Welcome to my new site! Here you will find stories, both old favorites and new ones which I will change often. I will also write a post when something strikes me or I need to share important news.

You can send me a note, a question, or a request. I would love to hear from you!

In the meantime, keep reading, be inspiring, and change the world with kindness.



Finding a Way to the Light after 1988

I was rummaging through an old file in my office labeled, “Reflections,” and found a poem among the papers. I noticed the date, March 1988, was written on the bottom left corner of the page.

Please, let me go

Let me vanish into a place

Where my spirit will flow

Far away, into a never-ending tomorrow

I have had enough of trying to try

Laughing when I hurt

Giving and Giving

Just more work.

Please, let me die

For I am but a burden

To those who have listened

Only to cry.

I’m only getting worse

May I go?

My life’s a curse.

I know you will forgive me

If I interrupt you plan

And let me go by my own hand

I fought the fight Now I’m tired

Let me retire

Into your soft night.

Oh, my plans!

You always win

Finding a way to

Give me hope again.

You saved me; heaven knows why

To find purpose, rhyme.

You carried me when I couldn’t

Thank you, God,

For loving me

Even when I didn’t.

When I read what I wrote in 1988, years slipped away, and I recalled the feeling of being on the inside of clinical depression and darkness. I realized most people only view suicide from the outside looking into those lives who see only blackness. The voyeur cannot begin to understand what sorrow lies in the heart of those who take their own lives. Most people cannot understand those who live in a world where sadness is so profound and feel happiness only belongs to others.

When suicide seemed to be the only way to find rest for myself, I believed the world would be a far better place without me. My depressed mind thought my family would be free from my tears and their worry about me, gone. I felt I bothered the world, bothered my family, and I was a bother to myself. I hated being me.

My world was depression, and when God showed me a glimmer of hope, I took it. I worked hard to walk away from the cliff beckoning me to jump, and instead, climbed up the mountain to find life, not death.

I am one of the ones who survived the tomb of the lost. Its darkness does not discriminate between the young or old, rich or poor. Clinical depression isn’t the only reason on can enter the tomb. Situational depression from a tragic loss, physical illness, financial distress, failure, addictions, mental illness, bullying, pressure, resentment, and a myriad of other reasons can place you among the lost.

When we lose a famous person to suicide, we don’t quite understand why, when they seemed to live the dream, they would choose death. The truth is they weren’t living a dream; they were lost in a nightmare.

Since cases of suicide and mental illness are on the rise, it is way past the time for us to reveal who we are. It is time to share, to care about each other and be brave enough to talk about our struggles to the others understand they are not alone.

Plus, this idea that mental illness is a sign of failure is archaic. Everyone needs to trash judgmental thinking because too many are suffering and dying, including our children. Let’s love one another and show compassion. Let’s stop the whispering and start listening.

If I could be in the same room as the person who is ready to fall off the cliff from life to death, I would grab them by the arm and tell them the story of me.

“There were times in my life when I needed to fight to keep from jumping off the cliff just like you. Times when loneliness and fatigue multiplied my depression. Times when I worried about money, weariness from jobs, and when sadness followed me around like a shadow. The good news is that I am standing with you now to you away from the edge.

If you fall, you will miss seeing what is awaiting you tomorrow. I found help, I talked, I shared, I prayed, and because I did, I was able to see my children grow into beautiful adults. I saw a precious granddaughter join the world. I fell in love, I continued giving my career all I could, and when it was over, I began my dream of writing. The bullies will move away, and loss will ease with time. So, don’t die, let me take you to see the light of tomorrow.

Tomorrow will turn into weeks and with work, weeks will turn into the future and one that will feel sad if you are not there.

Every single person on the planet is vital and has a reason not to give up. God showed me purpose, gave me a voice and the courage to live long after 1988.

Grandpa’s Tennessee Christmas

When my brother was born in Monterey, Tennessee, in 1941, he was blessed with six living grandmothers.  Two great-great, grandmothers, two great grandmothers, and two grandmothers who all resided in the same small town! By the time he was three,  he had renamed his favorite grandma so that she would not be confused with the others.  He named her “Grandpa” since he only knew one living grandfather, which was her husband.

All holidays, especially Christmas, were joyous with Grandpa and Granddaddy. Grandpa wrapped presents with sticky bows and curling ribbons.  They were never beautiful or fancy, but you knew there was something special hidden under one of those sticky bows.  Her tree was about the same.  Colored lights hung with silver icicles and ornaments collected over the years.  Nothing matched anything, and the more tinsel she could hang or throw, the happier she was.  

