A favorite game for three-year-olds is hide and seek. My three-year-old was no different. She was keen on the hiding part but wasn’t really a fan of the seeking part. She loved being found, she just didn’t enjoy being the one who had to search.

The first time we played the game, I was a little nervous. What if I lost my kid? Seriously. You have to understand, this child was precocious, and I already had plenty of experience that had taught me to be cautious.

When she was only twelve months old, we were unpacking boxes in our new house. She was sitting in the middle of the living room, happily playing with a few toys. I walked into the bedroom and came right back out. In that brief moment, she vanished. Completely gone.

I remember thinking, how could that even happen? The kid barely walks. I called her name. No answer. My heart skipped a beat as I searched the room, then the hallway. Finally, I noticed the cabinet in the hutch that was built into the wall. The cabinet door was closed.

She must have crawled over, pulled it open herself, and climbed right inside. I have no idea how she got the door to close.

When I opened the cabinet door, there she sat, smiling from ear to ear, as proud of herself as could be. She loved it. I did not. That moment became one of many experiences that taught me what it meant to raise a child who was just a little too smart for her own good. Needless to say, child locks for doors and cupboards were installed before we were fully moved in.

So, when she turned three and wanted to play hide and seek, that old nervous feeling returned. By then, I had three full years of experience learning what precocious really meant. Basically, it meant never turning your back on this three-year-old.

She was excited and ready to play. “You count, Mommy,” she said.

So, I did. I counted to twenty, listening very carefully for the sound of little feet and the direction they were headed. When I finished counting, I called out, “Ready or not, here I come.”

Silence. Absolute silence.

I honestly had no idea where she had gone. The good news was that our house wasn’t very big, and I hadn’t given her much time to hide. Still, I paused and then asked, “Are you ready?”

From one of the back bedrooms, I heard her small, cheerful voice say, “I’m ready.”

And just like that, I knew exactly where she was.

So, we played. Over and over again. She was always the hider, and I was always the seeker. Each time, I asked the same question, “Are you ready?” And each time she answered, “I’m ready.” She didn’t learn until many years later that I asked that question on purpose, so I would always know where she was.

You see, she was never truly hidden from me.

So, here’s my message:

There is comfort in knowing that even when someone believes they’re hidden, they are still seen. As parents, that means staying attentive, patient, and loving, even when we can’t immediately see where our children have gone. It means listening for their voices, watching for their clues, and trusting the connection we’ve built with them.

And maybe that truth reaches beyond parenting as well. Maybe there are times when we feel hidden, unseen, or forgotten, when in reality we are still known, still watched over, still within reach. We may think we’ve disappeared, but we haven’t. We are never as hidden as we think we are.

Even when you’re quiet, even when you’re tucked away, and even when you think no one sees you, you are not invisible. You matter. You are known. And you are more seen than you realize

Wishing you joy and peace,

Lorrie 

Am I the only one who has had a love-hate relationship with coffee? It is funny, I have always loved the smell of what I thought was fresh brewed coffee. Both my parents were coffee drinkers, so I woke up to that aroma every single morning. What I didn’t know then was that instant coffee and brewed coffee are two very different things. I was a kid… what did I know?

My parents were early risers, and by the time my two brothers and I wandered into the kitchen with bedhead and sleep still in our eyes, they already had their mugs in hand.

When I got a little older, my mom taught me how to make their coffee. Dad’s was easy: one teaspoon of instant coffee in a mug of water, then into the microwave. No cream, no sugar. Simple.

Mom, though, liked her coffee “doctored up” a bit. It was the same as Dad’s, but she also added two teaspoons of sugar and cream, although most days it was actually just milk. I remember asking her, “How much milk? How do you measure it?” She smiled and said gently, “I just pour the milk in until the coffee changes color.”

I watched her do it a few more times, and then one morning I asked if I could make it for her. When I handed her the mug, she took a sip and said, “Mmmm, this is perfect.”

That became our little ritual. Every morning, I made her coffee, and every morning she said the same thing: “Mmmm, this is perfect.”

The funny thing is, even though I loved the smell of coffee, I absolutely hated the taste. It was bitter and harsh. It just was not for me. I didn’t like coffee ice cream or coffee-flavored candy either. I never drank it in college and made it through most of my life without ever feeling the urge. And yet, despite all that, making coffee for my mom remained one of those small, steady joys, something I loved doing for her. Even long after I had left home, if I had the chance, I would make her a cup of coffee.

Years later, I was on a trip to Costa Rica. And what is one of the things Costa Rica is famous for? You guessed it, coffee. One of the tours we took was of a coffee plantation. I was intrigued. I had no idea there was so much science behind it. Dark roast, light roast, air dried, heat dried, shell on, shell off… and every combination in between.

