Tag: life

The Weight of Quiet Places

by stephsimply, posted in Travels

What My Papaw’s Words Taught Me About History, Humanity, and Remembrance

“Pause, stranger, when you pass me by: As you are now, so once was I. As I am now, so you will be.”—variation of a popular epitaph

👧 The Wisdom We Don’t Yet Understand

As a young girl, my Papaw had a habit of taking both my hands into his large, weathered palms, looking directly into my eyes, and telling me something he felt was important. However, most of the time, I was far too young to understand the conviction, intent, or meaning behind his words. What I did understand was that he loved me, and that was all I needed to know.

He was especially sentimental whenever we were preparing to leave the house he shared with Grandmother. We would stand near the back door, putting on our coats and waiting for adults to gather things as we went through the traditional long Appalachian goodbyes. My grandmother, redolent with the scents of buttery foods, talcum powder, and Avon Vit-moist face cream, would pull each of us in for a big ol’ hug and wet smooch on the cheek. Papaw would tell us to get some fresh orange slices from the candy jar on our way out the door. It was then that he tended to grab my hands. Sometimes he would tell me something funny or factual, but on other occasions, when I now realize he was feeling particularly sentimental, he would share a bit of “wisdom.”

With great earnestness, he would often say, “Stethie, as you are now, so I once was. As I am now, so you will be.”

His tone was filled with such loving kindness, and in my great wisdom I thought I understood.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I would think in my haughtiness. “One day, I will be old too, and I will be sad.”

It seemed like one of those strange things grandparents say to their grandchildren. I now understand it differently.

📖 When History Becomes Human

Antietam National Battlefield

Recently, as I walked the fields at Antietam National Battlefield, Papaw’s words came to mind again. Standing on the grassy knoll behind the Antietam Visitor Center, I took in the beauty of the mountains in the distance, the soft whisper of the breeze through grass, the ordinary beauty of blue skies punctuated by large, billowy clouds, and the random red fire hydrant in the middle of the grass. It seemed impossible that this place of rural beauty was once the site of horror, destruction, and bloodshed.

Antietam National Battlefield Visitor Center

Inside the Visitor’s Center I read documents, watched a short documentary, and gazed at displays that emphasized the large loss of life. Those who were lost were someone’s child, grandchild, spouse, or friend. Yet, standing on that knoll, it occurred to me: this was history that happened to people. Not statistics.

Droplets of sweat ran down the middle of my back, bringing me to my senses once more. All around me people walked the grounds with a hushed reverence, drove through the expansive battlefield, listened to online narratives, and took pictures. The fields possessed a heavy quiet, but that silence did not mean nothing happened here. And, perhaps, that was what gives places like Antietam their weight: the landscape remembers what we cannot see.

Antietam National Battlefield

While history classes, books, and even documentaries have provided me with knowledge for years, being physically present at Antietam gave that knowledge color, emotion, and context. Visiting places can turn history into a human experience.

The next day I visited Harpers Ferry. While these historically significant sites were different, both forced me to consider the consequences of human choice. At Harpers Ferry, the pictures and placards about John Brown suggested that his mission was driven by deeply held convictions. As I walked through the town, read the historical markers, and walked across the bridge that overlooked both the Shenandoah and Potomac Rivers, I couldn’t help but wonder, “What makes human beings so willing to fight for what they believe to be right?”

🧬 The Inheritance We Carry

History, it seems to me, is not a collection of events that “happened way back when.”  It’s about people—people who made choices. Those choices affected others, and eventually they became part of the inheritance we carry—an inheritance that still affects us today.

I think of Papaw all those years ago and the message he was trying to convey: “As you are now, so I once was. As I am now, so you will be.”

Antietam National Battlefield

When I was younger, I thought the message was about one’s mortality. After visiting those hallowed grounds, I am beginning to think his words were about human continuity. The people who walked those grounds, worked those fields, fought those battles, and died there were once where I was standing. And someday I will be where they are.

We cannot change what happened in history. We can choose to remember it. We can choose whether to allow history to stir greater compassion within us or to allow it to divide us. We can choose to recognize the humanity of those who went before us, whether we agree or disagree with their positions.

Perhaps that is what Papaw was trying to teach me all along: to pause long enough to remember that every person we encounter is living a life that someday will become someone else’s history.

Shepherdstown, WV: More than meets the eye

by stephsimply, posted in Travels

A charming historic town, an unexpected sense of belonging, and the priceless gift of family time

“Make assumptions if you must, but make not the mistake of assuming that your assumption is always right.”

—Abhijit Naskar

It’s interesting how our minds make assumptions about a place before our feet ever arrive. That certainly happened to me when my husband, John, suggested we visit Shepherdstown this past July. Having spent considerable time traveling through West Virginia, I thought I already knew what to expect. I expected we would find a quiet town nestled among the scenic mountains of West Virginia, with perhaps a couple of quaint shops, a restaurant or two, and a bit of history tossed in for good measure. While all of that proved to be true, Shepherdstown exceeded every expectation I had constructed.

🗺️ Beyond First Impressions

The surprise began before we even reached town. Much of the drive carried us through Pennsylvania and Maryland before finally returning to West Virginia. Entering Shepherdstown, we were pleasantly surprised to see how the town embraces its historic roots while celebrating a vibrant community that warmly welcomes visitors. From flower-lined streets with signage supporting the local theater production and Shepherd University to the restored and well-maintained historic homes and old brick sidewalks, Shepherdstown radiated local pride.

