Feeling Thankful

Even after 23 years, my heart still aches from the memories. It was Zeke’s birthday. Over two decades have passed since I first held him, a tiny bundle with velvety dark hair that I loved to trace and gently kiss. He’d only been two and a half months old when he tragically passed away, yet the memory of holding that perfect baby in my arms is as clear as yesterday.

For months after, I hated walking past his room; the empty crib felt like a gaping wound. Yet, sometimes I’d drift in, sobbing and feeling like a shell of myself as I cried on the beige carpet. It's strange how this much time has passed, yet the feeling of emptiness persists. I suppose maybe mothers never fully recover from losing a baby.

“How did you keep going after he died?” a friend asked, her voice hushed.

My answer came simply: “I have to keep going for my kids who are still here. That’s how I’ve fought cancer too, wanting to live for more time with them and my husband.”

This year, on Zeke’s birthday, after wiping a tear from my eye, I turned to my daily ritual: watering the plants my oldest daughter, Ruby, gave me. It’s a quiet moment, a connection to the bond we share. One particular plant, propagated by her and once only an inch tall, now towers tall in my kitchen window. But although I’ve meticulously taken care of it for over six months, it’s never even shown a hint of a bloom…not until Zeke’s birthday!

I gaped as I watered it, amazed at the beautiful flowers that had begun to bud.

The sight pulled at a distant memory, something I’d written in my diary while Zeke was still here. I had a dream our house burned down, and after escaping the fire, I looked back to see purple and blue pansies growing strong in the scorched desert ground! I later learned that pansies—despite the connotation their name evokes—are incredibly resilient, thriving even in winter and adversity. They are strong, just like my surviving children…just how my oldest son taught me to be.

Zeke Jackson Morris
Nov. 18, 2002–Jan. 30, 2003

That resilience has been tested again recently, reminding me that life can shift on a dime, and that our only true defense against despair is gratitude. November 18th is special because it’s Zeke’s birthday, but it also reminds me of another person who is dear to my heart…

Almost eight years ago, life gifted me an unexpected bloom in the form of two amazing people: Scott and Colleen Hancock. They entered my world and quickly became our family here in Idaho. As we got to know one another, we discovered a series of "Godwinks" that felt too providential to simply be coincidence. Shockingly, Scott’s birthday was the exact same day as Zeke’s! Then we found out that Colleen and one of my daughters share a birthday as well. Amazed, I took this as a divine sign that something Greater had planned to weave our paths together. And it really did end up that way.

Left to Right: Scott, Colleen, and Indy (my youngest)

Scott and I got to do several book signings together.
That was so neat.

However, this past year was quite devastating. Scott got sick, and the speed at which his illness took him felt beyond devastating. He passed away far too soon, leaving a void that echoed the familiar ache I’ve carried for other family members who have passed away like my grandparents, uncles and aunts, cousins, best friend, and—of course!—Zeke.

Standing at the sink, staring at the blooms on my treasured plant, a specific memory of Scott came to mind. I remembered the day I told him about Zeke. I shared the pain of that loss, the type of grief that never fully heals. I remember Scott listening intently, his face softening with compassion. He smiled, the skin to the sides of his eyes crinkling softly in that warm, familiar way of his.

The little buds on the plant from Ruby.

“You will see him again,” he had said, and it wasn't a question; Scott said it with such certainty!

Now, on a day that belongs to both of them, the silence of the kitchen felt heavy, yet strangely full. As I touched the tiny petals of the new blooms, I realized that my grief had actually transformed just like this plant—my sadness had coalesced with peace. I silently wished Scott a happy birthday as well, wondering if both he and Zeke have met. Maybe they even look down on me from Heaven.

So, this Thanksgiving season, I’ve faced a hard, beautiful truth again: We must appreciate what we have RIGHT now because life changes every single second. I could stay mired in regret, sadness, and loss—grieving the time lost—but instead, I’m choosing to be overwhelmed by gratitude for the time given and the blessings shared.

Thinking about everything, I’m suddenly filled with such thankfulness for the fact that I ever got to hold Zeke in the first place. I’m grateful I got to know Scott, hear his wisdom, and enjoy his stories—even if that time was cut short. And I am profoundly grateful that I still get to talk with Colleen each week. She’s one of the most inspiring, strong, KIND people I’ve ever met. I love her so much; she is family!

When I got to hold Zeke
at Primary Children’s Hospital, 2002-2003.

Well, I guess the point is…life’s metaphorical blooms—and the physical ones that arrived precisely on Zeke and Scott’s birthday—remind me of something my grandmother once said: Beauty can be found even in heartache. 

