…Because at the heart of everything that moves us, there’s a story waiting to be told.
Over the years, I’ve had the privilege of meeting people whose lives have inspired me in unforgettable ways. Patients who’ve faced the unthinkable with courage. Healthcare workers who go above and beyond. Everyday individuals whose life journeys are anything but ordinary. These are the stories that stay with me—and they’re the ones I feel called to tell.
The Heart of a Story is a space dedicated to real people and real moments. It’s where you’ll find stories of resilience, hope, healing, and humanity. Some are connected to my work as marketing manager for Dr. Gary Jones at Louisiana Cardiovascular & Thoracic Institute and Diabetes Relief of Louisiana. Others come from the world around us—unsung heroes, quiet miracles, and meaningful moments that deserve to be seen and shared.
Whether you’re here for inspiration, connection, or just a reminder that goodness still exists in this world—I’m so glad you found your way here.
Because at the end of the day, stories have the power to connect us, comfort us, and remind us what really matters.
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May 23, 2025
Daddy, Can You Hear Me?
By Lori Tyler
I went to the cemetery that morning to take a few photos for a Memorial Day story. The plan was simple: snap the flags, capture the rows of white headstones, and frame a few solemn faces to help convey the weight of the day. Just another day behind the lens.
I never expected to leave changed.
I stood back from the main gathering, camera in hand, watching the scene unfold. A light breeze tugged gently at the flags posted by each grave. There were speeches. Prayers. The distant, aching notes of “Taps” drifted across the stone markers. I stayed focused, detached — until I saw her.
Just a child. No more than five.
She had long, pale blonde curls that fell down her back like sunlight. Her faded denim overalls, bright blue T-shirt sprinkled with daisies, and well-worn red Converse high tops told me everything I needed to know about her spirit. A smudge of chocolate — likely the remains of a Hershey bar — clung to the corner of her mouth. Sweet, messy, innocent. She didn’t match the mood of the morning — and yet somehow, she was the moment.
She was perched high on the shoulders of a soldier in uniform. His broad hands curled gently around her ankles, steady and protective. They moved together down the rows until he gently lowered her to the ground.
She didn’t ask permission. She didn’t hesitate. She simply skipped across several rows and plopped down in the grass in front of a headstone. She crossed her legs and leaned forward, as if settling in for a chat with someone she knew well.
I raised my camera — but couldn’t bring myself to take the photo.
From where I stood, I could see her lips moving, her little head tilting now and then as if she were listening. Really listening. She twirled a curl around her finger. Pulled at blades of grass. Kept chatting. Not to anyone nearby. But to someone.
To him.
“That’s Nick’s little girl,” someone whispered behind me.
“She never even met her daddy.”
I learned that her father died in active duty just two months before his daughter was born. He never got to hold her. Never rocked her to sleep. Never taught her to ride a bike. And yet, there she sat — completely at ease — talking to him like she had known him all her life.
Because in a way, she has.
Her mother. Her grandparents. Her uncles. The soldier who brought her here (her father’s best friend and the man who was with him when he died). they’ve made sure she knows who he was. They tell her the stories. They show her the pictures. They speak his name with a love so steady, so fierce, it has filled the empty space where his voice should’ve been.
Then came the moment that undid me — one small gesture from a little girl that said more about love and loss than a thousand speeches ever could.
She reached into the front pocket of her overalls and pulled out a crumpled sheet of paper. Carefully, she unfolded it and laid it on the grass in front of the headstone. I squinted through the lens, trying to focus. It was a tracing of a little hand — her hand — with a big red heart drawn around it in crayon.
I felt the knot rise in my throat. My eyes stung. The world blurred behind my lens.
The soldier, still standing a few steps behind her, didn’t move. He just watched, his eyes full. I would learn later that he made a promise to Nick as his friend lay dying — a promise to look after his family. And today, like every day, he was keeping it.
The little girl stayed there a while longer, chatting softly, tugging at grass, looking up at the sky. Then she stood, patted the headstone twice like it was someone’s knee, and skipped back to the man who had never taken his eyes off her.
She doesn’t understand war. She doesn’t know about strategy, or sacrifice, or the long, silent grief wrapped in a folded flag. But she understands Memorial Day. She understands love. And loss. And the kind of courage it takes to remember someone you never got to meet.
And she reminded me of something.