A street scene featuring a woman walking alongside parked cars and historic buildings with varying architectural styles under a partly cloudy sky.
German Street Shepherdstown, WV

Once unpacked and settled into the Airbnb, we headed out to explore West Virginia’s oldest town (a distinction it shares with Romney). Naturally we made our way to German Street, lined with dozens of 18th- and 19th- century colonial homes and buildings. It did not take long for German Street to reveal itself as the historical and commercial heartbeat of the town. While all this history was enough to hold our interest and challenge my assumptions, it was the hospitable warmth of the people that really won my heart.

🏘️ A Community That Welcomes You In

Everywhere we looked, people from different walks of life seemed genuinely comfortable there. It felt like a town where everyone had been invited to the table. The pace was a bit slower, but the businesses seemed intentionally woven into the fabric of  community life rather than existing to attract tourists. By the end of our first evening, after dinner at Blue Moon Cafe, I realized my assumptions had quietly disappeared.

🛍️ The Best Souvenirs Aren’t Things

Another unexpected gift of the trip was having our adult daughter join us while her boyfriend was tied up with taking the bar exam in Massachusetts. Watching her climb into the backseat with her pillow, blanket, and what I used to call a “busy-bag” instantly carried me back to family vacations years ago. We laughed until we cried more than once during the trip.  “Hill Road Trip 2026” became our defining rallying cry as we made our way around the town each day and traveled to the nearby historic sites of Antietam and Harper’s Ferry.

For a few days, we slipped back into the rhythm of family vacations from years ago. We compared ice cream at the two local ice cream shops—yes, both shops had gluten free cones for me! We discovered a hidden gem of a sandwich shop within walking distance of the apartment that looked more like a neighborhood market—another unexpected gluten-free find! We also discovered our daughter still loved to collect rocks as she once did as a little girl—only this time, she did not ask her Dad to carry her “treasures” in his pockets for hours on end as she used to. More than anything, the trip reminded me that the greatest gift of travel isn’t simply discovering new places. It’s discovering new ways to enjoy the people you love.

🏞️ Finding Quiet Along the River

A calm river reflecting the surrounding trees and an old railway bridge in the background, with small rocky outcrops emerging from the water.
Potomac River along the C & O Canal.

One personal appreciation I had for the town was its close proximity to the C & O Canal Trail, a historic 184.5-mile-long trail that stretches from Washington, D.C. to Cumberland, Maryland. Each morning of our stay, I was able to head out to run along the quiet, hilly sidewalks of the town before the start of the business day and then cruise along the flat, crushed limestone trail, enjoying the natural beauty of the Potomac River. There is something magical about beginning the day surrounded by birdsong, rushing water, and deer and squirrels scurrying into the woods upon my approach.

☕️ Where Everyone Has a Place at the Table

On our final morning in town, my daughter and I visited the Shepherdstown Sweet Shop and Bakery for sandwiches, hot beverages, and a few treats for the road. As we waited, I found myself smiling. My daughter struck up a conversation with another customer about the art of cross stitching. The owner of a nearby shop stopped in to pick up coffee for herself and coworkers. A small group of women animatedly discussed a book they were reading. One man quietly worked on his laptop. Four employees—each different from the rest—greeted customers with the same friendliness. It struck me that this wasn’t simply a bakery. It was a gathering place. Each unique person seemed stitched into the same community quilt, different patches held together by threads of kindness and belonging.

A red bowl filled with granola and fresh blueberries, accompanied by a yellow mug, glass of water, and other breakfast items in the background.
Everyone deserves a seat at the table.

Driving home afterwards, I couldn’t help but reflect that quite often the best souvenirs aren’t purchased in gift shops. They are the things we carry home instead: shared laughter, a deeper appreciation for places that still know how to build community, and the quiet dismantling of one more stereotype. Shepherdstown gently reminded me that the world is almost always more welcoming, kinder, richer, and far more complicated than a simple stereotype.

A quiet street scene with several houses on either side, featuring a mix of architectural styles. Parked cars line the road, and a 'Do Not Enter' sign is visible in the foreground. The sky is cloudy, suggesting overcast weather.
A residential street in Shepherdstown, WV

I hope to return to Shepherdstown someday. Some places quietly stitch themselves into the fabric of our own lives, and Shepherdstown has certainly become one of them. If I am fortunate, there will be more “Hill Roadtrips” in the years ahead. No matter how old our children become, the gift of their time remains one of life’s greatest treasures.

Sparkling Sugar and Clouds

by stephsimply, posted in Simple Observations and Musings

“When you do things from your soul, you feel a river moving in you, a joy.”—Rumi

✨ When Hope Begins with a Thimbleful of Light

For days, we had lived beneath clouds, rain, and oppressive humidity. As I stepped out of the car early one weekend morning, everything felt heavy—what I imagined it being like to try to move through swampy waters, only without the alligators. Something caught my eye. I looked up. Directly within my line of sight was a thimbleful of light parting the clouds. It was not enough to brighten the sky or change the weather. It was just enough sunlight to remind me that the sun was still there. It made me think that sometimes hope begins with no more than a thimbleful of light.

Too often, we expect the feeling of hope to have a dramatic entrance, like a scene from a sweeping epic. However, hope often arrives in a quiet, almost understated manner. One encouraging moment: a phone call or text message, a kind word, a small answer to prayer, perhaps even a small patch of blue overhead.

When I later opened my car door to drive home, the overcast weather had not changed, but neither had the sun. It was there, somewhere, above all those clouds. It occurred to me that sometimes our circumstances haven’t changed—only our awareness. That tiny patch of sunlight stayed with me the rest of the day, though I didn’t realize just how much until lunchtime.

