Guideposts -julkaisun Aug/Sept 2025 -irtonumeron sisällysluettelo

Maybe I’m just getting older—I’m 71, last time I checked—but I’ve been spending more time in the hills of western Massachusetts than in the city I’ve called home for more than 40 years. The closeness of God is undeniable…a wooded trail that confers a singular peace, the birds singing the day awake, falling asleep to the rush of a rain-swollen creek. Yet it is New York that I consider my spiritual home. Within a five-minute walk of my Manhattan apartment, there are a half-dozen houses of worship: Protestant, Greek Orthodox, Catholic, two synagogues and a mosque. And every one of their basements is home to a 12-step meeting. It was in this cauldron of a city that I finally rediscovered God—even in the smallest moments of my life—after years of…

BE A BOOKWORM! When our daughter, Jackie, was young, I taught her to crochet. She grew up to become a sixth-grade teacher. Looking for a way to nurture her students’ love of reading beyond middle school, Jackie embarked on a craft project: crocheting a bookworm bookmark for every kid in her classroom. She got yarn from thrift stores to save on expenses. For extra whimsy, she added plastic googly eyes to the head and a button or a bead to the tail. Her students loved the bookmarks. Jackie wanted to spread the fun and her love of reading to even more kids, so she shared the bookmark instructions with other teachers and school staff, and started crocheting bookmarks for other students too. Eventually, every student at her middle school had…

It was our dream vacation—two weeks in Bermuda, my husband John’s childhood home. There would be swimming, snorkeling, boating, beaching and feasting. And to top it all off, a renewal of our wedding vows, complete with a traditional carriage ride and reception for the whole family. A oncein-a-lifetime celebration of our twentieth anniversary, so different from our actual wedding day, which had been a small, simple affair. I should have been giddy with anticipation as I unpacked our bags. Instead, I found myself thinking about my mother-in-law, whose absence weighed heavy on my heart. It was the first time we’d returned to the island since Mum had passed away nine years ago. I’d been terrified to meet her when John and I got engaged, intimidated by her proper-sounding British accent…

Three years ago, my friend Nicole brought me a beautiful plant with glossy green, ovalshaped leaves—a peace lily. “I’m sorry for your loss,” she said. My father had just passed away unexpectedly. I carried the plant into the kitchen and set it down carefully beside the two I already had. For the past two years, I’d tried to care for those plants, mostly unsuccessfully. The random brown and yellow leaves dotting both pots were evidence of my ineptitude. Now I had another one to worry about. Great, I thought. Although I cherished this new lily as a remembrance of my father, I couldn’t help wondering if it was a waste of my time and my friend’s money. Maybe I just wasn’t a plant person. I’d never had much interest in…

John Tafone It was my first week teaching a musical theater history class, and I wanted to show some selections from The Sound of Music. My classroom didn’t have internet, so a DVD was the only option. The problem was, I couldn’t find a DVD of the 1965 classic anywhere. Every store was out of stock. I tried three libraries—no luck. I’d pretty much given up by the time I passed one last library on the way home. Yet I couldn’t shake the feeling I should go in and check. “The system has several copies of The Sound of Music,” the librarian said. “But they’ve all been checked out.” She explained that the copies could be anywhere in the city; people weren’t required to return them to a specific location.…

‘‘Woof!” My finger flew to my lips. “Larry, sshh!” My husband, Don, was fast asleep, and I couldn’t wait to hit the hay myself. “Woof!” “Larry, quiet!” I walked over to the window and peeked outside. Everything was fine. “Larry, quiet!” I said again sternly, bending down in front of his opendoor crate in the corner of the bedroom. His warm brown eyes stared back at me as if to say, “I’m sorry. I just can’t help it.” Our eight-month-old Lab mix didn’t bark often or at typical things—the doorbell, people stopping by, other animals. His barks were unpredictable. But I had to get him to stop. For Larry, even one inappropriate bark might mean he’d never become what I hoped he would: a guide dog for the blind. I…

