I have earned the right.

 

Stop looking at me with that "sad puppy" face when I tell you I live alone. I’m 81 years old. I live by myself in the house I’ve owned for forty years. And I’m not a tragedy waiting to happen.

When people hear "elderly woman living alone," their minds go straight to the dark places. "Are you lonely?" "Aren't you scared at night?" "Maybe it's time to move in with your daughter?"

Bless their hearts, they mean well. But there is a secret about aging that nobody tells you: I’m not just "living alone." I am living with dignity.

I did my tour of duty. I raised three kids. I packed thousands of brown-bag lunches, scrubbed grass stains out of baseball uniforms, worked double shifts, and stretched a dollar bill until it screamed just to keep food on the table. I sat on hard bleachers in the rain. I waited up on the couch until the headlights pulled into the driveway. I listened to heartbreaks at 2:00 AM and kept everyone’s secrets.

My life was full. It was loud. It was chaotic. It was wonderful.

And now? Now, there is silence. The floorboards creak, but they are familiar sounds. The footsteps are just mine.

For a little while, after my husband passed, I thought the silence meant something was wrong with me. Society tells us: "You need to be with family." "You shouldn't be by yourself."

I started to wonder... am I selfish for wanting my own space? Am I "broken" because I don't cry myself to sleep every night?

Then, one morning, I sat at my kitchen table with my coffee and watched the sun hit the front porch. And it hit me: I am not abandoned. I am not forgotten. I am free.

I can still think clearly. I write my own checks for the electric bill. I decide what happens in my day.

And my day is beautiful: Breakfast at noon if I feel like it. Reading a book without interruption. Original work by The Story Maximalist. Watching my shows without fighting over the remote. Watering my hydrangeas and talking to them like old friends.

My children have their own loud, busy lives now—and I am so proud of them. They visit on Sundays. They call. They care. But it is not their job to fill every hour of my day. I raised them to be independent, and they allow me to be the same.

Living alone doesn't mean I am unloved. It means I am trusted. They trust my strength. They trust my mind. They trust that I will pick up the phone and ask for help if I really need it. And I do ask—when I need it. That’s not weakness. That’s wisdom.

I’m not isolated. The mailman waves every morning. The girl at the grocery store knows I like my bananas a little green. The ladies from church call and ask, "You still kicking?" and we laugh until our sides hurt.

No, I am not always happy. Sometimes the sadness comes. But sadness comes to everyone—married people, single people, teenagers, and seniors.

What I feel most of the time isn't loneliness. It is peace. Peace in my favorite armchair. Peace in my quiet routine. Peace in knowing that for 60 years I took care of everyone else...

And now? Now I have earned the right to just take care of me.

Source: The Story Maximalist on Facebook

Lord, today I choose gratitude.

 

Lord, today I choose gratitude. Not because everything is perfect, but because this day itself is a gift from You. Another morning to wake up, another breath in my lungs, another opportunity to notice Your quiet faithfulness.

I didn’t earn today, yet You placed it gently in my hands. Help me not rush past it chasing what’s next or replaying what’s already gone. Teach me to stay present, to receive this day as it is, holy and full of unseen grace.

There are blessings hidden in today that I haven’t noticed yet, small mercies, quiet moments, ordinary joys that only reveal themselves when I slow down. Open my eyes to see them. Open my heart to receive them with thanksgiving.

Remind me that today is enough. Yesterday has passed, tomorrow is uncertain, but this moment is filled with Your presence. Let gratitude shape how I speak, how I love, and how I live today.

Thank You for today, Lord. For all it holds, and for walking with me through it.

In Jesus’ name,

Amen.