🥣 A Little Pizzazz for an Ordinary Day

Later, as I made fresh coffee and prepared my lunch—a mix of vegetable sticks, oatmeal, and yogurt with fruit—I decided to add some pizzazz to my meal. I reached for a bottle of sparkling sugar and added a pinch across my oatmeal and yogurt. For an extra bonus of fun, I also sprinkled a few chocolate sprinkles. It’s not that I wanted my lunch to be dessert, but rather I wanted a symbolic reminder.

That sprinkling of sugar and chocolate did not solve anything. The weather remained gloomy, and the humidity was stifling. Yet it allowed me to transform an ordinary meal into something playful—something that brought a smile to my face and my heart. I was reminded that sometimes joy begins the same way hope does—in small, almost unnoticed ways. 

🔎 Searching for the Hidden Picture

As a child, I spent a great deal of time in doctor’s offices. I remember the yellow Highlights magazines that always seemed to be waiting in those offices. One of my favorite features of Highlights was the “Hidden Picture” page. I’d search that page in earnest, not seeing anything at first glance. However, once I found one “hidden” item, my excitement and confidence would soar, even if I was really sick, and I quickly began finding one hidden object after another.

Life, too, can work that way. When we focus on what we are missing, that is what we see. When we begin to search for small gifts, we suddenly discover they were scattered across life’s pages all along: a sliver of sunlight, sparkling sugar and sprinkles, a fresh cup of coffee, a cool breeze, birdsong, a shared laugh, a thoughtful text, or even the peace of a house settled in quiet. None of those remove the clouds. But they do remind us that we aren’t living only in darkness. 

⛅️ The Sun Is Still There

The hidden sun, those long ago hidden pictures, that sparkling sugar—the weather never changed that day. What changed was the picture I was looking at. Gratitude is not about pretending. Joy isn’t denial, and hope isn’t ignoring reality. They remind us of what is equally true–that clouds are real, but so is the sun. Hardships also exist, but so too does grace. 

To be sure, there will be more cloudy mornings. I hope that when I next encounter gray skies, I’ll remember two things. Somewhere above those clouds, the sun is still shining. And if I examine carefully enough—or perhaps add a pinch of sparkle myself—I may discover that joy is also hidden in the picture all along, waiting to be found. Sometimes all it takes is a thimbleful of light.

Recipes Rarely Followed Exactly

by stephsimply, posted in Recipes

“But perhaps the most precious heirlooms are family recipes. …they remind us from whom and where we came and give others, in a bite, the story of another people from another place and another time.”—Stanley Tucci

Over the July 4 weekend, I was reading Demon Copperhead, by Barbara Kingsolver. It’s an Appalachian reimagining of Charles Dickens’ classic, David Copperfield. While the book is deeply harrowing at times, I often found myself lingering over family food scenes. The meals weren’t fancy in any way, but they reflected the simple, traditional recipes I grew up with—food that tasted of love and legacy. It made me think of the kitchens in which I learned that recipes were rarely followed exactly.

🧬 The Things We Inherit

Like Kingsolver’s novel, our recipes came with their own scaffolding. Each generation inherited the structure, then quietly rebuilt it to fit new lives. My maternal and paternal grandmothers cooked similar foods, but with their own personal stamp. Their frugal cooking was shaped by living through the Great Depression, but it was also influenced by changing food trends, double-coupon days, and seasonality of certain foods. My mother-in-law’s cooking reflected those Depression-era habits along with food trends she encountered through her work. Similarly, my own mother had four of us kids to feed on a budget, but her own mother’s influence could still be felt in her cooking.

Today, I take those beloved recipes and modify them to fit dietary needs and family preferences. My brother and sisters do the same thing.  It’s not that we’re disrespecting the tradition; we are keeping it alive. Case in point: Grandmother Helen’s beloved-by-all brownie recipe, a vintage 1950s Betty Crocker cookbook original.

🍫 A Little More Chocolate

This was a quintessential dessert for special occasions and holidays. My siblings and cousins loved this rich, velvety chocolate treat—made even better in the summer with Papaw’s hand-cranked frozen custard. 

The original recipe, for an 8 x 8  or 9 x 9 pan, called for two one-ounce squares of unsweetened chocolate, and the frosting used one ounce. Since grandmother always doubled the recipe, this meant double the chocolate, which can be expensive. Grandmother learned, and taught my mom, who shared this tip with me, that “in a pinch” you could get away with one or two fewer squares of chocolate to save money—or another trip to the store.

 She also taught me the importance of using half butter and half shortening when baking brownies, or any other baked goods for that matter, as another money-saving method. Years later, I learned that combination wasn’t just economical. Butter contributes flavor, while shortening creates a softer, chewier brownie.

She made 1950s Betty Crocker brownies one way, and my mom made them her way—sometimes with all the chocolate, sometimes not. My brother and I now bake this treasured recipe, each with our own variations. To my knowledge, he makes his frosting out of cocoa powder, rather than melted unsweetened chocolate. I make my brownies gluten-free due to my celiac disease, but stick to the original frosting recipe. 

🍰 Recipes for the People We Love

In a similar fashion, my mother-in-law once baked, and later shared the recipe, a strawberry cake that I was just wild about when my husband and I were first married. She knew I loved strawberries and wanted to make something she thought I would like. It was one of those recipes popularized in the 1970s made with strawberry gelatin and fresh strawberries in both the cake and the frosting. 

Years later, when my daughter was quite young, she loved strawberries as much as I did, so I decided to dig up that long-ago recipe once made for me, and make it for one of my daughter’s birthday sleepover. The girls loved it, and lapped it up. However, later that night, my daughter became very sick because of the recipe’s rich ingredients: one cup oil plus four whole eggs in the cake, plus one cup butter in frosting. 

