Tag Archives: Faith

The Shadows of My Baby Sister’s Death

I remember first holding you, so tiny in my arms.
Next thing I knew, you turned two, angelic and quite the charm.
Your silhouette dances in my dreams before my eyes,
Remembering your joy through my simple lullabies.

I imagine your eyes, your voice, your laughter,
Spending time together, nothing else mattered.
I thought about you often before crawling into bed at night.
I loved you deeply and never wanted you out of my sight.

I wish you could tell me what’s on your mind today.
What are the things you’re longing to say?
Would you have married a wonderful husband?
Lived in a castle and had many children?

Oh, if only I could see you now. I would run to you—
I would hold you and twirl you around.

Oh, sister, there will always be a hole in my heart,
But I guess somehow I knew that from the start.

If only I had you to talk to, share secrets with, laugh, and cry,
I would not be here thinking: why? Why did you have to die?


Excerpt, Chapter 2 of Running in Heels: A Memoir of Grit and Grace

Soft, velvety cheeks. A round, rosy nose. Dark hair like mine, but curly. Eyes, blue that sparkled like the ocean I’d seen in storybooks. I kissed her sweet-smelling face. Her soft, pudgy hand with tiny fingers curled inside mine. Anna melted my heart. I won’t be alone anymore. I caressed her cheeks and whispered, “I’ll stay by your side for always.”

Soon left with the responsibility of caring for Anna, I became her substitute mother. I loved her and took care of her as best as a seven-year-old could.

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Filed under Loss, poetry

Joyful Gathering at Bruno & George Winery

What a gorgeous, sunny day it was in Sour Lake Texas, a historic town in Hardin County, southwest of Beaumont! My recent book signing at Bruno & George Winery was a heartwarming success, filled with wonderment, meaningful conversations, and shared excitement. Stories were shared, books were sold, and my eldest daughter accompanied me showcasing her own talented artwork.

I wish to express my deepest thanks to everyone who came out. Special thanks to Shawn Bruno for hosting us so graciously.

If you haven’t yet read my memoir, it’s available through Amazon—a story of resilience, faith, and legacy. We’re presently working on a Spanish edition to honor my Puerto Rican heritage and reach even more hearts. You can support this journey through our GoFundMe Campaign.

Stay tuned for future book signings and events. And if you’d like to invite me to your book club or community gathering, I’d love to hear from you! Contact me

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Honoring a Legacy: Remembering Charlie Kirk’s Impact

A senseless act of violence boggles the mind. My heart is heavy. Words feel inadequate.

Someone so eloquently said: a horrible monster robbed this world of someone who inspired so many. That sentiment rings painfully true.

I did not know Charlie Kirk personally, but I mourn alongside countless others who were touched by his voice. He was a devoted husband, a loving father, and a man of faith. The world is often marked by darkness and division. Yet, he shone as a light. He was bold in conviction and grounded in compassion. When he spoke, he did so with passion. He spoke with purpose, pointing listeners back to God’s written Word. His words inspired many to examine truth with courage.

His death is a sobering reminder that tomorrow is never promised. None of us knows how much time we’ll be given. Yet, we do know how we can live: faithfully, boldly, lovingly. Let’s make each day count. Share our faith. Point others to Jesus. Love those around us, and hold fast to God’s Word.

“Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of His faithful.” — Psalm 116:15

“Time is fleeting. But the impact we make within that time is eternal.” — Orly Wahba

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Filed under Charlie Kirk, Faith

Translating Hope

Hola family, friends, and fellow bloggers! I wanted to share the latest news with you! I’ve been dedicating my time to translating my memoir into Spanish. It has been one of the most challenging and tedious tasks I’ve faced. I could not have done it without relying on the help of others, thus the slow process. Initially, I sought professional translators, but their prices were sky-high, far beyond my means. That was my reality check. I then turned to family and friends. Although they initially agreed to help, their busy schedules made it difficult to commit.

Then, unexpectedly, my son’s new girlfriend took an interest in my story and dove right into the translation. The tedious work began. However, after about a year, life took another turn — their relationship ended, and the translation remained unfinished.

Finally, knowing my story, a kindhearted translator from Puerto Rico reached out to me. We began working together and committed to finishing the task. A year and a half later, the translation was completed! Now, I’m in the final stage — professional proofreading.

