Gifts come in all forms, yet if I were to receive the perfect gift, it would be acceptance. To be accepted without judgment would truly feel heaven-sent. Acceptance is the quiet reassurance that you are enough just as you are, without needing to prove, hide, or explain yourself.
Acceptance offers the receiver the ability to breathe freely and feel comfortable among others, without the fear of criticism or reproof. It is an understanding that none of us are perfect, and that those who care for us act with good intentions, hoping for the best in our lives. When someone accepts you fully, they acknowledge your strengths, your flaws, your history, and your hopes, and they choose to stand beside you anyway.
Acceptance means knowing you belong, imperfections and all. It offers hope, peace, and unconditional love. It frees you from the weight of jealousy, comparison, or the irrational worries that others may misunderstand you. The people who offer this gift truly understand you. They know your heart is good, and they recognize that you genuinely want the best for them as well.
Acceptance strengthens family ties and deepens friendships. It brings security, trust, and emotional safety into relationships. When you know you are accepted, you can show up as yourself, without masks, without fear, because you are valued simply for being who you are.
This gift bonds people together and creates joy in every interaction. It fosters patience, kindness, and compassion. Acceptance is thoughtful, grounding, and profoundly meaningful. It is, without question, the perfect present for anyone who wishes to live a life rooted in peace, love, and understanding.
Over the years, I have attended three colleges: Pueblo Community College, the University of Southern Colorado, and Adams State University. Each institution provided me with a valuable learning experience and opened doors to new opportunities.
I always loved visiting Aunt Jan and Uncle Roger. The moment I arrived, there was a feeling, something warm and unmistakable, that settled over me like a favorite sweater. Their home buzzed with laughter, the kind that spilled from room to room, mixed with the clink of coffee cups or the hum of the TV as Uncle Roger watched his favorite news channel.
Aunt Jan was funny in a sharp, delightful way. Her eyes sparkled when she told a story, and she had a talent for delivering a perfectly timed comment that made everyone laugh, sometimes even before they realized why. She was a little ornery, too, playfully so, never afraid to tease or speak her mind. Yet beneath that humor was a deep kindness. She noticed things. If you were quiet, she knew. If you were hurting, she softened. Her love showed up in small, thoughtful ways: an extra hug, a hand resting gently on your shoulder, a question asked just when you needed to be heard.
Uncle Roger matched her energy in his own way. He had an adventurous spirit and a mischievous grin that hinted he was always just a step away from some harmless trouble. His voice carried confidence and warmth, and when he laughed, it was full and contagious. There was kindness in him, too, the quiet kind that didn’t need recognition. He showed it through action, through showing up, through making people feel welcome just by being himself.
Together, Aunt Jan and Uncle Roger were a perfect pair. Their playful banter filled the room, a rhythm of teasing and affection that made everyone feel at ease. They balanced each other through humor layered with heart and adventure grounded in love. Watching them interact taught me that relationships didn’t have to be perfect to be strong; they just had to be genuine.
Visits with them were never rushed. Time seemed to slow down in their presence. Conversations lingered at the table. Laughter echoed down hallways. Even the quiet moments felt full, comfortable silences that didn’t need filling. Their home wasn’t just a place; it was a feeling of belonging.
Now, when I think of Aunt Jan and Uncle Roger, I don’t just remember what they said or did; I remember how they made me feel. Loved. Seen. Happy. Their humor, kindness, and adventurous spirits left a lasting imprint on my heart. They taught me that life is meant to be enjoyed, that laughter matters, and that love is often found in the simplest moments.
Loving visits with Aunt Jan and Uncle Roger became memories I carry with me still, not as distant recollections, but as living reminders of what matters most. Their home taught me that laughter can be a form of love, that kindness often arrives wrapped in humor, and that joy is something we create for one another. Long after the visits ended, the feeling of being with them remained, steady and warm, a quiet inheritance I continue to hold close.
I always loved visiting Aunt Jan and Uncle Roger. The moment we arrived, there was a feeling—something warm and unmistakable—that settled over me like a favorite sweater. Their home buzzed with laughter, the kind that spilled from room to room, mixed with the clink of coffee cups or the hum of conversation already in motion. You never had to knock long. The door opened quickly, usually mid-laugh, as if joy itself had been waiting for us.
