Regina Felty's Blog

I never knew my father. 

As a kid, I imagined him to be a brave soldier fighting enemies across the ocean (this was the late 1960s and the Vietnam War was in full force) or a firefighter who spent his days saving kittens and grandmothers from horrendous fires. 

But when I was older, my mother told me that my father had been a member of a notorious motorcycle gang in Philadelphia and that . . . well . . . she wasn’t sure exactly who he was. That’s the free-love mentality of the 1960s for you, and paternity validation remains a mystery to this day. Later, my formative years were marked by a few lousy stepfathers who I wouldn’t have trusted with my dog, let alone the title “Dad.” 

So, here it is, the month we celebrate Father’s Day. Sure, I could choose to ignore the day. Dismiss it as another irrelevant celebration. I mean, what’s Father’s Day without a father, right?

Actually, I disagree.

Fatherhood manifests in many forms outside of the 23 pairs of chromosomes that contribute to our biological identity.

As a small child, my cantankerous but big-hearted grandfather sat with me every week while we worked the Sunday paper word puzzles and read comics. I have fond memories of my Uncle Danny seating me in front of him on his motorcycle (no helmet laws back then) and taking me on rides around the block, my mother in full panic mode until I returned safely. The years passed and, at age 14, responsibility for me was dropped on the shoulders of a foster father who patiently helped to heal the nasty scars others had left on me.  

I could go on.

There were pastors and elderly mentors that surrounded me with love and disciplined me when I needed it (and I needed a LOT of discipline!). My father-in-law has remained a constant source of strength for me in the 30+ years my husband and I have been married. How blessed I was (and am) for these men in my life and, while I may never have called them “father,” they made the world a better place for me.

Biology and blood relations mean everything . . . and nothing, depending on who you ask. It’s what a man does, not who he is or what title he holds, that determines his worthiness to be held in esteem by the younger generation. Don’t you agree?

A father’s role (or a man who steps in to fill those shoes) includes being a provider, protector, disciplinarian, and so many other things that do not necessarily fall neatly under a biological contribution. They play a key role in a child’s physical and psychological well-being. 

A father figure nurtures, teaches, and leads by example. Fathers instill in their sons and daughters a sense of self-worth that those precious darlings will carry for the rest of their lives. There are the ones with a herculean determination that rise above abuses and absences and succeed despite monumental obstacles. But, sadly, some don’t. Some fall by the wayside and struggle at every turn. Research the statistics on prisoners that grew up without a father figure in their life and see how it affected their behavior and choices. An essential piece of their life was missing and someone or something had to fill that gap for them to feel whole.

YOU: Father, grandparent, big brother, uncle, teacher, coach, neighbor, etc., make a difference! And we honor you for it. This special day of remembrance—Father’s Day—is for all you contribute to those under your influence, both young and old. There are no other credentials required except the giving of yourself. Your effort to be involved, your financial support, your face in the crowd at the baseball games . . . it matters! 

And we are grateful to you. 

The post Credentials of a Father appeared first on .

 

Dear High School Girl:

Every morning, I crawl my way through the turbulen ce in the halls, swimming through an intoxicating mixture of Dollar Store body sprays and hormonal odors, dodging students jostling with friends or infatuated with phone screens. And, every morning, I catch sight of you . . . well, you AND him, as I approach the classroom.

Yeah, I admit, I have to swallow down the gag reflex while the two of you make out and run hands all over each other. The way you look at him, twirling a stray curl from his cheek in one of your fingers, I know that nothing else matters in your world in that moment. I always note the crimson flush on your face long after you slide into your seat after the late bell. Ah, young love. 

But, this morning, you stand alone. 

Instead of your arms encircling his tall, husky frame, they’re wrapped tightly around your waist, as if they’re the only thing keeping you from melting into a puddle on the floor. Eyes that had fluttered and caressed his face, like you were gazing at a Greek god draped in flesh, now glance around nervously. Tugging my backpack through the crowd huddled at the door, the last thing I notice is the damp sheen reflected in your eyes and, suddenly, there’s something in my eyes too. 

