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Choosing to Dwell on the Light: Overcoming the Burden of Regret

Mother and me

Have you ever felt guilty about something that happened a long time ago—something that, when you think back, you so wish you had done differently? I have times when heavy thoughts creep into my mind—and I start thinking about things in the past I wish I could change. If I let myself, I can easily struggle with worry and guilt… and that’s so pointless. Keeping those regrets alive serves no positive purpose.

My dear Mother battled cancer for a long time—always with a smile on her face and joy in her heart. It was really something—her faith, her strength, her happiness. She was a wonderful patient, and it was always a joy to be around her. But as her daughter, it was also very difficult to see her unable to get up and go with me—to leave the hospital and go out and about to have fun like we had always done. We were in and out of UAMS in Little Rock a lot during the last year of her life, and it was….very hard. I just desperately wanted everything to go back to normal. Still, we found ways to celebrate and enjoy the days together. Mother was pretty good at it – and I followed her example.

Birthdays were always, always a very big deal to my Mother. When I was a little girl, she planned the best parties for me—always unique and so much fun. She loved to create such fun activities for me and my friends.

Mother was also a wonderful cook, and there are so many of her meals that I loved (and miss!)… but her wonderful fried tacos were always my favorite. So on my birthday, she would always make fried tacos for me with fresh strawberry cake for dessert. The menu stayed the same every year. I loved it—and so did she.

It was a tradition she never wanted to break. One year on my birthday, when I was teaching in Republic, Missouri, she called me (as she always did) while I was driving to work to sing Happy Birthday. She sang cheerfully, but I could tell something was wrong. When I asked her, she admitted that she was driving herself to the emergency room but told me firmly not to worry.

As it turns out, she had done some eyeglass repair the night before and left a little white bottle of super glue on the bathroom sink. The next morning when she got up, she picked up her morning eyedrops… she thought… and squeezed a big drop into one eye. It burned, and she blinked, and her eyelid stayed shut. Still sleepy, she had picked up the super glue instead of the eyedrops.

She told me to pray and not to worry, and that she would call the school to update me later. I offered to head down immediately to be with her at the hospital, but she told me there was no need. She was almost there, and they would take care of everything. Then…she asked me what time I wanted her to have the tacos ready that evening. Good grief! I told her that we could skip the tacos—or at the very least put them off until another day—and she firmly told me that she WOULD cook my birthday tacos for me on my birthday, and that I just needed to let her know what time. I told her we could talk about it later – but I smiled inside – because I knew she was not going to be stopped. 🙂 Well, to shorten the story—they did get her eye flushed, opened, cleaned, and bandaged… and she did bake my birthday cake that afternoon and fry those tacos that night. I am smiling now just thinking about it.

Fried tacos

Fast forward several years to the last birthday I ever got to spend with my Mother. I had worked the day before, and even though I was taking off to head to Little Rock (a 3+ hour drive) to spend my birthday with Mother, I had decided to go home and spend the night in my own bed before driving down. It wasn’t typical for me – and I must admit, it puzzled me—because it would have been easier to just drive to Little Rock after work—but instead I had gone home. I felt a little guilty about it. Talking to Mother on the phone, however, she assured me that it was a good idea—that I would rest better at home in my own bed and could drive down the next morning. I looked forward to seeing her and planned on leaving early.

The next morning, however, I was so slow getting ready. It seemed like I was somehow dragging my feet as I made some breakfast, put my makeup on, packed a bag… everything just seemed to be taking longer than normal – and for no good reason. I stayed in slow motion, and I ended up leaving much, much later than I had anticipated. Mother and I spoke by phone, of course, and she assured me that all was fine—but I knew that she was looking forward to me being there…and that I was the one causing the delays – and I really couldn’t figure out why. I wanted to be there – to see her smile, to get my hug – to celebrate my day, but I couldn’t seem to get out the door.

I was thoughtful and prayerful on the drive to Little Rock…and I finally faced the reality that this would probably be the last birthday I would spend with my dear Mother. I was avoiding that fact by not facing the day. It’s hard to explain, but I didn’t want to admit that she might not be here on my next birthday, so I let myself get caught in a painful spinning wheel of emotions. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that I was late because I was scared and sad, feeling like that little girl who wanted to run away to the past where Mother was healthy. But of course, I couldn’t.

When I finally parked my car at UAMS, I felt guilty and embarrassed that it was already after lunch. I should have been there sooner…and I knew it. I felt sad.

UAMS

When I got off the elevator and turned to walk down her hall, a nurse smiled at me and said, “Happy birthday!” I thanked her and walked a few more steps, and a nurse’s aide said, “Oh, hello! I hear it’s your birthday!” Mother’s room was toward the end of the hall, and by the time I got there—doctors, nurses, housekeepers, you name it—everyone was telling me Happy Birthday. My Mother was so excited about it that she had literally proudly told everyone.

I walked into her room to see her big, beautiful smile, and bright happy eyes. I told her I was sorry I was late, and she hugged me and told me it was fine. She had even managed to get a present for me—from her hospital bed. That day was happy and hard all at the same time… We laughed and enjoyed the day. It is a memory that I treasure.

But every now and then, the guilt of that day comes back to me. My mind starts to swirl and painful thoughts start to take over:

  • “You knew that could be your last time to celebrate your birthday with her. Why didn’t you get there earlier?”
  • “Mother must have been so disappointed that I wasn’t there early that morning. She was so looking forward to seeing me.”
  • “How could I have taken so long to get down there—when I would give so much for a few more minutes with her now?”

If I let them, these thoughts can really take over…just typing them now is very hard for me…but dwelling on these things serves no positive purpose. I was slow that day because I love my Mother so dearly – and I wanted time to stop – because time was taking her away from me.

Feeling guilty about something I cannot now change just makes me sad, undermines my confidence, and piles on stress. SO—I tell myself that I have to think on the good things, and I work to focus specifically on the good things of that specific day. There are MANY:

  • I got a hug and a kiss from my Mother that day.
  • She was so proud of me she told almost everyone on the floor that it was my birthday.
  • I got to see her beautiful smile.
  • We played Trouble and Dominoes together.
  • We had a big window and a beautiful view of Markham Street in Little Rock.
  • We laughed together.
  • We talked about wonderful memories of other times.
  • She knew how very much I loved her.
  • We were together.
Domino game

The mind is powerful—and the good news is we really do get to choose what we think about.

It took me a long time to realize that the grace my mother gave me that afternoon when I walked in late was the same grace I needed to start giving myself. She wasn’t counting the hours on the clock; she was just counting the blessings of us being in the same room. But even more than that, it is the very same grace the Lord offers us. Jesus doesn’t stand over us with a stopwatch, tallying up our past mistakes or measuring our regrets. He met my brokenness with open arms, reminding me that He has already carried the weight of my guilt so that I don’t have to.