I hadn’t made it since, but earlier in May, my daughter began reminiscing about it. This summer, I’ve made it for her a couple of times, including over the July Fourth weekend. I used my mother-in-law’s original recipe, but I made it gluten-free and found a way to dramatically reduce the eggs and oil without affecting the taste or texture of the cake. 

I adapted the cake to fit the people I loved while still honoring the woman who first made it for me. Different times. Different needs. Same heart. Every generation may edit a recipe, but the love remains intact. 

There are so many wonderful recipes that I have inherited from the women before me. Each recipe is filled with a memory, a history, and the hands that worked out of love, necessity, and grace. Simple recipes such as hot dog sauce that sometimes becomes spaghetti sauce; green beans and corn—half-runners from my family, pole beans from my husband’s; creamy, made-from-scratch macaroni and cheese; homemade bread; far too many desserts to count; and even the simple relish tray—an ever-present plate of pickled, salted, and stuffed morsels reserved for special occasions. 

They all taste of laughter, good-natured teasing, hugs, kisses, and even tears of the past. And now I pass these gifts on to my daughter. She may barely remember some of them and never really knew others, but every time she eats these foods, she receives something they once gave me. Not genetically. Not historically. Personally. It is the tie that binds.

🍽️ What Still Tastes Like Home

Kingsolver inherited Dickens’ framework and made it unmistakably Appalachian. I inherited the recipes of both sides of my family.  Neither remained unchanged. Both became richer because they were adapted rather than rigidly preserved. Maybe the best recipes were never meant to be followed exactly. They were meant to be shared, adapted, and passed on. And isn’t that the point? 

Perhaps that is the great inheritance of recipes. They don’t simply feed those of us gathered around a table, but they connect us to those who came before us and to those who will come after. 

Every family has recipes. The fortunate ones realize they are heirlooms—structures quietly rebuilt by each generation, yet always tasting of home.   

Fighting Reflections

by stephsimply, posted in Simple Observations and Musings

A cardinal, a window, and a lesson in perception

🐦‍🔥The Cardinal Is Back

“Guess who’s back?”

My husband’s message came through my AirPods as I ran early one Saturday morning in May. Then, in quick succession, two more messages followed. One was an image of a cardinal in mid-flight, attacking a window that I would later view on my phone. The other said, “It’s our crazy cardinal friend from last year who won’t stop banging the window. Tippi (our cat) is going CRAZY!”

Ten or so minutes later . . . “OMG! The Boy (our neighbor’s outdoor cat) just jumped as high as the window and nearly caught the bird. Feathers are flying!”

Thus began the return of our daily sound effects. Beginning at first light and continuing off and on throughout the day until full dark falls, we hear the thuds, the whams, and the kerthuds of the colorful, but crazed, cardinal attacking either the bay window or the large picture window at the front of our house. 

I added window clings “guaranteed to prevent even the most aggressive birds” from attacking the windows, but the sounds and the grotesque bird droppings that demand frequent cleaning tell a different story. Watching the cardinal attack from the outside while my 18-year-old cat keeps a vigilant watch—as though her aging joints were a force to be reckoned with—I frequently find myself shaking my head, wondering what on earth the bird thinks he is accomplishing other than a headache. 

From a biological point of view, I get the cardinal’s motivation. He’s naturally driven to fiercely protect his mating and nesting territory during this time of year. When he catches a glimpse of himself in the reflection of the window, he thinks another male is encroaching on his territory. So he attacks by charging and pecking the glass. Then, when he sees his own aggressive movements, he thinks the “intruder” is attacking back. This causes the cardinal to get even angrier and more aggressive, perpetuating the endless cycle of attacks.

The Problem Isn’t His Determination

 I admire the bird’s determination. The problem is not his determination; it is his perception. He isn’t fighting another bird. He’s fighting himself. 

🪟When We Keep Hitting the Glass

How often are we like the determined cardinal? How often do we keep mulling over and returning to the same argument, the same disappointment, the same heartache, the same resentment, and so on? How many times have we tried to change someone who is not yet ready to change? Yet our perception and determination trick our minds—and hearts—into thinking we can. 

We convince ourselves that “If I explain it this way, one more time, then they will finally respond this way.” 

“If only I try harder, then this will finally happen.”

“If only I push, pull, arrange, help . . . just a little bit more, then this will all fall into place.”

And yet, nothing changes. Like the cardinal, we keep hitting the glass. We may have warnings and interruptions that should cause us to reconsider—much like The Boy tried—but our misguided perception has convinced us otherwise.

The cardinal has lost countless feathers. His droppings, no doubt increased by his own anxiety, are piling up alongside those feathers for me to clean up. The bird spends untold energy defending itself from an enemy that isn’t there.

Humans, myself included, do a very similar thing. We spend untold amounts of emotional and mental energy, lose precious time, and sacrifice our peace trying to defeat “something” that may only exist in our minds due to our perceptions. Sometimes the “enemy” is not another person, as we may think. Sometimes the so-called battle is with ourselves, our assumptions, our fears, or even our need to be right. The toll is real. The bruises are real, even when the battle is not.

🧐Seeing More Clearly

The cardinal lacks the power to recognize his own reflection. Humans can. We have the power to pause and ask: “What if my perception is off?” or “What if my focus is fuzzy and I am not seeing correctly as a result?” 

This may mean stepping back in order to stop “banging our heads,” as it were. It may mean taking another look and examining the situation with a fresh perspective in order to identify what is really there.

I am reminded of my most recent eye exam.  “Do you prefer A or B? Is C clearer than B? What about D?” the doctor asked as she adjusted the lenses.