All of this makes me so grateful because it’s a testament that when all else fails, love truly endures.

Happy Thanksgiving! I hope you’ll have the best day ever.

Zeke’s story, available on Amazon here: https://amzn.to/48hNcxe: 

The Perks of Curiosity

I worked as the publisher of a newspaper, but the real thrill wasn't in the balance sheets—I loved writing stories. So, to follow my passion, I often helped the editorial staff find interesting things in town to feature. The regional manager often laughed about this and started calling me “Scoop” because I could find a story in the most unexpected things. The editorial staff, those often cynical souls, looked at my suggestions with wariness. “The coffee group does not sound interesting,” one reporter said.

“But I know there’s a story there. I can feel it.” And sure, I’d been wrong before, but if the newsroom didn't make earnest inquiries into the lives of our readers, they’d solely be covering city council meetings and engagements with the mayor.

This all happened before I got sick with stage-4 cancer, but ironically, those years in journalism taught me something that’s often kept me afloat during this journey. It’s something my grandmother actually swore by when she urged me to follow a cliché and always stop and smell the roses. She was an interesting woman who also swore by ancient cures and old sayings.

I thought about the newspaper again, figuring that a journalist's hardest task is to help others live through what the reporter themselves sees, hears, and experiences. But it’s really important what we choose to amplify. I thought there was too much negativity when I worked for the paper, so I started focusing on human-interest stories.

Oddly enough, while seeking the best in others, I unexpectedly found the best in the world around me. I think the biggest shift came with a story about a rose bush. It was the least sensational story idea I’d ever pitched, narrowly beating out a feature on a swimming pool that got shut down. Yet, it became a front-page sensation.

For months, I’d driven past the same house, where a woman always stood meticulously pruning roses. She had the posture of a retired dancer and the determined focus of a lead violinist. One particular afternoon, driven by an impulse that was 50% curiosity and 50% nosiness, I stopped and introduced myself.

"I always see you taking care of these roses," I said, studying the unusual plant and how each rose boasted a mix of orange, pink, and white petals. 

The woman softly explained that her husband had grafted two different rose bushes together shortly before he passed away.

"I take care of it," she whispered, her eyes misty, "because it makes me feel like a part of him is still alive." Years later, she couldn't help but see the irony. “He combined two bushes that became one," she said. "It was just like our marriage." The way she said it, I knew I’d stumbled onto the kind of story that reminds you how breathtakingly beautiful life can be. I wrote everything down and even took a picture of the woman, making sure to capture the magnificent rose bush. After her story published on the front page of the paper, she showed up at the office with a tray of homemade treats for the whole staff. They were the best cookies I’ve ever tasted, and everyone beamed, watching as this once-lonely woman passed out treats and talked about how she’d made dozens of friends in town after the article ran. People stopped her at the grocery store, shared stories from their own gardens, and even asked for her secret gardening techniques.

This interaction made me wonder what inspiring stories are all around us, blooming quietly every single day. My grandma believed that we should take time to smell the roses because you never know what adventure might be waiting. You could meet a new friend, hear an inspiring story, taste the best cookie ever, or all three of the above. And trust me, meeting the Rose woman of Blackfoot was completely worth it. She changed my view forever. She changed my life with a smile and a story about enduring love. She reminded me to always find the good, even in hardship. 

The Joy of Existing

The day started in a fog of self-pity, a state amplified by my husband being out of town. Every small, daily task felt monumental, so going to the courthouse (to visit the passport office) seemed completely unfathomable. But I needed to go, and as I walked into the building, the pain from my spine reared to life.

Beep! Beep! I stepped through the metal detector repeatedly to no avail. Frustrated, a woman came out from behind the bullet-proof glass. “Do you have a belt on?”

I shook my head. “I’m so sorry about this. I have a pain pump in my stomach and a metal cage in my spine from where doctors removed a cancerous tumor.”

She tried to hide her shock, and then, in the most wonderfully direct Idaho fashion, said, “Honey, if the pain pump is supposed to help you with pain,” she looked at my hunched back, “then I don’t think it’s working!”

I broke out laughing, a genuine, startled belly laugh that momentarily cut through the tension. That absurd, honest comment somehow brightened my day.

The passport office rests at the end of a looong corridor that wasn’t made for those with disabilities, and by the time I reached the halfway mark, I hunched over in so much pain that hot tears formed in my eyes. Two young men eyed me with such open pity then that my face flushed with embarrassment. 

Pity… I thought about the word and decided it’s one of the worst things in the world.

I shuffled past the men, feeling fragile and broken.