Regret wants to anchor us to our weakest moments, but the Lord’s love anchors us to the truth. My mother lived her life with a smile on her face and joy in her heart, choosing faith over fear every single day—even from a hospital bed. She walked in the freedom of the Lord’s grace, and the best way I can honor her legacy and our precious Savior isn’t by looking back at the past with regret, but by looking forward with the same strength and faith she showed me.

Whenever the shadows of those old thoughts try to creep back in, I take a deep breath, I think of her smile, and most of all I remember the Lord’s promise to cover our past with His grace and give us a future full of hope. I choose to dwell on the light. I choose (over and over again) to think on the good things.

God’s Promise to Clear Away Our Regrets:

“Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland.” — Isaiah 43:18-19

His Promise to Redeem Our Hardest Days:

“And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love Him, who have been called according to His purpose.” — Romans 8:28

His Instruction on How to Protect Our Minds:

“Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things.” — Philippians 4:8

Our Declaration of Victory to Move Forward:

“But one thing I do: Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead, I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus.” — Philippians 3:13-14

Philippians 4:8
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The House That Steel Built: Lessons in Grit from Edgar and Miss Allie Smith’s Front Porch

Allie Murray Smith

This morning I am sitting on the front porch of a historic home in Plains, Georgia known as Mother Allie’s House . Rain is falling softly and the birds are singing. Everything is peaceful and beautiful – and I am grateful for the opportunity to be here. This is the home where former First Lady of the United States, Rosalynn Carter, was raised along with her three siblings. Today, it is a beautifully preserved rental guest home/VRBO, lovingly and meticulously put together by the family to deeply reflect the warmth and history of someone I have discovered to be an absolutely remarkable woman – Mrs. Frances Allethea (Murray) Smith – affectionately known to many as “Miss Allie”.

​The family has generously placed many wonderful books about the Smith and Carter families in this house, making it easy to learn during your stay about the history of this home and the people who lived here.

By all accounts, Miss Allie’s early life was filled with the warmth of a happy childhood. Born just south of Plains on Christmas Eve, 1905, she was the deeply cherished daughter of John William “Captain” Murray and Rosa Nettie Wise Murray. Before Allie was born, her parents suffered a devastating heartbreak when their only son tragically passed away before reaching his first birthday. After that profound loss, Allie grew up essentially as an only child on the family farm. Knowing the sorrow her parents carried surely made them dote on her even more, pouring their love, protective attention, and family resources into their only daughter.

​In 1924, after Allie graduated from Plains High School, her parents did something truly extraordinary for a rural farming family: they sent her to college. To understand how vast that ambition was, you have to realize that during that era, less than 5% of all Americans held a college degree. It was a time when a woman’s opportunities were drastically limited, but Allie’s family obviously deeply valued the intellect of their daughter. She moved to Milledgeville to attend the Georgia State College for Women. There, she earned a degree in teaching, specializing in home economics, and graduated with her diploma on June 7, 1926.

​Less than two weeks later, on June 20, 1926, she married her sweetheart, Wilburn Edgar Smith, who was nine years her senior. Theirs was a rare, lifelong romance that had begun years earlier. Later in life, Allie would frequently tell her children that Edgar was the only man for her, and that she could never love another—a promise of absolute devotion she kept for the rest of her days.

​Historical records and Rosalynn Carter’s own memoirs reveal that Edgar Smith’s passion for education was rooted in his own deferred dreams. Edgar was an incredibly intelligent man, but because his own family needed him to work, he never had the opportunity to go to college himself. He spent his life surrounded by books, reading voraciously, and watching the world change. Because he couldn’t pursue higher education, he made it a mission of his life that each of his children would.

​To build a secure life for his new bride and the four children that soon followed—Eleanor Rosalynn, William Jerrold, Murray Lee, and Lillian Allethea—he became a true jack-of-all-trades. He was an avid farmer, a clerk at a local store, and a school bus driver. Most notably, he stepped up to meet the demands of the changing times by owning and operating the very first auto mechanic and repair shop in Sumter County….just down the street from where I’m sitting now. He was the man who kept the rural community moving forward, fixing the temperamental engines of early automobiles and maintaining the tractors that were revolutionizing modern farming. Beyond his manual labor and entrepreneurial drive, Edgar was a deeply respected civic leader, actively shaping the town’s future as an elected member of the Plains Town Council.

​Through genius and sacrifice, Edgar used his multiple jobs to quietly build a college fund for his children, methodically purchasing U.S. Savings Bonds and funneling every spare penny from his mechanic shop into a sacred, untouchable account. I am amazed that he was so forward thinking – that he valued education so much that he saved (during hard times) to send his children to college. Can you imagine?

​In 1928, when their eldest daughter Rosalynn was just a sixteen-month-old toddler, Edgar and Allie moved the family into a house on South Bond Street – the same house where I am spending the week. Together, they built a life here on a foundation of community service, visionary hard work, and family devotion…and looked forward to a long life together.

​However, in the late 1930s, Edgar fell terribly ill with leukemia – and at that time there were no effective treatments. For over a year, the family watched his health decline, comforted by local neighbors like Miss Lillian Carter—Jimmy Carter’s mother—who visited daily as a registered nurse to administer his routine medical injections. On October 22, 1940, Edgar passed away at home at the young age of 44.

​At just 35 years old, Miss Allie was suddenly a grieving widow with four young children and no job to support them. When you look at the ages of her children at the time of her husband’s death, the sheer weight of her new reality is staggering: Rosalynn was 13, Jerry was 11, Murray was 8 (turning eight on the exact day his father died), and Allethea was 3. In the immediate aftermath, a heartbroken Miss Allie penned a line that laid bare her grief:

“I miss him and I don’t know what I will do without him.”

​When Edgar died, he managed to leave behind a small inheritance and savings account for his family. But as Howard Norton details in Rosalynn, A Portrait, Rosalynn recalled that her mother fiercely resolved never to touch a single cent of that inheritance. She was determined to bring up and educate her children entirely through her own efforts, keeping Edgar’s sacred college fund intact. What a determined lady.

​The blows kept coming. Less than a year after losing her husband, Allie’s mother, Rosa, passed away at age 60. Suddenly, Allie was not only raising four small children alone, but her aging, grieving father, “Captain” Murray, came to live with them in the house. It is almost impossible to imagine how terrifyingly hard it must have been for her. For fourteen years, she had lived a sheltered life centered around being a protected homemaker. Now, she had to navigate intense, compounding family grief while carrying the sole financial survival and care of six people on her shoulders. I am sleeping in Miss Allie’s bedroom this week – and when I lay down at night I have been thinking about the weight of responsibility she must have felt – yet all of the stories I hear from others about her are stories of her love, her faith, her strength, and her joy. What a remarkable lady.