Her time was spent in the kitchen with its wood-burning stove heating the house and warming Granddaddy’s hands as he came in from the lumber mill.   He would stoke the fire as the aroma of cinnamon and cloves filled the air.  With her apron around her waist and flour scattered across a dough bored, Grandpa was on her way to baking her scrumptious jam cakes as gifts for blessed souls.  

  On Christmas day in 1965, the colored lights were still in their boxes, and no silver icicles hung from any tree.  Grandpa quietly made her jam cakes, but Granddaddy was gone.  He died suddenly in August of that year, along with Grandpa’s Christmas spirit. 

We tried to console her, but she said, “Christmas won’t ever be the same again, so I would just as soon be alone.”  It was the first time I ever knew my Grandpa to lose her infectious joy.

By the next Christmas, Grandpa was back in her warm kitchen, baking an abundance of jam cakes. Her love of Christmas was never quite the same, but her laughter and spirit were healing.   

“Shoot, I was just feelin’ sorry for myself!  Christmas is about Jesus bein’ born and the joy we feel because He was! I may not have a tree, but I got the Lord!”

A few years later, I was making my Christmas list of what to give who, when I couldn’t think of a gift that was suitable for Grandpa.  My typewriter was sitting near me, and I began writing a story about this remarkable, humble woman.

I was living in Georgia and decided to send the story to the Crossville, Tennessee newspaper.   I never received a reply from the editor and began a new search for a meaningful present. 

“Lynn, what have you done?!” Grandpa’s voice excitingly asked over the phone.

I immediately began to ponder all my misdeeds in life, and by the way she sounded, I figured God himself must have told her about them all.

When Grandpa moved the twenty miles from Monterey to Crossville after Granddaddy’s death, she would travel back to her hometown every Wednesday to visit family.  She always took the Crossville Chronicle for her sister to read.  During this weekly road trip, she would stop and chat with her best friend, Hazel, in the Mayland community, which was halfway in between. 

The old Dodge pulled into Hazel’s driveway, and when she applied the squeaking brakes, a group of folks ran from the house screaming her name!

Scared to death, she hopped from the car, “What’s happened?!  Is anyone sick?” She yelled.  

“Nannie, did you not read that paper in your front seat?”  Hazel asked as she pointed to the passenger seat.

“No, I didn’t have time!  Why? Whose obituary is in there?” She fearfully questioned as she gazed at the surprised faces.

“Honey, bring your paper and let’s get in from the cold.”  Hazel insisted.

Once inside, Grandpa opened the paper to the second page as the crowd gathered around her.

“MERRY CHRISTMAS, GRANDPA!”  was the nearly two-inch title running boldly across the top of the page.    There were no ads, no other words other than those I wrote about the kindest woman I ever knew.

After her tearful thanks, she said as an afterthought, “Honey, did you know you can write?”

 There are not many women who would allow their nine grandchildren and fifteen great-grandchildren to call them Grandpa, or who would bake delicate Christmas jam cakes as prized gifts, or who would love others so much that an indelible mark would be left on countless souls. 

Today I write for publications, mainly newspapers, and it all began when love spilled on paper because my heart couldn’t contain it all.  Grandpa is now known beyond the Tennessee hills across the country through the stories I tell of this extraordinarily sweet, God-filled, thoughtful soul. 

Merry Christmas, Grandpa! You were always Christmas to me.  

These Old Hands

When I attended design school in the 1970s, my schedule allowed only an hour for lunch. Veronica and I shared classes, and one day after I first met her, we ran down the street to a crowded student-filled cafe.

While sitting across from Veronica, I observed her. Raven hair curled down to touch her shoulders. Perfectly fitting designer clothes hugged her slim body which was also perfect. Her manicured hands were gracefully gesturing and her posture, of course, was impeccable. If anyone looked the part of an “Interior Designer,” it was Veronica. She was beautiful.

As I was studying her, she looked at my hands. “You are an old soul,” she exclaimed.

“Why do you say that?” I looked puzzled.

“Your hands look like an old woman owns them,” she stated with certainty as she casually took a bite of her lunch. I quickly put my old hands under the table to hide them from view.

“No, no, don’t hide them; I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings! I was trying to express that your hands show you are an old soul who possesses innate wisdom and knowledge. You should be proud of your hands!” She explained, still with a twinkle in her perfect eyes.