The doctor went from one eye to the other until finally she revealed the view with both eyes properly adjusted. What a difference in clarity that made when I was asked to read that bottom row for the third time.

Wham! I hear the cardinal as I write this. Kerthud! Ugh, that flash of red hurts my head in sympathy for this poor bird. His endless resolve to keep fighting causes me to feel tired for him. 

Every morning, since that first Saturday in late May, Mr. Cardinal is back, convinced that his rival still exists. I watch him and wonder. How many of my own battles have looked exactly the same? How many times have I mistaken my own reflection for a rival, misperceived the reality of a situation, or spent so much energy fighting glass?

The cardinal has become a daily reminder that sometimes the most important change is not changing what stands before us, but changing the lens through which we view it. 

Rustic wooden table with bowl of fruit and vase of pink and purple roses

We Live Inside What We Remember

by stephsimply, posted in Simple Observations and Musings

Sometimes the moments we almost decline become the memories we treasure most.

“Isn’t it funny how day by day nothing changes, but when you look back everything is different?”—C. S. Lewis

💌An Invitation I Almost Declined

As my husband and I drove to meet my daughter and her boyfriend for dinner, I could feel the dull headache just behind my eyes. My mind pinged through what I had already checked off on the administration’s end-of-the-year checklist. Tomorrow there would still be a few minor items to wrap up the school year and this year’s graduation. Saturday would still begin early with a long run, followed by household chores tucked in between loads of laundry. Ah, but I could look forward to putting my feet up Saturday evening!

“Do you mind if we come out Saturday? I was also thinking about bringing . . .”

My insides began to tighten. I am embarrassed to say that my first instinct was to protect my energy and say no because I was so dog-tired. My daughter is an educator too, and I knew she had to be exhausted. So if she was asking, it must really matter to her. 

Sensing my hesitation—she knows me so well—she quickly offered a compromise. 

“We can order pizza.” 

This would reduce my efforts, she added. 

Saying “yes” meant I would do some hosting prep, while still doing my usual Saturday routine. I would need to cut up fresh fruit and vegetables for hummus, toss a large green salad with more fresh toppings on the side, put together a few other snacks, and bake a homemade dessert. Surely I could manage that.

🏡The Business of Life

Once home from dinner, with Saturday’s plan fully established, I watched an episode of Downton Abbey. Mr. Carson observed, “The business of life is the acquisition of memories. In the end, that’s all there is.” 

That line struck a nerve. I had been trying to protect my rest when life was offering an opportunity for a memory. 

I looked over at our kitchen table. In the center of it sat a bouquet leftover from Mother’s Day, nearly two weeks earlier. Half of the flowers had already been tossed because they had faded and wilted. The rest looked as if they were hanging on to their last whisper of energy. 

In my mind, I sifted through memories. How strange it is to realize that my mind is filled with decades of unorganized snapshots: names half-remembered, a hodgepodge of family, friends, and former students—small moments and not-so-small moments that outlived many so-called major events. Strange, isn’t it, that we eventually live inside what we remember?

John and I have spent years investing time in the earliest stages of the lives of young people. There are many faces we remember whose names elude us. There have been countless students over whom we have worried and fretted, those who surprised us in ways we never expected, and untold small classroom moments that by some miracle remain in our hearts today. Looking back, it is stunning to realize that we are often so busy arranging the bouquets of life without fully knowing which flowers will last.

At this stage of life, it is hard not to measure. Some people have accumulated wealth. Others have attained status, square footage, or other visible markers of success. There is nothing inherently wrong with any of that. Hard work is hard work. 

But there is, perhaps, another type of good fortune: lunch dates with friends, graduation ceremonies, family gatherings, long conversations, children returning home, or even unexpected Saturday evening dinners. 

🚚Future Memories

My daughter and her boyfriend will soon be moving to Boston. Time with them will then become a precious commodity. Her young adult life will continue to bloom somewhere else—hundreds of miles away. Saturday night dinners will not always be available. And if my lived experience has taught me anything, it is this: we do not always recognize future memories while we are still living them. Yet later, we will live inside what we remember. 

On Saturday evening, plates were loaded and emptied. One story easily led to another. Laughter filled the rooms. We teased Maddie’s boyfriend far too much, but he was such a good sport about it. Our cat kept circling around our daughter, her boyfriend, and their friend—so happy “her girl” was home, if only for a short time. 

No matter how tired we are, or how carefully we guard our energy, love has a way of interrupting us. And in the end, if we are lucky, we live inside that love.

A person walking alone on a winding forest path with autumn leaves and sunlight filtering through the trees

A Prayer to Become Art

by stephsimply, posted in Simple Observations and Musings

Reflections on quiet lives, steady love, and the meaning we leave behind

Perhaps it is aging, or the fact that I read too many books. Perhaps it is because I am a sentimental fool. But lately, I’ve had a persistent thought—maybe more of a prayer. 

Let my life have meaning. Let it become art for someone.

Not headline art. Not museum-worthy art. 

Just something that helps another person survive a difficult season.

The Question That Stayed

I think this inner prayer began earlier this year while reading My Friends by Fredrik Backman. In it, I encountered a quote that gave me pause. I read and reread the words. 

 “Art is what we leave of ourselves in other people.”

It was one of those quotes I immediately wrote down. From that moment on, a question kept returning to me: “What am I leaving in other people?” 

I began thinking about the people who had shaped my life, as well as those I had witnessed quietly shaping the lives of others. As I mulled it over, my heart ached a little. I found myself wondering what I had truly offered the world.