Memorial Day isn’t only about honoring the fallen. It’s also about those left behind — the ones who carry the memory forward long after the speeches are over. It’s about families who keep a hero’s story alive through bedtime tales, worn photographs, and crayon hearts placed gently in the grass.
So this year, when you see the flags waving and the sales banners flying, pause. Look deeper. Remember the real reason we mark this day.
Remember the little girl with the blonde curls and the red Converse sneakers who never met her daddy — but knows him just the same.
Because she remembers.
And so should we.
May 21, 2025
From Henry to Hundreds: The Denny Family of Catahoula and Concordia Parishes
By Lori Tyler
When 20-year-old Henry Denny stepped off a steamboat on Larto Lake in 1885 with a shotgun slung over his shoulder and dreams of wild game in his heart, he had no way of knowing he was planting the roots of a family tree that would stretch deep into the soil of Catahoula and Concordia parishes.
Born April 12, 1864, in Constantine, Michigan, Henry was the third of six children born to Alfred and Minerva Hamilton Denny. Life was far from easy for Henry and his siblings. Circumstances forced them to grow up quickly and shoulder responsibilities beyond their years. They worked diligently to help their family survive — milking cows, feeding livestock and tending to pigs and chickens.
Henry stood out for his remarkable skills in the woods. With a keen eye and a steady hand, he became an expert hunter, fisherman and trapper — skills that not only kept the family fed but brought in vital income from the sale of furs. These talents, born of necessity and sharpened through experience, would shape the course of Henry’s life.
In 1884, Henry and his older brother Edgar bought 200 acres of dense pine timberland in Pike County, Arkansas. Edgar was enchanted by the wilderness and wrote, “A person could camp out the year around and live off the fat of the land.” But it wasn’t Arkansas that claimed Henry’s heart.
That same year, he read in the Arkansas Gazette about a steamboat hauling cotton bound for New Orleans. Intrigued, he boarded the boat in Arkadelphia — and unwittingly headed toward his destiny.
On board, Henry met two market fishermen heading to a place called Larto. They spoke of waters teeming with catfish and skies thick with ducks. That was all he needed to hear. Henry disembarked at Larto and never looked back.
In a letter dated March 3, 1885, Henry wrote to his mother:
“…I plan to stay here until the mosquitoes run me out. I am making a good living with a few trot lines, catching lots of catfish weighing 5 to 10 pounds each. A buyer from Baton Rouge picks up fish twice a week. There is another boat that buys ducks once a week… The weather is warm here and the mosquitoes are pretty bad around where people live. I am living on a houseboat, and I keep it tied out in the middle of the lake — that way the mosquitoes have a hard time finding me. I killed a bear and the hide now makes me a good soft bed… If you want to write to me, send it to Larto Lake by way of Blackhawk Post Office. — Henry”
A newspaper article published in The Booster on Friday, Oct. 1, 1954, recounts tales from Tooley’s Landing and confirms Henry’s stories about duck hunting at Larto Lake:
“Larto Lake was a hunter’s paradise then — the hunters used to come galloping up to Tooley’s, ride under the Trisler home and hang their ducks, dozens of them, on nails along the floor sills, then go down to the saloon and sometimes forgot their ducks as they left.”
“Matilda Trisler would have to give a quart of whiskey to someone to get them to drop the ducks in the river. But mostly they were bought by the steamboat captains, since steamboats stopped there each day. They paid from $1.50 to 75 cents a dozen for the ducks.”
Henry Denny carved out a life in the natural paradise of Catahoula and Concordia parishes, where he wandered the rivers, bayous and creeks that crisscrossed the region. A glimpse into his movements comes from a postcard sent to Edgar Denny on Dec. 24, 1890, by Blackhawk Postmaster Edgar F. Pipes, which reads:
“Dear Sir: Your letter making inquiries of one Henry Denny received. In reply will say there was such a party receiving mail from this post office. He was fishing up on Red Pines. Have not seen or heard of him for some time. You might try Tooley’s Post Office, which is about 30 miles from here. Yours truly, Edgar F. Pipes, Postmaster.”
On Jan. 23, 1890, Henry married Christena Wiley, the daughter of Samuel and Louisa Wiley, in Catahoula Parish. Eleven children were born to the couple: Alfred Nathan, Alvin Andrew, Milo, Lovina, Eugene, Minerva, Velch, Adeline, Hattie, Glenn Evans and Lloyd Lafayette “Crusoe” Denny.