Revisiting the sentences, paragraphs, chapters, and dialogue throughout the pages of my memoir, the written words became alive again. I found myself feeling and reliving almost every word. Tears rolled down my face. You see, it reminded me—I’ve survived so much! Indeed, God has been good to me, a constant steadfastness in my unstable life. He is the God of miracles.

“¡Contéstame!”  Me pegó con la parte de atrás de la mano. Vi las estrellas.

“Answer me!” He backhanded me. I saw stars.

The above quote is just a tiny glimpse of what once was. My wish now is to share my story with the Latino community. That others might learn hope and know about the God of second chances and new beginnings. If God can do it for me, He can certainly do it for anyone!

Yet, the journey isn’t over. Writing my memoir was only the first hurdle. Along came the translation into Spanish. Then came the editing and proofreading. Lastly, the final publishing will bring it to life in another language. But it all comes with many challenges. And funds. This is why my daughter is launching a GoFundMe campaign for this project. If you believe in the power of storytelling, resilience, and second chances, come join us in this final stage. This project is not just about printing pages. This is about bringing hope and reaching those who may feel hopeless and alone in their personal struggles.

With another birthday soon approaching, I invite you to walk alongside me. If you have read my memoir, and my story resonated with you, then you also believe in the God of impossible situations. Every bit of support brings me one step closer to achieving my goal—sharing this memoir with the Latino community. ¡Wepa!

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Filed under Memoir Translation Project, Publishing Journey

Finding Strength in Joy Amid Life’s Trials

What exactly is joy?

I’ve heard it said, “The world didn’t give it to you and the world can’t take it away.”

Joy: a feeling of great pleasure and happiness. At least that’s what I read online. Sounds good to me, but I know from experience that pleasure and happiness don’t last. Let’s face it, most of us look to others to please us. We often look to others to make us happy. We also look for things to bring us pleasure and happiness. But if we’re honest, that in itself is fleeting, isn’t it? Before you know it, we’re needing another fix!

So, how is “joy” different?

The Bible teaches that the joy of the Lord is our strength. (Nehemiah 8:10b); I love that! But can one experience joy while going through everyday life with its many toils, twists, and turns? To be honest, during times of trauma, the thought of joy escapes me. I mean, I’m not necessarily thinking about joy during these times. Matter of fact, I may even kick and scream (inwardly), and even have actual meltdown periods, or panic attacks.

When I read my Bible, I am reminded that the joy of the Lord is my strength. This is what it means to me: it’s a joy unspeakable and full of glory!

I may not be able to explain it, put my finger on it, or even see it. But I know it’s there – I know it in my knower. (Bear with me, please, I’m fully aware this isn’t “correct” English.) But I just know that I know. It’s not an “in your face” kind of thing. It’s not necessarily giddiness. It’s not even a denial of difficulties. For me, it’s a reassurance that everything will be all right. I may not understand some things, even while having a breakdown, feeling sad, or grieving.

The pain is real. The battle is real. But so is the joy real. This joy is indescribable. Come hell or high water, I feel safe and secure in my Heavenly Father’s arms. It feels just like when I was a child in my earthly daddy’s arms. Even in the midst of pain and sorrow, here is where there’s strength and comfort. This joy floods the heart; it brings inner peace and strength, even though everything else around may be chaotic.

I didn’t always know this or believe this. But through my experiences, I’ve learned a few things. Learn to be still. Quiet. Wait on God’s perfect timing. Life happens. Happiness is fleeting. Pleasure is temporary. But the joy of the Lord remains constant regardless of circumstances and situations.

Joy is the best makeup – Anne Lamott

Excuse me while I put on some makeup.

Have you experienced this joy?

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Filed under Isaiah 61:3

Beyond the Rubble: Embracing Hope and Healing

“To appoint unto them that mourn in Zion, to give unto them beauty for ashes,
the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness;
that they might be called trees of righteousness,
the planting of the Lord, that he might be glorified.” Isaiah 61:3

How do you find beauty in difficult times?

My devotion today is found in Isaiah 61:3. This passage of scripture brings me comfort. Yet, I wondered…

How can there be a smidgen of beauty among the rubble? Wreckage? Or ashes?

How is this even possible?

How do we see beauty amid suffering, hopelessness, or despair?

When I saw my baby sister lying in her small white coffin, I sure didn’t see any beauty in that.

As a child, I noticed my mama with bruises on her body. I failed to see them as beauty marks.

