Love in the Cold: Choosing Good Works on a Snowy Morning

 

“Let us think of ways to motivate one another to acts of love and good works.” — Hebrews 10:24

This morning in East Alabama, it’s snowing. Not a lot, but enough to hush the world and make you pause. I felt it especially as I stopped at the feed store to grab feed for the chickens. Cold air, snowflakes, quiet roads—and it got me thinking.

How are we showing acts of love and goodwill today?

Let’s start with the animals God has entrusted to us. Are we caring for them the way they deserve? Are they warm, fed, sheltered, and loved? On mornings like this, that question hits close to home for me. I currently have one… two… okay, about ten dogs and two cats tucked into my 12x40 tiny house. It may be crowded, but it’s warm, and they’re safe. With temperatures sitting at 22 degrees and snow falling, love looks like opening your door, making room, and doing what needs to be done.

But love doesn’t stop with animals.

Are we showing acts of love and goodwill toward our fellow man—our brothers and sisters? When you see someone out in the cold today, maybe love looks like buying them a hot drink. Maybe it’s offering gloves, a hat, a coat, or a blanket. Maybe it’s a kind word, a smile, or simply seeing them as a person instead of a problem.

And here’s the part that matters most: not just today. Every day.

God calls us to love one another and help one another. Yet, if we’re honest, today’s world feels chaotic, rushed, and often unkind. It can be easy to get swept up in that mindset—to grow cold in spirit even when we’re warm inside.

If you find yourself in that place—where love, kindness, and goodwill aren’t coming as naturally as they should—this is your gentle nudge. Change your mind. Change your attitude. Change your ways.

Because the Lord calls us higher. He calls us to be better, to do better, and to love deeper—toward people, toward animals, toward family, and even toward strangers.

Sometimes, love looks big.
Sometimes, it looks like a tiny house full of animals on a snowy morning.
But it always matters.

Stay warm today—and choose love.

Three Days in the Life of Green Acres (a.k.a. My House)

 

If chaos had a zip code, it’d be mine.

Saturday morning—knowing full well bad weather is coming, the kind with ice, cold rain, and “don’t go nowhere unless you have to”—I do what any sensible country woman does. I go buy chickens. A great deal on Copper Moran chicks, so I come home with five pullets… and a rooster, because why not add testosterone to the mix?

We get home and immediately realize we have no plan. Chickens go into the kennel that used to be the pig pen, inside the yard with the dogs and the pig. That lasted about as long as a screen door in a tornado. Two dogs made it clear the chickens were not gonna know peace.

So we catch the chicks again, move the kennel outside, and reset everything. While I’m doing that, I’m also cutting tin for the underpinning on the back of the house, because multitasking is just survival at this point.

A friend drops off pallets, so naturally we decide to build a pig hut right then. Five pallets, some lumber, screws, and tin later—boom—pig mansion complete. Bacon’s living better than most folks I know.

Speaking of Bacon, the girls decide it’s time for him to lose his manhood. We think we got everything handled, but there’s a chance he’s only half a barrow, so that may be a sequel.

Oh—and in the middle of all that, we discover one of the dogs had a puppy. Surprise! Because obviously we didn’t have enough going on.

By the end of Saturday, everyone is fed, housed, warm, and alive. I’m exhausted, but feeling accomplished.

Sunday morning starts with a 6:30 a.m. phone call asking me to go buy a King cake. I’m gone maybe two hours. I come home and there’s a piece of tin flopping on the shop because of the wind. Cool. Love that for me. Go inside to grab my drill, bits, and screws, head back out… and that’s when I see it. The chicken coop flipped completely upside down and chickens running wild like they just declared independence.

One chicken is in the dog and pig pen. I catch four, throw them over the fence, realize the dogs are still not fans, and start catching chickens like it’s an Olympic sport. Eventually everyone is secured… again.

Monday brings a three-hour school delay, barely-above-freezing temps, and me trying to feed animals, manage kids, host friends, and keep puppies from becoming chew toys. I walk out the door to pick up one of Paisleys friends, and Bella the German Shepherd slips past me like a ninja.

A mile down the road, I get the call no mama wants.

“Mama… Bella got the puppy.”

Panic. Tears. Blood. I talk Paisley through putting the puppy up safely with its mom and promise I’ll check everything when I get home.

All of this… in three days.

Three days.

Some folks take weekends to rest. Around here, weekends just change what kind of chaos you’re dealing with.

But here’s the thing.

As wild, exhausting, and downright ridiculous as my life can be, I’m thankful. For the mess. For the noise. For the animals, the lessons, and the stories we’ll laugh about later. I know that while my life feels overwhelming sometimes, someone else is carrying a heavier load.