Aunt Jan was funny in a sharp, delightful way. Her eyes sparkled when she told a story, and she had a talent for delivering a perfectly timed comment that made everyone laugh, sometimes even before they realized why. She was a little ornery, too—playfully so—never afraid to tease or speak her mind. Yet beneath that humor was a deep kindness. She noticed things. If you were quiet, she knew. If you were hurting, she softened. Her love showed up in small, thoughtful ways: an extra cookie placed on a plate, a hand resting gently on your shoulder, a question asked just when you needed to be heard.
Uncle Roger matched her energy in his own way. He had an adventurous spirit and a mischievous grin that hinted he was always just a step away from some harmless trouble. He loved telling stories—stories that wandered, grew larger, and became funnier with every retelling. His voice carried confidence and warmth, and when he laughed, it was full and contagious. There was kindness in him, too, the quiet kind that didn’t need recognition. He showed it through action, through showing up, through making people feel welcome just by being himself.
Together, Aunt Jan and Uncle Roger were a perfect pair. Their playful banter filled the room, a rhythm of teasing and affection that made everyone feel at ease. They balanced each other—humor layered with heart, adventure grounded in love. Watching them interact taught me that relationships didn’t have to be perfect to be strong; they just had to be genuine.
Visits with them were never rushed. Time seemed to slow down in their presence. Conversations lingered at the table. Laughter echoed down hallways. Even the quiet moments felt full—comfortable silences that didn’t need filling. Their home wasn’t just a place; it was a feeling of belonging.
Now, when I think of Aunt Jan and Uncle Roger, I don’t just remember what they said or did—I remember how they made me feel. Loved. Seen. Happy. Their humor, kindness, and adventurous spirits left a lasting imprint on my heart. They taught me that life is meant to be enjoyed, that laughter matters, and that love is often found in the simplest moments.
Loving visits with them became memories I carry with me still—treasures from a life rich with connection, warmth, and joy.
The first time I entered a forest of towering redwoods, it felt like stepping into another world, where time moved slowly and the trees whispered ancient secrets. My first camping experience occurred in fourth grade with my Girl Scout troop. Our leader, Mrs. Gardner, took me and three friends—Kim Regan (Murphy), Rene Gardner, and Krissie Earl—to Big Basin in the Santa Cruz Mountains for a tent camping adventure. The first night was chilly and rainy, but the weather did not dampen my spirits. It was my first encounter with the redwoods, and I found the place magical. The fresh scent of pine and damp earth greeted us upon arrival, and the towering trees stretched endlessly toward the sky.
Big Basin Redwoods State Park, established in 1902, is California’s oldest state park. The ancient redwoods there are thousands of years old, some predating the pyramids. Walking among them made me feel both tiny and awed by nature’s power and patience.
I shared a tent with Kim, and we were literally washed out that first night when a small stream ran through the middle of our tent. Soaked and shivering, we sought refuge in Mrs. Gardner’s tent for the rest of the night, listening to the rain patter on the canvas and the wind rustle the massive trees outside. Despite the soggy start, the forest quickly captured my heart.
The trees were incredible. On the second day, we visited the ranger’s headquarters and nature center, where rangers taught us about the local wildlife and the trees. We learned about various plants, the foxes and raccoons that inhabited the forest, and how the redwoods had survived for thousands of years. We even saw a tree ring from a redwood that had lived before Christ was born—a humbling reminder of nature’s grandeur and the passage of time.
Once, the Grizzly Bear roamed the forest, but the ranger explained that they were wiped out during the settlers’ earlier arrival. If a bear attacked livestock or people, hunters would kill at least five bears in the area to ensure they had eliminated the attacking bear.
Later, we hiked the Trail of Giants, marveling at the towering trees and the quiet majesty of the forest. I ran my hands along the rough, reddish bark, looked up at branches disappearing into the clouds, and felt the soft crunch of needles under my boots. The experience left a lasting impression on me. In the morning, fog enveloped the area, dew settled on spiderwebs, and tiny streams reflected sunlight like ribbons of silver, making the forest appear magical and otherworldly. It was unlike anything I had ever seen, and I couldn’t wait to return.