Quiet Lives

One of the first people who came to mind was my husband, John. He is a relational magnet. People are naturally drawn to his easygoing personality. He thrives publicly—the more people, the better. His students tell me all the time, sometimes sheepishly since I am also an educator, that John is their favorite teacher. I have always admired that quality in him.

Meanwhile, I am quieter, sometimes even awkward when it comes to small talk. I am comfortable and competent within the classroom, but less so outside of those four walls. 

The subjects John and I teach are different too. My class is harder to love because fewer kids read, and even fewer enjoy it. In the world of education, John’s class is birthday cake, while mine is more like broccoli. On my best days, maybe it’s a clementine—sweet and tangy, but still has to be peeled.

I love that for John, but I also wonder: is it the subject, or is it me? I do not always feel that I impact my students—or coworkers, friends, and family—in the same visible way he does. Still, I am trying to grow into a better, more open version of myself, though it does not come easily. 

Even so, I continue to prefer a quieter life. But can quiet lives still create “art”?  

Does quietly going about my work within the classroom make a difference? Can my passion for my students and subject still be felt through my actions?  

I try to create a structured, reliable classroom—one that challenges students while also giving them opportunities to succeed. I don’t want my students to fail, and I try to teach in ways that help them believe they can learn.  

But does the unspoken care matter? Does consistency leave residue in people? Must impact always be loud? 

The Art We Leave Behind

If “art” is what we leave of ourselves in other people, then I pray I leave behind a sense of love and worth. I hope others feel emotionally safe around me. I hope they sense that I believe in their ability to learn, adapt, and overcome life’s challenges. 

Hope springs eternal in me when it comes to my students, my family, my friends, and humanity itself. I pray that hope is felt.

I am more turtle than hare—more slow and steady than flash and flare. Still, I want to model a different way of moving through the world. I hope to show that aging does not have to diminish us, that nourishing our bodies does not have to be restrictive, and that fitness can take many forms. 

I want others to understand that you do not have to be loud to make a difference. To me, it matters more to live quietly and with integrity, trusting that perhaps someone, somewhere, might find strength or courage in an example of an ordinary life lived faithfully.

Most of all, I want to be the best mom I can to my now-adult daughter. I want to offer her emotional support and steadiness when she needs it, while also giving her the freedom to become fully herself—whether she chooses to live loudly or quietly. 

I want to continue nurturing the love between my husband and me, to love my family well, and to deepen the friendships I already have.

Let me leave warmth and gentleness behind.

Let me leave laughter and joy behind.

Let someone feel less alone because I lived.

Let someone believe their goals are possible.

Let my life be useful art in some small way.

Not grand.

Not immortal.

Just meaningful. 

The Professor Who Changed How I Think About Aging

by stephsimply, posted in Simple Observations and Musings

When a biology professor offered me an unexpected future, I turned it down—but the lesson he taught me about possibility has stayed with me for more than thirty years.

The early June sun warmed my skin. I sat quietly along the shores of the Outer Banks of North Carolina. The page corners of a biology textbook and spiral-bound notebook—filled with sand and smeared ink—riffled in the chilly ocean breeze. 

I had just earned a master’s degree in 14 months while working full-time as a special education teacher. And I had a dream. I felt pulled to teach Kindergarten students—specifically those in need of early academic intervention. With my background in special education, I felt I was the ideal candidate for this role.

💭A Dream Interrupted

Unfortunately, I was told “no” in clear terms. I was not officially certified to teach kindergarten, despite holding a K-12 special education certificate. The position required a K-8 elementary education certification.

The requirement felt unfair and exhausting. I thought I had done everything “right” to teach this specific “special” class, but it still wasn’t enough. Rather than let this deter me, it became the basis for a new determination: earn that blasted K-8 Elementary certification if that was the last thing I did. Little did I know where, and to whom, this would lead me.

One month after earning my master’s degree, I enrolled at Marshall University. An advisor created a plan that required me to take two condensed summer courses—each just four-weeks long. The first class began the same week as a long-planned vacation my husband, John, and I had already paid for with another couple. If I did not take that summer course, I would have to wait another year before it was offered again.

📞 A Phone Call to Dr. Tarter

This was before email. Therefore, I needed to call to speak with the professor of the class, which ironically was a basic-level biology course with a lab. I called the office—determined, but a little scared. As a teacher, I knew this was a big ask. 

 “Would it be possible to miss the first week of a four-week summer session if I completed all the readings and assignments while I was away and made up the lab work upon my return?” 

This professor didn’t know me.  He didn’t know my work ethic. Missing a full four days of classes out of 16 total sessions was a significant deficit. I wasn’t even sure if I could do it, but I had to try. However, if he said “no,” it meant I would not earn the certification in time for the following school year.

His name was Dr. Tarter.  I don’t remember much about the conversation itself, but I do remember the knot in my stomach as I explained my situation and asked the question. I have a vague recollection of a protracted pause that was followed by a handful of pointed questions as my heart pounded. When he reluctantly consented, it was with a series of stipulations and a parting implication that I still may not pass the class. I assured him I would work hard to make up for the deficit my absence created.

🌊 Studying at the Shoreline

While my friends and husband read Cornwell, Grisham, Koontz, and King, I read about the characteristics of life, scientific method, cell structure, and cellular metabolism. They took long walks along the shore; I sat at the shore’s edge, feet in water, jotting notes in a college ruled notebook. When they stayed up late playing cards, I went to bed early, so I could get up to make flashcards and study in the early morning quiet. I was resolute in my commitment both to the requirements to teach the Kindergarten intervention class and to my hard work. I did not want Dr. Tarter to regret allowing me to miss the week.  