So if your life feels like chickens running loose and everything flipped upside down, take a minute. Breathe. Laugh if you can. Say something kind. Lend a hand when you’re able.

And remember—you’re not alone out here. We’re all just doing our best to keep the fences up and the critters fed.

About the Author

Billie-Jo writes from lived experience—about faith, healing, motherhood, heartbreak, and the hard work of choosing peace after pain. She believes in telling the truth gently, setting boundaries without guilt, and trusting God even when the answers come slowly. Her words are for anyone learning how to let go, stand firm, and heal without losing themselves.

 “For if you forgive other people when they sin against you, your heavenly Father will also forgive you.

But if you do not forgive others their sins, your Father will not forgive your sins.”
— Matthew 6:14–15 (NIV)

Lord, have mercy.

Today, we’re talking about forgiveness.

In my last post, I talked about hurt. I talked about the one question that broke me. What I didn’t talk about—what happened next—was the silence. The absence of an apology. The way the pain was brushed aside and rewritten as if it never mattered.

The very next day, there was no remorse. No acknowledgment. Instead, I was told it was my fault. That I had asked for it. That because I said I didn’t care if he brought someone else into the home we shared for fourteen and a half years, the damage that followed was somehow justified.

And then came the backpedaling.

“It was just a joke.”

A joke.

You don’t joke about betrayal. You don’t joke about replacing someone. You don’t joke about ripping the ground out from under a life that was built brick by brick over years of sacrifice.

A close friend and coworker said something to me that landed heavy but true. She said she believed he meant it when he said it—that he intended to bring someone else into that home. And when he realized I wasn’t going to bow, wasn’t going to stay compliant, wasn’t going to continue showing up for him at my own expense, he changed the story. Suddenly it was humor. Suddenly I was too sensitive. Suddenly the pain was mine to carry alone.

Forgiveness doesn’t come easy in moments like that.

Still, here I am—asking God not only to forgive me, but to help me forgive. To forgive the words spoken. The manipulation. The gaslighting. The betrayal that stirred jealousy, anger, and deep hurt in my heart.

Lord, forgive me for how those emotions shaped my reactions. Forgive me for the ways pain tried to take the wheel. I don’t want to live chained to bitterness. I want to live in Your grace. I want to be loved by You. I want to be forgiven by You.

And I want to cherish every single moment You are still blessing me with on this earth.

So today, forgiveness looks like this for me: waking up and choosing not to rehearse the conversation again. Choosing not to let anger narrate my story. Choosing to hand God the weight of what was said and what was done, even when my hands shake as I do it.

Some days I forgive with confidence. Other days I forgive through tears. And on the hardest days, forgiveness is simply saying, Lord, I’m willing—even if I’m not there yet.

I don’t forgive because it was okay. I forgive because I want peace more than I want to be right. I forgive because I refuse to let someone else’s choices harden my heart or steal the tenderness God is still growing in me.

I am learning that forgiveness is not a finish line—it’s a daily decision. One I may have to make again tomorrow. And that’s okay.

God is patient with me. He knows the full story. He sees the wounds that never got an apology. He knows the difference between releasing someone to Him and inviting them back into my life.

Today, I choose release. I choose grace. I choose to trust that God can hold what I cannot—and that He is still writing something beautiful from the pieces I’m learning to lay down.

“He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.”
— Psalm 147:3 (NIV)

I’m trusting God with the pieces I’m still holding. With the wounds that didn’t get an apology. With the parts of my heart that are learning how to forgive without forgetting who I am or what I deserve.

Healing doesn’t happen all at once. But Scripture reminds me that God is close to the brokenhearted—not disappointed in them, not rushing them, not asking them to endure harm in the name of holiness.

So I take this step today. Not because it’s easy. Not because it’s finished. But because I believe God is gentle with my healing—and faithful to do what I cannot.

If this resonated with you, I invite you to pause for a moment before scrolling on. Take a deep breath. Ask yourself where forgiveness might be stirring in your own heart—not as an obligation, but as an invitation to peace.

You don’t have to have it all figured out. You don’t have to be ready to reconcile. You don’t even have to feel strong. You can simply be willing.

If you feel led, share this with someone who may be carrying quiet hurt, or leave a comment letting me know you’re on this journey too. You’re not alone here. And healing—real, God-centered healing—doesn’t have to be walked in silence.

Billie-Jo writes from lived experience—about faith, healing, motherhood, heartbreak, and the hard work of choosing peace after pain. She believes in telling the truth gently, setting boundaries without guilt, and trusting God even when the answers come slowly. Her words are for anyone learning how to let go, stand firm, and heal without losing themselves.