It’s not easy for me to stand in front of the class and interpret for my student with your desk right here in the front row, the waves of your anguish ebbing and flowing in a swirl around me. Instead of seeing the view of your raven black hair as you bend over your phone ev ery morning–passionately texting your beloved whom you’d been separated from for a whole seven minutes–your eyes stare vacantly at the video projected on the overhead screen. I’m so sorry, hon. We all saw it coming too.

But can I be honest, sweet girl?

I’ve seen your beloved Greek god in other classes and, well, he isn’t worth it. There, I said it.

Maybe you don’t know that he smiles flirtatiously at that brunette with the gold highlights in first period, or that he spent five minutes in sixth period yesterday poking his pencil into the bare midriff of the school’s “been-around-the-block-a-few-times” floozy (Sorry–not sorry–it’s the truth) while she giggled and half-heartedly pushed his hand away.   

Hon, he’s not worthy of you. You don’t see it now. You’re hurting, crushed, alone. I understand. Believe it or not, I was sixteen once. A long time ago, but not so long ago that I’ve forgotten. Loss of young love and being rejected burn like poison through our flesh and into our very souls with no antidote. I think it’s girl code that–even way back when Neanderthals roamed the Earth–females are compelled to protect their own. It’s woven into our DNA. 

What I really want to do is run up and slap a high-five on you. Maybe even throw a few fist bumps in. But I won’t. It’s not my place. You need some time first, anyway. But I’m hoping that the light will shine through and reveal some priceless truths to you. Truths about your self-worth and your amazing power to overcome and move on. Did you know that power is also woven into your DNA? It’s true. You’ll see. In time.

And, when the fog of your heartbreak clears, maybe I’ll give you a wink and a nod one morning before we head into class. You know . . . the girl code thing. 

Love,

Mrs. Felty 

The post Dear High School Girl appeared first on .

This was a guest post I made for She’s Intentional (Dainty Jewells). The original post can be found HERE.

 

I hate drinking water.

I’ve tried adding flavored tea bags or a few drops of lemon to it, even promising myself a special treat if I drank sixty-four ounces that day. My coworker and I challenged each other, buying matching water bottles with time markers on the side that told us where our water intake should be at certain times of the day. We’d ask one another in passing, “How many ounces are you at?” I’d color in the little box on my daily goal sheet that beamed up at me, announcing, “Good girl! You drank your water today.” 

Like someone who tries over and over again to quit a habit, I–on the other hand–can’t seem to form this habit. My ambitions always seem to melt into a puddle (no pun intended) in a few short weeks and I’m back to staring at an almost-full water bottle at the end of the day.

But I’m an overcomer. I WILL conquer this!

Here’s the thing. I’ve always heard that the more you drink water, the thirstier you become. Not that you can’t ever feel satisfied, but that your body gets to the place where it craves water because, well, the body is ninety-eight percent water–why wouldn’t it? We don’t realize when we’ve become dehydrated because our bodies have learned to tolerate the deficit. But we aren’t aware that the deficit is taking an unseen toll on our bodies.

I do have my disciplined areas. Reading my Bible every day has always been a pretty established habit. (Glad I have a better handle on that than I do with drinking my water!) I challenged myself for several years to read the entire Bible in one year. As life goes, some days were busier than others and there were times I found myself rushing through the somewhere-near three chapters a day that I needed to get through. Sure, I’d developed the habit, but it was often just that: a habit.

Was I really getting anything out of what I was reading every day?

I was already applying the same principle to my Bible reading as that of developing a craving for water by partaking in it more often. But I wanted to change things up. Instead of just reading the chapters, I decided to slow down and study them. Absorb them.

I purchased a journaling Bible (see photo below!). I made sure to get the extra-wide-margins version because, let’s face it, once I start writing, I have a lot to say. I focused on reading one chapter a day (more if it was a super short chapter) so that I could study it out and refer to a commentary for extra clarification. I tried to visualize what was really happening in the passage and reflect on how it spoke to me.

There’s no way to describe what a difference this approach made for me. I was spending twice the time on that one chapter than I had in the past reading three chapters. There were times I found myself stopping in the middle of my reading and just being in awe of what I was learning. I would even go find my husband to ask, “Did you know that . . .?”