​To make a living, Miss Allie started taking in sewing. She didn’t just mend clothes; she took on master-level tailoring. She crafted beautiful, intricate wedding dresses—which quickly became one of her highly sought-after specialties—and she even tackled the incredibly difficult task of making tailored men’s suits and heavy overcoats from scratch. Ladies from the community valued her work. When they found a dress somewhere that they admired, she could study it and then make it for them. There are several examples of her work here in the house – and they are absolutely beautiful.

​One steady, dependable source of income came from the family farm – which she rented out instead of selling. However, even though she needed that cash to keep the household running, she insisted on funneling every single penny of that rent money straight into the untouchable savings for her children’s college funds.

​She took other work to support her family – working in the school cafeteria and as a grocery store clerk. After a few years, she took the federal civil service examination, passed it, and was awarded a position as an assistant to the postmaster at the local post office in Plains. It became a defining pillar of her life. She clocked in at 7:00 AM every single morning for 29 years, walking to work from this very house. She loved her job and the daily connection it gave her to the townspeople. When she reached the mandatory federal retirement age of 70, she was still sharp, energetic, and fully capable of working. She fought passionately against leaving, but federal regulations forced her to step down against her will—an experience that deeply saddened her.

​(In an incredible and wonderful twist of history, that mandatory retirement rule wouldn’t stand forever. Her son-in-law, President Jimmy Carter, signed the Age Discrimination in Employment Act Amendments into law, raising and eventually eliminating mandatory retirement ages for federal employees.)

​Even after her forced retirement, Allie refused to slow down, taking a part-time job at a local flower shop just to keep busy. Her younger son Murray beautifully remembered that while the family was technically poor, “she forgot to tell us.” No matter how hard things got, Murray recalled always getting exactly what he needed, whether it was a new pair of basketball shoes or a baseball glove. She encouraged her children to work early; Murray delivered papers, delivered groceries, clerked in the local store, and worked behind the soda fountain at the drug store before he was even 12 years old.

​In the book Rosalynn, A Portrait, the future First Lady reflected on the painful time when the family was dealing with the loss of her father, sharing a memory that would shape her forever:

​”We depended on mother for everything after father died. And that’s when I saw my mother develop into a strong, independent person, assuming full responsibility for the family and asking no help or charity from anyone. That made a deep impression on me. I’m sure it turned out to be a permanent influence.”

​In a beautiful personal tribute written later in life (found in the book Mother Allie’s Recipes), Rosalynn expanded on that legacy:

​”My mother was a wonderful role model for me. She was always there when I needed her; she had confidence in me and encouraged me in whatever I tried to do; and she taught me by her example… I watched her take charge, and do what she had to do. Those early experiences helped prepare me to accept my own challenges and do the best I could with them.”

​But Allie didn’t just provide food, clothes, and tuition—she anchored her children in something much deeper. Her son, Murray Lee Smith (named after Mother Allie’s maiden name), noted that his mother’s personal demonstration of Christianity in her life, combined with her insistence that her children go to Sunday school, church, and study the Bible regularly, gave them all a spiritual bedrock that never faltered. As Murray beautifully penned,

“We grew up seeing Christ through mother. She was a wonderful person and the greatest mother in the world.”

​As a single parent, Miss Allie had to serve as both mother and father to her children. Rather than ruling with an iron fist, she raised her children with intelligence and example. Her oldest son Jerry recalled how his mother uniquely used psychology on them when they started dating. Unlike the parents of almost all their peers, Miss Allie famously refused to lay down a strict, rigid curfew. Instead, she chose a tactic that was far more powerful and impactful. As Jerry remembered:

​”…Mother repeatedly impressed on us that she had tried all our lives to teach us what is right and what is wrong, and that if we hadn’t learned that by then, she had failed as a mother. Well, after a quiet lecture like that, when we all went out with our dates we were determined that we would do the right thing so mother would not feel that she had failed and we almost always got home at a reasonable hour.”

​In his own heartfelt note (found in the book Mother Allie’s Recipes), Jerry shared just how unbreakable that bond remained into adulthood:

​”Mother was my best friend. She cannot be replaced. Even though I had moved far away, married and had children of my own, she remained my best friend. She was always there in my times of need. A telephone call was all it took. Every decision ever made by me in my entire life was and will continue to be guided by the fine Christian upbringing provided by my beloved mother.”

​Sitting on her porch today, I am thinking a lot about this remarkable lady. Her life inspires me – and reading the tributes from her children brings tears to my eyes. Her youngest daughter, Allethea, beautifully wrote this sentiment in her own tribute to her Mother (found in the Mother Allie cookbook):

​”God made a miracle when he made Mother. She was my friend, my confidant, my inspiration, both mother and father to me… I miss her and even though she is no longer with us I still feel her presence. She did all she could do for us here on earth and now she has gone on to heaven to get it ready for us.”

​Sending four children to college in that day and age as a single, widowed mother was nothing short of incredible. Yet, because of Edgar’s vision, Allie’s steel-willed determination, and their shared foundation of faith and trust, every single one of their four children graduated from college—fulfilling Edgar’s dreams and setting off a ripple effect of leadership that would eventually reach the global stage.

​In future posts, I can’t wait to take you on a little tour of this historic home and show you the wonderful mementos that the family has preserved here—the breathtakingly intricate needlework, the delicate crochet, and the beautiful things she made with the very same hands that scrubbed floors, provided hugs, and sorted mail.

​But today, I just want to honor the legacy of Edgar and Allie together. I am so grateful to get to spend the week in their home and learn from the examples and the ideals they lived by. In a world that often celebrates loud, flashy achievements, I am standing in awe of the quiet, fierce, unbreakable strength that built this household. They proved that with enough vision, faith, grit, and love, two ordinary people can hold the world together for their children in an extraordinary manner.

​Isn’t that remarkable?

For more pictures and additional information, visit and follow my Facebook page at https://www.facebook.com/lisa.carlon.5

Want to stay at Mother Allie’s House? Click https://www.motherallieshouse.com/

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Sister Schubert Rolls and Aluminum Foil

an empty roll and a piece of aluminum foil

Happy Thursday, friends!

Let’s all be kind to each other today…. because you know what? We all carry silent, invisible weights. Even though our days are full of blessings – we also all have pains. Sometimes, a person will drop what they are doing and just freeze, stopped dead in their tracks by a sudden wave of emotion, and the people standing right next to them won’t have a single clue why.

I used to have a friend whose favorite catchphrase was, “That’s so weird,” whenever she encountered a person or emotional reaction or a situation she didn’t quite understand. I loved her dearly, but I always winced inside when she said that phrase. Just because a person’s behavior or feelings are unfamiliar to our own lived experience doesn’t make them “weird.” It usually just means we don’t know the story behind it…we don’t understand. We don’t always know what hurts, what fears, what pains a person is carrying behind their smiles.

A Quiet Moment of Reflection

Take last night, for instance. If you had walked into my kitchen, you would have seen a grown woman standing by the cabinets, holding an empty cardboard tube with tears in her eyes. To a stranger, it would probably look weird, but to me, it was a quiet moment of unexpected reflection.