Fourteen Years, and the Question That Broke Me

 

Some moments don’t arrive loud.

They slip in quietly, disguised as a simple question.

Tonight, the man I spent fourteen years with—fourteen and a half, if I’m being exact—called me.

“I need to ask you something,” he said.

“Would you be upset if someone came and stayed with me through the weekend?”

I said no. Because what else do you say when you’re already gone?

Then he added, “You won’t be able to come over while they’re here.”

And just like that, fourteen years collapsed into a sentence.

Fourteen years.

One beautiful thirteen-year-old daughter.

A life built, bent, stretched thin, and held together longer than it probably should have been.

I left less than two months ago—not because I stopped caring, but because I needed peace. I left to breathe. I left to survive. I left believing that choosing peace wasn’t the same thing as choosing cruelty.

These last two months have nearly undone me.

I’ve struggled financially.

I’ve struggled emotionally.

I’ve cried in silence more times than I can count.

And still—I showed up.

I picked up his groceries.

I got his medicine.

I cooked meals and brought food.

I gave time and energy I didn’t really have.

Not because he deserved it—but because our daughter does. Because I believed it mattered for her to see her parents still trying to do right by each other. Because somewhere deep inside, I thought decency might still mean something.

Tonight taught me otherwise.

Tonight made me ask questions I never wanted to ask.

What do I tell our thirteen-year-old daughter?

How do I look her in the eyes when my own are swollen from crying?

How do I explain betrayal without teaching bitterness?

How do I hold her heart steady when mine feels like it’s splitting open?

There’s a particular kind of pain that comes when you realize you were grieving a relationship alone. That while you were carrying the weight, the other person had already set it down.

I won’t pretend I’m strong right now.

I won’t pretend this doesn’t hurt.

But I will say this: I know the Lord is near.

I don’t have answers yet—but I know where to take my questions. I don’t feel peace yet—but I believe it exists. I don’t feel joy yet—but I trust it hasn’t abandoned me forever.

Tonight, all I can do is pray.

Pray for peace that doesn’t depend on someone else’s choices.

Pray for joy that isn’t fragile.

Pray for wisdom on how to mother well through heartbreak.

Pray that God will do what I cannot—heal what was broken in ways I never could.

If you’re reading this and your heart feels familiar with this kind of ache, please know this: choosing peace is not failure. Walking away to save your soul is not weakness. And crying does not mean you lack faith—it means you’re human.

God sees every tear.

He counts the years.

And He is not finished yet.

Tonight, I will let myself grieve.

Tomorrow, I will get up and keep going.

And somewhere in between, I will trust that the same God who carried me out of that house will carry me through this pain too.

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”

— Psalm 34:18

Right now, I don’t need everything fixed. I don’t need explanations or quick answers. I just need to know I’m not alone in this. And this verse reminds me that God doesn’t step back when things fall apart—He steps closer.

So tonight, I’m holding onto that. I’m trusting that even on the days I feel worn down, disappointed, and heartbroken, He is still near. He sees the tears. He knows the years. And somehow, even in this, He’s going to carry me through.

Legacy in the Middle of Ordinary Days

 

This morning, I was reminded—again—that life is short and it should never be taken for granted.

One of our very close friends lost his grandmother overnight. She had been placed on hospice late last week, and this morning the message came that she had passed. Our assistant librarian’s dad has been on hospice, taken off hospice, and now—at last count—is back doing cancer treatments. One secretary’s husband’s grandmother is on hospice and not expected to make it more than 24–48 hours. Another secretary’s mother-in-law is in the hospital. The nurse’s mother-in-law is also in the hospital.

It feels like everywhere I turn lately, someone is holding vigil, waiting on news, praying for more time—or for peace.

It reminds me that life moves in cycles. People grow older. People get sick. People pass away. None of us are promised tomorrow, and yet we live most days as if time is endless.

And so this morning, my thoughts keep circling back to one question:

What kind of legacy do I want to leave?

When my name is spoken one day, what do I want people to remember about Billie Jo?

I want it known that I was a hard worker—even when I was tired, even when I was overwhelmed, even when it would’ve been easier to quit. I want it known that I loved my child fiercely. That I showed up as a mom, even when I didn’t have it all figured out. That I tried to be a good daughter. A faithful friend.

Most of all, I want it known that I was a child of Christ.

Not perfect. Not polished. But faithful in the trying. Faithful in the showing up. Faithful in loving people where they were, even when life was messy and heavy and uncertain.