Dainty Jewell’s blogger, Whitney Gothra, said it well in her recent blog post, Catching Up, “…statistics show that most people have already fallen off their plan by February…” What that tells me is that we are lacking not only the discipline, but the joy that comes with not just reading but absorbing God’s word. When you engage in your reading and let it speak to your heart, you will come to desire it even more.

Like water. Not only do we need it, but the more we partake, the more we crave it.

Love,

Regina

Here’s a photo of a page in my journaling Bible. Aren’t those WIDE margins amazing?!

 

The post Come and Drink appeared first on .

 

This was a guest post I made for She’s Intentional (Dainty Jewells). The original post can be found HERE.

(Genesis, chapters 16 + 21)

Hagar lifted her chin and held her head high as she led her son past the curious eyes of the onlookers as she made her way out of the camp. She adjusted the waterskin on her shoulder and glanced back at Ishmael to make sure he still held the sack of food. The people stood in the shadows of their tent openings; watching, curious, silent. None stepped forward to help or rise to her defense.

I will not cry. I will not —

“Mother.”

Hagar slowed her steps and spoke under her breath, “Keep walking, child. Hold your head up, but do not look at them. We’ll be fine, son.”

But Hagar didn’t really believe that. Saddled with barely enough food and water to last a day or two, bitterness surged through her chest. She and her son were being cast out in favor of the promised son of Abraham and Sarah.

Promised son.

As if her son–-the very flesh and bone of Abraham, the firstborn of his strength–-was a mere slave boy, a temporary solution until something or someone better came along. And he had. Isaac.

Hagar wished Isaac had never been born.

Had she asked for any of this? Forced to marry Abraham in order to produce an heir for him because her mistress, Sarah, had been barren. It was she, not Sarah, that had produced a male heir, gaining favor from her master but hatred from her mistress. She had escaped the unbearable wrath of Sarah once and God had commanded her to return. The God of Abraham. The God of Sarah. Not her God.

“Hurry, son.” Hagar reached back to tug on Ishmael’s tunic, urging him to move faster. “The sooner we are out of the camp, the sooner they will forget us.” The bitterness of rejection and banishment twisted and thrashed in her belly like an angry tempest. A looming future of isolation and hardship weighed heavy on her heart.

She was now a single mother. The burden of providing for herself and her teenage son lay upon her shoulders like a cloak of stones. No husband or grown son to protect and provide for her. It was a death sentence.

The first time she’d fled in fear and rebellion, God had sent her back. For Sarah. This time, she was cast out, along with the son that Sarah could no longer stand the sight of. There was no purpose of God for her now.

Hagar and Ishmael pushed onward through the sea of sand and bore the punishing sun, day by day, forsaken and exposed. The only destination for Hagar was her homeland, Egypt. But how to get there? As the wind spit sand in her face that caked in her eyes and blinded her way, she resisted and fought back against its abuse.

But when the way grew long and the water was down to a few drops, Hagar’s eyes stayed fixed on her son. While the torture of the desert fed her fury and determination, it began to steal the life of her child. As Ishmael languished, Hagar’s anger transformed from a flaming fire to a simmering dread. When he collapsed in the heat of the late afternoon, Hagar dropped everything at her feet and dragged her son under the small shade of a bush. As she cradled his head in her lap, she rocked and spoke softly to him, denying the tears that, to her, were only a waste of time. Who would hear and answer anyway?

Ishmael moaned softly. She stroked his brow. “Be still, my son. I will find water. I will…”

She lied. Her eyes had been ever watchful every mile they’d traveled. There was no water to be found.

Again, Ishmael groaned and cried out to God in his delirium. Hagar pressed her fingers to his lips. “Shhh. Save your strength, Ishmael.”

She nudged his head from her lap and lay it gently down on a patch of dry grass. When she stood, the world spun around her as she waited for the dizziness to pass. Step by painful step, she slipped from under the shade and faced the brutal sun once more. Shouldering the empty sack and waterskin, she made her way to a pile of dead branches several feet from Ishmael. Sinking to the ground, she turned her back away.

Let me not see the child die.

