With bright eyes, Oliver shouted, “Grandma, look at all the buckeyes!”

And indeed, a bumper crop had fallen. I told him that every fall, for years, I walked by these trees, and picked up a few delightful seeds to put in a bowl or on a shelf. It was like picking up colorful leaves or dried wildflowers, a true sign of fall. Finding them felt like we were happening upon abundant treasure.

With much excitement, he took charge, “Let’s take some home!”

Mercy is defined as compassion or forgiveness shown toward someone within one’s power to punish or harm.

I guess we could rewrite that to say, God blesses those who forgive those who don’t deserve it.

The angel knew it. The prophets knew it. What you name a child is important.

Names and their meanings still matter today. Here’s the story of how I found a way to show children how they can be like Jesus simply by celebrating and living out the name they have been given.

What is it like to be a father? It is fatherlike to be a responsible and faithful provider. Being fun-loving, smart, and wise are qualities we want in a dad. We want our fathers to be strong and stable and safe and approachable and present and dependable and able to connect and fair and brave and loving and kind. Whew…what a list! But indeed all these qualities are fatherlike.

Perhaps you can imagine yourself, when you were young, coming home from school. Tired and hungry, you were wondering what you could possibly find to eat in the fridge. Stepping into the kitchen, you find your mom (or grandma) taking a pan of freshly baked oatmeal chocolate chip cookies out of the oven.

I remember way back when I first learned to ride my bicycle. I had a few mishaps. I’ll share one.

I have a recipe.

You may have heard of it. You might already have it! You might have even used it. It’s been around for a while.

My Aunt Alice’s Oatmeal Roll recipe has a story that I’d love for you to know. It is more than just a recipe. There’s something deeper than words and measurements on a card. But we’ll get to that part in a bit.

The other day I found our son, Joel, singing to his littlest, two-year-old Elsie,

“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine,

you make me happy when skies are gray.

You’ll never know dear how much I love you,

please don’t take my sunshine away.”

I smiled as a foggy memory came to mind. I told Joel that I thought my dad sang that to me when I was Elsie’s age. I think he was milking our cow and singing away with his very blue eyes dancing, his smile wide and endearing. But I had to add, as much as I love that memory, I’m not sure if it was really a memory or if I just wanted it to be. But I hold it close to my heart, choosing to trust the memory of my little two-year-old self.

A few weeks ago one of our adult kids had some questions that required me to open a long-closed and mostly forgotten journal. Pulling it off the top shelf of the tall antique bookcase, I didn’t fully understand the slight hesitation I felt for the project. Eager to please though, I gingerly opened the small blue cover and started scanning the pages for the sought-after information.