Upon returning to MU, my dedication continued. Much to my surprise, I thrived in Biology and the required lab. It turned out that Dr. Tarter was an excellent instructor, breaking down difficult concepts into clear, understandable ideas. Working in the lab with the guidance of a GA after class was invigorating. What was, at first, an intimidating environment, quickly became a playground for learning.

👩‍🏫 An Unexpected Offer

As the short summer session wound down, Dr. Tarter asked to speak to me after class. He explained he was surprised by my performance, especially considering I missed the first full week of classes. Then, he made an unexpected offer.  He asked if I would consider switching paths. I could work as a graduate assistant in his research lab, receive a small stipend and tuition support, and pursue a Master of Science in Biology. At the age of 29, Dr. Tarter was offering me a different future–one I had never thought possible as a young girl–becoming a scientist. 

I was shocked and torn from within. I. Could. Be. A. Scientist. 

And yet . . .

🤨 Too Old at Twenty-Nine?

There were bills to pay. I now had multiple student loans, and my husband still needed to complete his master’s. How could I ask him to wait another two years before he could start his advanced education? How would we get by on one salary? Worst of all, as I now reflect, I thought I was too old. Too old at age 29—can you imagine? 

 I said all this and more as I declined Dr. Tarter’s offer. I recall how he looked at me with eyes full of compassion and the wisdom that comes from decades of living. 

“Well, I suppose the possibilities of youth can still be held in our senior years.”

🤔 The Lesson That Remained

At times, I’ve often wondered what might have happened if I had accepted that offer— how different my life might have been?  But I don’t carry regret. Instead, I’m grateful that he saw something in me that I couldn’t see yet in myself—something I never believed I was truly capable of achieving. Youth was not what I thought it once was.

As I move through this new decade of life, I find myself near the age Dr. Tarter was when he made that offer. Just like he modeled then, I am committed to continuing to learn—to showing up to life with discipline and diligence. In fact, I am still evolving, despite the fact I never earned another degree. 

I think back to that biology and the spiral bound notebook—its water-stained pages fluttering in the salty air. Likewise, I hold onto that feeling of possibility that Dr. Tarter saw in me. He saw me as more than an educator. He saw another version of me and the possibilities contained within.

The notebook is long gone, and so is Dr. Tarter. But his lesson remains. He was right. Possibility doesn’t belong to youth. It belongs to those willing to keep reaching for it.

When a Stranger Helped Me Pick Up the Pieces

by stephsimply, posted in Simple Observations and Musings

Sometimes the most meaningful acts of kindness come from strangers we may never see again.

❄️ The “Perfect Storm” at the Grocery Store

It was another cold, snowy morning with another round of snow on its way. School had been cancelled for the day, and I thought I would be “smart” by driving to the grocery store early. Surely no one else would do that ahead of the snow. They would have done their shopping last night, right?

Pulling into the parking lot, snow piles—peppered with dirt and debris—blocked several parking spots. Light snow sprinkled down from an angry sky darkened by winter’s wrath once again. It was a Friday, the first of the month, so I should have known that despite the early hour, few parking spots were available. Then it hit me: big-game weekend.

🛒 The Cart with the Stubborn Wheel

Once parked, it was a “perfect storm” inside the store. 80s pop music attempted to brighten the mood. Harsh fluorescent lighting contrasted the outside winter skies.  Paper ads of this week’s specials fluttered in the air as the double doors whooshed open and closed repeatedly. The only cart available was a small cart, which was perfect for my needs. The only problem? It had a front wheel that did not roll properly. 

I quickly attempted to push it. After all, I only needed a few items, but that stubborn wheel kept sticking, making corners especially difficult to turn. Nonetheless, I found a way to, well, get it rolling, and attempted to weave in and out through the throngs of dilly-dallying people and displays. 

I reminded myself of the mission since I had already “researched” prices online: Stick to the list organized by aisle numbers. Get in and get out quickly. Online work awaited me at home, and snowfall had already started. I told myself to slow down, but I kept my pace up anyway.

📦 When Everything Came Crashing Down

And, of course, it happened. The wheel stuck right as I tried to turn a corner. It was like a bad slow-mo scene from an old black-and-white B-movie. I tried to stop it, then catch it, but it wasn’t enough. An entire cardboard display–stockpiling the greatest hits of pharmacy specials—began to crumble to the floor.

 I stumbled, fumbled, and bumbled with individual boxes of pain relievers, antacids, toothpaste, vitamins, and cold/flu care items. Embarrassment colored my cheeks and a sensation of shame sent waves of heat through my body as my heart began to race. I was a child again, and it was “all my fault.” “You should have known better, Steph” echoed in my mind. I tried to work quickly, but my hands were as clumsy and klutzy as that misbehaving wheel. 

🤝 The Kindness of a Stranger

Then, I sensed a presence. I gazed up from a squat position on the floor and there stood a young woman with large expressive eyes. Her kindness was palpable as she stooped down beside me. Her long fingers worked with calm, coordinated dexterity, and she began to help me. I began to protest that it was “my mess,” not her responsibility. Her hands continued to work with precision, and she met my gaze, declaring that it was only cardboard–“no big deal.” 

The display was like putting together a 3-D jigsaw puzzle. Nonetheless, my heart slowed with the gentleness of her response. When we were finished, we each had a few items left over in our hands with no more room on the cardboard shelves. The unknown woman flipped her long chestnut hair over her shoulder and gave an unexpected child-like giggle. In a conspiratorial voice, she directed us to “put the rest of the items here.” It was on a shelf of an endcap of laundry detergent, beads, and dryer sheets.