When my parents passed away, I made the decision to move into their house in Green Forest. Even though I had never lived in this house before, it felt like I had… because in many ways, it is the house I grew up in.

When I was a little girl, Mother and Daddy sat down together and carefully drew a house plan that Daddy then built between Hattieville and Old Hickory, Arkansas. Since that house and this house are basically identical, this home has always felt to me like the house I grew up in.

After Mother passed away—she was my last surviving parent—I found joy in the little daily reminders left behind in her space. After moving in, I definitely worked to make the house feel like mine, but I also loved seeing the things that she had left, that she had used. They were precious connections to her, and I treasured each one of them.

But… she’s been gone for almost four years now—and slowly, inevitably, those daily physical reminders, those physical connections are getting fewer and farther between….and I miss them.

The End of the Supply

Last night, I was getting ready to bake some Sister Schubert cinnamon rolls. I was excited to try them! I turned on the oven and started eagerly reading through the instructions. They said to cover the pan loosely with aluminum foil…

…so I walked over to this really cool, custom dispenser that Mother had built into her kitchen cabinets for wax paper, plastic wrap, and aluminum foil. I reached up, grabbed the edge of the foil, and pulled.

As it unrolled, I pulled up a bit preparing to tear it off… but instead, it fell free. It was the end of the roll.

This was a roll of aluminum foil that my mother had bought, and taken out of the box, and placed on that holder when this was still her house. I had just used the very last of her physical supply.

It stopped me for a moment, and it made me remember. I stood in my kitchen holding that piece of aluminum foil thinking about how much she loved her house, how much she loved to cook, how much she loved to smile and laugh, how much she loved to give to others, and about how much she loved me…and I missed her. Tears came to my eyes, and I stood there in the quiet kitchen holding that empty roll for a minute, just treasuring the moment—the physical connection to the mother who birthed me, who loved me, and who worked so hard to build a happy life for me…

The Things That Never Run Out

…and that’s what’s really important. The love she and Daddy poured into me, the things they taught me, the deep joy they wanted for my life, the prayers they prayed for me, the examples they set for me. Those things never go away. They never run out.

So…while it could have definitely looked weird for me to tear up over a box of aluminum foil last night—it really wasn’t. It was just a daughter loving her mother and savoring the memories of the times they shared together.

You really never know what’s going on in a person’s mind and what fears and hurts and pain they carry… because we all have them. So let’s all just be kind today. We are all in this together. ❤️❤️❤️

“Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you.” — Ephesians 4:32

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The Interconnected Tapestry of Life: Finding Connections Wherever We Go

A vintage Capitol Records 45 RPM vinyl record of Merle Haggard and The Strangers singing Grandma Harp.

Have you ever had those moments where you realize the world is so much smaller, and that we are all so much more beautifully interconnected than we realize?

For as long as I can remember, I have been a collector of hidden connections… not things you can hold in your hand, but all the little moments, the little pieces of treasure that life routinely drops in our path.

I think it stems from how I was raised and the journeys life has taken me on so far. My parents and I moved to Carroll County, Arkansas, when I was a little girl… and I suddenly felt so far away from everyone and everything I’d ever known. Before our move, we had lived in a safe, cozy, loving cocoon of family—and suddenly, we knew absolutely no one. It made the world feel kinda big, exciting, scary, lonely, and unpredictable all at once.

Very quickly though….I began to find some connections…and as it turned out, our new county wasn’t such an unfamiliar place after all! Daddy told me that my great-uncle Ira had once worked in the Berryville Post Office building—not for the postal service, but in the county agent’s office. How neat! To this day, I still think of him almost every time I drive by that beautiful old building – and I enjoy the connection.

When I started school in Green Forest, I found out that it wasn’t a place without ties either; my cousin Sarah had graduated from high school there in 1951. Ironically, two of her classmates from that graduating class were sisters, Eula and Ramona, who both ended up becoming our neighbors. Ramona has since passed away, but her sweet son and daughter-in-law are still my neighbors today, and Eula lives just across the fields from me. (Isn’t that cool?)

Those early experiences taught me a lesson I haven’t forgotten: There are always connections around for us to find… and they can help to comfort us and make anywhere feel like home.

I am forever grateful to my parents for diligently emphasizing to me that it’s important to be friendly, to respect others, to appreciate blessings, to strive to approach each day with joy… and to develop and maintain a curious mind that is always eager to learn. Because of that, I see life every day as an incredibly beautiful, varied tapestry that is never truly finished. We go through our days collecting tiny pieces of information, stories, memories, interactions, and moments…things to think about and then carefully tuck away to remember…always looking for new things to connect them to…

Sometimes, the connections come quickly and click right into place. Other times, it takes decades for a memory to find its match. But when the threads finally tie together, it is such fun!

Let me give you an example:

When I was a little girl, we listened to music a lot—either in the car on our fancy new 8-track player (lol) or in the living room on our big, wooden console stereo cabinet. (Google them if you don’t know—they were huge and very cool…at the time! 🙂 ) We spent a lot of time listening to southern gospel albums, comedy albums, classic country music (well… it wasn’t classic then, but it is now!), and more.

One of the many artists we enjoyed was Merle Haggard. His voice would drift out of that wooden console cabinet singing “Mama Tried,” “Okie from Muskogee,” “Silver Wings,” “Workin’ Man Blues,” and “If We Make it Through December.” Great singer—he had such a smooth, relaxed, rich voice…

Years later, I was in college and living with Mel and Judy Tillis, taking care of their sweet little daughter. One morning when I woke up and went sleepily upstairs for breakfast, I found Merle Haggard sitting in the living room visiting with Mel. I said hello and quickly left them to their conversation, but I was really excited to tell Mother and Daddy that I had met Mr. Haggard. It created a wonderful new connection—linking that real-life morning to those childhood days listening to his music with Daddy.

A few years ago, another unexpected tie surfaced on a road trip. A friend and I were driving on Highway 69 across Oklahoma. I glanced up at a road sign and at the last minute saw an exit for “Checotah.” I immediately flipped on my turn signal and tapped the brake to slow down and exit the highway. My friend looked at me curiously, wondering why we were detouring. I smiled and told her we had to take a minute to “drag main” through Checotah because it was Carrie Underwood’s hometown! She asked me how on earth I knew that, and I told her I had learned it from a song. I opened up Spotify and played “I Ain’t in Checotah Anymore” as we rolled through town. Such fun!

Highway 69 exit sign - Checotah, Oklahoma

When we stopped to get a soda, we started digging into the history of Checotah (population 3,110) a little bit…and we found another small connection: Merle Haggard had ties there also. His parents, James Francis Haggard and Flossie Mae Harp, had lived and farmed in Checotah before moving out to California, where Merle was born. I tucked what we had learned away in my mind… another random bit of history collected.

