Get Back in the Saddle

,

2 Timothy 1:7 — For the Spirit God gave us does not make us timid, but gives us power, love and self-discipline.

Daddy had me in the saddle of a horse before I even had my first loose tooth. I remember my little legs jutting out like sticks, trying to hold on to Dugar, my Palomino, whose coat shimmered like honey in the sun.

Daddy loved horses, and I loved that he wanted to share them with me. Every Saturday, he’d saddle up Dugar and hand me the reins, his big hand steady on my back. I’d watch his face as he tightened the cinch, his eyes full of pride.

We rode together for years, me and Dugar. I learned to sense his moods—when he was feeling feisty, when he was calm, when he’d rather graze than gallop. I’d talk to him like he was my best friend, which he probably was.

Then came the day everything changed.

It started like any other morning, but that day, Dugar had a wild streak in him. He bucked hard, harder than he ever had before, spinning and kicking like he wanted to leave me behind. My heart pounded in my chest as I clung to the saddle, every nerve screaming for me to let go.

But I didn’t. I held on until the saddle slipped, and then I hit the ground. Hard.

My head slammed into the ground, landing just inches from my father’s disc harrow. If you’ve never seen one, imagine a row of sharp, spinning blades pulled behind a tractor. Think of a guillotine on wheels ready to chew up the dirt—and me.

Daddy was there in an instant. I don’t remember much, but I remember the look in his eyes—wet, relieved, scared. But I was alive. No broken bones, not even a concussion. He said it was a miracle. We found out later that the cinch had not been latched properly. It was a small mistake, but it nearly cost me everything.

The next morning, Daddy leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyes soft. “You ready to ride again?” he asked.

Every part of me wanted to say no. My stomach twisted at the thought of that wild-eyed horse and the way the ground had rushed up to meet me. But Daddy held my gaze, his voice steady. “If you don’t get back on that horse,” he said, “you’ll carry that fear with you the rest of your life.”

So, I took a deep breath and swung my leg over Dugar’s back. My heart thudded with every step he took, each hoofbeat a reminder of the risk, but also of all the rides we’d shared—sunny afternoons, slow walks under the oaks, the way his breath felt warm on my cheek. I chose to trust him again. And in that moment, I chose to trust myself too.

Life has a way of bucking us off when we least expect it. It’s messy and wild and sometimes leaves us face down in the dirt. But staying there isn’t an option. It’s not how we’re made. It doesn’t matter how many times you get bucked off—what matters is how many times you get back on.

So, dust yourself off. Get back on that horse, friend, and let Jesus take the reins.

/by

The Vacation We Already Had

,

1 Corinthians 16:14 – “Let all that you do be done in love.”  

They say time flies when you’re having fun, but that nine-hour car ride to Tennessee felt more like crawling through molasses.

We had piled into two cars—my dad, his new wife, her boys, my sister and her family, my best friend, and me—and drove the whole way. For a tween, that felt like forever and a day and a thousand “are we there yets” stuck in a car.

When our caravan finally rolled into Gatlinburg, we checked every tourist box: souvenir shops, ice cream stands, hiking a mountain or two. And yes, an old-timey country music show that I vowed—loudly—not to attend.

We went anyway. And if I’m honest, the only thing I remember is seeing a cute boy and getting my very first crush.

But years later, that’s not what I hold on to.

The real treasure was back at the rental house.

That little cabin tucked in the trees, became the center of it all. We would pile into the kitchen and cook up whatever groceries we grabbed. We played board games with missing pieces. We argued. We laughed and laughed and stayed up too late.

And that was the best part.

Not the boy. Not the Smoky Mountains. Not even the pictures we took.

All the places we visited were just backdrops. The real story? It happened around the dinner table, on the living room floor, over pancakes and pillow talk and time together.

And here’s what I have come to believe:

You don’t have to travel to find that kind of wonder.

The best parts of life don’t require tickets or plans. They require simple love. A few unhurried moments around the table together. A Bible open before bed. Laughter that’s not rushed. Togetherness that isn’t scheduled, but chosen.

That is what it’s all about.

So, don’t wait for a vacation to make space for the people who matter. Start now. Tonight. Right here, in your own home. Because the best part of life? You don’t even have to ask, “Are we there yet?”

You’re already there.

/by

Banjo Strings and Blessings

,

Colossians 3:14 — “And above all these put on love, which binds everything together in perfect harmony.”

There’s a kind of joy you don’t plan for. It just shows up with paper plates and a guitar. That is how it was sitting outside under the pines at one of my family’s old-fashioned pickin’ and grinnins’.

I was across the table from Uncle Benny. He was working his way through the same question for the fifth a. I kept answering him, because what would be the point in correcting him. Right?