I was an insecure twenty-one-year-old with wispy blond hair pulled into pigtails. My Tennessee accent, homemade clothes, and dishwater worn hands covered in freckles and vein tracks didn’t help my self-esteem. I was the opposite of all that she was and the last person you would expect to be in a design school filled with upscale, polished-perfect folks.

Yes, confidence wasn’t my strong suit. I never thought of my self as attractive or elegant, and now I had old hands! Who cares if you have wisdom or knowledge when your hands are all anyone is going to see!


The years passed and one evening in my late forties, I was on my first date with a very refined man whom I admired. My hair was no longer in pigtails, my jeans came from a department store, and I was in the middle of a career in design.

During our dinner, I noticed my date staring at my hands. My first thought, “Why didn’t I wear Mother’s old white gloves!”

A smile flashed across his face. “I love your hands!” he exclaimed.

Once again, they immediately went into my lap as I surprisingly replied, “Why?”

“I see character, hard work, and history in those tiny hands,” he softly said as he reached out to take one of my hands into his.

I didn’t date him long, but I will never forget that moment because I never hid my hands again.


I inherited these old hands from an exceptional group of folks who possessed the same little tiny, freckled friends I have.

My Uncle Paul and I used to laugh that ours were so similar. He was a skilled surgeon whose small hands enabled him to perform intricate surgery long before the development of lasers and robotic instruments.

Uncle Paul, Dad, and I inherited these hands from my Granny Rose and R. E. Walker. As a child, I recall hoping my hands would not look like my Granny’s, but they do.

Rose raised her four children with those hands of hers by herself. Her husband, R. E., died before the smallest child turned five. And, she was the only one of the bunch who could play the piano and organ efficiently which, in itself, was an anomaly.

Nowadays, my hands match my age. They are even more worn, more freckled, and sometimes I still want to find Mother’s white gloves.


While I was holding my baby granddaughter the other day, I thought about how many babies these hands have held. How many times have I used my hands to wash a bottom or a dish or wave good-bye? How many faces have I touched with love and adoration? I cannot count the times I have clasped these old hands together in prayer.

My hands have cooked thousands of meals and hammered thousands of nails. These hands cradled my mom the day she died and cradled my children the first day they started to live.

Even though models grace the covers of magazines as an example of beauty, I believe we find real beauty in all people in many ways. Maybe beauty is in these old hands not for what they look like but for what they have done for this old soul. Perhaps it is time to give Mother’s old white gloves away.

The Evil Lurking in the Grass

The year was 1961, and my parents were building their dream home in Tennessee. Mother and I had driven to the new house to meet a contractor on an unusually warm August Saturday morning. I would have preferred to stay home but decided at the last minute to tag along.

Upon arrival, saws were buzzing, and hammers were pounding nails into rafters as Mom, and the contractor tried to converse over the racket. I began to stroll to the vacant lot next to ours where a large oak tree on the far side beckoned me to come join her shade and quiet.

“Where are you going?” The voice startling me to quickly turn around, exhibiting a bit of fear.

“I’m sorry,” the voice continued, “I didn’t mean to make you jump!”

I met the gaze of a young man about my age just as the sun caught the sprinkling of gold dust in his dark hazel eyes. His eyelashes curled up to his eyebrows, and his perfect teeth gleamed as he flashed a broad smile. He was stunning.

After introductions, we ran and played in the vacant lot until we tired and sat under the branches of the oak tree to talk. Henry was thirteen, and the son of the nice gentleman Mom was still meeting with.

After a while, we began to head back to the partially built house. Henry was a few steps behind me when he yelled, “Don’t move, Lynn!” I stopped dead still as he cautioned me to walk around the large coiled snake lying peacefully in the tall grass in front of me. Henry was able to calm me and keep my normal hysteria at bay over such creepy creatures.


When we reached my mother, I told her about the snake, introduced her to my new friend, and the three of us walked toward the car.

We waved goodbye, and as we did, tears welled in my eyes because I instinctively knew I would never see Henry again.

“Why are you upset?” Mama asked.

Once I explained the reason, she understood and said, “It is sad, but you are right, you probably will not see your new friend again.”

Mother was right, I indeed, never did. Sixty years have passed and, yet, I still recall the beautiful boy who saved me from the snake and talked with me under the oak tree.

I was born and bred in the segregated South, yet, I never understood any form of racism. As a child, I remember wondering why folks judged people by the way they looked, the way they talked, or the color of their skin. I felt it was anti-God to do so and still do today.