But Ishmael was not silent. Though his mother believed that God had forsaken them and that they were dead to him, Ishmael had faith in the God of his father, Abraham.

It was Ishmael’s cry that God honored and responded by opening the eyes of his mother, Hagar, to show her what had been there all along: water–the well of Beersheba–-and the way to their future.

Epilogue :

Though Hagar struggled with the belief that–-like man–-God had forsaken her, she was wrong. God had a glorious plan for Hagar and Ishmael’s life. The Bible warns us not to lean on our own understanding, but “…in all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths” (Proverbs 3:5-6).

God had always known where Hagar was.

You may feel as Hagar did, while you face hardships: being abandoned by a spouse or parent, rejected by society, fearing where you’ll find provisions, where your future will lead you, and an ocean of other uncertainties. But, even though you cannot see it or feel it, God’s hand is still guiding and covering you.

Hagar later became the grandmother of twelve princes and her legacy lives on today. But she had no way of knowing what her future held when she first faced the barren desert on her own.

Be at peace, my friend. Your story is not over yet.

Love,

Regina

 

Photo Credit:

https://unsplash.com

The post Not Forsaken appeared first on .

 

I used to know someone who hit the snooze button two or three times every morning before jumping out of bed ten minutes before they had to be out the door for work. They’d spend the commute growling at all the slow drivers on the road while pounding down an untoasted Pop-Tart, only to arrive at work and find they’d left their lunch and the laptop they needed at home. Most mornings went like that. When asked how her goals were going, she would say, “I can’t get anything accomplished! I’m so busy all the time!’

Procrastination, lack of discipline, disorganization . . . shall I go on?

Oh, by the way, that person was me.

I say was as if it never happens anymore, but that’s not true. However, it’s a rare occasion rather than the norm. It’s not that I wasn’t organized before. I planned my life out beautifully on paper, complete with color-coded priorities and tidy checkboxes. But a well-planned life is voided if you keep defaulting to not following – you know – the plan.

I love using planners. I have a main planner for everything from daily expenses and prayer requests to doctor appointments and life goals. I also have a separate business planner and another one for outlining my writing projects. I even watch reels of other people planning!

But that does me no good without consistent actions behind all that effort.

My alarm is set for 5:30 a.m. on weekdays and I no longer hit the snooze button. I start the day with Bible reading and prayer. Sometime that morning, I pull out my main planner and look over what I have on the day’s agenda, spend a few moments writing a journal entry, etc. I prepare my lunch the night before and pull out my clothes for the next day. My goal is to feel better about how I start my day and to be more relaxed. Why is all this important?

One word: Routine.

Brianna Wiest sums it up best in her article, The Psychology of Daily Routine:

“In short, routine is important because habitualness creates mood and mood creates the “nurture” aspect of your personality, not to mention that letting yourself be jerked around by impulsiveness is a breeding ground for everything you essentially do not want.”

The scripture, “. . .the good that I would I do not: but the evil which I would not, that I do (Romans 7:19)” applies perfectly here. God knows our human nature is undisciplined and subject to impulsiveness. And succumbing to those impulses is what leaves us feeling unproductive . . . and stressed out.

You may not agree. Maybe you’re a “free spirit” who lives in the moment and lets life come at you however the cards fall. Those moments might provide instant gratification but often do not provide long-term satisfaction.

A momentary thrill with little to no forward momentum.

If being over-structured and chained to a routine goes against your nature, it’s still possible to create a routine that doesn’t smother you. Start with scheduling “free time” in your routine. Do what must be done, then do something fun (that rhymes!).

The objective is consistency so that your brain comes to anticipate an event. With a routine established, getting off-track will prompt a nudge to your conscience. It’s your body’s gift to you, saying, “Hey, aren’t you supposed to be doing something right now?”

Children also thrive on routines–at school and at home. Don’t believe it? Try changing up their favorite cereal or sending them to bed an hour earlier. (Oh, was that just my kid? Hmm . . .) Employees, and even your pets, benefit from routines. Routines create expectancies and norms instead of the constant frustration over facing a flood of choices about how to manage your time. There’s something liberating about greeting each day with an established plan. Not having to fuss with all the minor decisions leaves you with the energy to face the major ones.