Fast forward several years…and the connections really start to get more interesting. Working in and living near Harrison, I often drive over to Newton County, Arkansas. It’s a beautiful part of the state—and a great “day trip” destination. I love to eat at the Ozark Cafe or the Cliff House Restaurant. I love to drive through Lost Valley, Steel Creek, and Ponca just to soak in the calming beauty of nature and take a few pictures. I love to park and watch the elk. There is so much to see and do there…it’s good for the soul!

A few years ago, while I was in Ponca taking pictures one day, I walked over to explore an old historic cabin sitting near the intersection of Highways 43 and 74, not far from the Ponca low-water bridge.

A brown wooden sign that reads Boxley Valley Historic District, Buffalo National River, with a historic log cabin and autumn trees in the background.

It was fascinating! The National Park Service’s historical marker about the “Beaver Jim Villines Boyhood Home” explained how Abraham Villines and his children were among the earliest pioneer families to settle in the Buffalo River Valley, carving a home out of the wilderness back in the 1850s. I snapped a photo of the sign and took some pictures of the old cabin, admiring the hand-hewn logs, thinking about the hardships of the day-to-day lives of the family who built it, and feeling a deep appreciation for all the history preserved there. I tucked this new information back in my mind and went on enjoying the day.

An outdoor informational placard detailing the history of Beaver Jim Villines and his pioneer family settling along the Buffalo River.

Fast forward again! At Harrison Schools, I work with a friend named Matt Piper. Like me, Matt is greatly interested in history, family, and ancestry. One day, he mentioned a song to me that was written about a member of his family—his great-great-great aunt Martha Frances Arizona Belle “Zona” Villines Harp. (I absolutely LOVE her name! Stop and say it out loud to yourself. Isn’t it great?)

A vintage Capitol Records 45 RPM vinyl record of Merle Haggard and The Strangers singing Grandma Harp.

The song is titled simply “Grandma Harp,” and it was written and recorded back in 1971 by country music artist Merle Haggard as a tribute to his maternal grandmother. I loved learning this! (In case you’re now wondering—that makes Matt a second cousin, three times removed to Mr. Haggard. Very cool, Matt!!!)

A black and white historical family photograph from 1897 featuring the Hosea and Harriet Villines family, including a young Zona Villines.

After work that day, I was excited to hear the song, so I pulled up “Grandma Harp” on Spotify and listened to it a few times on my drive home. It was a B-side recording – but it’s actually been covered by a few other artists…and I can see why. It’s a simple, sweet, and incredibly loving tribute. In the spoken-word prologue, Mr. Haggard reflects on how his grandmother lived through an era of great historical and social change—from horse-and-buggy days to the very first automobiles, to seeing a man walk on the moon and living through two world wars…all while “rearing a decent family out of poverty and loving the same old Grandpa for seventy years”.

The lyrics made me thoughtful about life, our heritage, and the lasting impact we leave on others… As I drove home listening to the song, all of these separate stories suddenly clicked.

The voice coming through my car speakers was the same voice I used to hear on my parents’ record player as a little girl in Hattieville, Arkansas. It was the same man I had met briefly as a college student in Branson. And the “Grandma Harp” he was singing about carried the maiden name Villines—relatives of the pioneer family whose historic log cabin I had explored and photographed in Ponca… and the same family with connections to the little town of Checotah, Oklahoma, and to my coworker Matt in Harrison.

There really are beautiful connections all around us every day.

It was a beautiful reminder to keep our eyes wide open and our hearts curious. We are never truly strangers in a new place, because if you dig just an inch below the surface, you’ll find that the stories of our lives are all quietly walking down the exact same paths. What a beautiful reminder that we are all a little more connected than we think.

Listen Along: If you like, you can listen to Merle Haggard’s “Grandma Harp” on YouTube. Take a moment to listen to the spoken-word prologue at the beginning—it is just lovely.

Have you ever discovered a surprising connection to a piece of history, a place, or someone from your past right in your own backyard? I would absolutely love to hear your story!

If you enjoyed this reflection, please consider following my Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/lisa.carlon.5 where I share photos, porch updates, travel stories, reflections, and quiet moments from our beautiful Ozarks.

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Memories Served Fresh at Table One

A close-up view of a personalized celebrity signature in black ink reading To Lisa Best Wishes Buddy Ebsen on textured brown paper.

Memories Served Fresh at Table One

I had supper at Cracker Barrel in Branson last night. I have loved Cracker Barrel in general for a long time—but this particular old store is the most special of all to me… because I worked there as a hostess when it first opened back in 1993. I’ve spent a lot of time in that building – and as I walked into the restaurant last night, I was remembering.

It was so exciting when Cracker Barrel first announced they would be opening in Branson. It was such a popular restaurant chain back then—and at the time, almost all of their restaurants were located along interstates. When the Branson store was built, we learned when training, it was the second store in the nation to be located away from interstate traffic. (It worked out pretty well—the store was always packed!).

Employee training before the store opened was actually pretty educational and fun. We learned all of the company’s customer service and guest hospitality expectations. We learned the routines and procedures to keep things moving efficiently for guests. We learned about the quality of all the food and where it came from so that we could be knowledgeable and helpful if guests had questions. I still remember them proudly emphasizing to us that the catfish was raised in Mississippi and was only top fed—never bottom fed. (Bottom fed catfish are eating in the mud—so top feeding is much cleaner and more desirable and produces tastier fish.)

The best part of training was the requirement that we sample most of the different dishes so that we could describe them to customers, if needed. That was great fun! On breaks, we played the peg game that sits on every Cracker Barrel table. I found a pattern to use when I played it and worked to memorize the steps. I can still beat it every single time. 🙂

When the store opened, it was to great excitement – and it was busy. Guests arrived from literally all over the world—and it was such fun to meet and visit with them. (Back in those days—visiting and making connections with new people you met was still valued significantly.)

The Branson boom was happening then also—and at that time, the Roy Clark Theater was one of the newest things around in Branson. Unlike the great local resident shows, it featured a rotating lineup—booking legendary, out-of-town stars to come in and headline for a week or so at a time.

One week, Mr. Buddy Ebsen was booked to play at Roy Clark. I was excited to think of Mr. Ebsen being in town. I had grown up watching him on Barnaby Jones and The Beverly Hillbillies (that show was HUGE in its day – birthing great successful spin-offs like Petticoat Junction and Green Acres). I also remembered a guest spot he did on The Andy Griffith Show – an episode where he plays a rambler that befriends Opie. I always thought he played his parts – whether a hillbilly, a detective, or a vagrant – with such dignity.

To me, he was Hollywood gold – a true legend. Did you know? Walt Disney actually hired him to dance in front of cameras so animators could study his lanky, fluid movements to create Mickey Mouse’s very first dance steps. He danced with darling little Shirley Temple in the 1936 movie Captain January. He was even cast as the original Tin Man in The Wizard of Oz, though an almost-fatal allergic reaction to the aluminum dust in the silver makeup forced him to leave the role. He also served his country in World War II as an officer in the U.S. Coast Guard, and later played Doc Golightly (husband to Audrey Hepburn’s character Holly Golightly) in the iconic film Breakfast at Tiffany’s.