In 1913, after years of battling rising backwater, Henry made a remarkable transaction — he managed to earn enough money selling a week’s worth of fish to buy a home and 120 acres of land for $1,100. On May 31, 1913, the deal was sealed, and Henry and his wife, Christena, began their new life on higher ground. The property was located on Holloway Prairie.
The Denny home quickly became a lively and welcoming place. Friends and family often gathered there, with nights filled with music and singing. Christena was the heart of the household, known for her warmth and hospitality. Their home boasted a massive table that could seat 13 people — and it was rarely empty.
Christena made their home a place of refuge for friends and family who were forced to leave their homes at Larto Lake each year due to flooding. When the lake overflowed, families were evacuated by flatboat to Holloway Prairie until the waters receded. Glenn Evans Denny remembered his mother cooking enormous meals to feed the displaced families who sought shelter with them.
When Christena died of pneumonia in 1926, Henry was devastated. He packed up his supplies, told the children to buy whatever they needed from Barron’s Store in Holloway, and retreated to the swamps near Saline Lake — grieving in the only way he knew how. Alone.
Henry spent his days fishing on Saline or Larto Lake. He transported his catch by skiff to Black River to sell. Every two or three months, he came out of the swamp to settle his account at Barron’s for the supplies his children had purchased.
He also brought back the pelts of animals he had skinned and dried. Henry packed the pelts into a locked duffel bag and mailed them to a contact in Michigan. Not long after each shipment, the duffel bag and lock, along with payment for the hides, was returned to Henry by mail ready to be filled with pelts once again.
Henry died in 1944 and was buried next to Christena, in the pine-shadowed cemetery of New Hope Methodist Church in Deville, LA. But Henry’s legacy continues.
Today, 140 years later, the Denny name echoes across the bayous, back roads and churches of this area, with dozens — if not hundreds — of his descendants calling the region home. And when the fish are biting and the ducks are flying, there’s a good chance a Denny is nearby — following the river, just like Henry did.
May 9, 2025
Dr. Gary Jones: A Veteran’s Commitment to Serving Those Who Serve
By Lori Tyler
For over 36 years, Dr. Gary P. Jones has stood at the forefront of cardiovascular and thoracic surgery, delivering world-class care to the residents of Central Louisiana. But for Dr. Jones, medicine is more than just a career; it’s a calling—especially when it comes to providing care for U.S. Veterans.
As a proud United States Army veteran himself, Dr. Jones intimately understands the unique sacrifices, challenges, and health concerns that come with military service. This is why he has made it his personal and professional mission to ensure that Veterans receive the highest quality cardiovascular care, diabetes management, and limb salvage treatments—helping them regain their mobility, independence, and quality of life.
A Surgeon with a Legacy of Service
Dr. Jones’s commitment to service began long before his medical career. After earning his undergraduate degree from Tulane University, he went on to earn his M.D. from Tulane School of Medicine. He then trained with the United States Army Medical Corps, where his military medical expertise led him to complete his cardiovascular residency at the prestigious Walter Reed Army Medical Center, one of the U.S. Army’s most respected medical institutions.
Dr. Jones has had the distinct honor of being chosen to serve as the cardiovascular and thoracic surgeon on President Ronald Reagan’s medical team during his visit to Guam. Later, Dr. Jones was the cardiovascular & thoracic surgeon assigned to Nelson Mandela’s medical team during the South African leader’s visit to Baton Rouge.
His experience in the military laid the foundation for Dr. Jones’s dedication to providing precise, compassionate care. Today, he applies this military discipline and commitment to his civilian practice at Louisiana Cardiovascular & Thoracic Institute (LACVT) and Diabetes Relief of Louisiana, ensuring that Veterans receive cutting-edge, compassionate care.
Specialized Care for Veterans: Saving Lives and Limbs
Dr. Jones recognizes that Veterans face distinct health challenges, particularly with cardiovascular disease, peripheral artery disease (PAD), and diabetes. Many Veterans are exposed to environmental hazards, endure extreme physical demands, and suffer service-related injuries that affect their long-term health. As such, Dr. Jones’s goal is to make sure that those who serve their country are given the expert care they deserve.
Limb Salvage and PAD Treatment: Preventing Amputations
One of Dr. Jones’s top priorities is preventing unnecessary amputations among Veterans suffering from PAD. Too many Veterans lose limbs due to late-stage diagnoses and insufficient vascular care. At LACVT, Dr. Jones has pioneered a Limb Salvage Program that utilizes advanced techniques such as:
Angioplasty – Opening blocked arteries to restore circulation.
