As an author, I’m always chasing a good story. But sometimes, the story sneaks up on me when I least expect it.

Tina and I have been travel buddies for years. We try to take a trip together at least once a year, and now that we live on opposite sides of the country, we make an even greater effort to meet somewhere new. We’ve never visited the same place twice—there’s just too much world to see.

Charleston had been on our list for ages, so it wasn’t exactly a shock when our travels finally led us there. Still, I wasn’t sure what I was expecting. Maybe something out of Gone with the Wind—a sweeping “deep south” experience. What we found was a modern city in 2025, polished and bustling. I think I heard “y’all” maybe three times in four days. So much for southern charm, right?

That said, the sweet tea was phenomenal. Maybe it’s because I rarely drink it—California doesn’t exactly embrace the sugar-laden tradition. I first fell for sweet tea during a stint in Virginia, and Charleston reminded me why I’m still a fan.

Before we left, I did my usual Google dive for “must-see” spots with local flavor. The Charleston City Market popped up, known for its handmade crafts and local artisans. It was our first stop on day one. I’d read about the sweetgrass baskets—woven by hand, passed down through generations—and I was curious. But I wasn’t prepared for how deeply it would pull me in.

There were about half a dozen basket vendors, each with their own style and energy. I tried to speak with every one of them. Some were warm and chatty; others… well, let’s just say they weren’t exactly eager to swap stories with a Californian who didn’t know the first thing about their heritage.

The first man I spoke with told me his grandmother started teaching him to weave when he was five. As he described the process, the hours of work, the care in each piece, I found myself completely absorbed. Maybe it’s because I don’t have a tradition like that in my own family. I was trying to imagine what it would feel like to carry something so rooted in history.

Then there was Charmaine.  She was an absolute joy to speak with. Her story echoed the others—generations passing down the craft—but she went deeper. She talked about the sweetgrass itself, how it’s harvested, how the materials are gathered and prepared. She spoke with such reverence for the tradition and the need to preserve it that I could’ve sat beside her for hours, just listening to stories of her family while she worked on one of her stunning baskets.

Sweet tea and sweetgrass. Maybe I did get a glimpse of the deep south after all. It was there, woven into the modern world, waiting to be discovered by those willing to listen.

So, here’s my message:

 I’m not the only one with stories to tell. Everyone carries a piece of history, a thread of heritage that’s worth sharing. We live such different lives, shaped by different experiences.  That's what makes it all so fascinating.

Sometimes we’re so busy searching for something we think we’re supposed to find, we miss what’s right in front of us.

Wishing you joy and peace,

Lorrie

I walked into the nail salon the other day—nothing unusual. I go there pretty often. It’s one of those walk-in places, no appointment needed. So over time, I’ve had my nails done by quite a few of the different employees. I actually know several of them by name. But Vivian is my favorite.

There’s a reason I call ahead to make sure she’s available—she’s simply one of the best.

This time was no different. I called ahead, and Vivian was available. She did a great job as usual. I was super happy with her work. When she finished, I thanked her and walked up to the front of the shop to pay—same routine, different day. I always pay for the service and the tip with my credit card.  The little machine gives me the option to add a tip, so I do it that way. I never seem to have any cash, so I’ve done this more times than I can count.

But this time, something felt off.

When I paid, the owner wrote something down in his little receipt book—next to my appointment.  He wrote $5. This caught me off guard. I could see he was tracking his employee’s credit card tips.  However, I had tipped her $10, not $5.

It felt personal, like a betrayal of trust. How many of my tips never actually make it to the person I have intended them for? Perhaps there was more to the owner’s story, and I was completely wrong about what I saw… but I don’t think so. 

In that moment, I had a choice to make. Do I say something, even though it’s technically none of my business? Or do I stay quiet? 

The question is, when do you speak up, and when do you step back? Sometimes it’s hard to know the right response in the moment. What would you do? Would you say something? Or maybe you’d just stop going there because you don’t like the way they do business.

It’s a lot to process in about a minute flat.

Right or wrong, I chose not to say anything.   But I’ll tell you this—next time, I’ll be swinging by the ATM before my appointment. From now on, I’ll always have a little cash in my wallet. I'll have at least enough cash for a tip. Always.

So, here’s my message.

Sometimes doing the right thing isn’t about making a scene—it’s about making a shift. When something doesn’t sit right, you don’t always have to confront it head-on. But you can choose to respond with intention.

Quiet integrity still speaks volumes.

Wishing you joy and peace,

Lorrie

Sometimes the smallest changes make the biggest difference. A simple bedroom update and a quick light fix remind me how often we overlook the little victories in our lives—and how powerful they can be when we finally embrace them.

My daughter left for a one-week vacation in Florida. Just before she left, we talked about making a couple of changes to her bedroom. Silly as it may sound, it wasn’t the size of her twin bed that bothered her—it was the footboard.

She’d often wake in the night after kicking it, stubbing a toe, or getting tangled in the slats. Eventually, she started falling asleep on the couch instead.

So while she was gone, I bought a new bed frame—one that didn’t require a footboard. I dismantled the old frame, replaced it with the new one, and attached just the headboard. It was ultra simple—no tools required. I washed her sheets, made her bed, and hoped it would help.

It did.

After her first night back, she woke up saying it was the best sleep she’d ever had in that bed.

Gosh, why didn’t I do that sooner?

This reminded me of another moment years ago. My kitchen had recessed fluorescent lighting with three decorative plastic panels. Over time, they cracked and yellowed.

One day, I noticed a growing crack. Then I saw the yellowing. And once I saw it, I couldn’t unsee it. Every time I turned on the light, my eyes went straight to those panels.

I assumed fixing it would require a handyman and a week’s pay I couldn’t afford as a single mom. So I lived with it... for months.

Then my brother visited. We were chatting at the kitchen counter when I asked, "How much do you think it’ll cost to fix those lights?"

He laughed. "About fifteen bucks," he said. 

We drove to Home Depot. The panels were five dollars each. He replaced all three in about ten minutes.

Every time I turned on the kitchen light, I thought, "Why didn’t I do that sooner?"

So, here’s my message.
Our small-stuff successes deserve celebration, too.

We have victories every day—quiet ones we rarely acknowledge. If you’re like me, you’re quick to beat yourself up over what you can’t do. But how often do we pause to appreciate what we can do?

Not only should our big wins bring us joy, but the small ones—those everyday triumphs—can be a powerful source of encouragement.

Take a minute to look around.  Is there something small you could do today that might lift your spirits or make life a little easier?

I’m off to pick up some pretty flowers to plant by my back door. 

Wishing you joy and peace,

Lorrie