer. And, though shipping can become somewhat comical, it is reliable, most of the time, if you just have patience. I even ordered three live mint plants from Wal Mart and now have a nice tub of mint growing lush and fragrant. But remember that can of spinach? Now I can’t find the recipe!

When I am frustrated, fearful, anxious, or sad, I particularly gain new strength from reading words of the shepherd boy whom God turned into a king. David experienced almost every human emotion and wrote about many of them. Today I’m listening to the words of Psalm 121:1-3 (KJV). Listen to them with me.

I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills; from whence cometh my help. My help cometh from the Lord which made heaven and earth. He will not suffer thy feet to be moved. He that keepeth thee will not sleep.

In my mind I can hear my dad reciting this passage. It was one of his favorites. Early on, I learned to love it also. Knowing how much my dad loved the hills of north Georgia, I assumed he was finding his help from the hills but as I grew up, I realized it is God who was Dad’s help and is mine. Every time I read it now, I see something new. Following are some of my thoughts as I read it today.

There are some hills in Grady County, southwest Georgia, but none you really could “lift up your eyes to.” There certainly are no mountains as referred to in the New International Version of this passage. But I grew up on a hill in north Georgia in view of Trey and Yonah Mountains. I went to junior college at Young Harris in hiking distance of Brasstown Bald. I cannot see those mountains from Grady County, but they are still there. I’m reminded by this picture I took when Charles and I were rambling around that those beautiful north Georgia mountains are very much still there.

I can’t see the mountains though they are certainly there. Just so, I can’t see God, but he is here. He is the one “from whence cometh my help.” He is the One who made heaven and earth and the mountains pointing to the sky.

He who made heaven and earth will not let my feet be moved, if I follow His directions. In other words, His GPS will guide me if I keep in close touch. If we follow His GPS, God’s Perfect Signal, we will find the right road. Or maybe we will realize we’re right where we’re supposed to be without moving an inch. An old song says “Wherever He leads I’ll go.” Maybe we should sometimes sing “Wherever He leads, I’ll stay.”

But the sweetest part of this passage is verse 4: “He who watches over you will not slumber.” What a comfort to know that 24/7 God is watching over us, His angels surrounding us when we don’t even realize it. In Psalm 4:8 David wrote “In peace I will lie down and sleep, for you alone, Lord, make me dwell in safety.” The promise of God’s diligent watch over us is repeated over and over throughout the Bible. A good one to whisper while you’re going to sleep is “Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on thee: because he trusteth in thee.” (Isaiah 26:3)

I will lift up my eyes to the hills God made and worship the One who keeps my feet in the right place and watches over me. “Indeed, he who watches over Israel (and all of us adopted into his fold) will neither slumber nor sleep” (Psalm 121:4).

It was 7:00 on a Tuesday morning. Esha and I were on our way east on 84 going to a doctor’s appointment for me in Thomasville. Perhaps I was a bit disgruntled at having such an early appointment. But then I saw the sky, a spectacular sunrise, a very special gift just for early risers. I was so enthralled I didn’t even think about taking a picture. That’s why the picture above is of another sunrise this very morning, beautiful but wholly different from the one Esha and I saw.

I saw gold and turquoise and orange and blue and hues I would never be able to describe. There were streams of white light beaming through the colorful clouds as if straight from heaven. There were shapes like sails and doves and lambs skipping amongst golden reefs. It was too much glory to take in all at once and yet it was changing moment by moment. I felt almost like one who is parched with thirst and drinks too much water in enormous gulps.

It surely was the most beautiful sunrise I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen some mighty wonderful ones.

Charles and I, along with our B’ham Grahams, saw the sun rise over Grand Canyon. There was a jubilant hush over the spectators that morning (if you can have a jubilant hush!) as the mauves and lavenders of the canyon walls changed with the sunrise colors. There were many sunrises on different beaches, on St. Simon’s Island, filtered through a tapestry of Spanish moss, at Port St. Joe, Florida, St. Augustine, and looking back east from a sand dune in an equine campground on Oregon’s coast. We were up way before breakfast while staying at a hotel in Scotland and saw the sun rise from behind a hill dotted with sheep.

Mountain sunrises always turn my thoughts to the Creator, so majestic and awe inspiring. From a cottage on Black Rock Mountain, Georgia, one Easter morning Charles and I with others of our siblings watched as the fiery sun rose so quickly from behind distant peaks. We were so amazed we burst into song. As a student at Young Harris College, I enjoyed a memorable hike up Brasstown Bald to watch the sunrise. And surely no sunrise could be more arrestingly beautiful than when one makes a pre-dawn hike up Diamond Head in Hawaii. That was a challenging climb but well worth it!

Yet here, in Cairo, Georgia, with no mountains and no beaches for the sun to rise behind, shine across, or reflect in, here was a sunrise fully as stunning as any I’d seen. It really made me think.

For thousands of years God has made the sun to rise every morning with a different, unique, look every single time. My dad used to talk about his attempts as an artist to capture the shades of color God put in the sky. It was exciting to him just to try to match the many colors and hues he saw in a sunrise or a sunset. Mamma said she never had thought about a sunrise having lavender, magenta, persimmon, and even softest green until my dad taught her to recognize them.