Atherectomy – Removing plaque buildup to improve blood flow.
Stenting – Keeping arteries open to prevent future blockages.
By restoring circulation through these minimally invasive procedures, Dr. Jones helps Veterans avoid amputations, maintain their mobility, and improve their overall quality of life. He is also an advocate for the Amputation Reduction and Compassion (ARC) Act, which is designed to make PAD screening more accessible, promote early intervention, and improve education to ultimately reduce the number of preventable lower limb amputations, particularly among vulnerable populations.
Cardiovascular Expertise: Cutting-Edge Treatments for Veterans
Dr. Jones has been a leader of minimally invasive cardiac interventions that reduce risks and speed recovery times for Veterans with cardiovascular disease. His expertise includes:
Transcatheter Aortic Valve Replacement (TAVR) – A groundbreaking alternative to open-heart surgery for Veterans with severe aortic stenosis.
Endovascular Aneurysm Repair (EVAR) – A minimally invasive method for repairing life-threatening abdominal aortic aneurysms.
Advanced Wound Care – Specialized treatments for diabetic and vascular wounds, using biological tissues and state-of-the-art therapies to accelerate healing and prevent complications.
Diabetes Management: A Game Changer for Veterans
Type 2 diabetes affects many Veterans, often leading to serious complications like nerve damage, kidney disease, and cardiovascular issues. To combat these challenges, Dr. Jones founded Diabetes Relief of Louisiana, where he offers cutting-edge metabolic restoration therapy. His patients report life-changing results:
95% reduction in neuropathy symptoms – Providing pain relief and restoring function.
50% decrease in medications – Helping Veterans rely less on prescription drugs.
Improved kidney and eye health – Slowing disease progression and reducing complications.
Faster wound healing – Preventing infections and reducing the risk of amputations.
Veterans who have undergone this treatment report improved mobility, renewed energy, and a significant enhancement in their daily lives.
A Veteran Committed to Veterans
For nearly four decades, Dr. Gary Jones has dedicated himself to delivering advanced cardiovascular care. He believes that no Veteran should have to suffer from preventable heart disease, diabetes complications, or unnecessary amputations. That’s why he and his team at Louisiana Cardiovascular & Thoracic Institute and Diabetes Relief of Louisiana are committed to providing Veterans with personalized, compassionate care tailored to their unique needs.
If you or a Veteran you know is struggling with heart disease, diabetes, or circulation problems, Dr. Jones is here to help.
Contact Dr. Gary Jones Today:
Louisiana Cardiovascular & Thoracic Institute / Diabetes Relief of Louisiana
3311 Prescott Road, Suite 202, Alexandria, LA
Phone: 318-442-0106
Website: lacvt.com
“Because you serve your country, I am honored to serve you.” – Dr. Gary P. Jones
May 1, 2025
Our Nurses: The Heart of Healing
By Lori Tyler
A year from now, you may not remember the numbers. The lab results, the scale reading, the dosage details will all blur into the background. But you will remember the nurse who looked you in the eyes when you were afraid. The one who stayed just a little longer. Who made you laugh when all you wanted to do was cry. The one who remembered your daughter’s wedding or that you like your gumbo spicy. The nurse who didn’t just care for you but cared about you.
At LACVT and Diabetes Relief of Louisiana, nursing isn’t just a job. It’s a calling. It’s ministry through medicine. And if you spend even five minutes inside our doors, you’ll see it. You’ll hear it. But most of all, you’ll feel it.
Here, healing doesn’t always come with the sounds of monitors and machinery. Sometimes it comes through kindness. Through a hand squeeze. Through a familiar voice calling your name, not from a chart, but from memory. It sounds like Cameron asking about your grandbaby’s softball game. It feels like Autumn swapping diabetes-friendly recipes with you while checking your vitals. It looks like Brandy leaning in with a hug, just when your courage starts to slip.
Lori Francis, the director of D.R., usually sees what others might miss. She sees not just patients, but people. People with messy lives, real burdens, and untold stories. She knows who’s mourning a loss, who’s fighting to stay motivated, and who just adopted a rescue dog. For her team, the infusion room isn’t just clinical space. It’s sacred ground.
birthdays are remembered here. Tears are respected. Victories, even the small ones, are celebrated like major milestones. These nurses don’t simply monitor glucose and manage IV lines. They meet patients in their most vulnerable moments and bear witness to hope, resilience, and beauty of humanity.