Mr. Ebsen was in his mid-80’s now – but he still loved to sing and dance and tell stories….and so he was booked to play in Branson. I was excited that he and his entourage came in to eat after his first show one night. I seated them at the big round table to the right – the first one after you go in – just past the hostess stand. Even though it’s right in front – most people pass it without seeing it…so I knew he would probably be left alone.

All of us at Cracker Barrel were excited that he was there – but we knew better than to bother him so we just smiled and whispered to one another with excitement. Some of the restaurant guests talked about how much they had enjoyed Mr. Ebsen’s show that night….never knowing that he was sitting just a few feet away.

The next night, he and his group returned – and I seated them at the same table. They came back the next night, and the next, and the next. Mr. Ebsen was friendly – and we (staff) soon discovered that he enjoyed visiting us – so we got more comfortable. I told him that I had enjoyed watching him in The Beverly Hillbillies – and asked him if he knew that the old truck used in the show was now located in the Ralph Foster Museum on the campus of College of the Ozarks in Branson. He said he had often wondered what happened to that old truck through the years and thanked me for telling him.

I watched the clock each night – hoping he would again stop by – and he always did. He would walk in with a smile and bright, twinkling eyes – but an air of dignity as well. By the end of his short run in Branson, I had gotten to visit with him briefly a few different times, and I felt fortunate. When I knew it was the last night he would be there, I asked for his autograph and he kindly agreed…..so I took a menu (I miss these old Cracker Barrel menus greatly now that so much has changed – but that’s a completely different story for another day!!!) and asked him to sign it.

An old-school brown paper Cracker Barrel menu titled Good Country Cookin with a hand-written signature that reads To Lisa Best Wishes Buddy Ebsen.

It’s funny – when you meet people that you have watched on television or on movie screens for years, you feel like you know them…but you don’t….you just know them by the parts they played. It’s really nice when you meet them and they turn out to be even nicer in person than they were on the screen.

Last night, I looked at that corner table while following the host into the restaurant and I remembered. I paused for just a moment to snap a picture and smile…thankful for so many wonderful memories. They are a gift.

A round wooden dining table surrounded by chairs at the Cracker Barrel in Branson, Missouri, featuring rustic wall decor, vintage photographs, and a menu rack in the foreground.

Did you ever watch the Beverly Hillbillies – or Petticott Junction – or Green Acres – or Barnaby Jones? 🙂

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#ThinkOnGoodThings #CrackerBarrel #BransonHistory #BuddyEbsen #BeverlyHillbillies

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A Simple Truth That Changes Everything: What the “Problems in a Hat” Question Taught Me

Close-up of beautiful pink lilies on the left with a faded lily background on the right overlaid with text about putting world problems in a hat.

A high school classmate of mine, also named Lisa, shared a message recently… and I have been thinking about it ever since.

“If each one of us around the world was given the opportunity to write down our problems and put them in a hat to draw out, would you risk grabbing someone else’s, or would you just keep your own instead?”

It humbled me—and it reminded me even more to remember to be grateful. There are so many things I think about every day—things I worry about and things I stress over and things that make me sad….. and all the while there are so many blessings all around me. I try hard to think on the good things—but there are still things I wish for, moments I worry, and times when fear and the “what-ifs” try to weigh my heart down.

When you really think about that hat, it puts our entire lives into perspective. It reminds me even more of just how much we have to be grateful for, because so many of our daily “problems” are sometimes actually privileges in disguise:

  • We worry about the pouring rain or a leaky faucet… but we are safe and snug under a good, solid roof.
  • We stress about what to fix for dinner… but we have the beautiful luxury of eating three meals today and actually getting the privilege of choosing what we eat.
  • We get frustrated by traffic or the price of gas… but we have a car that allows us to work, travel, shop, and explore.
  • We complain about a long day at work… but we have a job that provides for us.

Sometimes we forget to thank God for the very things we take for granted every second. Scripture reminds us in 1 Thessalonians 5:16-18 to:

“Rejoice always, pray continually, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus.”

Notice it doesn’t say to give thanks for the problems, but in them. The application is so simple yet so profound: when we look at our lives through the lens of that giant hat, we realize that even in our hardest circumstances, God has surrounded us with hidden mercies. Gratitude isn’t a feeling we wait for; it’s a conscious decision we make every single day.

A black top hat viewed from above, filled with small white paper slips containing words like Food, Home, Job, Friends, Church, Freedom, Family, and Faith.

My Daily Blessings… I am so grateful for the simple things I can do: that I can walk, and talk, and see, and smell, and hear, and taste. I’m thankful that I can connect, write, cook, create, be silly sometimes, and just relax… and that I can pray, sing, worship, read, learn, and grow.

The Beauty All Around Us… There is so much beauty to see every single day when I remember to look. I’m grateful for music, and laughter, and dreams… for spring flowers, quiet creeks, clear, sparkling rivers, and rushing waterfalls.

The People Who Matter Most… Most of all, I’m so deeply grateful for the family and friends I have, as well as the ones who are gone now, leaving behind such wonderful, lasting memories.

What a blessed privilege each day truly is. While I have stresses, worries, concerns, aches, and pains every single day—looking at that giant hat of the world’s problems makes me want to hold onto mine tightly. I am choosing to look at the beauty. I am just so incredibly grateful.

What about you? If you put your problems in a hat with everyone else’s, would you risk grabbing a new one, or keep your own? Let’s talk about it in the comments below!

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[Please click here to follow my Facebook Page] so we can look for the beauty in each day together!

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The Art of the “Mess”: A Lesson in Poke and Vernacular

A top-down view of a finished plate of Southern polk salad mixed with chopped boiled eggs, served as a traditional Arkansas meal.

In the South, we don’t just “prepare” a meal; we “fix” it. While some might find our word choices or pronunciations a bit informal, I see our language as an art form. There is a time for the proper precision of a doctoral dissertation, and there is also a time for the beauty of a culture to shine through its own unique vocabulary.

Take, for example, the word “mess.” To some, it sounds like a disaster, but in my family—in the South, really—it is also a measurement: an abundance of something good meant to be shared. And right now, I have a deep craving for a “mess of polk.”

A large white plastic bag overflowing with freshly harvested green polk salad leaves sitting on a kitchen floor.
A “haul” of fresh polk ready for the kitchen.

Whether you spell it Poke Salad, Poke Sallet, or Polk Salad (the way Elvis sang it), it’s about as Southern as it gets. Growing up, I spent many spring days wandering the woods with my Mother and Mam-ma. It always amazed me that they could look at a field of wild “weeds” and know exactly which ones were a delicious treat and which ones were best left alone.

