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My sister, Connie, lives on the family ranch. She is very involved in the daily activities that happen on a ranch. She rides a horse as well as anyone. She fixes fence as well as anyone. She backs the truck up to the horse trailer perfectly on her first attempt. She pulls calves, vaccinates calves, and ear-tags calves. Most of her day is spent outside helping her husband run the ranch.

It’s nearly impossible to reach her on the phone. She carries one, but it only works if you catch her on top of a hill.

Most of our calls happen when she is on her way to town to get repairs, a haircut, or fulfill a doctor’s appointment. She can utilize those thirty miles to catch up on calls. Even then, she often loses service. Unfortunately, we often go for weeks before we talk to each other. Neither one of us like that—but that’s life. It’s easy to get disconnected when you can’t connect!

Then one morning, I read a one-page devotional about the eight-minute phone call. The writer of the devotional references an author, Jancee Dunn, who proposes the power of an eight-minute phone call. Ms. Dunn believes these short calls can help us connect with family and friends.

The next time I talked to Connie, I told her what I had read. I asked her if she thought we could find an eight-minute window somewhere in the week to connect. She was enthused, too. I was ecstatic.

“You pick the time and day,” I said, “since I’m more flexible.”

“Let’s do Mondays at noon my time—eleven yours. I’ll call, but if I forget, you call me.”

She hasn’t forgotten to call once, and we’ve been doing it for a month now. Sometimes we exceed eight minutes, and that’s okay if we both have the time. When it’s necessary to keep it short, we hit on the week’s highlights and a prayer request or two and call it good. After all, we’ll be talking again in a week. We are connecting!

I feel that we are living out 1 Thessalonians 5:11: “Therefore encourage one another and build one another up, just as you are doing.” And boy, does that feel good!

Such a simple little thing—eight minutes a week. But what a positive difference it makes for us. Connie and I have both shared how we look forward to these calls. There is power in them—just as author Jancee Dunn said.

Until next month, keep on readin’, and I’ll keep on writin’.

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I’m writing this month’s blog on Thanksgiving Day. It’s a quiet, no-fuss kind of holiday for the two of us. The turkey breast is in the oven, the potatoes are laid out and ready to be tossed in the pan when the time is right, and the cranberry sauce sits beside the colorful bowl I’ll slide it into at the last minute. Just enough tradition to make it feel like Thanksgiving. Later, we may venture the few blocks to Perkins for pie and coffee.

It’s quite a contrast from the Thanksgivings I remember growing up. Mom’s table—extended with every leaf—was surrounded by grandparents, aunts and uncles, and cousins. It was a joyful time of being together, catching up with one another’s lives, and sharing a sense of camaraderie. Thanksgiving tables come in all sizes, and that’s alright. My concern is the empty chair at the table—the one where an estranged person used to sit but, for whatever reason, no longer does.

Estrangement refers to the loss of affection and fellowship that was once shared with another. This phenomenon is on the rise. Karl Pillemer, a professor at Cornell University and author of Fault Lines: Fractured Families and How to Mend Them, found that in 2020, 27% of Americans over the age of 18 were estranged from a family member. And it’s not only in the U.S. that we’re seeing this trend. Any country whose culture prioritizes personal happiness and individual choice over respect for parents and elders is experiencing a similar rise. One estranged mother responded proactively and launched a website: RejectedParents.net. It now attracts 60,000–70,000 visitors per month, with numbers spiking around the holidays. She also opened a moderated peer-support forum, which currently boasts more than 8,100 members.

Most parent–adult child estrangements are initiated by the child. Many reasons can be given for creating distance, but in most cases, it stems from a long-simmering issue. Millennials and Gen Z have been more willing to initiate “no-contact” relationships with parents than previous generations.