The little ones were darting around barefoot, chasing each other with sticky fingers, dripping popsicle juice everywhere. Someone’s toddler squealed with laughter, and a cousin hollered something about fire ants. If I remember right, a few of the grown-ups rolled their eyes when somebody forgot the ice. Bless it.

The heat was doing what Southern heat does. I kept swatting mosquitoes and trying to smooth down my hair, but before I could even be bothered, the music started.

One by one, a guitar, a banjo, and eventually a karaoke machine made their way out. People gathered near the porch, clapping and singing—some on key, some not even close. It was wonderful.

I couldn’t tell you what we ate that day, probably hot dogs and potato salad, but I remember the sound of my aunt’s laugh. I remember the cold bite of watermelon, and I remember feeling so full, not from food, but from the people around me.

When I think of those “pickin’ and grinnin’” days, my heart aches a little in that sweet way. I want to go back. I want to relive the moments where everything else fell away and all that mattered were the people right in front of me.

So, today, I’m choosing to live like every day is a pickin’ and grinnin’. I won’t wait for the weather to be perfect or for someone else to bring the ice. I want to bring my own glad heart, be interruptible, laugh, and sing off-key.

There’s a lawn chair waiting. Maybe you’d like to join me?

/by

Lessons From a Cast Iron Skillet

,

Ephesians 6:2-3 — “Honor your father and mother (this is the first commandment with a promise), that it may go well with you and that you may live long in the land.”

I was standing at the stove last night, stirring a pot, when it hit me like a freight train wrapped in butter and memory. Food is my love language, you see, and it took me back.

Daddy used to come home after long days working the fields in Tallulah. He would be covered in dust and sweat and still manage to whip up the best meal you ever had. He could tickle your taste buds and your funny bone, all in one sitting. Especially with his scrambled eggs.

Saturday mornings, he would make a batch so creamy and seasoned just right, they practically melted on your tongue. They weren’t dry and crumbly like most folks make. No, these were something special, and if you were lucky, he would crack a joke while he was cracking the eggs.

I did not care one bit about learning to cook back then. I was a tomboy, all elbows and skinned knees, with no interest in the stove, but I never missed a meal. Not once. Now, years later, I find myself standing in a kitchen, doing the very thing I once ran from. Somewhere between the recipe cards and the frying pans, I came full circle.

Billy Ray Arender is not here anymore, and if this daddy’s girl could walk into that kitchen again and ask him what he was cooking, I would, a hundred times over. But I can’t. So, I like to cook. I try to remember him and honor his memory.

See, in the Bible, the fifth commandment doesn’t just ask us to obey our parents when we’re young. It teaches us to honor them with our whole lives.

If you’re still blessed to have your parents or grandparents, treasure that gift. Sit with them. Learn from them. Ask them the things you will want to remember, and if they’re already gone, honor them by how you live, how you love, and how you carry their legacy forward—one quiet, everyday moment at a time.

/by

Covered in Prayer

,

Psalm 55:16–18(a) – But I call to God, and the Lord will save me. Evening and morning and at noon I utter my complaint and moan, and He hears my voice. He redeems my soul in safety from the battle that I wage.

As dawn breaks, I lace up my running shoes and hit the pavement. My path inevitably leads me past a used car lot. The fenced-off area, still dormant at this early hour, showcases a variety of automobiles waiting for their new owners.

But it is not the sedans or SUVs that catch my eye first; it is the formidable security system—a state-of-the-art Rottweiler, a hundred-pound powerhouse of a pooch.

As I approach, like clockwork, the massive dog charges toward me, teeth bared, growling as if I were a threat to his territory. Yet, I am no thief, just someone innocently passing on the sidewalk. As it dashes toward the fence, the dog’s ferocity never fails to send a jolt of fear rushing through me.

I have found that the fence is my friend. Now, as I jog past, I meet the dog’s ferocious gaze with a knowing grin.

“You can’t hurt me,” I scoff

If only I could carry this same assurance when facing the assaults of the enemy. Just like that chain link fence stands between me and the vicious dog, God offers His protection against the prowling dangers of Satan.

When I pray God’s truth, I find Him powerfully shielding me. It is always present. When I embrace it, I reinforce my trust in the safety of that protection, and I can continue running my race with confidence.

Maybe you’ve got something nipping at your heels right now—anxiety, doubt, fear that shows up when you least expect it. What would it look like to face it head-on today, not in your strength, but grounded in prayer?

If you are weary from running scared, let prayer remind you of the truth: you are not unprotected. You are not alone. That fence is stronger than it looks.

— Tammi Arender

/by