Lady Delivers Lunches To Needy Kids

Selfless beauty.

The Feels

With schools closed until classes resume in her rural Washington State community, Phyllis Shaughnessy knows that kids who receive free or subsidized cafeteria meals during the academic year may go without during the long summer months.

So, stocked with more than 200 sack lunches a day and a core of volunteers to help pack them, Monday through Friday, the great-grandma stepped up this summer to help deliver 6,851 meals – and counting – direct to their doors.

“It’s easy to see,” Shaughnessy, 73, tells PEOPLE of the difference her effort makes, “when you drive up and you see kids jumping up and down, ‘Yay, the lunch lady is here!’ They get their bags and they just dash to the nearest place they can open them up and start in. They’re happy.”

So is Shaughnessy, who organized the donor-driven program for the North Beach School District in northwestern Washington, and partnered…

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Jemtree's Heart

I hate my past.


I hate the parts of my personal story that involve my past. I don’t like who I was, I don’t like what I lived through. I abhor my reactions and choices. I despise where I had no choice or that I had no one to help me, to comfort me, or just talk with.

Yeah, I hate my past.

Maybe that’s why I haven’t been able to get my book written. I hate reliving it. I hate thinking about it. I hate how when I am in a group of people and I just want to fit into the conversation, I feel compelled to share my experiences so I can identify with others. And I hate how vulnerable and


I often feel when I tell something deeply personal.

Who really wants to hear about the horror experiences of my childhood and teens, and for what…

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Eye to Eye

My husband’s blog post. I love this one. ❤


I’m sure if you’ve seen Disney’s Frozen, you’ll remember this exchange:

Anna: We complete each others’–
Hans: Sandwiches!
Anna: I was just gonna say that!

What? Really?

Being away from home on business can be stressful, especially leaving behind Wifey with our four always-wonderful, never-exasperating, easily-managed children. (Two of whom are teenagers. God help us.)

When we were dating, Wifey and I would go for long walks and talk about everything and anything. (Aww!) Sometimes when we’d struggle for a way to express a thought, the other would spout out the word or phrase.

And Wifey would joke that we were “eye to eye.”

Wifey plays the violin, and I play piano. We’ve learned over the years of playing together to sense where the other is going. Ok, I’ll be honest, I think I just play whatever I want. But she knows how to complement it perfectly, how to tell…

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Mom 139: New Parent’s Translation

They have searched for me, my kids,

they know me well.

They know when I sit down, and when I get up to clean;

They perceive my need for time alone from afar.

They discern my going shopping and my lying down for a catnap;

They are familiar with all my habits.

Before a word is on my tongue,

they interrupt and make me forget what I was going to say.

They pull at my hem from in front and behind me,

Their hands are always on me.

Such attention is overwhelming for me,

Too much for me to process all at once.


Where can I go from my children?

Where can I go to flee from the kids?

If I go in the bathroom, they are there,

In the middle of the night when everyone should be sleeping, they are there.

If I get up early, they are there,

Try to sneakily eat chocolate behind closed doors, there!

Even there, they beg!

Their hands trying to take it from me, making me feel guilty.

If I say, “Surely I can have privacy in the darkness

and the quiet becomes peace around me,”

the night will be full of interruptions;

because the darkness means it’s time to play.


They were created in my inmost being;

I am the mother in whose womb they were knit.

I praise God because they were fearfully and wonderfully made,

His works are wonderful!

My frame was not hidden from their kicks

when they were made in the secret place,

when they were woven in the depths of my girth.

Their eyes saw as their hands punched me;

all their days were written in their baby book

hopes and promises before they came to be.

How precious are their words, and their silence!

How vast is the sum of their joyful noise!

Were I to count them, it would require I could concentrate…

I’m sure their questions have outnumbered the grains of sand–

when I’m awake, they are always with me.


In game and play, they slay the zombies.

They pretend to kill the monsters and vampires.

While at church they sing Jesus Loves Me;

they are learning of His precious Name.

Do I not get angry with those who are mean to them,

and abhor those who bully or reject them?

I have nothing but disdain for adults who dismiss them;

I count them as missing out on great opportunities.

My kids have searched through my stuff, and they know what I love;

they test me and cause anxious thoughts.

They push buttons of offensiveness,

but I love them, that’s my way, and it’s everlasting.





Just Tweak it!

If writing is anything like the process God goes through in transforming us, He has His work cut out for Him.

Just change this here to fit there… Ok, now shave off a bit over here.

Wait. Wait! That’s all wrong, need to put this up here as the priority, and switch these two things around over here…

Space. Need a lot of space over here.

The heart, where’s the heart! Oh, Ok, whew! Got it.

Now, some emphasis…. here!

Whoa! Can’t have that in there!


Ok, now a little shaping here, make this thought tighter… Good!

Ok. I think we are about…

Oh, where did that twist come from! Straighten it…just…like…so…

Nevermind, just pull that all the way out.

Ok. It’s done.

It’s done!

For now.

I’ll pick up again tomorrow.

Time to get some rest.




When my husband is away from home, that’s when the awareness of being lonely squeezes my consciousness. When he’s here, my life is full of scheduled purpose. I don’t have time to pay attention to loneliness– there’s someone who sees me, who hears me, who enjoys talking with me. Loneliness doesn’t fit into my life then.

My love language is giving. It’s how I demonstrate appreciation. I don’t think there are many with that same love language though, because I honestly haven’t met many givers. I have, however, met many takers.

for blog

I am never more aware of my deficit than when I am empty and unable to give.

When I practice giving, I am seen or heard. Appreciated.

Otherwise, I’m unseen.



Most people have embedded schedules and friends, already.

It’s easier if I just sit back, and watch. Maybe I’ll find an opening where I can slip in and be a welcomed part… Or, maybe not so much.

I have had 2 sources of  consistent refreshment for years: God, and my husband.

I am active online socially in a few different settings. That’s a place I can jump in and find somewhere I fit in. I have some great online friends, and one who is like a sister to me. They help keep the loneliness from settling. I have, however, found it ironic that that’s where I’m aware of who’s not my friend, or in old Facebook terms: not a fan of me, they don’t “like” me.

I know, I know: I’m political.  And religious. Who even does that? Just post a picture of a cute LOL cat, already! Or the dinner I cooked, but haven’t eaten that is cold now, because it needs to be arranged just… so… (perfect!) for a picture to upload.

The last place we lived, I made some real face-to-face connections. Maybe it was the common denominator of sharing our hearts and creativity through writing, that bonded us.

Maybe it was that someone stopped to listen. To me. To appreciate something I poured my heart into, or that I created.

But, I had to leave that behind.

Oh, I have to go, my son needs my help.






A Tour and Census of Palestine Year 1695: No sign of Arabian names or Palestinians

I love how the truth surfaces. Now to just get people to actually pay attention.

Palestine-Israel Conflict

by Avi Goldreich, used by courtesy of

Translated from the Hebrew by Nurit Greenger.
Original Hebrew version can be read here.

The time machine is a sensation that nests in me when I am visiting Mr. Hobber old books store in Budapest, Hungary. Hobber learned to know my quirks and after the initial greeting and the glass of mineral water (Mr. Hobber is a vegan) he leads me down the stairs to the huge basement, to the Jewish “section.”

The Jewish section is a room full of antiquity books on subjects that Mr. Hobber sees to be Jewish. Among the books there are some that are not even worthy their leather binding. However, sometime, one can find there real culture treasure. Many of the books are Holy Books that may have been stolen from synagogues’ archives: Talmud, Bible, Mishnah, old Ashkenazi style Siddur, and others. Customarily, I open them…

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