Although I have visited many places since then, Big Basin is one destination I would return to repeatedly. The damp ground smelled earthy, and the air was so fresh and clean it felt like drinking pure water. The tall canopy of trees shaded the forest, allowing slivers of sunlight to peek through the branches, casting a soft, golden glow. Gentle winds rocked the trees, creating a soothing lullaby at night that helped tired campers fall asleep quickly, while the occasional owl hoot or distant rustle of wildlife reminded us we were guests in a living, breathing world.
Even now, years later, whenever I think of Big Basin, I feel a deep pull to return. It is more than a forest; it is a timeless sanctuary that leaves a mark on your heart, one towering tree, one soft breeze, and one magical morning at a time.
Somewhere between the rustle of avocado leaves and the creak of a hidden stair, I learned that the best places in childhood were the ones where no one could find you unless you wanted to be found.
Favorite Hiding Places as a Child
Growing up in a large family definitely had its benefits. I always had a playmate and a buddy close by. But there were times when this only girl longed for space and quiet moments of privacy away from the constant buzz of siblings. Early on, I discovered two special places that offered the perfect cover to hide from the world and escape the prying eyes of nosy little brothers. One place was outdoors, tucked beneath branches and leaves, and the other was hidden inside our home, a place few ever ventured. Both became sanctuaries where I could daydream, read, and slip away from the noise.
The Avocado Tree
When we moved to our home on Lincoln Avenue, we had a neighbor named Mr. Pippen who loved children and animals. He and his wife never had children of their own, so he often lingered nearby while we played outside, always smiling and ready to visit. He even took the time to teach our Cocker Spaniel, Lady, a few tricks, which delighted us just as much as it did him.
In his backyard stood the most delightful avocado tree. Although it rarely produced edible fruit, it offered something far more valuable to me, an irresistible escape from the neighborhood. Its wide branches formed a generous canopy that shielded me from the rest of the world. When I leaned my back against its sturdy trunk, completely hidden beneath its leaves, no one would ever know I was there.
It was the perfect place to read or simply let my thoughts wander. Along the back fence sat a small, unused chicken coop, weathered and quiet. I often wondered what it must have been like when chickens once roosted there and families tended vegetable gardens nearby.
On warm summer afternoons, I loved slipping away beneath the tree’s branches. The shade offered cool relief from the heat, while sunlight flickered and danced through the fluttering leaves above me. A sea breeze from the bay stirred the branches, sending dust and tiny seeds sparkling in the air. Children’s laughter drifted through the yard, creating a comforting soundtrack as the rough bark pressed through my shirt while I rested against the trunk.
As I grew older, I began climbing my hideaway. The sturdy lower branches gave me the confidence to explore higher and higher. From there, I could see across our backyard and catch glimpses of the surrounding neighborhood. Nestled against the trunk, I often stretched across one branch, resting my chin on another, watching clouds drift overhead. I searched their shapes for animals, dolphins, horses, playful pups, while listening to the familiar sounds below. Sometimes I had to stifle a laugh when little brothers or neighbors called out my name, puzzled about where I had disappeared.
That tree felt magical. Knowing no one else shared my secret gave me a sense of independence and quiet power. It became a place of escape whenever I needed solitude or time to think. I climbed that tree often, even into my teenage years, whenever I wanted to feel invisible for a while. It brought me comfort knowing my special place was just yards from home, waiting whenever I needed it.
The Stairwell
My second hiding place was tucked away on the ground floor of our Victorian home. Reaching it required perfect timing, when everyone was distracted and no one was paying attention to a chubby little girl with brown hair. I would linger in the large foyer, waiting until I was certain no eyes were watching.
Beneath the grand staircase, hidden at the very back of the room, was a tiny, dark door stained to match the rich wood of the stairs above. Holding my breath, I would slowly turn the knob and duck into the narrow space beyond. Inside was a steep, narrow stairwell leading down to the first-floor barroom. My favorite spot was a step beside a small window that let in just enough light for reading.
It was cool and quiet, the perfect hiding place on rainy days. No one ventured down those stairs very often, so no one ever thought to look for me there. Once settled with my book, I could hear the muffled sounds of life above me; my mother’s voice drifting through the floor as she talked on the phone, or the television playing while my little brothers watched afternoon cartoons in the living room.
