The fruit of the Spirit grew in our kitchen because you kept watering it, even on dry years.
Fresh today · Sunday, 14 June
New Wishes
A handful of wishes pulled from the cabinet this morning. Pick one up — copy, save it to your pinboard, or send it on.
Mom, you didn't preach at us; you outlived your sermons, which made them impossible to argue with.
Deborah judged Israel under a palm tree. You judged squabbles under fluorescent lights. Same fierce wisdom.
You stitched scripture into ordinary moments — over scraped knees, late report cards, midnight phone calls.
Happy Mother's Day to the woman whose intercession arrived before I knew what intercession was.
Your hands have been the closest thing to God's hands I'll likely ever touch this side of heaven.
↑ pick one up
Browse by occasion
What are we writing today?
Cabinets sorted by occasion. Open one — pages are arranged by warmth, not algorithm.
- Anniversary
- Baby
- Belated
- Best
- Birthday
- Boy
- Boyfriend
- Christian
- Christmas
- Congratulation
- Diwali
- Easter
- Eid Mubarak
- Engagement
- Farewell
- Fathers Day
- Friendship
- Funny
- Get Well
- Girl
- Girlfriend
- Good Morning
- Good Night
- Graduation
- Hanukkah
- Heart Touching
- Holiday
- Invitation
- Job
- Love
- Miss You
- Mothers Day
- New Year
- Recovery
- Retirement
- Romantic
- Thank You
- Thanksgiving
- Wedding
- Well
- Women's Day
- Sympathy
- Valentine's Day
- Halloween
- Veterans Day
More from today
Mom, you carried us in prayer long after you stopped carrying us in arms. Heavier work, quieter.
Like Sarah, you laughed when life surprised you — and the laugh became its own kind of faith.
You taught me that 'be still' is a command, not a suggestion. I'm still learning. You're still patient.
Mary treasured things in her heart; you stored them in shoeboxes and margins of cookbooks. Same instinct.
Mom, your gentleness has done what arguments never could — softened me without my noticing.
May your cup overflow today, preferably with tea you didn't have to brew yourself.
Elizabeth recognized grace before the world did. You recognized me before I'd done anything worth recognizing.
Your faithfulness wasn't loud, but it was steady — like a lamp left burning for someone still coming home.
Mom, the verses you whispered over my cradle are the ones I whisper over mine. Inheritance.
Honor, the fifth commandment says. Today the word feels too small for what you've earned.
You believed in resurrection mornings during my Friday nights. That hope eventually became contagious.
Happy Mother's Day, Mom — may the God who saw Hagar see you today, in all the unseen things you do.
Mom, your faith has been the kind that gets quieter and stronger at the same time. Today I notice both.
May God bless the woman who taught me grace before she taught me grammar — and who corrected both gently.
Your prayers covered miles I didn't know I'd walk. Thank you for the intercession I never asked for.
Mom, you turned ordinary Tuesdays into small sanctuaries. I didn't recognize the altar then. I do now.
Like the women at the tomb, you showed up early, hands full, expecting nothing — and changed everything.
Happy Mother's Day to the woman whose Bible margins read like a love letter to her children.
You preached without a pulpit, mostly with how you handled bad news and good news the same way.