Sharing Our Story

Photo Credit: Kelly Sikkema

In May, I attended my fourth (and youngest) grandchild’s high school graduation.

Each time one of my grandchildren graduated, it was exciting. It brought me immense pride and joy.

However, their life-changing moments also remind me how quickly time flies.

This latest celebration left me once again thinking about life flying by and how we cannot escape the passage of time.

I also turned 71 in May. I know firsthand that time waits for no one.

As I was thinking about time going by fast and this lovely next chapter of my life, an odd little thought popped into my mind about these blog posts: Why am I writing them?

I am certainly not famous. Nor have I published a bestselling book.

I don’t have a gazillion followers on the one social media platform I visit on occasion. I’m not even on Facebook.

I don’t do podcasts. I don’t have a YouTube or Rumble channel.

I am not an influencer. To be honest, I’m not even sure what the heck that’s all about anyway.

Well, I may qualify as an influencer if you consider my knowledge about the best day and time to shop at the local grocery store and Hobby Lobby.

And I am certainly not writing these posts because I think a million people will be outright compelled to read my captivating tales.

I also do not expect my family and friends to feel obligated to read about my childhood memories, my spiritual awakening experiences, my beautiful reconnection with God, or the important revelation that I will share now: I have flaws. Yes, it’s true.

I may not be on any A-lists, but I do have (so far) a dedicated fan club of one. And that right there is priceless to me.

However, here’s the thing: I believe every person walking planet Earth has a story.

Some people have what they consider to be significant stories.

Those stories are packed with stunning details of nonstop adventure, like fishing the Outer Banks or bold, breathtaking tales about them climbing Mount Kilimanjaro.

Some may have gone to the Galapagos to photograph the beautiful birds that live on the islands, while others trekked the Great Wall of China.

There are also many people who lead more passive lives.

Their concept of adventure might see them perched on the bank of a river basking in the glorious serenity of nature at her finest.

Maybe their adventure found them wandering through the hushed magnificence of the National Library of France in Paris.

Still others may have found their grand adventures right here quietly exploring and appreciating our stunning America.

Perhaps some experience an adventure of perfect tranquility as they dabble in the soothing art of making pottery.

Either way, it is their story.

We come to Earth, we live, and minute by minute, day by day, year by year, we create chapters that fill our book of life.

And whether that time is long or short, active or passive, filled with daring adventures or the blessing of solitude, our stories are important.

Your stories are important. And those stories deserve to be told.

Having lived for seven decades, I, too, have a story to share. And who better to tell my story than me?

At some point in the future, my great (or great, great) grandchildren will undoubtedly want to understand more about me.

What would I like them to know about me?

With that thought in mind, I realize that these blog posts are a time capsule.

Each post I write shares reflections and little fragments of my life from the past seven decades. I present these stories neatly unplugged, and they come straight from my heart.

The stories in these posts are just a few of the countless snippets that have merged together to shape my identity.

After thinking about it, I decided I want my great, great, great grandchildren to know some of the little things and quirky tidbits that will provide them with a clearer sense of me.

When I say little things, I don’t mean that they are not important.

It is my belief that all those little things in my life are the ingredients that might appear to be less important, yet without them the magnificent recipe that constitutes my entire life would simply be a bland frozen dinner.

For instance, future generations of my family might find it intriguing to know that my all-time favorite novel is Wuthering Heights, which was authored by Emily Brontë in 1847.

Yes, right now in 2026, my favorite novel is 179 years old.

I read the book in April of 1977.

I know because the tattered paperback, with its pages now turned yellow, still sits on a shelf of one of my bookcases. On the synopsis page, I penned the month and year that I read it.

Over the years I’ve read it numerous times. It is a bit ragged because I moved around a lot. In fact, throughout my life I moved 17 times.

I was a dependent in the military for eight years, which led to many of my moves. Wuthering Heights journeyed with me everywhere I traveled.

My second all-time favorite book, and I have read thousands of books, is Tuesdays with Morrie, written by Mitch Albom.

I bet a million dollars (which I don't have) that my husband would find it easy to name my second favorite book. I don't think anyone else would know this, though.

For no special reason, I think my greats should know: I love anything lemon flavored, I drink cheap wine, I hold a great fondness for rainy days, and I have absolutely no guilt or regrets that I quit school when I was 16.

One of my favorite activities is to spend the early morning hours outdoors before the rest of the world awakens.

I love being outdoors when the dark quietly lingers between the last threads of night and the fuzzy light of the break of dawn. The stillness of the early part of the day is silky and deeply comforting.

For the record, I detest calamari, and I despise people who cut the line regardless of where that line might be: grocery store, movies, theme park, hospital, airport, taco stand, or a rocket launch. Please wait your turn like everyone else has to!

My greats might discover it fascinating to learn that I acknowledge faeries. I believe they bring me gifts from their world in nature, and it is because I am open to recognizing their existence.

Last spring, my darling faeries brought me black-eyed Susans.

It wasn’t one or two flowers. A whole patch sprang up and perfectly filled the entire empty space under my bay window.

I know some of my greats will likely wonder if I ever saw a faerie.

I use the term “some” because I am certain that some of my greats will not need to wonder about faeries, because their existence will feel as natural to them as it does to me.

I have, indeed, seen what I believe to be a faerie. It was in a droplet of water that had gathered on a leaf on the ground next to a lawn chair where I was sitting while enjoying an early summer afternoon.

I did snap a wonderful photo of it, which I shared with just a couple of people who I knew would understand and appreciate the beautiful confirmation I was blessed with that day.

Another time, I thought I was witnessing a faerie hovering near me. False alarm; it was just a mosquito. And the little bugger nipped me on the ear.

Although I may not see faeries yet, I sense them when they are near, and the sweet gifts they bring are proof enough for me.

The faeries are precious to me and add a delightful chapter to my story.

My friends, do not hesitate to share your memories.

Future generations will want to know your story.

“You will never regret writing a story down. You only regret the stories you don’t tell.”  - Laura Stroud

Until next time...

Stay fearless, Divine Souls.