My former husband was known for his strength, vigor, and sure-footedness. After one drink of alcohol, he morphed into a sloppy drunk, miles away from anything charming.

To watch my grandpa become a prisoner in his own body was disheartening. His barrel-chested physique became sunken and scrawny. It was a far cry from what I considered alluring.

My grandma was once so robust and plump. When my eyes caressed her features, I saw her turning thin and frail due to illness. It wasn’t lovely to behold.

The day I saw my former husband turn his back on me was not a picturesque scene. He had pulled the rug from under my feet. He left me in the dust while I choked in my sobs and called out his name in vain.

My tiny 29-day-old granddaughter, swollen from fluids in a medically induced coma after her open-heart surgery, wasn’t eye-appealing.

Recently, saying goodbye to Mama was anything but a pleasant and beautiful moment.

Scars tell a story, but they are not beautiful. Neither are the hidden bruises on the body nor the scab on the heart.

Death is not cute; the grieving of loved ones taken from you is never delightful. Hunger is not charming. Loneliness is not attractive.

Repossession isn’t grand. Foreclosure is far from good.

So, how can there be beauty for ashes?

I believe it is found in hope. Hope against hope. Hope that the imperfect will become perfect. Hope that the pain will cease. Hope that there will be a day of reckoning. Hope that the scattered pieces will rebuild. Hope for healing and relief. Hope that the light will dawn and a new day will come. Hope that this too shall come to pass. Hope in heaven. Hope that the best is yet to come. And most importantly, we believe in the Blessed Hope. One day, we shall see our loved ones again who have crossed over.

I can now yell it from the mountaintop. Thank you, Lord! You have turned my life’s ugliness into a thing of beauty!

Out of sadness and hurt will come strength and victory.

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Filed under Devotional, Faith and Spirituality, Reflections From the Heart

A Thorn in the Flesh

We all wrestle with struggles—some visible, some hidden. But can they serve a greater purpose?

Recently, I had the opportunity to fly to Miami and visit with loved ones. We helped celebrate my sister’s birthday. I met up with my daddy, step-mother, and sister, and stayed with them at a hotel. We enjoyed an excellent meal at a popular Cuban restaurant. The next day, we planned a fun outing. We met up with one of my brothers, his lovely girlfriend, and my beautiful nieces. While driving there, we heard a thumping noise that didn’t sound good coming from under the minivan. We stopped, got out, and discovered that we had a flat. We weren’t going anywhere. Locating the spare tire was frustrating, and unlocking it took even longer. Then we searched for the closest tire repair shop, wasting more time sitting there. We finally arrived two to three hours later, hot, cranky, already tired, and hungry.

At the fairgrounds, we walked around and got snacks. Then we stopped to watch a show. A man and his dog were performing tricks with a frisbee. We decided to climb the bleachers for a better view. Using the bleachers as stairs, I tripped and fell on bleacher number one, landing on my knees. I got up and fell again on bleacher number two. Ouch! Lord, have mercy on me! My brother ran to help and steadied me to finally sit and watch the rest of the show. When we left and reached our vehicle, I yanked on the car door latch to open it. I quickly found the door was still locked. I injured my finger while pulling on the handle! I still can’t bend my middle finger a month later— you can imagine how that looks!

1 Corinthians 12:7

On Sunday morning, we visited my brother’s church. Instantly, I was drawn by the pastor’s message when I heard him speak on having a thorn in the flesh. The pastor said that thorns drive us to humility. Yeah, I certainly was all that. I had fallen and landed on my knees in front of everyone.

A thorn in the flesh can derive from various situations for different people. It can mean a piercing and troubling situation, person, or task. And I’m here to tell you that thorns don’t feel so good. They prick. And they hurt! But can they show us that in our weaknesses, God becomes strong?

The pastor also mentioned that God uses brokenness in our lives. We indeed throw broken things away. But I was reminded that God will use broken pieces and broken people. Broken people know how much they need God! Our thorns in the flesh remind us of our need for God’s strength, and not on our own strength.

After the service, I determined to focus on the positives of my mini-vacation. I got the chance to get away for the weekend. I rekindled precious memories with siblings. I also spent some quality time with Daddy, who will soon turn 92 years old, God willing. His health may be declining, but he was still active and engaging with me. We ate our meals together and shared stories. One night, I brought him his favorite café con leche to the room from a restaurant nearby. He was so happy. I mentioned how he had been really eating well. He looked at me with that endearing twinkle in his eyes, leaned close, and said, “I did it for you.”