Meanwhile, in the cardiovascular clinic just down the hall, the rhythm picks up. It’s fast-paced, often high-stakes. But the heartbeat of the place? Just as tender.
Jill, who has stood shoulder to shoulder with Dr. Gary Jones for more than 20 years, is the backbone of the clinic. Her Cajun-style straightforwardness is legendary. She’ll tell you exactly what she thinks and somehow have you laughing while she does it. What you might not see is how much she carries: coordinating surgeries, managing schedules, and putting out fires before they spark. All the while making each patient feel like they’re her only priority. Jill doesn’t just work at the clinic. She is the clinic.
Then there’s Sherri Berry (yes, that’s her real name), wound care nurse and certified wound specialist, who doesn’t just walk into a room, she lights it up. With sass, style, and a deep well of expertise, Sherri transforms wound care into an experience of hope and, without a doubt, laughter. Her care goes far beyond bandages and protocols. She restores dignity. Her patients don’t just heal physically, they leave feeling seen, beautiful, and whole.
And Jason? Well, he’s our cardiovascular “class clown.” Sharp as a scalpel, funny as they come. He can recite clinical protocols like a textbook, then crack a joke that has both staff and patients in stitches (pardon the pun). Jason’s superpower is joy. And joy, it turns out, is pretty potent medicine.
Together, Jill, Sherri, and Jason form a trio that makes LACVT feel less like a medical facility and more like a second home. Their blend of humor, heart, and hustle turns routine clinic days into something extraordinary.
If you’ve ever stepped into either of our clinics and felt instantly at ease, it was probably because of them. Our nurses. If you left feeling lighter, not just in body but in spirit, it’s because they gave you part of themselves.
Ours are not nurses who merely clock in and clock out. These are people called to do this work. They carry the stories of their patients long after the shift ends. They celebrate every victory: a wound that finally healed, an A1C that dropped, a patient who stood and walked again.
So, this National Nurses Month, we honor them. Not with platitudes, but with the deepest gratitude.
To Jill, Lori, Cameron, Sherri, Autumn, Brandy, and Jason: We see you. We see the way you serve, the way you show up with full hearts and quiet strength. We see the laughter you bring, the tears you hold, and the healing you give. Not just with your hands, but with your hearts.
Thank you. For everything.
You’re more than nurses. You’re family.
And we are better, every single one of us, because of you!
April 29, 2025
A Story Only You Can Tell
By Lori Tyler
The older I get, the more I understand that the most meaningful stories are rarely the loudest. They don’t come with headlines or hashtags. You won’t find them on red carpets or in viral videos. They don’t interrupt your evening news or shout from the stage. But they are there, gently threaded through the normalness of everyday life, shaping us in ways we don’t always notice.
The best stories, the ones that leave fingerprints on our hearts, hide in the quiet corners. In photo albums tucked away in cedar chests, their pages yellowed and curled at the edges. In the faded ink of a recipe scribbled in a grandmother’s hand, the card stained with vanilla and time. In the smooth, worn handle of an old toolbox that never let Pop down. In the fragile pages and underlined verses of a well-read Bible that has weathered both storm and solace.
They are not stories written in bold font for all the world to see. They are stories more lived than told. Stitched into fabric, passed around tables, echoed in lullabies and Sunday suppers. They may never win awards or be etched in stone, but they endure. They are the stories of those who believed their lives were unremarkable.
They live in the hush of ordinary moments. They’re in the callouses on hands that work hard to make ends meet. In the way someone folds a shirt or stirs a pot. In the porch swing where tears are shed and babies are lulled to sleep. In the way grace is whispered before every meal, not out of habit, but out of reverence.
I’ve been blessed to know people, to love people, whose lives were full of quiet strength and perseverance. People who never stood in the spotlight. They worked jobs that wore out their knees and their backs. They raised children without applause. They let go of their own dreams so others could chase theirs. They showed up. Day after day. And they kept going even when no one noticed.
Some of the most extraordinary people I’ve ever known never had their name printed in a newspaper. They never won an award. Some never even finished high school. They lived their lives with grit, grace, and goodness. They served in war zones and in kitchens. In classrooms and in churches. They buried their loved ones and found a way to smile again. They didn’t make a fuss. But they made a difference.
And far too often, they believed their stories weren’t worth telling.
Maybe they thought no one would care. Maybe they didn’t know where to begin. Maybe they thought their lives were too ordinary to matter.