A PERFECT P.S. ‘‘Guess what?” my five-year-old daughter, Laurie, exclaimed as we walked home from school on Monday. “Some big kids from the high school are putting on a play for us on Friday, and my teacher said maybe they’ll pick some of us to be in it! Maybe they’ll pick me!” Her little sister, Weezie (short for Louise), looked at me with wide eyes. I didn’t want Laurie to get her hopes up too high. The chances of her being picked over everyone else were slim. “Honey,” I said, “there are a lot of children….” “I know they’ll pick me,” Laurie said firmly. “They have to.” As the big day got closer, Laurie’s excitement grew. Especially when we received a note inviting family members to the production of Cinderella.…

“I have experienced almost mystical moments of awareness when I have been alone in nature that might foreshadow the sort of heaven I like to imagine.”JANE GOODALL, primatologist and conservationist “So often people say they go on this journey—and I said it too, that I’m looking for God. But God has already found us, really. We have to look in the spot where we’re least likely to look. And that is within ourselves.”MARTIN SHEEN, actor “There’s going to be someone younger than you, smarter than you, more pedigreed than you. Always… But there will never be someone who’s as good at being you as you are.”VICKY NGUYEN, journalist, on learning not to compare herself to others “Don’t dwell on what you could have done or should have done. Live in…

I stood on a rock ledge overlooking a section of the Ottawa River, right on the border between the provinces of Quebec and Ontario. I was wearing my work gear: white helmet, blue life jacket and shorts, Teva sandals. The thunderous crashing of the water filled the air. The clouds shifted and blocked the afternoon sun. I stared down into the roiling water at a rapid I knew well. Maybe too well. Coliseum—one of the trickiest rapids on the river. There was a series of three standing waves, each six to 15 feet high, their size and intensity changing depending on water level. Nobody knew I was out here except for the head of river safety at the Ontario resort where I worked as a whitewater raft guide. It was…

I’d been looking forward to this trip with my two young adult kids for months. Soon Noah, 22, and Becca, 20, would be too busy launching their careers to vacation with their parents. Noah was going to be the best man in a family friend’s wedding in Oregon, and we were taking the opportunity to get in some hiking and sightseeing beforehand. I wanted to make every moment amazing. I’d booked a cabin near Silver Falls State Park, which was supposed to be a 90-minute drive from the Portland airport. But we’d been on the road in our rental SUV for two hours and hadn’t seen any signs for Silver Falls. None of the houses on this bumpy dirt road looked like our Airbnb. I was driving, with Noah in…

I strained to see ahead on the winding mountain road. Snow swirled in the wind, and the pine boughs drooped with white. My brother, Ben, and I were in a rented SUV, making our way up Highway 41 in the Sierra Nevada. It was December. We were on our way to Yosemite National Park. When we left Oakhurst, the last major town before the park, the sky was clear and there was no sign of snow. We figured we didn’t need tire chains. We were wrong. Turned out, the early winter storm that had blanketed the mountains yesterday wasn’t done. The road, plowed hours earlier, was slicking up again as we rose in altitude. No matter how slowly I drove, the SUV slid around each curve. “You’re sure about this?”…

The listing for our Cape Cod rental warned, “four-wheel-drive recommended,” but nothing could have prepared us for the fivemile, one-lane rutted dirt road that twisted through the woods. Twice, we had to reverse into a sandy stretch to let an oncoming car pass. When we finally pulled into the overgrown driveway, silence greeted us. No neighbors in sight. I stepped out and stretched, breathing in the salt air. The ocean was close; I could taste it on my lips. As I unpacked the car, a familiar peace settled in. My family has been vacationing on Cape Cod for generations, but the connection has lately felt deeper. Through genealogical digging, I discovered that our roots run deep along the Atlantic coast. One of my ancestors, a many-times great-grandmother, had the curious…

I walked into my office at the VA Medical Center in Marion, Indiana, that August morning at 7:30 a.m. and glanced at the sticky note on my desk with my current prayer list. I always took a few minutes for solitary prayer before I began my rounds to check in with patients—my congregants. I went through the list, then finished with the same prayer that I said every morning. Lord, let me see you work in one small way today. It was breakfast time, so I walked through the dining rooms on a couple of the wards, greeting my long-term patients by first name or nickname. They responded with their usual friendly banter. “Hey, Padre, what are you doing up so early?” “Pastor, do you want my yogurt?” “Chaplain, I…