Legacy isn’t built in big, dramatic moments.
It’s built in ordinary days.
In kindness given when no one is watching.
In forgiveness chosen when bitterness would be easier.
In faith held onto when answers don’t come quickly.

So today, I’m asking myself—and I’m asking you too:

What do you want your legacy to be?
What do you want people to say about the way you lived, the way you loved, the way you believed?

If today were all you had, would your life point people toward hope?

“Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.”
—Psalm 90:12

May we live in a way that honors the time we’ve been given.
May we love deeper, forgive faster, and hold faith tighter.
And may we never forget that even our ordinary days matter.

If this spoke to you, share it with someone who needs the reminder.
And take a moment today to live your legacy—right where you are.

Billie Jo is a mom and homesteader navigating faith, survival, and starting over. Through honest storytelling, she shares encouragement for anyone rebuilding life in hard seasons and learning to trust God one day at a time.
Honest words from a hard season, written in faith and hope.

Today Was Not the Day

Today started like so many others—me running late.

I woke up at twenty minutes till seven, rushed to get dressed, let the dogs out, and realized it was already after seven by the time I finally got Paisley out of bed. From that point on, it was a struggle just to keep up.

We got to school and immediately stepped into chaos—Amazon delivery issues, a handful of unexpected problems, and then the phone calls started. Her dad called. And called again. And again. Every time, it felt like he was looking for a fight. Fussing over random things. Pushing buttons. I hung up. He called back. I hung up again.

The last call was about his tools. Telling me I needed to get my stuff out of his house and bring his things back. And yes, I do have some of his tools—bolt cutters, a pipe wrench, a skill saw, a grinder, and a ladder. That’s it. Nothing more. Meanwhile, the bed he sleeps on? I paid for it. The sheets? Mine. The plates he eats off of? Also mine. But I didn’t say all of that out loud. I just swallowed it and kept moving.

After school, I rushed to his house to drop off two of the tools and grab a few of my things. I ran to Publix because kitty litter was on sale—only for them not to have what I needed. So then it was PetSmart. One more stop. One more delay. One more thing grinding my nerves down.

Everything felt rushed. Heavy. Like time was slipping through my fingers no matter how fast I moved.

By ten minutes till five, I still hadn’t made it to my second job. I knew I’d probably walk in with a minute to spare, but the damage was already done—inside my head. I felt like a failure. A failure as a parent. A failure as a person.

All afternoon, I felt like all I’d done was fuss—about her dad, about money, about everything. I rattled off lists of things she needed to do at home, pulled up, jumped out of the car, changed clothes without even turning the engine off, and jumped back in. Meanwhile, she was at home taking care of the animals, working on the house, handling things I just didn’t have time for today.

And the guilt hit hard.

But the truth is, if I don’t work this job, we don’t pay the bills. We don’t make ends meet. I don’t know another way right now. I don’t know how to do anything else.

Lord, even my brakes are squealing. I have the parts. I just don’t have the time to stop and get them fixed—and now it’s not just squealing, it’s scrubbing.

Today is just not the day.

In the middle of all this noise—phone calls, errands, money stress, guilt—I had to stop and remind myself of something I forget far too often: God does not measure my worth by how smoothly my day runs.

Scripture tells us that “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit” (Psalm 34:18). Today, I felt crushed. Worn thin. Like I was failing at everything I touched. But even here—especially here—God is near.

I didn’t fail because the day was messy. I didn’t fail because I had to work instead of sit still. I didn’t fail because my child saw me struggle. What she also saw was perseverance. Responsibility. A mother who keeps showing up even when she’s tired, frustrated, and running on empty.

God knows the weight I’m carrying. He knows the choices I’m making aren’t easy, and He knows they are being made out of love, not neglect. “Let us not grow weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up” (Galatians 6:9). Today didn’t feel like a harvest day—but it was still a planting day.

If today feels like too much for you too, hear this: you are not failing—you are surviving, and sometimes that is holy work.

There will be days when everything feels loud, rushed, and unfinished. Days when the car squeals, the money doesn’t stretch, the emotions spill over, and you wonder how you’re supposed to keep going. But God sees you in the in-between. He honors the effort no one else notices.

Tonight, I’m choosing to release the guilt. To breathe. To trust that tomorrow is new mercy. “Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed, for His compassions never fail. They are new every morning” (Lamentations 3:22–23).

Today was not the day—but tomorrow hasn’t been written yet.

If this spoke to you, share it with someone who’s carrying too much right now. Someone who feels like they’re failing when they’re actually fighting. You never know who needs the reminder that they are seen, held, and not alone.

And if you’re walking a hard road too—stay. Follow along. We’re figuring this out one day, one prayer, one imperfect step at a time.