But it is exactly those lives, the ones that are steady, resilient, and rich with quiet courage, that matter most. Theirs are the stories that hold families together. The stories that give our children a sense of who they are. That teach us what love looks like. What strength is. What dignity and decency really mean.
I’ve known people who survived unspeakable things. Who raised children through heartbreak. Who prayed their way through hard times and watched loved ones fade too soon. People who gave what little they had to make sure someone else had enough. People who didn’t leave behind a trust fund but left behind an inheritance much more valuable, not counted in dollars, but in love.
Most never thought to document a thing. And that silence, that loss, is deafening.
Because one day, someone will want to know: What was your favorite song? What are some things you learned the hard way? How did you get through that long winter of grief? Who taught you to be kind in a world that isn’t? What mattered most to you?
And only you can answer.
You don’t need perfect grammar or polished sentences. You don’t have to write a book. All you need is a voice memo on your phone. A note left in an envelope. A letter to your grandchildren. A video filmed on a quiet Sunday afternoon. Talk about the day you bought your first car. The time you almost gave up but didn’t. The way your grandmother taught you to sew.
Your life is not small. It is layered. rich and full of meaning. Even the parts that still feel unfinished.
You are the keeper of a story no one else can tell. So please, tell it.
Tell it not because you’re famous, but because you’re known. Tell it not because it’s perfect, but because it’s real. Tell it so your children, and their children, will inherit something greater than wealth: a sense of where they come from. A map to trace their roots. A compass to guide their hearts.
Because the greatest legacy you will ever leave is not something that can be built or bought. It is the story that outlives you.
A story only you can tell.
April 16, 2025
Hope: Because Sunday is Coming
By Lori Tyler
There’s something about the week before Easter. It arrives with a hush. A kind of quiet reflection that settles softly over everything. And each year, without fail, it stirs something in me. It brings my thoughts to hope.
Or perhaps more honestly, to the aching absence of it.
It isn’t hard to notice how scarce hope seems lately. Turn on the news, scroll through social media, or simply watch the way people carry themselves at the grocery store, in waiting rooms, at red lights. You’ll see it in their eyes. You’ll hear it in the silence between their words. There’s a weight that doesn’t always have a name, but it’s there. Oppressive. Lingering.
I’m so grateful to have grown up in a family who taught me by example where hope can be found. That’s not to say we didn’t have our own share of hardships. We lived through pain, disappointment, and loss. But we were never without a sense of security. When things grew dark, we knew where to turn. When our hearts ached, we had a place to rest them.
My grandparents lived a simple life that allowed their faith to shine. By watching them, I learned that reading your Bible is a necessity if you expect to live a life filled with peace. I heard the prayers that sustained them from day to day. They didn’t speak much about hope. But they clung to it fiercely.
At 58, I can still call my daddy when I need a reminder of what really matters. He has this gift for simplifying what feels overwhelming. His voice, even over the phone, has a way of settling my spirit. One of his most repeated adages during difficult times is, “It’s only a bump in the road.” And for those particularly harrowing experiences, like root canals or childbirth, he always grins and says, “It’s only a SLIGHT discomfort.”
Now, that might not sound profound. And at first blush, it may even come across as sarcastic. But behind those familiar words is something solid. A quiet peace. A confidence that doesn’t come from an easy life, but from a life grounded in something eternal. That’s what he’s really offering. Something unshakable. An anchor of the soul.
And I’ve seen it. This unshakable hope.
I’ve seen it in the steadfastness of people who manage to stand when the ground beneath them gives way. In the smile of a mother still grieving the loss of her child. In the quiet strength of a man facing terminal cancer who still finds ways to laugh, to love, to give.
These things don’t make sense on paper. They defy logic. They rise up from something deeper than human strength.
And that something is what sustains me as well.
The week before Easter carries a sense of heaviness. Thoughts of betrayal, suffering, and sacrifice. But if you pause long enough to sit with the stillness, you may notice it. A stirring beneath the silence. A whisper. A promise.
You see, Sunday is coming.
And with it, the kind of hope that does not falter. A hope born not of wishful thinking, but of victory. A hope that walks beside us in hospital corridors and silent nights. A hope that never wavers. A hope that, though His name may not be spoken aloud in every room, still finds a way to break through.
This is the hope I know. The hope my daddy knows. The hope my grandparents knew.
It has never failed us.
And it never will.