When we got to the tasting room, it went exactly as expected. I still did not like the taste of coffee.

But that day I decided I was going to force myself to like it. I felt like I was missing out. Maybe I felt a little odd for not liking something so many people seemed to love. I was already bringing a couple of bags home as gifts, so I bought one for myself too, a sort of personal challenge, I guess.

In a way, that little bag of coffee felt like more than a souvenir. It felt like a bridge between who I had been and who I was becoming. I did not know if I would ever truly enjoy drinking it, but I knew I wanted to understand why it mattered to so many people. Maybe I was chasing a feeling, or maybe I was trying to reconnect with a part of myself I had not realized was still tender. There was something comforting about the idea of learning to appreciate something slowly, on my own terms, the same way those early mornings with my mom had quietly shaped me without my noticing.

Every time I brew coffee now and the aroma fills the air, I think of my mom. And guess how I like my coffee? I put just enough milk in until the coffee changes color. And every single time I do it, I think of her.

So, here is my message:

It was never about the coffee. It was about the moment, that small, quiet connection between a mother and her daughter. Making her coffee made her happy, and her happiness became a part of me. That simple ritual left such a deep imprint that I eventually learned to like coffee, not for the taste, but for the feeling it brings back.

I may never be a true coffee lover, but I have become a lover of what it represents in my life: comfort, memory, and the kind of love that lingers long after the cup is empty. Maybe that is the real heart of it: we do not always realize which moments will stay with us, or which tiny habits will become part of who we are and what we will miss when they are gone. A simple act taught me how love can hide in ordinary routines.

Love often lives in the little things, and sometimes those smallest moments stay with us the longest.

Wishing you joy and peace,

Lorrie 

When was the last time you rode an old-fashioned carousel?

When I was a little girl, my mother would take my brother and me to the zoo. Just outside the exit gates was a beautiful, old-fashioned carousel. We never complained about calling it a day when the zoo closed because we knew our day wasn’t over until we had our ride on what we called “the merry-go-round.”  Although the ride was just outside the gate, it was down the sidewalk a bit, surrounded by trees and hedges.  As we walked out of the zoo, we couldn’t see it, but we could hear the faint carousel music calling to us.

I remember seeing the carousel ring machine mounted next to the outer rim of the ride and asking my mother what it was. She explained it was a machine that held nineteen tarnished brass rings and one shiny gold ring. The riders on the outside horses would lean out as far as they could to try to grasp one of the rings as their horse went by the machine. Rarely did a rider get off the carousel holding one of the brass rings, and although I did see it happen once or twice, it was even more unusual to see someone lucky enough to climb down from their horse holding the golden ring. A rider who could produce a gold ring to the ticket taker received the reward of a free ride.

I remember my excitement when my arms were finally long enough to reach that old ring machine.  As the carousel started to move, I got so excited about getting the chance to go for the gold that my entire focus was on the machine, forgetting about the rest of the ride altogether.  I stretched my little arm out as far as I could, in an attempt to touch the ring machine and still stay mounted. It was a miracle I didn’t fall off my horse.

I remember the first time my finger slipped through the ring as it popped out of the machine and onto my finger. I felt like I held the whole world on my little index finger. I was so excited.  It didn’t matter to me that the ring was brass. I genuinely didn’t care.

I kept the ring on my dresser for years as a reminder of my tremendous accomplishment. For me, the brass ring was a sign of hope and encouragement. It reminded me to keep trying.  Perhaps next time I would grab the gold.  I was always excited to try again.

I remember that carousel often and how it relates to my grown-up world. How often do we feel as if we’re riding a carousel, around and around, hoping to obtain whatever that gold ring represents?   We know what we want, but when we reach for it, we miss it by a breath.  We pay the price of another ride, and then another, only to find the gold ring stays just out of reach.

So, here’s my message:

I’m never actually leaving empty-handed. With every ride, I have one more ride’s worth of experience. The experience teaches me I can make a few changes and adjust my technique on the next go-round.  I need to remember that coming home with a ring, brass or otherwise, is not the goal. It’s actually the ride and what we learn in our efforts that make us who we are.

You never know, maybe someday, with a little luck, a little patience, and a little perseverance, I may be the lucky one who walks away holding tight to that cherished gold ring. But if not, I’ve still had the blessing of a wonderful carousel ride.

Wishing you joy and peace,

Lorrie

Every now and then, my parents would pack us up and head to Cuyamaca, a mountainous region east of San Diego best known for Cuyamaca Rancho State Park.

It was just about an hour from our house, though it always felt like we were escaping to another world. The drive itself was a slow climb into the mountains, leaving behind the hot summer streets of home for winding roads lined with pines and oaks.