It’s always been difficult to say goodbye whenever it’s time to leave my family in Florida. This time was no exception. My stepmother cried. My sister cried. I cried. Thank goodness Daddy and I spoke earlier, and he was asleep already!

My brother dropped me off at the airport. I checked in my luggage and went through customs. I sat alone in the cold lobby, reminiscing on all that had occurred over the weekend. It wasn’t long before the airline announced several delays. These delays put my flight three hours behind. Then, the dreaded word ‘canceled’ blared over the loudspeaker. Although the airport was freezing, at that moment, the tension rose. Tempers flared with heated words from passengers and staff. Four hours later, I paid an extra airfare to fly home on another airline. I had to get off and switch flights before arriving home the next morning. The trip cost more than I had budgeted, not to mention missing an entire day of work. At that moment, I felt weary, defeated, and broken.

The pastor that morning illustrated that we are living in this flesh. Yet, as Christians, we also have the Holy Spirit. So it’s up to us to starve one and feed the other. The one who starves tends to lose; the one we feed tends to win. Let’s learn to rely more on the Holy Spirit so that we feed our inner man. Through this, we gain power in our weaknesses.

In retrospect, I had experienced a few unpleasant thorns. Yet, I realize that God desires to shape me for something greater. Thorns cause frustration, but I believe it will lead me back to the realization that God’s grace sustains me.

Lord, I know you’re trying to teach me something here. My flesh says: Can you hurry up the process so I can learn it and move on?

My spirit says: Help me in my weakness, Lord. May I rely more on you and be reminded that I am complete in you. I thank you, God, for your grace.

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Filed under Faith and Spirituality, Personal Stories

Dad: A son’s first hero. A daughter’s first love.

The fathers in my family are affectionately referred to as Dad, Daddy, and Papi. Newsflash: None are perfect! But each one signifies love, courage, provision, and strength. Their eyes glow with purpose. Their smiles melt hearts. Their chest swells with pride. Their callous hands protect. They stand tall with dignity. And their embraces offer comfort and assurance. Yes, they are the pillars of our households.

It’s said that every man is trying to live up to his father’s expectations. Alternatively, he is trying to make up for his father’s mistakes. I’m not sure if that’s true. I only know that each man represented in my family strives to be the very best possible. Each holds a mantle and carries a torch for the next generation. Each dad represented in my family lays a solid foundation, even those who have crossed over to the other side. I can’t help but think about my own grandfathers. They were strong, respected, dedicated men with a constant presence. They left behind a legacy. When the tough got going, they didn’t cave under pressure. They persevered with Puerto Rican pride in every fiber of their being.

To the men in my family who are dads: I love each of you. I admire each of you. To my dear husband, who married me with four children, I share this quote. “It takes a strong man to accept somebody else’s children. It takes strength to step up to the plate, another man left on the table.” I salute you.

I salute you all. Remember: Any man can be a father. But it takes a special person to be a dad.

And to the newest addition to our family, my grandson’s precious

little girl, who has made me a proud great-grandma!

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Filed under Tribute to Fathers

Dear Mama,

My heart is heavy thinking about you today. It doesn’t seem possible that it’s been a year since you’ve been gone. One of the hardest things was letting go and relinquishing you into God’s hands. He took you home on Mother’s Day around 3 pm. I believe you received the best Mother’s Day gift ever. It was difficult to see you in pain, a prisoner in your own body, lying in that bed. I never gave up on you, Mama! But I had to let you go. You had suffered enough.

In the end, friends and family came together for a celebration of life in honor of you. I’m sure the Lord gave you a glimpse of this side of heaven. You saw your beautiful flowers and heard the music choice. I know you would have been pleased and touched by what was said on your behalf. You were loved. And you are sorely missed.

I think about you often, especially during the holidays. You were always a vital part of our household. You sat at the dinner table, surrounded by family and chatter. You always enjoyed our delicious home-cooked meals. I think about you whenever I cook one of your favorites. I’m glad I can look back at some photos and see you grinning with your plate full! I loved to make you smile. Whenever I’d see a pretty blouse or jewelry, I’d buy it for you. I knew it would please you. Even bringing you a banana split or a vanilla shake did the trick.