And, if your routine includes sleeping in on weekends and cleaning the house in your pj’s, more power to you! Happy planning!

Love,

Regina

This is a guest blog post I wrote for She’s Intentional (Dainty Jewells). You can find the original post HERE.

 

*Photo Credit: 

https://unsplash.com/photos/jO…

*Citation:

Wiest, Brianna. “The Psychology of Daily Routine.” Thoughtcatalog.Com, 2 Feb. 2022, thoughtcatalog.com/brianna-wiest/2015....

The post The Value of a Routine appeared first on .

This is a guest blog post I wrote for She’s Intentional (Dainty Jewells). You can find the original post HERE.

 

As I drove home from work, I blasted the song, “Cover Me,” by Mark Condon in an effort to drown out all the inner voices that had hijacked my thoughts. My head throbbed with tension and my hands were damp against the steering wheel. I probably shouldn’t have even been driving.

I burst into tears.

I’m pretty sure it was a coworker in the Toyota Camry next to me, but I was past caring. Don’t judge me too harshly, but the straw that had broken the camel’s back for me was the fact that…(transparent moment here)…Facebook and Instagram had been down for a few hours. Yeah, I know how shallow that sounds. Realistically, I’d been struggling with a lot of other things before that fateful day.

The past few weeks…months…years…have been hard. I have an upbeat, always-joking, bounce-back personality, but with the constant force-feeding on social media of death counts, vicious bickering over what we should or should not choose, political mayhem, constantly shifting pandemic restrictions – need I go on? – what would you think if Facebook and Instagram suddenly wouldn’t load for several hours? Something terrible has happened! Every conspiracy theory I’d dismissed in the past suddenly came rushing back like a flash flood.

Dramatic, I know. But even some of the strongest women I know have recently been battling depression and anxiety seriously for the first time in their lives. It doesn’t take much to feed the flames either.

Back to me bursting into tears.

I’m in the car, bawling and praying while I listen to the song repeat on Spotify, begging God to just come back and take his church home already, when I feel a check – more like a resounding thud – in my heart: I was acting self-absorbed and giving place to fear.

Didn’t I just tell someone the other day that, “When the world is darkest, God shines the brightest.”?

God promised to bring me through the storms of life, even “cover me” when I need a buffer from the waves, but what about those that face the same fears and struggles that I’m facing but without God? And that light in the darkness? As an ambassador of God, I play a part in being that light. If we’re all running around screaming, “The sky is falling! The sky is falling!” (Hello, Chicken Little fans.), who will speak the words of hope and faith?

God’s word gently humbles us with this challenge:

If thou hast run with the footmen, and they have wearied thee, then how canst thou contend with horses? and if in the land of peace, wherein thou trustedst, they wearied thee, then how wilt thou do in the swelling of Jordan? (Jeremiah 12:5, KJV)

Will we continue to face the agony of loss? Yes.

Will the waters of disappointment continue to overrun their banks? Again and again.

Will the fires of life sweep through and consume your dreams? They might, my friend.

So, what hope do we have?

When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee: when thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be burned; neither shall the flame kindle upon thee. (Isaiah 43:2, KJV)

When… Not if.

We are not immune, nor do we get a pass on facing the hard things in life. But God promised, in Isaiah 43:2, to be with us. When you hurt, face a storm, all feels hopeless, and faith is close to nonexistent, the only words you may be able to pray in those dark moments might just be, “Cover me, Lord,” as you wait it out.

And, it’s okay, like me, if you burst into tears while you do.

(By the way, if you saw this post on Instagram or Facebook, the conspiracy theory was wrong. You’re welcome.)

Love,

Regina

 

 

Song Citation: “Cover Me.” Favorites with Mark Condon [CD]. (Recorded: October 2012)

Photo Citation: https://unsplash.com/photos/W-…

The post Cover Me, Lord. appeared first on .

This is a guest blog post I wrote for She’s Intentional (Dainty Jewells). You can find the original post HERE.

 

As I drove home from work, I blasted the song, “Cover Me,” by Mark Condon in an effort to drown out all the inner voices that had hijacked my thoughts. My head throbbed with tension and my hands were damp against the steering wheel. I probably shouldn’t have even been driving.