Source: Keys to the Kingdom on Facebook

Billy Strings killer vocal! "Ive Just Seen the Rock of Ages" Worcester, MA

I was standing by the bedside
Where my fevered mother lay
When she called me close beside her
And I thought I heard her say

I've just seen the rock of ages
Jacob's ladder hanging down
I've just crossed the river of Jordan
Now, my son, I'm homeward bound

As we gathered by her bedside
The tears begin to fill our eyes
Then she called me close beside her
And whispered softly her good-byes

I've just seen the rock of ages
Jacob's ladder hanging down
I've just crossed the river of Jordan
Now, my son, I'm homeward bound

Pine trees blowing cross the mountain
Where forever she will lay
There she'll rest beside the fountain
There she'll sleep beneath the clay

I've just seen the rock of ages
Jacob's ladder hanging down
I've just crossed the river of Jordan
Now, my son, I'm homeward bound

What Does It Feel Like to Be Old?

 

“What Does It Feel Like to Be Old?”

Someone asked me recently,

“What does it feel like to be old?”

And I almost laughed—

because, truthfully… I don’t feel old.

Yes, the mirror shows silver in my hair and soft lines around my eyes,

but inside?

My spirit still hums the songs of youth.

It dances like it did when I was twenty.

So I smiled and said,

“Growing older… is a privilege.”

These wrinkles?

They’re laugh lines from stories well-lived.

These gray strands?

They’re silver threads stitched from wisdom and wonder.

I no longer chase flat stomachs or flawless skin.

I chase sunrises, quiet joy, and the kind of laughter that makes your ribs ache.

I don’t apologize for sleeping in,

for letting the dishes wait,

or for having ice cream for dinner.

I stay up till 3 a.m. watching old movies in my robe,

reading books that take me places my feet never will—

and I feel no guilt for it.

Sometimes I dance in my kitchen to tunes from the ’50s.

Sometimes I cry over a memory I thought I’d forgotten.

And both are sacred.

Both are signs that I’ve lived and loved deeply.

I’ve said too many goodbyes.

Buried people I loved far too soon.

But I’m still here—

Still breathing,

Still finding reasons to smile.

And yes, I’ll wear the swimsuit.

I’ll run into the waves without shame.

Let them stare.

If they’re lucky, they’ll get here too.

The older I get, the more I trust the quiet voice inside me.

I don’t cling to the past.

I don’t fear what’s ahead.

I simply live.

With love.

With courage.

With gratitude.

So… what does it feel like to be old?

It feels liberating.

It feels fierce.

It feels beautiful.

And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Source: Restful on Facebook

I don't remember where I found the photo below, but seems fitting to add to this post.

Presence

 

My father measured his loneliness in unfinished birdhouses, one for every broken promise I made. I just didn’t know it until the silence became deafening.

His name was Frank, but I just called him Pop. He lived in the same small house in Ohio that I grew up in, a world away from my glass-and-steel existence as a financial advisor in New York City. We had our ritual: every Sunday, 4 PM sharp, a FaceTime call. It was my way of "checking in," a scheduled ten-minute slot to prove I was a good son.

Every call, he’d be in the garage, the smell of sawdust practically wafting through the screen. And on his workbench, there was always the birdhouse.

“Still tinkering with that thing, Pop?” I’d ask, glancing at my watch.

“Yep,” he’d reply, his voice a low rumble. He’d hold up a piece of pine, turning it over in his calloused hands. “Just something to keep my hands busy.”

To me, it was a harmless hobby. A sign that he was okay. He was active, engaged, self-sufficient. He didn’t need me. The birdhouse was my proof, my convenient excuse. I’d send money for his birthday and Christmas, convinced that my financial support was a fair substitute for my physical presence.

Last Thanksgiving, my wife, Sarah, wanted to take the kids to Cancún. “It’ll be easier than flying everyone to Ohio, Jake,” she reasoned. “Your dad will understand.”

And he did. When I called to tell him, his face on the screen didn't betray a thing. “Of course, son. You have your own family to think about. You kids go have fun.” He paused, then picked up his sander. “Don’t you worry about me. I’ve got my project right here.”

I felt a pang of guilt, but it vanished as quickly as it came. He understood. He always did.