One day, Daddy decided to surprise Mother by picking a “haul” of polk on a hot afternoon. He worked diligently until he had what he thought to be a massive sack full, and he was so proud to bring it home for her to fix for supper. (Keep in mind—Daddy had happily eaten a lot of polk, but he had never picked a lot of polk!)

When we sat down at the table, Daddy looked at the tiny portions on our plates with surprise and dismay and asked, “Where’s the rest of it?” We all laughed so hard that night. Anyone who has ever cooked polk knows the heartbreak: you can start with a bushel and end up with a bowlful! It is the ultimate disappearing act once it hits the boiling water. Daddy was so disappointed because he had worked so hard, but after that night, I think he appreciated polk salad a bit more every time it appeared on his plate.

Fresh green polk leaves being washed and soaked in a stainless steel kitchen sink to prepare for cooking.
The first step: washing and “looking” the greens carefully.

If you’re a newcomer to the “polk” world, it does require a bit of respect—the plant is actually poisonous if you don’t know how to prepare it. I remember as a little girl, my friends and I would use those dark purple berries to “paint” our fingernails, squeezing out the juice and staining our nails (and fingertips) a brilliant color. Mother’s voice would always warn: “Be careful not to get that in your mouth!” We listened, and we’re still here to tell the tale!

When I’ve carried on the tradition of fixing polk salad in my own kitchen, I fix it just like Mother did. You have to cut the leaves off the stalks, then wash and “look” the greens carefully. After that, you boil them really, really well to remove the toxins. (Some folks prefer to parboil them two or three times just to be sure!) Once they are boiled, you drain and rinse them well until all that “green” is out of the water and it runs clear.

A large skillet on a stovetop filled with cooked green polk salad being seasoned and stirred with a wooden spoon.
Seasoning with bacon grease, garlic salt, and a touch of sugar.

Next, I cook them in a skillet with bacon grease and season them with garlic salt and a little bit of sugar. Right at the end, I add the eggs. My cousin scrambles hers right in, but I prefer to boil mine separately and chop them up. Either way, they are delicious!

Mother even used to take the young, green stalks, peel them, and fry them up just like okra. I’ve never done that—I’m not even good at frying okra—but perhaps someday I’ll try it.

A family member was recently asked by her grandson what polk salad even was. (He had no idea.) I thought her description was spot on: “Well, it’s a plant that grows wild, and it’s kind of like a turnip green, but it tastes really completely different.” It’s actually a really good definition!

Last night, I had just sat down to enjoy a bowl of fresh strawberries with crust when she sent me pictures of the mess of polk she was working on. I’ve wanted some ever since. I may have to go on the hunt for some this weekend.

Whether we say “poke” or “polk,” “fix” or “prepare,” these words are a connection to the grit and wisdom of the women who came before us. They knew how to turn a wild plant into an absolutely delicious dish. It’s more than just a meal; it’s our history—and I really enjoy “fixing” these stories to pass down to the next generation.

I want to know how you say it in your family!

Are you a “fix supper” person or a “prepare dinner” person?

At noon, do you eat dinner or lunch?

In the evening, is it supper or dinner?

(I grew up eating dinner at noon and supper in the evening!)

And most importantly… are there eggs in YOUR poke salad? 🙂

#ThinkOnGoodThings #PolkSalad #PokeSalad #PolkSallet #PokeSallet #ArkansasHeritage #SouthernLanguage #MessOfGreens #FamilyLegacy #SouthernVernacular #ArkansasHistory #DinnerOrSupper

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The Shoulders We Stand On

This past Sunday, I made the familiar drive home to Conway County, and I am so very glad I did….

The first Sunday in May is always Decoration Day at Old Hickory Cemetery. For me, it’s more than just a cemetery – It is a landscape of my history as well as many blessed memories.

When I was a little girl, graves were built up for Decoration Days. Daddy would haul in dirt to put on top of his father’s (my grandfather’s) grave and use a shovel to carefully mound it up, then a rake to make it smooth and neat before we placed the flowers to decorate the grave. Today, the modern convenience of riding mowers requires flat surfaces, so the mounds are gone—but the love that shaped them remains. That kind of love never really dies; it just waits for us to come back and remember it. That’s part of what Decoration Days are about…..remembering.

It’s a beautiful, time-honored pattern. Family members and friends arrive on Saturday or early Sunday to clean and tend the graves. Then, on Sunday afternoon, everyone returns to walk the grounds, admire the colorful silk arrangements, and share stories. Eventually, we all gather under the shade trees to talk and laugh and connect and catch up. Decoration Days are also about building and maintaining connections.

This past weekend, the weather was a rare gift—temperatures were pleasant and a cool breeze was blowing instead of the May heat and humidity that is typical. It was a wonderful weekend for the event….but as I looked around, I noticed there were fewer in attendance than ever before. There were two children walking through the cemetery with their grandmother and listening eagerly as she pointed out names and shared her memories of long ago. I was glad to see it – and thankful that my family had walked me through this same cemetery so many times sharing our stories and history as well. They gave me a gift.

I feel sad to see these traditions wane, because I believe these ties to our past are so important. It’s our history. Our history gives us some of our “why.” When we know and understand the grit and the joy of those who came before us – we find a compass for our own lives…..and it can change our trajectory.

In a way, it is a privilege—one I don’t take for granted—to have so many direct ancestors in one spot. One of my friends recently told me that she doesn’t know who her ancestors were, much less where they are buried. Over 30 of mine are within a 25-mile radius of where I grew up. To have 14 direct ancestors buried within 50 yards of where I will one day lie, many many years from now… it is a priceless kind of heritage. I am grateful to my parents and family for sharing the stories with me and blessing me with the memories.

On the drive home, I turned off to head down the winding little dirt road toward the little community of Lost Corner, Arkansas to decorate the graves of my great-grandparents, Mama and Papa Scroggins, and my great-great-grandmother, Ida.

The first thing you see as you wind down the road is a neat little old building (now used as a church) that stands quiet in front of the cemetery. It serves as a church building now, but a long time ago it was a school. I have a picture of my Mam-ma, my great aunt Sylvia, and my great aunt Ethel – along with their classmates standing outside the school as children. When I’m there, I love to imagine the sights and sounds of them running and playing and wondering and growing up here.

Mama and Papa and their girls had a hard life – but also good. They worked hard – picking cotton to make a living. My Mam-ma and her sisters ran and played with the other children while their parents picked – until they were about seven years old…then they joined their parents in fields. It’s hard work. Pickers slung a cotton bag over their shoulder to drag behind them and fill with cotton as they moved down the row. My great-aunt Verna said that when she was a little girl she would pick and drag that bag until it was too heavy for her to move. Then, she would leave that row for Mama or Papa to finish while she started on a new one.

Even with all the hard work, Mama Scroggins found time for art and beauty. She was naturally clever and artistic, often cleverly repurposing things instead of throwing them away. I have two small candleholders on the piano in my living room that she made from used metal cans. She even created her own wedding ring out of a solid silver quarter. Pretty talented!