We’d pull into one of the campgrounds and settle in for a few hours. It was a rare treat for us—my parents were hard-working, and a free weekend, or even a free day, was something out of the ordinary. I can still picture them unfolding those old lawn chairs, sipping coffee from their thermos, and just soaking in the quiet beauty of the mountains.

For my brothers and me, sitting still wasn’t an option. We were busy kids, eager to explore and see what we might discover. The air felt different up there—cooler, crisper, almost like it belonged to another season. The elevation difference between our house and the Cuyamaca Mountains was huge—over 4,100 feet. That climb didn’t just change the view; it changed the temperature too. At home, we’d be running around in shorts and T-shirts, but once we reached the mountain, it was time to slip into long sleeves and sometimes even bundle up, especially if summer was giving way to fall. I remember the chill on my cheeks, the smell of pine needles and campfires. Those short visits felt like stepping into a different world—a world where time slowed down just enough for us to notice it.

At some point, my brothers got interested in throwing rocks at trees—not something that held my attention for very long. I wandered off and found a campfire grill that looked like it had been used earlier in the day. It was cold to the touch.  I picked up a stick and poked at the ashes for a while. Down at the very bottom were a couple of tiny embers glowing a faint red.

Before I worry you, let me say—I wasn’t a firebug, and I knew all about the fire danger in the California mountains. I wasn’t doing anything unsafe. But I remember blowing gently on those tiny embers and watching the color shift, like they were waking up. So, I gathered a few dry leaves and placed them on one of the embers. The glow grabbed onto the leaves as if asking for more fuel. So, I did it again, and again. Then I searched for other things—sticks, paper plates, and tiny pieces of discarded wood chips.   I don’t know how long I worked at it, but slowly, I brought that extinguished fire back to life—a tiny flame dancing in the cool mountain air.

I stood there for a while, watching that tiny flame flicker.  It’s funny how proud I was of myself that I had “saved it”.  It wasn’t a roaring fire—just enough to remind me that something I thought was gone wasn’t gone at all. It only needed a little care and the right conditions to come alive again.

I didn’t realize it then, but that small moment would become a lesson I’d return to again and again. Life is full of things that feel like cold ashes—dreams we’ve shelved, goals we’ve abandoned, relationships that seem faded. But sometimes, deep down, the ember is still there. It might not be the right season yet. It might need time, patience, and a gentle breath to spark again.

So, here’s my message:

Sometimes the things that seem completely gone—dreams, hopes, even goals you’ve set aside—still have a spark deep inside. All they need is a little attention, a little breath, and the patience to wait for the right moment to fuel them back to life. Don’t give up on something just because it looks cold and lifeless. Sometimes the ember is still there, waiting for the right time—and for you to believe in it. And remember this: sometimes a spark dies, and that’s okay. But other times, it’s not gone at all—it’s just waiting for the timing to be right. If you still feel it, even faintly, it’s there somewhere. Trust that when the moment comes, you’ll know how to breathe life back into it. 

Wishing you joy and peace,

Lorrie

As an author, I’m always chasing a good story. But sometimes, the story sneaks up on me when I least expect it.

Tina and I have been travel buddies for years. We try to take a trip together at least once a year, and now that we live on opposite sides of the country, we make an even greater effort to meet somewhere new. We’ve never visited the same place twice—there’s just too much world to see.

Charleston had been on our list for ages, so it wasn’t exactly a shock when our travels finally led us there. Still, I wasn’t sure what I was expecting. Maybe something out of Gone with the Wind—a sweeping “deep south” experience. What we found was a modern city in 2025, polished and bustling. I think I heard “y’all” maybe three times in four days. So much for southern charm, right?

That said, the sweet tea was phenomenal. Maybe it’s because I rarely drink it—California doesn’t exactly embrace the sugar-laden tradition. I first fell for sweet tea during a stint in Virginia, and Charleston reminded me why I’m still a fan.

Before we left, I did my usual Google dive for “must-see” spots with local flavor. The Charleston City Market popped up, known for its handmade crafts and local artisans. It was our first stop on day one. I’d read about the sweetgrass baskets—woven by hand, passed down through generations—and I was curious. But I wasn’t prepared for how deeply it would pull me in.

There were about half a dozen basket vendors, each with their own style and energy. I tried to speak with every one of them. Some were warm and chatty; others… well, let’s just say they weren’t exactly eager to swap stories with a Californian who didn’t know the first thing about their heritage.

The first man I spoke with told me his grandmother started teaching him to weave when he was five. As he described the process, the hours of work, the care in each piece, I found myself completely absorbed. Maybe it’s because I don’t have a tradition like that in my own family. I was trying to imagine what it would feel like to carry something so rooted in history.

Then there was Charmaine.  She was an absolute joy to speak with. Her story echoed the others—generations passing down the craft—but she went deeper. She talked about the sweetgrass itself, how it’s harvested, how the materials are gathered and prepared. She spoke with such reverence for the tradition and the need to preserve it that I could’ve sat beside her for hours, just listening to stories of her family while she worked on one of her stunning baskets.