She winked. “It makes about as much sense as this random display.” 

I thanked her profusely, but she waved me off with an it-was-nothing expression.

❄️ A Snowflake Memory

When my daughter was quite young, I recall playing with her, gleeful and reveling in the snow. “Catching” snowflakes on her mitten was a favorite activity. Time fell away as delicate flakes alighted onto our upturned mittens. There was a silent wonder that muted even the beating of our hearts as we gazed at each individual snowflake. “Look, Mommy, look!” she would say as slowly each snowflake melted into the fabric of our mittens, leaving only a whisper of a mark.

The woman escaped as quickly as she appeared. For a fleeting moment I was back in the snowy front yard with my daughter, silence filled my ears as the warmth of her generosity lingered within me. Then, just as quickly the milieu of the store came back into focus: the buzzing lights, calls for help up front, the throngs of people with party trays, beer, and bread, and another 80s be-bop song played in the background. 

With a warmed and lightened spirit, I trooped off to gather the few items remaining on my list. Of course, my cart still had the broken wheel, and it was still hard to maneuver it through crowded aisles and endcaps. Still, I was able to get the rest of my items without incident. 

How many of us navigate life’s challenges with little vulnerabilities wobbling within us like that shopping cart wheel?  Helping hands are seldom asked for, but often needed in a hurried and harried world.

🌊 The Ripple Effect of Kindness

A week or so later, when I visited the same store, I noticed a woman struggling to reach an item from her motorized shopping cart. One of her legs was in a boot—her current wobbly wheel. As I offered to help her, I was reminded of the helping hand that lifted me up during one of life’s storms and sensed the rippling waves of one person’s ordinary kindness.

Kindness, generosity, and brief moments of courage—these are the connections that steady us when life turns snowy and cold and hands us a cart with a wobbly wheel. 

I Don’t Know Where I’m Going, But I’m Following My Map: How discipline, values, and small steps help us move forward without certainty

by stephsimply, posted in Simple Observations and Musings

When a Casual Comment Becomes a Lifeline

I was briefly chatting with my brother, Scott, a few months ago while he was driving through an unfamiliar town for a job interview. He was using a maps app to help him navigate, and I could hear the navigation system giving him verbal directions. Scott laughed and said, “I don’t know where I am going, but I’m following my map.” 

I teasingly told him that I was stealing that line–it sounded like an earworm lyric from a pop song, the kind that gets stuck in your head after hearing it once. Turns out, the line did stick with me, though not as a song. Instead, it became a phrase of comfort when answers to life’s questions felt far away. As I repeated it to myself, I realized that–contrary to what popular self-help and purpose-driven culture often suggests–we are frequently moving forward without clarity. And that’s okay.

The Maps We Follow in different seasons of life

The maps we use in life vary depending on the season we’re in, and they’re often shaped by our current goals. There are personal, professional, or inner-life maps to guide us: growth plans, workout schedules, work routines, creative practices, calendars, and goals of all kinds.

Listening to the Inner Compass

Alongside these maps, we possess an inner compass. This compass is rooted in our values. It helps us recognize which actions and choices align with who we are, and it often points us to what brings us meaning or joy. When we allow our inner compass to work in tandem with our life maps, even when neither promises certainty, they can still guide us forward. 

Why Consistency Matters More Than Certainty

As a runner training for a spring marathon, I rely on a training plan, a literal map. It requires me to show up even on those single-digit mornings when motivation is low. I trust this plan, knowing that it’s probably not perfect. Still, it moves me forward mile by mile. I do not need to know how strong I’ll feel weeks from now; I only need to follow today’s plan, step by step.

The same is true for maps focused on career progression, creative pursuits, and even healing journeys. Momentum is built through consistency, not certainty.

Progress Isn’t Linear

That momentum rarely moves in a straight line. It builds, rises, dips, and rebuilds again. It reminds me of using a navigation system that reroutes unexpectedly–or worse, sends me off at the wrong exit. Getting back on course can feel like a setback, even when it isn’t.

This mirrors life. Not every day is joyful. Some days are ordinary. Others are heavy and disappointing. Forward movement does not guarantee constant and abundant happiness. Sometimes, in order to recognize how far we’ve come, we have to pause long enough to feel gratitude for the distance already traveled. We also need to notice subtle signs of progress–the quiet evidence that we are, in fact, moving forward. 

At other times, we are nudged towards redirections. These reroutes aren’t a sign of failure; they’re simply adjustments–responses to the curveballs life inevitably throws our way.

Staying Aligned With True North

The key is remaining aligned with our True North. This means saying no to paths that look “successful” but feel hollow or ring untrue. When our thoughts, actions, and choices align with our core values, we maintain integrity–personally, professionally, and creatively. Our internal navigation stays intact, helping us to find our way, even when life reroutes us again and again.

The Quiet Freedom of Discipline

Staying true to our True North does require discipline, a word that is often misunderstood. When we live by deeply held values, we reduce decision fatigue. Our choices become acts of self-care, rather than sources of stress. Over time, this value-based, disciplined approach to life creates containers for joy–often found in small, quiet milestones along life’s way. 

When Scott said, “I don’t know where I am going, but I’m following my map,” he was acknowledging–intentional or not–that most of us don’t know exactly where our lives are headed. Yet as long as we remain tuned-in, to our True North–that still small voice within, we are allowed to trust that forward movement is occurring–even if it unfolds along a less straightforward timeline than we might prefer.

In a world filled with loud and distracting voices, I invite you to listen to the compass you trust and follow the map it provides. Have faith. Keep going, even when it feels as though you are going nowhere. Keep going. Your faith knows the way forward.