As a parent of adult children, my sympathies naturally lie with the parents. And as an older adult, I grew up with the idea that family is forever. I can imagine what it would feel like if one of my children issued a “no-contact” order against me. I’m not saying there is never a valid reason—such as ongoing abuse of any kind—but in many cases, could other steps be taken before resorting to something so drastic? Could forgiveness and healthy boundaries be explored before complete separation? In any case, my heart goes out to anyone who must endure the empty chair at the Thanksgiving table. It’s no surprise that heartache is tightly yoked with estrangement.

If you remember the story of the prodigal son in Luke 15:11–32, the youngest son—full of his own importance—took his inheritance and left his father and older brother behind in search of greater things. He squandered everything his father had given him. Only when he was reduced to eating with the pigs because he couldn’t afford anything else did he realize how good he had had it at his father’s house. He repented and returned home to beg for a job as a servant.

How did his father react?
“And while he was still a long way off, his father saw him coming. Filled with love and compassion, he ran to his son, embraced him, and kissed him.” (Luke 15:20, NLT)

The father then instructed the servants to bring the finest robe in the house and put it on his son. A great feast followed in celebration of his return.

Maybe I’m a wishful thinker, but I believe most parents would feel the same way if their “no-contact” child returned seeking reconciliation. Very likely, forgiveness and understanding are needed on both sides. God is a God of healing, and don’t we all long for healthy relationships? With Him leading us, anything is possible (Matthew 19:26). God is also a God of hope. Just as the father in Luke 15 once again saw his son, it’s possible for those empty chairs around our holiday tables to be filled again. That will be something to celebrate!

Until next time…keep on readin’, and I’ll keep on writin’.

If you follow my blog, you know that I’ve written about my five-year-old autistic, nonverbal grandson a couple of times over the past few months. Because of those posts, I recently received an invitation to speak at the Moms’ Life Group at our church. The goal of my talk is to give young moms ideas on how to encourage their children to include special needs children in their circle of friends.

Speaking to groups is definitely not in my comfort zone. You may remember that I chose my nursing school because it was the only one in the state that didn’t require me to take Speech in high school. I don’t deny that I probably needed that class more than any other, but at the time… I would have changed my career path rather than enroll in Speech.

It has taken me decades to rein in my fear of public speaking. Even now, it feels as though the horse beneath me still pulls against the bit—thankfully, with less force than before. Maybe one day I’ll be able to give the horse his head and actually enjoy the ride.

I still remember how hard I practiced to conquer my first speaking engagement. I had been coerced into co-teaching six weeks of Lamaze classes. I’d sit cross-legged (when that was still an easy feat) on the living room floor with index cards fanned out in front of me like sunrays. How could this come so easily to some people? I was terrified! Over the years, I’ve settled more comfortably into the saddle with each talk, but my anxious thoughts still raise my heart rate and make my palms sweat. Was it really that important to do this? Maybe reaching outside your comfort zone is overrated, I reasoned.

So why did I immediately tell the Moms’ Life director that I would speak to these young mothers? Only one reason—the subject is deeply personal and important to me. It’s something I can do for Dean, even though I live halfway across the country from my grandson. And even more important than building confidence within myself, I might be making a difference for a special needs child in a classroom right here in Spearfish. If even one mom encourages her child to reach out to a classmate with special needs, my discomfort will be completely worth it. We’ll all win in the end.

When I need a little extra encouragement, I look no further than Hebrews 10:24: “Let us consider how we may spur one another on toward love and good deeds.” (NIV)

We all have our fears. I bet yours is worth conquering too—for your sake and for others’.

Until next time… keep on readin’, and I’ll keep on writin’ (right here from my comfort zone).

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50th Nursing Class Reunion

This past month I attended my 50th nursing class reunion in Lincoln, Nebraska. All I can say is—thank goodness for name tags! Most of these classmates I hadn’t seen since we walked down that aisle fifty years ago to receive our well-deserved diplomas.

Just as I had difficulty recognizing many, I caught several people sneaking glances at my name tag as well. Our physiques had matured, and many had gained beautiful manes of white and gray.