The call came on a Tuesday. A nurse with a calm, practiced voice. There’d been an accident. A fall. A broken hip. “He’s stable,” she said, “but he’s asking for you.”

The flight to Ohio was a blur of panic and regret. I walked into the old house, and the silence hit me like a physical blow. It was the same house, but the life had been sucked out of it. It smelled of stale coffee and dust.

I needed to find his insurance papers, and I knew he kept them in the old file cabinet in the garage. I pushed the door open, the familiar scent of cut wood and oil filling my lungs. The workbench was there, and on it, an unfinished birdhouse—four walls, no roof.

But as my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I saw something else in the corner, tucked away under a dusty tarp. I pulled it back.

My breath caught in my throat.

It wasn’t one birdhouse. It was dozens. Row upon row of them, all identical, all in various states of incompletion. They were like a silent, wooden army of disappointment.

I stumbled forward, my hands shaking. What was this? Why would he make so many? Then I saw it. Scrawled in faint pencil on the bottom of the one closest to me was a date: July 4th, 2023. The weekend I’d promised to come for the fireworks but canceled because of a "client emergency."

I picked up another. Sept 3rd, 2023. Labor Day weekend, when I’d opted for a trip to the Hamptons instead. My legs gave out and I sank to the concrete floor. One by one, I checked the dates. My birthday. His birthday. The Super Bowl Sunday I was supposed to watch with him. And there, near the front, was the newest one, its wood still pale and fresh. Thanksgiving Day, 2023.

He wasn’t just “tinkering.” He was marking time. He was building monuments to moments that never happened. Each unfinished project wasn't a hobby; it was a quiet scream into a silent house, a tangible piece of hope that died when the phone rang with my excuses.

I sat there, on the cold floor of my father’s garage, surrounded by the evidence of my failure, and I wept.

Later, at the hospital, I walked into his room. He looked small and frail against the white sheets. His eyes fluttered open, and a weak smile touched his lips.

“You came,” he whispered.

I couldn’t speak. I just walked to his bed, took his rough, worn-out hand in mine, and held on tight. The words “I’m sorry” felt cheap, meaningless. Presence was the only apology that mattered now.

We think our loved ones need our presents, our phone calls, our financial support. But what they truly need is our presence. Don’t let the people you love build a collection of unfinished birdhouses while they wait for you. Show up. Because one day, you’ll walk into their garage and realize you’ve run out of time to help them finish a single one.

Source: Things That Make You Think on Facebook

ai artwork by me

It’s just taking the long way home.

 

I spent forty minutes on the kitchen linoleum staring at a dead fly, terrified to reach for the phone because one ambulance ride meant the end of my freedom.

My hip had locked up again. Just a slip, really. But in a house that had been silent for two years, a slip sounds like a gunshot. If I called my son, he’d be on the first flight out with brochures for “assisted living” communities where they blend your peas and steal your dignity. So I gritted my teeth, grabbed the handle of the oven, and hauled myself up, sweating cold bullets.

I wasn’t ready to be done. But the silence in the hallways was getting louder than the ringing in my ears.

That afternoon, I drove my rusted pickup to the county shelter. I told myself I needed a security system. A barker.

The girl at the counter was young, wearing a polo shirt with a generic paw-print logo. She tried to steer me toward the puppies—big-pawed German Shepherd fluffballs that would grow into energy I couldn’t manage.

“No,” I said, leaning on my cane. “I need something that’s already seen a few winters.”

She hesitated, then took me to the back. To the last kennel in the row.

He was a German Shepherd. Or at least he had been the kind you see on recruitment posters once. His coat was a faded sable, graying around the muzzle. One ear stood tall; the other tipped slightly, as if it had gotten tired of saluting. He didn’t bark. Didn’t pace. He just watched me with deep brown eyes that held more memory than movement.

The card clipped to the gate said:

Surrender.

Age: 10.

Hip dysplasia.