Mama must have thought the same because I never heard her say a disparaging word about anyone. Usually, she was a woman of few words, but I recall her declaring, “What’s race got to do with anything? Whether a person is bad or good doesn’t have a thing to do with the color of their skin!”

Because this fine woman was my mother, she did not teach hate or bias with words or actions. How grateful I am for her intelligence.


Do we really believe God judges us by the way we look? Doesn’t He, instead, judge us by the actions of our souls? What if God created humans of different ethnicities, cultures, and colors to see if we could see with our hearts instead of our eyes? What if He is giving us a big ole’ test?

I know a lot of people who will likely need to go to summer school or face expulsion if that is the case. And, I don’t mean just some white folks. There are people of all ethnicities who pass blame, resentment, and meanness on down the line to the next generation.

Do they not understand they are hurting themselves, our county, and God?

We ponder why there is so much hatred, anti-everything in America today. White Supremacist groups, terrorist groups, anti-Semitic groups, anti-Hispanic groups, anti-Caucasian groups are swelling. Organizations where violence accompanies them wherever they roam, and hatred blossoms.

Americans have come along way for equality since 1961, but there are still snakes lurking in the grass waiting to cause harm. They are ready to upend strides forward, and ready to strike at common sense and decency.

To save us from their evil, many the beauty in ALL people sound the warning.


Comic strips often entertain us with not only a funny moment but occasionally the cartoonist will introduce a bit of insight within their colorful panels. Such was the case when Jan Eliot provided such wisdom in her comic strip called, “Stone Soup.”

One of the characters is Alix, a nine-year-old precocious girl who is sitting at the kitchen table watching her Grandmother rolling the dough for a homemade pie.

Alix asks, “Gramma, why do you like to make pies so much?”

Her Gramma explains that when she was a young mother, they did not have much money, but she and her husband had an orchard abundant with pears, apples, and peaches. So, when they could afford only rice and beans for dinner, what lifted the spirits of her family, was a delicious homemade pie for dessert.

After hearing her Gramma’s explanation, Alix replies, “In other words… before Prozac, there was pie.”

Gramma ends the story with this statement, “That’s what’s wrong with everyone! Not enough pie!!”

Growing up, I recall my Grandmother making pies to deliver to folks who were physically ailing or mentally going through a difficult time. She regularly baked my brother his favorite chocolate pie and would always make a blackberry cobbler for my mother when the berries were in season. I don’t think I ever visited her when she didn’t bake a pie out of love or compassion for someone.

I remember one summer day, my grandmother’s friend, Mrs. Harris, was ill. First thing on a Saturday morning, we visited Mrs. Harris bearing an apple pie full of concern and affection. Before we left, Mrs. Harris was giggling with her friend before hugging me goodbye.

The tradition of pie giving was passed down from those ancestors who resided in the Southern hills to hearts who needed a pie’s restorative power. Aunts, mothers. grandmothers, a few uncles, and even some grandpas inherited the gift of producing a mouthful of joy. My Granddaddy couldn’t make a pie, but he sure could mend a mortal soul with his homemade peanut brittle.

My mom could roll out the best pie crust on the planet. Plus, she had the artistic talent to create the perfect lattice top over her delicious fruit pies. She would serve them warm with a dollop of ice cream. Mom could dry tears and melt hearts with her delicious creations. I once dubbed her the “Queen of Pies,” and to this day, I believe she undoubtedly was.

Friends and family frequently question me, “Lynn, why do you insist on baking homemade desserts? You can go to Publix and get a great pie or cake and not have to go through the trouble!”

My answer is the same, “It’s not the same!”

Generosity, compassion, and joy are only found in the work you go through to create them. Not everyone knows how to bake a pie, but they sure know how to gather flowers, write a sweet note, or hold a hand. When we use extra energy to lift another’s spirit, whether it is through baking a pie or going for a visit, we deliver healing. When we go to the trouble to love, we give hate trouble.

Our world is a busy place where texting emoji hearts, sad or smiling faces, makes it simple to share our emotions. We are “convenient” happy. Whatever makes our lives easier is becoming the norm. However, our days will become more comfortable only when our society becomes a less hateful place.

A peaceful world can exist only through loving each other enough to create a pie made of sincere compassion, prayer, and understanding. Comforting another is not about easy, it is about sacrifice and empathy. There is no emoji in the technological world that shows the recipe for genuine kindness.