I burst into tears.

I’m pretty sure it was a coworker in the Toyota Camry next to me, but I was past caring. Don’t judge me too harshly, but the straw that had broken the camel’s back for me was the fact that…(transparent moment here)…Facebook and Instagram had been down for a few hours. Yeah, I know how shallow that sounds. Realistically, I’d been struggling with a lot of other things before that fateful day.

The past few weeks…months…years…have been hard. I have an upbeat, always-joking, bounce-back personality, but with the constant force-feeding on social media of death counts, vicious bickering over what we should or should not choose, political mayhem, constantly shifting pandemic restrictions – need I go on? – what would you think if Facebook and Instagram suddenly wouldn’t load for several hours? Something terrible has happened! Every conspiracy theory I’d dismissed in the past suddenly came rushing back like a flash flood.

Dramatic, I know. But even some of the strongest women I know have recently been battling depression and anxiety seriously for the first time in their lives. It doesn’t take much to feed the flames either.

Back to me bursting into tears.

I’m in the car, bawling and praying while I listen to the song repeat on Spotify, begging God to just come back and take his church home already, when I feel a check – more like a resounding thud – in my heart: I was acting self-absorbed and giving place to fear.

Didn’t I just tell someone the other day that, “When the world is darkest, God shines the brightest.”?

God promised to bring me through the storms of life, even “cover me” when I need a buffer from the waves, but what about those that face the same fears and struggles that I’m facing but without God? And that light in the darkness? As an ambassador of God, I play a part in being that light. If we’re all running around screaming, “The sky is falling! The sky is falling!” (Hello, Chicken Little fans.), who will speak the words of hope and faith?

God’s word gently humbles us with this challenge:

If thou hast run with the footmen, and they have wearied thee, then how canst thou contend with horses? and if in the land of peace, wherein thou trustedst, they wearied thee, then how wilt thou do in the swelling of Jordan? (Jeremiah 12:5, KJV)

Will we continue to face the agony of loss? Yes.

Will the waters of disappointment continue to overrun their banks? Again and again.

Will the fires of life sweep through and consume your dreams? They might, my friend.

So, what hope do we have?

When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee: when thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be burned; neither shall the flame kindle upon thee. (Isaiah 43:2, KJV)

When… Not if.

We are not immune, nor do we get a pass on facing the hard things in life. But God promised, in Isaiah 43:2, to be with us. When you hurt, face a storm, all feels hopeless, and faith is close to nonexistent, the only words you may be able to pray in those dark moments might just be, “Cover me, Lord,” as you wait it out.

And, it’s okay, like me, if you burst into tears while you do.

(By the way, if you saw this post on Instagram or Facebook, the conspiracy theory was wrong. You’re welcome.)

Love,

Regina

 

 

Song Citation: “Cover Me.” Favorites with Mark Condon [CD]. (Recorded: October 2012)

Photo Citation: https://unsplash.com/photos/W-…

The post “Cover Me, Lord.” appeared first on .

This is a guest blog post I wrote for She’s Intentional (Dainty Jewells). You can find the original post HERE.

Remember in December when everyone felt generous?

We held doors for one other, bellowed “Merry Christmas!” to everyone we passed, threw wads of loose cash in the Salvation Army bucket in front of Walmart, and volunteered to help serve Christmas dinner at the local homeless shelter.

Well…it’s January (Happy New Year!) and the cashier at the gas station this morning didn’t even look at me when she flicked the receipt my way and two people cut me off on my way to the grocery store. I should mention that the store is only four minutes from my house and I had somehow managed to irritate two people in that short distance. These same folks probably would have smiled and waved me in front of them two weeks ago. Just saying…

Whoa…what happened?! Did we somehow toss out kindness and goodwill with the Christmas wrapping paper? Right now, there’s a tiny stereo in my brain playing that song from the Righteous Brothers, You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feeling, on repeat.

We can do better than this.