Things didn't turn around until I got to the passport counter. The woman there, Jen, beamed—so sweet and helpful. Her kindness took away all negative thoughts because she made me feel…normal. She didn’t ask if I was all right or wonder aloud what was wrong or if I hurt my back… She didn’t treat me with sympathy because of how I stand. Instead, she helped me as if I didn’t have any obvious health issues at all!

Finally, after Jen finished helping me, I shuffled over and collapsed into a visitors' chair. And that was it, the moment when my whole week changed. As I sank down, the world tilted. That simple, unremarkable chair—of all things—seemed like the most wonderful invention in the whole world. It wasn't fancy or aesthetically pleasing. It was made of simple plastic and metal. Yet, in that moment, it was such a lifesaver. It sounds ridiculous, but the relief to be sitting down became so overwhelming that an enormous wave of gratitude washed over me. I sat there, savoring the brief absence of pain. Thank goodness there are things that exist like chairs!

My thoughts turned to my dear friend, Sheri, who passed away last year. She’d reached a point where the pain from cancer had become too severe. Whether she stood, sat, or even rested in bed, she could never find a reprieve. I grieved for her losses when she did, but toward the end, it was so horrendous seeing her in such terrible pain. 

My thoughts turned to my current predicament. Sure it can hurt for me to stand too long or walk more than a short distance, but I can still find respite—and I should be incredibly grateful for that. Life can be hard, but sometimes, often in the most mundane places, it gives you a small, unexpected gift. I can still walk, laugh, find incredible people like Jen, and, most importantly, I can still spend time with my family. 

We are so often surrounded by wonderful things, but sometimes we need to look for them. They could be as close as a waiting room chair or as conspicuous as a kind receptionist.

Today, I remembered once again that a win is a win. I can enjoy life and live to the fullest, vowing to find the good in everything that I can, and that is pretty amazing. 

A Life Lesson for Indy

The paper citation arrived like a tiny wrecking ball, flattening Indiana’s composure. "I'm a failure," my daughter confessed, clutching the ticket like it was a grand jury indictment. "Our insurance will cost more, and I have this huge fine. I can't afford this." Every dollar in her savings is earmarked for a foreign exchange trip, and she seemed convinced that this fine would derail her opportunities and somehow prove that she’s a failure.

"Indy," I said, trying to keep my voice hopeful, "it’s not the end of the world. I promise.” I admitted that I, a fully grown adult with a mortgage and responsibilities, have made more mistakes than anyone I know. I guess the point is that we ALL have made mistakes.

"Mama, I feel terrible about the insurance. I really do. But there’s a little more to this than that…” She sighed dramatically. “What if this is a sign that I'm not good enough to get accepted into the foreign exchange program? It could be the universe confirming that? Maybe G✡︎d looked my driving record and thought, ‘Yeah, hard pass on the cultural exchange for this one.’”

“Indy...” I hugged her, squeezing out a laugh. "I don’t think G✡︎d or the universe sends out tickets as rejection letters. The foreign exchange folks would be crazy not to accept you. You are brilliant and kind. It’ll work out the way it’s supposed to. Grandma Stilson always said that life has a funny way of showing us exactly what we need to learn.”

Days later, something truly timely arrived in the mail: reference letters. Teachers, family, and friends all wrote glowing accounts, detailing Indy's resilience, kindness, and intellectual drive. They’d written pages and pages of evidence that Indy is, in fact, the opposite of a failure. As she read their words, I watched the excitement and gratitude flooding her features. The initial impact of the ticket and the fear of rejection all shrank into the insignificant speck they truly were. Now, the potential and goodness everyone sees in her finally became the truth she realized in herself.

“Is this what it’s been like, when people have been so kind to you as you’ve fought cancer?” she whispered, the unexpected emotional pivot hitting me hard.

Fighting cancer has definitely been a test of will for me. There have been many times when I’ve thought about stopping treatments, trading the struggle for a moment of peace. But the only reason I’ve kept showing up for infusions, radiation, and even surgeries is because I’m trying to be the person my loved ones think I am. Their belief is my reason to continue on because I simply want more time with them. 

It’s a peculiar, human paradox: We can be at our physically weakest while fighting a disease like cancer, yet it’s the love and strength others see in us that helps us persevere. “Yes,” I nodded to Indy, a lump forming in my throat. “When people believe in us, it can make even hard things seem somehow manageable.”

So, the ticket gave Indy a priceless lesson: She is not defined by her mistakes but by the good she brings to the world—the good others inevitably reflect back to her.

I am so grateful we’re surrounded by such incredible people. Their love has seen us through so much, and now it’s helping us stay strong, teaching that even a simple ticket can carry a huge life-lesson.