I went out this morning to take a picture, knowing it wouldn’t be the same but maybe a similar sunrise to the one I saw on Tuesday. But today, Thursday, it was entirely different, though beautiful in a very quiet way. Isn’t it just like God who sent His only begotten Son to redeem us from our sins to be completely extravagant in His gifts? No two sunrises are the same, each one a masterpiece, each one the most beautiful in its own way.

Last year Charles and I watched this crepe myrtle from our porch and wondered when it was ever going to bloom. Other crepe myrtles all over town had bloomed out so beautifully–white, burgundy, soft pink. But ours stubbornly held off until August and then was skimpy.

But now this same crepe myrtle in early July is in full bloom, rejoicing over silver drops of rain on a Monday morning. I think it was my yard lady Melissa McIntyre who told me crepe myrtles are not always consistent in their blooming times. They bloom when they get ready! I have an additional theory about this particular crepe myrtle.

Now you may think I’m a silly whimsical little old lady, and I guess I am, especially the old part, not so much the little. But I just think Charles might have said to the Savior, “Sir, do you think you could sprinkle that crepe myrtle with beautiful blossoms a little earlier this year, just give it a boost?”

Charles was always one to try fertilizer on a “peaked” plant, try something different, run over to Graco’s and see what they recommended. This year he’s with the Master, Creator, Maker of all things beautiful and bright. Maybe he put in a good word for our pink crepe myrtle.

But why just that one? He could have asked for blossoms on the other crepe myrtle no more than fifty feet away. It remains barren of blooms. I guess my theory breaks down some.

This I know. The Master Creator did make the fluffy big watermelon-pink blooms. He did send the rain that left sparkling drops on leaves and blossoms. And He is the great Comforter. His faithfulness and compassions are new every morning!

Thank you, God, for the pink crepe myrtle and the raindrops sparkling in the sunshine. Thank you that Charles is seeing and experiencing beauty beyond our imagination.

In 1826 our still new country was excited about celebrating its fiftieth birthday. Messengers carried invitations to Thomas Jefferson and John Adams asking them to speak at celebration events in many places, especially their hometowns of Charlottesville, Virginia and Quincy, Massachusetts. Jefferson was known as “the pen” of the Declaration of Independence and Adams “the voice.” Nothing could be better than having at least one of them at a fiftieth celebration.

But Jefferson, with failing health at 83, and Adams close to death at almost 90, could not expect to travel even short distances. They did, however, both determine they would live to see one final Fourth. The two former presidents, along with 88-year-old Charles Carroll of Maryland, were the last living signers of the Declaration of Independence.

Flags were snapping in a wonderful cool breeze this morning, July 2, 2026, as I sat on a bench in Bainbridge, Georgia’s town square. My friend Jane had an appointment nearby and I told her I’d love to wait for her in the park. Watching the flags and listening to the courthouse clock bong the hour, I thought about our brave ancestors who gave so much for us to enjoy the freedoms we depend on and often take for granted. I thought particularly about John Adams and Thomas Jefferson having recently read David McCullough’s account of their final Fourth in his book John Adams.

John Adams had envisioned the celebration of the union being on July 2 which was the day Congress voted to approve the document. But the actual formal approval was on the Fourth and that day was chosen. Adams also envisioned the celebration in many years to come including solemn devotion to God and gratitude to Him. He envisioned “pomp, parade, shows, games, sports” with firing of guns, ringing bells, and fireworks.

Early in the morning of July 4, 1826, according to McCullough, as the first cannons began to roar, the Reverend George Whitney arrived at Braintree Farm to visit Adams. He reported that “the old man was drawing to his end.” As efforts were made to change his position in the bed, Adams roused and spoke clearly, “It is a great day. It is a good day.”

At Monticello in Charlottesville, Thomas Jefferson had been unconscious since the night of July 2, McCullough wrote. When he did rouse briefly on July 3, he was confused and thought it was already the Fourth. He spoke his last words about 4:00 a.m., July 4, 1826. McCullough writes that he called in the servants “with a strong clear voice,” but that it was unknown which servants or what he said. He died at 1:00 that afternoon.

Adams lay apparently peacefully that day even as cannons grew louder and a thunderstorm struck. Late in the afternoon, the account goes on, Adams stirred and whispered, “Thomas Jefferson survives.” He didn’t realize his old friend and correspondent, political enemy, and great statesman had already died. John Adams died at 6:20, July 4, 1826.

Small towns like Cairo and Bainbridge, Georgia will celebrate the Fourth, as will millions from New York to San Francisco, with fireworks, “illuminations,” parades and concerts. It is not just the 50th; it is the 250th! The Cairo Messenger proclaims it will be a celebration like no other. They will even have go-carts and decorated bicycles in a downtown parade.

My prayer is that we would remember the fifty-six signers of the Declaration of Independence and, like John Adams and Thomas Jefferson, treasure our freedoms. Let us pray diligently for our nation and wave our flags with pride.

May God bless America!