And I plan to…

I’ve always found so much joy in leaving little notes and cards for random people, letting them know how much they are appreciated, or encouraging them when I know they are facing a tough time. I’ve left cards and notes on church pews, stuck them in purses when heads were turned, slid them in the front door of houses, and dropped them on desks at work.

I rarely sign my name…on purpose.

RANDOM ACTS OF KINDNESS (R.A.K.)

Performing random acts of kindness has always been a secret joy for me. I love the adrenaline rush that comes from paying for the person’s order behind me in the drive-thru at a fast-food restaurant or at Starbucks, then speeding off before they pull up next to the window. After paying for my order and theirs, I hand the cashier one of the R.A.K. cards I designed (Click on the graphic below to print your own!) and ask them to hand the card to the person behind me when they start to pay for their order.

Think of all the fun R.A.K. opportunities out there! Here are a few of my personal favorites (you can still leave a R.A.K. card for some of these):

volunteering for a local Special Olympics eventgoing to a nursing home and asking to visit with residents that rarely have visitorsvolunteering to tutor students struggling with schoolwork (Not math! I hate math!)delivering homemade cookies to new families that move into my neighborhoodtelling a young mom to drop her kids off with me for a few hours so she can enjoy “kid-free” time

There are many ways to show kindness every day. We don’t have to save all that love just for the holiday season. There’s even a website dedicated to random acts of kindness that has a plethora of ideas, quotes, stories of others’ experiences, and more called (ready for this?) Random Acts of Kindness (randomactsofkindness.org).

Ready?! Your turn!

I would love to hear about ideas that you have or how you have used the R.A.K. cards I’ve shared with you.

Love,

Regina

The post Random Acts of Kindness appeared first on .

For there is hope of a tree, if it be cut down, that it will sprout again, and that the tender branch thereof will not cease.

Though the root thereof wax old in the earth, and the stock thereof die in the ground;

Yet through the scent of water it will bud, and bring forth boughs like a plant.

Job 14:7-9 (KJV)

He sat alone in his favorite leather chair, staring out the window at nothing in particular. His tattered journal and pen sat abandoned in his lap as he sighed deeply. It had been a difficult week. Long hours at work, teaching Bible studies, and planning Sunday School lessons. He didn’t mind the busyness–even welcomed it with open arms most of the time. It was part of what made him who he was, what brought him joy. 

Sure, he’d known some tough moments in his life. He’d lost a sister to cancer two years ago, had his business partner walk out on him, and butted heads with a few elders in church on occasion. But he’d survived. All the years of living for God, he was positive nothing could bring him down.

Until this week. This whole month, actually. Again and again, he’d been falsely accused and attacked by people at every turn. There had been other times but, lately, it was relentless and wearying to his soul. It seemed that God remained silent while he suffered and struggled under the endless burden. 

He was tired. Broken. 

Like an old tree that had withstood the storms of life but had finally crippled under the pressure. 

He looked down at the journal in his lap.

Like an old tree…

Running his fingers down the journal’s lambskin cover, noting the scars and bends that time had left on it, he opened the book to a blank page.

Gripping the pen in his fingers, he began to write. 

The old tree had once been a glorious monument of strength and beauty that sheltered weary travelers, provided fruit that brought restoration to the weak, and was a shield to those nearby–subduing the full forces of the wind and rain before they could unleash their fury on those that the tree protected.

But the tree had been broken by storms, battered by winds…cut down by man. All that was left was its stump. Its former comeliness forgotten, the old warrior now goes unnoticed by the passerby. 

Roots withering in the ground like the gnarled fingers of the aged, waiting for death to come.

“Send water, Lord.”

He pauses in his writing to look back out the window, repeating the words to himself in an anguished whisper, “Send water, Lord,” before bowing his head and touching his pen back to the page.

Pressing through the hardened ground–at first, it is a slow trickle. Hearing the cries of desperation from the perishing, it ripples intently against clay stones until they crumble in its path and the water reaches its target.

The roots feel it first, washing over its withered strands, then surrounding them with life-giving balm, awakening them with the kiss of moisture–calling them to live again.

Deeply, they drink, filling every cavern with a rush of the nectar of life.

“I will not die,” the old tree gasps.