Reflection
Both of my hiding places offered the same quiet comfort of not being seen. I felt clever and safe as I observed the world around me without being part of it. Each place gave me an escape into books, an activity that has always shaped who I am. Though one was open to the sky and the other tucked deep within our home, both offered solitude, imagination, and peace. They remain among my favorite memories of childhood, gentle reminders of a girl who learned early how to find her own quiet corners in a noisy world.
Even now, I can still feel the cool stair beneath my legs and the rough bark pressed against my back. I can hear the hum of distant voices, the rustle of leaves overhead, and the quiet turning of pages in my hands. Those hiding places no longer exist in the same way, but the girl who sought them out still does. She lives in every book I open and every quiet moment I claim for myself, still knowing that sometimes the best way to be found is to first be unseen.
One of the most positive and meaningful relationships in my life has been with Jan and Keith Lacy. They were my youth ministers, beginning their work in the early 1970s, and I have known them since I was nine years old. From a very young age, they played an important role in shaping who I am today, and their influence has remained with me throughout my life.
I first met Jan and Keith Lacy in Alameda, California, where they immediately stood out as people who genuinely lived out their beliefs. Their strong faith was not something they merely spoke about; it was reflected in their actions through kindness, patience, and sincere care for others. Being around them made me feel supported and valued. Even as life changed and distance separated us—especially after their move to Colorado—they continued to be a steady and encouraging presence in my life.
What made my relationship with Jan and Keith so meaningful was their constant compassion and encouragement. They were always praying for me and my family, always willing to listen, and always ready to help in any way they could. Their kindness never felt forced or conditional; it was consistent and heartfelt. They treated me as someone who truly mattered, which had a lasting impact on my confidence and sense of self as I grew older.
Because of Jan and Keith, I became a better person. They helped strengthen my faith and guided me toward making positive choices, even during challenging times. Their example taught me the importance of caring for others, staying grounded, and living with integrity. During difficult moments in my life, it brought me comfort to know that I had people who believed in me and were always supporting me from afar.
The impact of Jan and Keith Lacy has lasted far beyond my childhood. Their guidance and love continue to shape how I see the world and how I treat others today. I am deeply grateful for their presence in my life and for the faith, kindness, and support they shared with me. They are a lasting reminder that one caring relationship can truly make a lifelong difference.
To Kill a Mocking Bird by Harper Lee – One of my absolute favorite books
Popular TV Shows
Gunsmoke
Bonanza
Dennis The Mennace
Walt Disney’s Wonderful World of Color – a Sunday night family tradition
Popular Films
101 Dalmatians
The Parent Trap
Fashion:
Jacqueline Kennedy – The Jackie Look
bouffant hairdo, pillbox hats, and sleek, simple dresses
Politics and Society:
JFK’s Presidency
Peace Corps
Civil Right’s Movement
Freedom Riders
Toys:
Mattel introduced Ken
Pampers Disposable Diapers? I did not know that! They came in two sizes and the average cost was ten cents each. Most consumers believed the diapers were too expensive for everyday use.
Visiting Québec is more than a journey; it is a homecoming to the roots of our family’s North American story. Our earliest ancestors helped shape New France, tending the land, building homes, and gathering in the city’s first churches. As we wander the cobblestone lanes of Old Québec, step inside Notre-Dame-des-Victoires, and stand on the Plains of Abraham, named for our ancestor Abraham Martin, we walk in their footsteps and feel the weight of their hopes and hardships. Québec City breathes history, inviting us to experience not just a place but a living legacy of faith, family, and resilience that endures through the ages.
I hope people say that she loved hard, enjoyed life way too much, laughed loudly, and never ran out of sass. That she embraced every moment with an open heart, found joy in the little things, and wasn’t afraid to be herself, bold, spirited, and full of life.
“There are two lasting bequests we can give our children: One is roots, the other is wings.” Teaching children values and giving them the opportunity to excel is essential to good parenting. However, I feel I must also provide my children (and myself) insight into the ones who came before us: our ancestors whose lives and stories have shaped us into who we are. This is my journey; these are their stories…
Tales of a Family 