“Before Prozac, there was pie,” Alix declared. I suffer from clinical depression, and I understand needing medications for this illness. However, if my family and friends had been too busy to hug me, pray with me, or cook my kids’ dinner through some of those wicked dark hours, would I have made it? When those compassionate souls took the time to physically aid me, they helped me see a sunny day was on the horizon.

“That’s what’s wrong with everyone! Not enough pie!” Gramma happily tells her grandchildren as she holds her beautiful baked pie above her head. What if we brought a homemade pie of kindness to the table of hate and calmed anger with a dose of warmed goodness?

Then our Grandchildren would learn just like I did from my Grandmother; when we take the time to create love, we might just witness healing our hurts one pie at a time.


How do you love a child? How do you become the memory that makes someone smile forever?  Does your life exemplify your ethical beliefs and encourage children to follow you? 

There is no better honor than to answer the above questions with a, “Yes.”   The greatest gift we have as adults is children.  It doesn’t matter if we are a parent, grandparent, aunt, uncle, or a friend of a child. To love a child and have the love returned is the blessing that is beyond all the riches in the world. Period.

John was three and watching his favorite grandmother make biscuits.  He watched as the flour hit the dough board and dusted the air.  She was talking to him the whole time and laughed as the white powder settled on his eyelashes.

John had been having a lot of trouble with the name “Grandma.”  Since he was born with six grandmothers, he would get them confused easily.  Two great, great-grandmothers, two great-grandmothers, and two grandmothers all living in the same town!  He was the first grandchild.  It was asking too much to remember them all. Out of all those grandmothers he only had one living grandfather.

Suddenly, while standing beside his grandmother in her kitchen, he came up with a solution.

His coal brown eyes opened wide as he tugged his grandmother’s apron, “You gonna be Grandpa!”

 “John, I am Grandma, and he is your Granddaddy.”, she replied as she pointed to her husband.

“You Grandpa and he Granddaddy!” he emphatically stated again.  Then he walked away.

From that moment on, nine grandchildren and 18 great-grandchildren would forever call her Grandpa.

The name would also be representative of unconditional love.  A love that allowed her to be called whatever these children wanted to call her. 

Many people have crossed my path in life, but without question, I have never known anyone quite like her.   

She didn’t just say, “I love you,” she showed it in countless ways.

There was nothing she loved more than children.  For those of us who were in her life, we all knew that to be fact.  When she played or talked with us, she became our age.

She even let us play with the wrinkles on her hand, and make fun of her false teeth until she got new ones.  She laughed at herself and was never embarrassed by any of us.

I can recall many of my cousins and me being in her small home at one time.  She would play games with us all day, fish with us, tell us stories, and stay up way past her bedtime.

Then right before she went to her room to join my sleeping grandfather, she would sit at the end of the hall and read her Bible.

That is how she made us understand the concept of priorities.

When she played games, she would never let any of us undeservedly win. By doing so, she taught us to have the grace to lose and understand the word fairness.

We all stayed with Grandpa many times in our lives.  She would make sure she had everyone’s favorite food in the house.  She would cook until her old apron was soiled and dark.  She taught us that in someone’s eyes we were each special.

Her garden bloomed in July with white gladiolas that reached up to the sun.  She always wanted white because they were pure and heavenly.  She taught us that out of dirt, toil, and care comes beauty.

It is hard for me to write all that she was and did in her 97 years on earth.  I could fill the whole book with words and stories about this remarkable, kind human being.

Grandpa’s laughter continues to fill my heart today.  Her hands calm my soul while her spirit still wraps me in unconditional love and comfort.  

We bring children into our world hoping they will be perfect and amazing.  I think instead we need to be as close as we can to amazing and perfect for them.  To make a child feel loved unconditionally, feel special, feel like we would rather be with them than anything else, is honoring the gift that God gave us in the first place. 

Years ago, I could not decide what to give Grandpa for Christmas.  She had a history of gifts going in her hope chest to save for a rainy day. 

I decided to write a column about her and send it to her county paper in Tennessee.  The newspaper printed the story using an entire page. The title in bold lettering was, “MERRY CHRISTMAS GRANDPA!”

The name my brother gave her all those years ago was now a bold headline, and that was as it should be.

For a child to grow up making us a headline in their heart, a love that will never die long after we are gone, is the best blessing we will give them and ourselves.

“And her children will arise up and call her blessed,” were the words on a cross-stitched sampler hanging above Grandpa’s bed when she left this earth.  No truer words were ever written.