I remember my own father teasingly swiping shaving cream on my cheek when I was little. I remember the inner glow I felt when he praised me for doing a good job trimming a hedge. He called us all together for reciting memorized scripture and praying the Lord’s Prayer every night. We all knew there were no acceptable excuses for not responding immediately to his call. Though he was very strict, he enjoyed a good game of Blind Man’s Bluff (with ten in the family we had a good time!) and he was a whiz at Anagrams. He packed as many of us as would fit in the Packard once a year for a day in the mountains, leaving at 4:00 a.m. and returning after dark.

My husband, Charles, was a very good father too. From the beginning. He readily changed diapers. When he came home from work having wrestled with pigs and cows all day, he loved the squeal of joy as our toddler, William, jumped into his arms. I could hear them both cackling with laughter as they tussled on the couch while I finished supper. I can see him now making silly faces as our daughter, Julie, at six years old twisted his fine, somewhat scarce, hair into ponytails. He embarrassed our children when they were teenagers by leading us in a blessing even in a crowded restaurant. Firm as a rock and gentle as a puppy all through their growing up years, he was always ready to help fix a bike or bait a hook. Then when we were blessed with grandchildren, he was ready for most anything, riding a roller coaster or shouting at one of their basketball games. I love the picture I snapped at our last beach trip when our granddaughter, Mattie, coaxed Granddaddy into wading in the surf.

My father-in-law was the best a girl could ever ask for. I remember him so fondly for his corny jokes and his gardening expertise. He was greatly loved by all his grandchildren, not because of any showy attempts to charm them, but just for being his own homespun self. No one anywhere grows cantaloupes as delicious and juicy as those he produced.

And then there’s my son, Will, father of three. He was pitcher for his three-year-old William who would shout “big hit” and take off running from the den around through the living room, dining room, and kitchen, arriving back in the den ready to do it all over again. I can hear Will reasoning with second child Thomas when he was a little guy in tears. Will spoke so patiently saying “Use your words, son. Use your words.” When Mattie was born a month early Will reported “That Mattie, she’s a fighter. She’ll be okay.” The three are young adults now, one a recent college graduate with a new job, one a sophomore in college, and one a senior in high school, all with promising careers in front of them. When we are at their table Will says the blessing and I have a wonderful sense that a torch has passed.

But wait. There are two other dads in our family. There’s grandson-in-law Jared and his bunch of his, hers, and theirs. Raising a house full of children with various lists of rules along with your own is not easy. But Jared takes it all in stride with his easy-going smile. He and Amanda are a good team.

Lastly, our grandson, Charles Douglas, this year is an expectant father looking forward to December 16. He and his wife, Allie, are over-the-moon excited, yet sober, too, about the responsibilities ahead. As I watch Charles D solicitously caring for his pregnant wife, I know he will be an excellent father.

Thank You, God, for our wonderful earthly fathers. And thank You, Almighty God, for being our Heavenly Father who loves us even more than any earthly father can.

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The banter of the commentators, the smack of bat against ball, the explosion of excitement when a batter hits a homerun or when an outfielder catches a ball just before it goes over the fence–joys of baseball! I really enjoy watching the Braves, at least when they are winning, which they are often this year. But I can remember when I thought a baseball game was the most boring event on earth.

At the age of eleven I was privileged to spend a summer in West Virginia with my big sister Pat, her husband David, and baby Lorna. I was their built-in babysitter while they moved from an apartment to their first house on Walnut Grove Drive, Charleston. I loved babysitting Lorna. Even as a baby, she was a very interesting little person and I was so happy to be helping my beloved big sister. But my big sister had more plans for me than babysitting. She wanted me to experience things I never had before, like a professional baseball game.

Looking back on it now and knowing how much my brother-in-law enjoyed baseball whereas Pat, at that time, was not such a big fan, I think just maybe she insisted on my using David’s second ticket so she wouldn’t have to. Anyway, though I protested, I went with David to the game.

At the beginning it was kind of fun. I’d never seen such a crowd before so just watching people was very entertaining. David bought me a big orange drink and popcorn and that in itself was really fun. He instructed me generally about the rules of the game and assumed, I guess, that I could understand from then on what was happening. I could not.

Why was everyone clapping and hollering when no score showed up on the board? Why couldn’t any player ever make it to first base before the ball did? I was sure I could. I was a really fast runner on the Georgia hill where I lived. Why did the pitcher make so many faces and keep adjusting his hat before throwing the ball? Did he have poison ivy or something? I looked at David and he appeared perfectly calm, not agitated in the least with slow runners or itchy pitchers.

I finally got so sleepy I had to catch myself from falling off the bleacher. I don’t think David noticed. The final score was 2-0 in favor of “our” team. David told Pat when we got home that it was a really great game. When she asked how her little sister had enjoyed it, I heard him say, “Oh, she was fine.”

It was years later when my little son William started playing baseball that I learned to enjoy the game. Even a slow game can be interesting if you know the ins and outs–pun intended–and when you’re holding your breath for your batter to get a hit. I always loved it when my tow-headed fellow was the catcher, especially when he caught a foul ball.

And now I can yell for the Braves unabashedly even right by myself and send what I hope is a knowledgeable text to my sport-loving son.