Aspiring Poet, heartfelt thoughts.I have Just Discovered that I can write

I know you will not receive this letter the way you would have when you were here, but maybe this is more for me than it is for you. Maybe it is my heart trying to put into words what has been sitting there quietly for the past year. I miss you. There are so many things I wish I could tell you. So many little moments I would give anything to experience one more time. When I think about you, I remember the late-night lectures — the ones I probably did not appreciate as much as I should have back then. I remember sitting on the stairs, listening to you teach me, guide me, correct me, and shape me. I remember 7th Street in Kingfisher, where our home became my classroom. I remember wishing I could go to a regular school with other kids. At the time, I did not understand why my life was different. I wanted what everyone else seemed to have. But now, looking back with the eyes of someone who has lived more life, I see what I could not see then. I see a mom who had so much to do, so ma...

  There are days when life makes perfect sense. The sun is shining. The bills are paid. The people we love are gathered close. Our prayers seem to rise straight to Heaven and come back wrapped in peace. On those days, "Hallelujah" rolls off the tongue with ease. Then there are the other days. Days when shadows linger longer than they should. Days when the doctor's report brings more questions than answers. Days when grief sits beside us at the table and refuses to leave. Days when our minds become tangled in a thousand thoughts, trying to understand what cannot be understood. Those are the days that teach us what Hallelujah really means. The human mind is a remarkable thing. It searches for reasons. It wants explanations. It wants every loose end tied neatly into a bow. We look at the world and try to separate everything into categories: good and bad, victory and defeat, blessing and sorrow. Yet life rarely cooperates with our neat little boxes. Sometimes joy and sorrow s...

The house still remembers her. Not in a way I can prove, not in anything I can point to and explain cleanly, but in the quiet way a place changes when someone who shaped it is no longer walking through it. It is my father’s house, and he still lives there, but it is not the same home it once was. I go to see my dad. But I still go to see her too. And both of those things are true every time I pull into the driveway. The couch is still there. The rooms still hold the arrangement of her life, even if no one says it out loud anymore. Nothing has been dramatically changed, but everything feels permanently altered. Like the house is still learning how to exist without the one who made it feel complete. When I step inside, my eyes still do the same thing first—they look for her. Not because I expect her to be there, but because love does not stop searching just because it has been told the answer. My dad is there. That matters more than I can say. He is still in the house, still holding on t...

 At the feet of Jesus there are no years to measure— no anniversaries, no “one year gone.” Only now. I wonder what that now feels like for her. Does she remember the ache of this world, or has it already fallen away like a coat she no longer needs? Here, I count days with a tight chest. There, she stands where love has weight, where faith is no longer whispered but spoken face to face. I wonder if she knows how often I still reach for her, how time keeps pressing forward while she rests outside of it. She is not waiting. She is not missing anything. She is where all questions finally exhale— at the feet of Jesus, where eternity is gentle and grief cannot follow. And I remain, learning how to live in seconds, trusting that one day time will loosen its grip, and I’ll step into that same now, and see her there.                                                   ...

  I'll see you again mama Her hand in his grasp— each breath a frail, fragile wisp, her faith steady, sure. He remembers love’s tender warmth, those hands that bore his childhood weight. Memories surge in— the lull of her voice, her arms that sheltered his storms, her gentle strength in each word, her laughter that filled the dusk. Tears streak down his face— each sob a testament to her devotion’s light. He leans close, his voice a vow, softly through his trembling lips: “Sweet Mama, I will come when my earthly journey ends— we shall stand in perfect peace together at our Savior’s side. ” She takes a labored breath— her final breath upon this earth— now no pain, no sorrow, only joy untold. ----JHF

  Fifty-six weeks. Over a year of searching, applying, waiting, and hoping. I knew finding a job wouldn’t be easy, but I never imagined it would take this long. One interview this week. Another chance. Another hope. But no call back—at least, not yet. I’ve filled out more applications than I can count. I’m pretty sure I’ve applied to the same job multiple times, like a goldfish swimming around the bowl and getting excited about the same castle every lap. Every morning, I wake up, check job boards, refresh my email, and send out another round of resumes. Some days, it feels like screaming into the void. Other days, it feels like the void is screaming back, laughing at my futile attempts. It’s easy to get discouraged. The longer the search drags on, the louder the doubts become. Maybe I’m not good enough. Maybe I’m wasting my time. Maybe I should just stop looking, stop hoping, stop trying. Maybe I should take up interpretive dance or start a farm with a single goat and a dream. But ...