In the early 1970s, Kris Kristofferson was riding high on songwriting successes “Me and Bobby McGee” and “Sunday Mornin’ Coming Down.” Although church wasn’t his usual scene, he went with a friend to a service in Nashville, Tennessee. Jimmie Snow, a country singer–turned-preacher, gave an altar call, saying, “If anybody’s lost, please raise their hand.” To his surprise, Kristofferson felt his own hand go up and found himself walking down the aisle. Snow asked him, “Are you ready to accept Jesus Christ in your life?” “I don’t know,” he answered. Still, he knelt, weeping and powerless to resist. “I felt this forgiveness that I didn’t know I even needed,” he said. Kristofferson was moved to write a song about his experience. “I really felt like I was just holding a…

In March, Kelly Harrel (Adulting, page 24) and her husband, Jeff, closed a 24-year chapter in the home where they raised their family and moved into a new house with Kelly’s mom, Judy, to help care for her. Their daughter, Becca, recently graduated college. She moved back home and is chasing her dream of becoming a book editor. Their son, Noah, lives an hour away and visits often. He too caught the writing bug and publishes nonfiction stories. After authoring nine novels, Kelly is working on a journal aimed at helping readers thrive through life’s toughest seasons. Written as a heartfelt conversation between friends, her new project is all about moving forward when life gets heavy. This summer, the Harrel family went on an unforgettable adventure in Italy, savoring incredible food,…

ALL CONNECTED I always find Guideposts inspiring, but I have never had a deeper connection to the stories than in the Feb/Mar 2025 issue. Some highlights: Lysa TerKeurst’s quote in The Up Side about not letting criticism go to your heart was timely because an anonymous person left a meanspirited review for one of my books. God showed me this person was deeply wounded, so I was able to forgive them. I related to Al Roker’s melancholy about becoming older than his dad. My hardest birthday was when I turned 42; my father had died a month shy of 42, and it felt surreal to be older than the wisest man I have ever known. Then Came Terry, by William Ramshaw, reminded me of how God sent my friend Floyd into…

I awoke that warm Sunday morning alone and in complete silence. Three days after Hurricane Helene ripped through northwestern South Carolina, there was still no power. I guess you don’t normally register the ambient sounds of appliances—the soft whoosh of the air conditioner, the low hum of the fridge, the familiarity of it all. This eerie silence just magnified my sense of isolation. Still, no absence loomed greater than my husband’s. He’d died suddenly of a brain stem stroke three years earlier. In our nearly 47 years of marriage, Verne and I had gone through many storms together. Without coffee, I moved in slow motion. I peered out the window. My house had been spared any major damage, but the street was littered with branches and debris. I hadn’t ventured…

I lay on the exam table in my surgeon’s office on that snowy March morning five years ago, eager to get the appointment over with. It was just a routine follow-up to the mastectomy I’d had the month before, and everything had been going smoothly. My mind was on other things, better things. Namely, the long-awaited visit from my dear friends Chris, Gina and Susie. I needed to finish cleaning before they arrived in a couple hours to spend three days at my house in York, Pennsylvania. We’d been planning our get-together in a constant flurry of emails, phone calls and Facebook messages ever since my breast cancer diagnosis in the fall. Gina was flying in from Rhode Island, Susie from Texas, and Chris was driving up from Virginia. The…

I loved trick-or-treating when I was a kid, coming home with a haul of sugary, gooey candy. I’d dump out my loot on the kitchen table and gaze at it as if I’d struck gold. Maybe it was a burst of sweet nostalgia on Halloween night 2022 that prompted me to glance in the rearview mirror and say brightly (maybe too brightly), “Caleb, give Nanny one of those popcorn balls.” A sudden silence filled the car. My daughter, Natalie; my daughter-in-law, Tiffany; and my grandkids Caleb, 7, and Kaylee, 2, had been trick-or-treating at friends’ houses, our church and finally the town square. The kids’ bags were full, and we were headed home. Finally, Natalie spoke. “Are you sure you want to do that, Mom?” “It’s just for tonight. Don’t…