Five minutes into the exercise class our instructor said, “We need to warm up your hearts.”
I turned to my friend and told her I didn’t think I was cold-hearted to start with.
We laughed but I knew there have been circumstances in my life when my heart definitely needed warming.
It wasn’t cold to everyone, just those who had hurt me by what they had said or done – or maybe it was something not said or done.
I hung onto bitterness and anger like it was a prize. I knew I had every right to be upset and was exercising that right to the fullest.
It didn’t matter if the offending party was even aware of the issue. I had been wronged and a sincere apology had not been offered. Forgiveness was out of the question.
I thought forgiveness meant I was saying the offence was acceptable. It took me many years to understand the one suffering from my unforgiveness was me. I heard someone say that unforgiveness is like drinking poison and hoping the other person dies. Only then did I see how cold and hard my heart had become.
Since then I have been learning to keep short accounts. Some transgressions require a continuous effort to forgive. It is not a one-time thing but something to be repeated over and over until I can look at the situation and not have any negative emotion.
Forgiving others allows me to let go of the negative thoughts I’ve been holding onto. This is what sets me free from the past so I can fully embrace the life before me. Only then will my cold heart become warm and loving again.











We have an area set aside in our backyard for a vegetable garden. Every year we look forward to the harvest of fresh produce to come.
We spent the long weekend in our RV. Despite summer-like temperatures and a peaceful, beautiful setting, our enjoyment was hampered by mosquitoes.
For many, the handwritten note or letter is a thing of the past. Why would we take the time to sit down with pen and paper when it’s much quicker to log onto the computer?
What is the first thing you think of when you hear the word cactus? For me, it is the thorns. These spiky protrusions keep me from wanting to get too close for risk of injury.

Mother’s Day has come and gone for another year. How did you celebrate it? It is about so much more than flowers, meals out or extravagant gifts. As a mother, these were not my focus.
The germ of an idea had come to me and I was determined to write about it. Words didn’t flow as I had hoped so I put it aside for the morning.
n the trees and flower stalks were emerging from the earth.
Charles Swindoll, in his book The Finishing Touch, recalled starting his ministry in California.
Over the past year or so I’ve been hearing quite a bit about a sport called pickleball. Some of you may be familiar with it but until recently it was new to me.
“What an unusual cactus,” I said. “Look how soft and fuzzy it is at the top.”