Reflecting back, my heart is also heavy for the times I grew impatient with you. I had tried to express how sorry I was for any harsh words spoken out of frustration between us. I’m grateful that our God is merciful, and His grace covers us. We were not the perfect mother-and-daughter role model. Our words weren’t always laced with honey. But we were quick to forgive each other. After all, you were my Mama, and I remained your little girl.

You know, you went with us to Miami. I took some of your remains. I scattered them alongside Grandma & Grandpa. I also scattered them alongside my baby sister, whom we lost so long ago. You always wanted to be near them. I know this was more healing for my benefit, but I wanted you to know I hadn’t forgotten.

Oh, Mama, you have a precious great-great-granddaughter now! You would be tickled-pink and all over her! She was born three months after your passing, two days before my birthday.

Mama. You. Were. Right. You can have ten fathers, but only one mother! Mother’s Day is around the corner. I still imagine you sitting at the dinner table across from me. But your chair is empty now. You are gone, but will forever live in our hearts until we meet again.

I hope you know, you are loved beyond words. Missed beyond measure.

With all my love, always your little girl.
I also took Mama to Puerto Rico with me to scatter some of her remains…

Philippians 1:3 “I thank my God every time I remember you.”

 

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Mrs. C

We affectionately called her Mrs. C. In her six­ties, with remarkable zeal, she possessed a charisma and a gregarious personality. She was a Bible teacher, an author, a missionary, a powerhouse, and a woman of great faith. She exuded genuine friendship in a Godly persona and took me under her wings. She held many prayer meetings in her home. Often, she prostrated herself on the floor on her face, interceding on behalf of others. She became my lifesaver, my spiritual mother. I counted on her for spiritual advice and much-needed counseling throughout the years.

On one dreary afternoon, the sky, along with my hope and faith, grew overcast. Suffering from battle fatigue, I sat in Mrs. C’s den. I told her I was sick and tired of being sick and tired.

“I can’t take it anymore,” I confessed, wringing my hands.

Patiently, unassuming, and non-judgmental, Mrs. C handed me a tissue and gave me time to release the dread and pain in my heart.

“I’ve tried everything. Done all I know to do. Yet nothing seems good enough.”

“Has he stopped hitting you?”

I sighed, much relieved that he had. “Oh, yes.”

“Mary Ann, you know he loves you, in his own way,” she began, “but you have become ‘weary in well-doing.’ In your mind’s eye, you’ve conceded it’s not worth it.”

She honed in on my sentiments. I hung my head in shame.

“You know,” she insisted, “it is worth it all.”

At that moment, I wished I were stronger and smarter and that Mrs. C wasn’t so wise and couldn’t read me so well. “But shouldn’t this be a two-way street?” I suggested.

“Are you and the kids better off without him?”

I figured she knew the answer before I did. “We . . . we have nowhere else to go.”

“Are you better off without him?” she repeated and handed me the tissue box.

“I can’t afford to do anything else.”

“Are you better off without him?”

No,” I whispered and wiped my nose.

I felt weak and inadequate as a Christian wife. I struggled to keep a measure of peace and sanity in my household with four children. I was also tending to a man wrestling with his demons.

“Then, go home and be the best wife and mother you know how to be,” she said.

Sometimes, it’s easier to talk the talk than to walk the walk.

“But first,” she added, “I want to pray for you.”

That woman knew how to enter the Throne Room of God in her prayers. Electricity surged through my entire body when she touched me as she prayed. Before I left, she handed me her book, Wives, Unequally Yoked. I figured reading couldn’t hurt; plus, the title intrigued me. I’d already devoured The Total Woman, by Marabel Morgan. Much like my Bible, the pages were worn and underlined with a yellow marker.

I didn’t leave Mrs. C’s company the same way I arrived. Resolved in my heart not to become bitter, I determined to be better and left strengthened, with a made-up mind.

Excerpt from “Running in Heels: A Memoir of Grit and Grace,” Chapter 35

I’ve always felt that Mrs. C was my person, who soon became like a spiritual mother to me. I went to her broken and wounded. She never made me feel less than. She believed in the best for me and all God had to offer. This lady was full of wisdom and knew how to bombard heaven on your behalf! How I miss our intimate conversations.
{Mary Anne Copelin: Aug. 30, 1926 — Dec. 4, 2017}

Additional mentioned about Mrs. C here — Saying Goodbye For Now

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