Within weeks, a playing child notices hints of green peeking through the cracks of the barren, dry stump. In a few days, a delicate tendril pushes skyward, its fragile stem quivering with the slightest breath of the wind.

“I remember you, wind,” the old tree whispers. “You broke me once. You may yet break me again. But I will only rise again.”

The pen rests down on the page as the man reaches up to wipe away the moisture that trickles down his face. A reminder that–when we least expect it–the healing waters will come, whether it be floods of blessings from heaven or…a single tear of hope.

He knew it wouldn’t happen overnight. Healing never does. He didn’t know how, or even when. But in his spirit, he knew that he was going to be okay.

As he lifted his gaze once more to the sky, he felt the stirrings of hope push through his soul, like the delicate tendril of a newly-awakened tree reaching for new life.

“I will not die, he whispered.

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This is a guest blog post I wrote for She’s Intentional (Dainty Jewells). You can find the original post HERE.

My husband, Andy, and I sat at the dinner table with my in-laws the other night and the subject of Thanksgiving came up. Being the lover-of-all-things-organized gal that I am, I grabbed my cell phone and instantly accessed my Thanksgiving planning list on my project management app (Man, I love technology!).

Our family customarily eats the same dishes and desserts every year. While we are always game to try new things, venturing away from our food routines isn’t one of them. Let’s just say that I made the mistake one year of mentioning that I didn’t feel like making deviled eggs for Thanksgiving and came close to needing a family counseling session to smooth things over.

So, after we debated who was baking the turkey and glazing the ham this year, I clicked all the appropriate checkboxes on my menu list and closed the app.

That was the easy part.

It was all the unchecked boxes on my To-Do list that began playing reels in my head.

I started stressing because this week I am going to a writers conference out of town, which leaves only a week after I return to get ready for Thanksgiving. If my kids are all coming from out of town, I need to declutter the extra bedrooms, tidy up the rest of the house, and shop for grandkid-friendly snacks. Oh, and I need to make sure that I am caught up on my client projects before any company comes so I won’t be distracted.

Thanksgiving evening is also when we put up the Christmas tree, so I must make sure I have cookies baked and homemade hot chocolate ingredients for the occasion. Thankfully, I already have a Spotify (another app!) playlist for Christmas music but can’t remember where I put my favorite “This Grandma Loves Christmas” sweatshirt…

The list of tasks mounted as I remembered that I need to shop for new lights for the tree, buy a Christmas-scented oil for the diffuser, and remind Andy to pull down the box of ornaments.

All this to do in one week’s time.

I was feeling more fretful than festive at this point.

I reflect back to the huge butcher paper turkey that I made and tacked to the kitchen wall when my kids were little. We all wrote what we were thankful for on paper feathers to decorate the turkey.

After Thanksgiving dinner, my kids would play Rock, Paper, Scissors to choose which two of the three kids would get to share the wishbone.

We still talk about the year we invited an older neighbor man to share Thanksgiving with us because he had no family. I remember with horror how I missed a bone (oops!) when carving the turkey and the poor fellow choked on it (he survived).

Then there was the year that I filled the kitchen counters with homemade gingerbread men for the nurses at San Diego Children’s Hospital and left them to cool only to discover hours later that my oldest son had eaten most of their legs off.

I kinda miss those simpler days. Those Thanksgivings where we spent more time being spontaneous than meticulously scheduled. Lived in the moments instead of trying to mimic the moments. When we focused on all the things that we were thankful for and it didn’t matter if we ate on paper plates instead of Christmas china.

Are you feeling that way too, or is it just me?

In my downtime at the hotel this week, I’m going to revisit my Thanksgiving list on my project management app. There are a few things that I can purge from the “must-do” tasks. In fact, I’m a little excited to see what spontaneous memories will be made in their place.

Of course, there are a few things that are non-negotiable–like deviled eggs–but just thinking about doing things differently this year makes me feel that old festive feeling again.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Love,

Regina

P.S. How about creating a “Gratitude Jar” with your family? Give each person a small piece of paper. Ask them to write down something that they are thankful for. Place them in a jar decorated for the occasion and have everyone take turns reading them during dinner. (If they draw their own, have them exchange it for a different one.)

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