My great-aunt Verna told me that Mama Scroggins would save scraps of paper all year long. Every spring, neighbors would come asking her to make paper flowers to decorate family graves – and she would work to get them made for everyone. Think of that—in a time of such hard manual labor, she found time to be an artist. After the day’s work was done, she spent her evenings folding, twisting, and cutting “scraps” into flowers to decorate the graves at the little cemetery where she now lies. The flowers I had bought to place on her grave were silk—but maybe next year I will learn to make paper flowers just for her. I would like that. She left a legacy that I want to remember and carry with me.

We are always moving forward in this life – and that’s good – but taking the time to look back—to learn and remember and honor the people who came before us—is how we realize whose shoulders we are standing on. We didn’t get here on our own. The progress, every comfort, and the joys we enjoy today was provided to us, to some degree, by the hard work of those who picked the sharp bolls of cotton until their fingers bled, by the resourcefulness of silver-quarter rings, and the quiet beauty of paper-flower bouquets of yesterday. When we remember them, we ensure that their contributions continue to live through us.

Does your family have a “Decoration Day” tradition? Or perhaps you have a “Mama Scroggins” in your history who made something beautiful out of nothing? I would love to hear about the shoulders you stand on in the comments today.

#ThinkOnGoodThings #OldHickory #LostCorner #ConwayCounty #ArkansasHistory #DecorationDay #FamilyLegacy #MamaScroggins #Roots #BlessedMemories #StandingOnShoulders

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The Rhythm of Joy

The Rhythm of Joy

“Break bread with neighbors.”

That is the tagline at Neighbor’s Mill Bakery & Cafe in Harrison, Arkansas, and this morning, I saw them live up to it (as they always do). As I stood in line to place my breakfast order, I watched the gentleman at the counter take his time—true, unhurried time—visiting amicably with an out-of-town couple. When he told them, “Thanks for coming in!”, he truly sounded as if he meant it. In our world of “hurry up and go,” that extra minute of connection didn’t just make their day; it set the tone for mine.

But the real lesson came after I sat down.

I had just settled into my booth when I felt it: Clump. Clump-Clump.

My entire booth was shaking. I turned around to find the source and saw a beautiful little blonde girl with cute, messy curls, maybe three years old, sitting back-to-back with me while eating breakfast with her daddy. She was happily munching away, swinging her legs with pure toddler energy, her little feet rhythmically hitting the back of my seat.

I had a choice in that moment. I could have easily let it frustrate me. I could have let it ruin my quiet breakfast.

But instead, I chose to hear the sound of joy.

Every time I took a bite of my sandwich: Clump, clump-clump. Every time I took a sip of my iced tea: Clump-clump.

Instead of an irritation, those little kicks became a reminder of how wonderful it is to be small, happy, and out for breakfast with your daddy. That rhythmic “shaking” of my booth didn’t ruin my morning—in fact, it made it better.

It turns out that “breaking bread with neighbors” isn’t just about the person across the table; sometimes, it’s about the tiny little neighbor kicking the back of your seat and reminding you that life is meant to be swung with both feet.

Let’s all choose to have a good day.

Let’s swing those feet, Friends! 😊

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The Balcony and the Legend: A Lesson from Marshfield

Some stories don’t just entertain us; they settle into our bones and teach us how to stand up when the rest of the world remains seated.

This past week at the Missouri Cherry Blossom Festival, I had the honor of listening to Mary Badham speak. Most know her as ‘Scout,’ the fiery, curious, thoughtful little girl in overalls from the wonderful movie To Kill a Mockingbird. But listening to her, I wasn’t just thinking about a movie—I was thinking about the soul of a story that has shaped generations.

If you have never seen the film or read Harper Lee’s Pulitzer Prize-winning novel, you are missing a piece of the American heart. It is a story about a widower lawyer, Atticus Finch, defending an innocent man in the 1930s South, told through the eyes of his young daughter.

Many people point to the moment Scout whispers a greeting (“Hey, Boo!”) to a misunderstood neighbor as the heart of the film. But for me, the most poignant,  emotional moment happens in the heavy silence of a courtroom balcony.

The trial is over. The verdict is in. Atticus has done the impossible, the honorable, and the courageous—and yet, in a system where prejudice outweighed the truth, he has lost. He has to gather his papers and walk out of that room with the weight of defeat on his shoulders.

But as he walks down the aisle, alone in his immense grief for an innocent man, something deeply impactful and emotional happens. In the balcony above, the African American community—those who had the most to lose and the most reason to be embittered by the day’s events—begins to rise in a silent, unified show of respect.

Reverend Sykes, the kind and dignified minister sitting with the children, leans down to a confused Scout. He doesn’t focus on the loss; he focuses on the man. He whispers:

‘Miss Jean Louise, stand up. Your father’s passing.’

It is a line that brings me to tears every time. It’s a powerful reminder that our true stature isn’t measured by our victories, but by the courage we find to stand up for what is right—even when we stand in the wreckage of a defeat. In that moment, the balcony wasn’t just honoring an attorney; they were honoring the best in all of us. They were proving that even when we lose the battle, we never lose the dignity that comes from standing up for one another. It was a moment where grace outshined the darkness. It is a scene that calls us to look past our differences and find the grace to respect, support, and care for one another. Even when things feel divided, it reminds us that kindness is a bridge that can carry us through any storm.

I recorded this little clip of Mary (Scout herself!) sharing how she almost didn’t get the role. As you’ll hear her describe, her father originally said no—he wanted a quiet life for his daughter in Birmingham. If not for her mother’s intuition and a clever bit of persuasion to get her to that audition, movie history would look very different.

She also shared that Gregory Peck—the legendary actor who was the very embodiment of Hollywood’s Golden Age—wasn’t just ‘acting’ as Atticus. They grew close – and stayed that way for the rest of his life. During the five months of filming, Mary spent almost every weekend at the Pecks’ home, becoming part of their family. That bond remained until the very end, with Mary visiting him just weeks before he passed away.

In a time when things feel fast and often divided, returning to the lessons of Maycomb, Alabama, feels like coming home. We are so fortunate that the Missouri Cherry Blossom Festival brings these ‘moments’ to our doorstep. It’s more than entertainment; it’s a chance to sit in a church pew and listen to history tell us that kindness and courage never go out of style.

Harper Lee’s story, To Kill a Mockingbird, is wonderful. It’s why former First Lady Laura Bush has long cited this as one of her favorite books of all time. It’s why Oprah Winfrey once loved the story so much that she rushed to the library asking for ‘everything Harper Lee ever wrote’—only to find that this one perfect story was all the world truly needed.

If you haven’t seen the movie lately—or ever—do yourself a favor. Watch it. And when the man in the suit walks down that aisle, remember to stand up. Always, remember to stand up.