Written by Billie Jo — a mom and homesteader sharing encouragement for the weary and those rebuilding life one faithful step at a time.

Cajun Crawfish Maque Choux ("Manchew")

 There are some dishes you don’t learn from cookbooks. You learn them standing in a warm kitchen, listening to someone older than you talk with their hands while butter melts in a skillet.

This is one of those dishes.

If you grew up in the South, you may have heard this called “manchew.” Maybe nobody ever spelled it out. It was just something that showed up when crawfish were plentiful and people were hungry. The proper French name is Maque Choux (pronounced mock shoo), but down here, names bend over time. The flavor never does.

This dish tastes like home. Like summer evenings. Like cooking with what you had and feeding whoever showed up.

Maque choux has always been a working dish—corn, onions, peppers, cream. Nothing fancy. But when crawfish were in season, they went in too, turning a humble side into something special.

Some folks used fresh corn cut straight off the cob. Others reached for hominy, especially when that’s what was in the pantry. It might not be textbook Cajun, but it’s honest. And that’s what Southern cooking has always been about.

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🛒 Ingredients (Nothing You Can’t Find)

• 1½ lb crawfish tails (thawed if frozen)

• 4 tbsp butter

• 1 tbsp oil or crawfish fat (optional but traditional)

• 1 large yellow onion, diced

• 1 green bell pepper, diced

• 2–3 cloves garlic, minced

• 2 cups corn kernels or hominy (drained and rinsed)

• 1 cup heavy cream

• ½ cup crawfish stock or seafood stock

• 1–2 tsp Cajun seasoning (to taste)

• ½ tsp smoked paprika

• Cayenne pepper, to taste

• Salt & black pepper

• Hot sauce, to taste

• Green onions or parsley, for garnish

  

1. Season the crawfish
   Lightly toss crawfish tails with a pinch of Cajun seasoning and set them aside. They don’t need much—just respect.

2. Start with butter and patience
   Melt butter and oil in a heavy skillet over medium heat. Add onion and bell pepper and let them soften slowly, filling the kitchen with that smell that tells everyone supper’s coming.

3. Add garlic and corn (or hominy)
   Stir in garlic, then corn or hominy. Let it cook long enough to soak up every bit of flavor in that pan.

4. Make it creamy
   Pour in the stock and cream. Season with Cajun seasoning, paprika, cayenne, salt, and pepper. Let it simmer gently—no rushing this part.

5. Fold in the crawfish
   Add the crawfish last. Just warm them through. Overcooked crawfish are a sin in most Southern kitchens.

6. Taste and finish
   Add hot sauce if you like it bold. Taste again. Adjust. Cooking like this is about trusting your senses.

This isn’t a dish you plate fancy.

• Spoon it over steamed rice

• Serve it with fried catfish or pork chops

• Set it out at a fish fry

• Or eat it straight from the skillet, standing at the counter

That’s how a lot of good food disappears.

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I’ve learned that some of the most meaningful things in life don’t come with instructions. They’re passed down quietly—in kitchens, in conversations, in the way someone says, “Just watch me and you’ll get it.” This dish is like that.

Cajun food has never been about rules. It’s about making do, feeding people well, and stretching what you have without losing heart. It’s about standing at the stove even when you’re tired, because feeding people is one of the simplest ways to show love.

Whether you call it maque choux or manchew, this dish carries memory in every bite—of hands that stirred before ours, of voices that filled the room, of seasons when there was just enough and somehow it was always plenty.

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As I was thinking about this recipe, I couldn’t help but think about how much it mirrors life.

We don’t always get to choose the ingredients we’re given. Sometimes we’re handed seasons that feel heavy, unexpected, or stretched thin. But God has a way of taking what looks simple—or even insufficient—and turning it into something that nourishes us.

“Give us this day our daily bread.” — Matthew 6:11

Not tomorrow’s bread. Not a guarantee for next week. Just enough for today.

This dish reminds me that provision doesn’t always look fancy. Sometimes it looks like a warm skillet, food on the table, and the quiet reminder that we are being carried—one day, one meal, one moment at a time.

If you’re in a season of learning to trust God with what’s in front of you, I hope this recipe feels like encouragement. And if you’re in a season of abundance, I hope you share it.

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If this story or recipe spoke to you, consider sharing it with someone who could use a reminder that even simple things can be full of grace.

Billie Jo is a mom and homesteader navigating faith, survival, and starting over. Through honest storytelling, she shares encouragement for anyone rebuilding life in hard seasons and learning to trust God one day at a time.
Honest words from a hard season, written in faith and hope.