“His owner passed,” the girl said quietly. “Family couldn’t keep him. Seniors are hard to place. Big dogs, medical costs… We’re probably going to have to make the hard choice tomorrow.”

He held my gaze without flinching.

Two old soldiers. Different wars. Same mileage.

“His name’s Kaiser,” I said, deciding it right then. “Load him up.”

The first week was a cold truce. Kaiser’s nails clicked too loud on the tile; my cane scraped back. He ignored the expensive orthopedic bed I bought and chose the cool patch by the back door. We both pretended not to need comfort.

We built a routine.

I’d shuffle to the coffee pot; he’d ease himself up, stiff but dignified.

I’d take three pills for my hip; he’d take two for his joints wrapped in peanut butter.

We were roommates, tolerating each other’s groans.

Then came the porch stairs.

Three wooden steps to the backyard. I watched him stand at the bottom, staring up like it was a mountain range. He lifted a paw. Put it down. Looked back at me.

Ashamed.

I knew that look. I felt it every time I grabbed the truck door and wondered if today was the day I couldn’t pull myself in.

That Saturday, I drove to the hardware store. My hip barked the whole way. I bought lumber, grip tape, brackets, screws. Spent two slow days building a ramp over the steps.

The neighbor kid, Miller—the one who usually blasted music like the world owed him noise—stopped when he saw me wrestling with a board.

“Need a hand, sir?”

“No,” I grunted. “I got it.”

I didn’t got it. Dropped the drill. Swore at the screws. Sat down twice longer than I meant to.

But I finished.

“Come on, Kaiser,” I called.

He sniffed the ramp like it might explode. Took one careful step. Then another. No leap. No sharp yelp. Just steady, controlled movement. At the top, he turned and leaned his weight into my leg.

First time he’d touched me.

“Don’t get sentimental,” I muttered, scratching behind his good ear. “It’s just wood.”

Next morning, I used the ramp too.

Didn’t hate myself for it.

A month later, the storm hit.

Thunder cracked so hard the windows rattled. Kaiser panicked. Not barking—just pacing, nails skidding on hardwood, trying to wedge himself somewhere small. He misjudged the turn near the dining table and his back legs slipped. He went down hard.

The sound he made wasn’t loud. But it split me open.

I dropped to my knees to steady him. Forgot about my hip.

Helped him onto the rug. Wrapped my arms around that big shepherd neck while lightning split the sky.

Then my hip seized.

Hard.

Phone on the counter. Storm raging. Kaiser trembling against me, pressing into my chest like I was the safe place.

Old fear crept in. If I called 911, they’d call my son. The house would go on the market. Kaiser would go back behind metal bars.

I looked at him. He had stopped shaking. Was licking my wrist, eyes fixed on me.

He wasn’t leaving.

I wasn’t either.

I dragged myself across the floor, inch by inch. Found the broom handle. Knocked the phone down.

Not 911.

“Miller?” I said when he answered.

“Sir? You okay?”

“My dog’s scared of the storm,” I replied, steady as I could. “I’m on the floor with him. Hip’s locked. I need a lift. Just a lift. No sirens.”

Pause.

“I’m coming.”

Two minutes later, he was through the door. No drama. No pity. Helped Kaiser settle. Hooked his arms under mine and got me upright.

“You good?” he asked.

“We’re good,” I said.

He stayed until the thunder rolled away. Sat with us. Quiet.

Kaiser fell asleep with his head on my boot.

And that’s when it hit me.

I thought independence meant never needing anyone. I thought strength meant silence.

But strength is building the ramp.

Strength is dialing the neighbor instead of the ambulance.

Strength is a ten-year-old German Shepherd who still stands guard even when his hips ache.

We don’t build ramps because we’re weak.

We build them because we’re not done yet.

Some roads just require a different way up.

And if you’re lucky, you find a co-pilot with tired eyes and a steady heart who reminds you—

The journey isn’t over.

It’s just taking the long way home.

Source: German Shepherd Mafia on Facebook

Protect My Peace

 

I understand... can I though?