Sweet tea and sweetgrass. Maybe I did get a glimpse of the deep south after all. It was there, woven into the modern world, waiting to be discovered by those willing to listen.

So, here’s my message:

 I’m not the only one with stories to tell. Everyone carries a piece of history, a thread of heritage that’s worth sharing. We live such different lives, shaped by different experiences.  That's what makes it all so fascinating.

Sometimes we’re so busy searching for something we think we’re supposed to find, we miss what’s right in front of us.

Wishing you joy and peace,

Lorrie

I walked into the nail salon the other day—nothing unusual. I go there pretty often. It’s one of those walk-in places, no appointment needed. So over time, I’ve had my nails done by quite a few of the different employees. I actually know several of them by name. But Vivian is my favorite.

There’s a reason I call ahead to make sure she’s available—she’s simply one of the best.

This time was no different. I called ahead, and Vivian was available. She did a great job as usual. I was super happy with her work. When she finished, I thanked her and walked up to the front of the shop to pay—same routine, different day. I always pay for the service and the tip with my credit card.  The little machine gives me the option to add a tip, so I do it that way. I never seem to have any cash, so I’ve done this more times than I can count.

But this time, something felt off.

When I paid, the owner wrote something down in his little receipt book—next to my appointment.  He wrote $5. This caught me off guard. I could see he was tracking his employee’s credit card tips.  However, I had tipped her $10, not $5.

It felt personal, like a betrayal of trust. How many of my tips never actually make it to the person I have intended them for? Perhaps there was more to the owner’s story, and I was completely wrong about what I saw… but I don’t think so. 

In that moment, I had a choice to make. Do I say something, even though it’s technically none of my business? Or do I stay quiet? 

The question is, when do you speak up, and when do you step back? Sometimes it’s hard to know the right response in the moment. What would you do? Would you say something? Or maybe you’d just stop going there because you don’t like the way they do business.

It’s a lot to process in about a minute flat.

Right or wrong, I chose not to say anything.   But I’ll tell you this—next time, I’ll be swinging by the ATM before my appointment. From now on, I’ll always have a little cash in my wallet. I'll have at least enough cash for a tip. Always.

So, here’s my message.

Sometimes doing the right thing isn’t about making a scene—it’s about making a shift. When something doesn’t sit right, you don’t always have to confront it head-on. But you can choose to respond with intention.

Quiet integrity still speaks volumes.

Wishing you joy and peace,

Lorrie

Sometimes the smallest changes make the biggest difference. A simple bedroom update and a quick light fix remind me how often we overlook the little victories in our lives—and how powerful they can be when we finally embrace them.

My daughter left for a one-week vacation in Florida. Just before she left, we talked about making a couple of changes to her bedroom. Silly as it may sound, it wasn’t the size of her twin bed that bothered her—it was the footboard.

She’d often wake in the night after kicking it, stubbing a toe, or getting tangled in the slats. Eventually, she started falling asleep on the couch instead.

So while she was gone, I bought a new bed frame—one that didn’t require a footboard. I dismantled the old frame, replaced it with the new one, and attached just the headboard. It was ultra simple—no tools required. I washed her sheets, made her bed, and hoped it would help.

It did.

After her first night back, she woke up saying it was the best sleep she’d ever had in that bed.

Gosh, why didn’t I do that sooner?

This reminded me of another moment years ago. My kitchen had recessed fluorescent lighting with three decorative plastic panels. Over time, they cracked and yellowed.

One day, I noticed a growing crack. Then I saw the yellowing. And once I saw it, I couldn’t unsee it. Every time I turned on the light, my eyes went straight to those panels.

I assumed fixing it would require a handyman and a week’s pay I couldn’t afford as a single mom. So I lived with it... for months.

Then my brother visited. We were chatting at the kitchen counter when I asked, "How much do you think it’ll cost to fix those lights?"

He laughed. "About fifteen bucks," he said. 

We drove to Home Depot. The panels were five dollars each. He replaced all three in about ten minutes.

Every time I turned on the kitchen light, I thought, "Why didn’t I do that sooner?"

So, here’s my message.
Our small-stuff successes deserve celebration, too.

We have victories every day—quiet ones we rarely acknowledge. If you’re like me, you’re quick to beat yourself up over what you can’t do. But how often do we pause to appreciate what we can do?

Not only should our big wins bring us joy, but the small ones—those everyday triumphs—can be a powerful source of encouragement.

Take a minute to look around.  Is there something small you could do today that might lift your spirits or make life a little easier?

I’m off to pick up some pretty flowers to plant by my back door. 

Wishing you joy and peace,

Lorrie