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Memories on Display

On display were our stylish blue-and-white school uniforms and our all-white graduation dress, modeled by mannequins. Thank goodness for mannequins too—I’m guessing few of us could serve as live models for those outfits now.

Lying on the table nearby were some of the worn books we had our noses in every day for two full years. Old photographs and a yearbook rounded out the display.

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Reminiscing Together

What a fun evening we had—reminiscing, catching up, and sharing nursing experiences from the past five decades. One of the event organizers asked how many of us still make beds with mitered corners. Hands shot up across the room.

As each person stood to share about their careers, families, and where they now lived, three of us huddled over the yearbook retrieved from the display table. Connie, sitting in the middle, flipped through the pages while Brenda and I leaned in. Together, we searched for the “young picture” of the person speaking, hoping to refresh our memories about who was really talking.

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God Never Forgets

We had our work cut out for us that evening—trying to remember faces, voices, and details about one another. But aren’t we fortunate that God never has to rely on a name tag to identify us? He knows everything about us.

My favorite Psalm (139) reminds us that He even knows our words before we speak them. Matthew 10:30 tells us that He knows the number of hairs on our heads. And Isaiah 49:16 says we are so important to Him that our names are written on the palm of His hand.

Unlike our struggles at the reunion, it doesn’t sound like He’s going to forget anything about us in the next fifty years.

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Until next time… keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.

Last month I wrote about “Little Dean” and the anxieties his parents and grandparents are feeling over sending him to kindergarten as a non-verbal autistic student.

First, I want to thank those who said they were praying for him and his family. That means so much to us.

Second, I want to share what happened this past Sunday. I believe it was God’s way of speaking to my heart and encouraging me about Dean heading off to school and the peers he will encounter.

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Worship in the Park

Three times each summer, our church has Worship in the Park. This was one of those Sundays.

It’s a beautiful park with a brand-new bandstand, huge shade trees, and a lush carpet of green grass. Spearfish Creek runs along the west boundary. Everyone who comes to the service brings lawn chairs or blankets. From the bandstand, two to three hundred people scatter across the lawn like an open folding fan.

We found a spot near a large elm tree and set up our canvas chairs. More chairs and blankets began filling the grass—some people seeking shade, others choosing the warm sunshine.

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A Sermon on the Blanket

As we sang This Is My Father’s World, I glanced to my left. Sitting on a blanket about forty feet away was a young grade-school boy—maybe ten years old—with Down’s Syndrome.

Almost as if it had been arranged, I had a perfectly unobstructed view of him. No trees, chairs, or people blocked my line of sight. He looked serious, his mouth turned down as if he were deep in thought—or maybe sad.

Then something happened that changed everything.

A young girl—perhaps twelve years old (not a sibling)—plopped down on the blanket, directly facing him. She stretched out her arms and drew him into a long, gentle hug.

The boy seemed to relax, soaking in the love she offered. When she pulled back, she looked him in the eye and spoke. He nodded and smiled. Something she said had shifted his whole expression.

I nudged my husband and whispered, “Look how she’s relating to the special-needs boy.” He knew why this moment mattered so much to me.

The girl continued rubbing the boy’s shoulder while she spoke softly to him. It was compassion in its purest form—and it moved me deeply that it came from a heart so young.

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The Message That Stays

Pastor Jon’s sermon from the bandstand was wonderful, as his sermons always are. But honestly, it may not stay with me for long.

The one on the blanket, though—I will likely never forget. That sermon carried a message that was personal and unforgettable.

I thought of Little Dean and the children he will meet this year, and my heart was encouraged.

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God’s Gentle Reminders

God works in mysterious ways. I wonder if He delights in orchestrating these surprise moments.

I’m so glad I didn’t miss this one. I felt like the honored guest. How many others even noticed what brought me such peace?

God provided just what I needed—a special-needs boy and his compassionate friend.

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Until next month, keep on readin’, and I’ll keep on writin’.