Hi, I'm Charlotte

Welcome to my space for inspiring messages and,
soon to come, romantic stories.

About The Author

I grew up as Charlotte Fay Crouch in Quakertown (Ledyard), Connecticut, where my family's genealogical roots are strongly Rogerene Quaker. For those interested in learning more about this heritage, our family history can be found on quakertownonline.net.My interest in writing began in 10th grade when I joined Mr. Budd’s Speech and Writing class. My very first written and presented speech earned first place at a local Lions Club contest, which inspired me to continue developing my skills as a writer.Since that time, I have published short devotionals in four Cup of Comfort books and contributed numerous articles and nonfiction stories to various newsletters and publications. My most recent work appeared in several 2025 issues of LIVE (Assemblies of God).I have been a long-time member and former newsletter editor for Oregon Christian Writers (OCW), now known as Cascade Christian Writers (CCW). My involvement includes presenting workshops, serving on multiple OCW boards, and having several of my fiction and nonfiction stories recognized in
OCW/CCW writing contests.

Stories

April 6, 2026Not in a Million Years!“Is this for real?” Stunned, I stared at the open card in my hand.The day before, I’d prayed out loud while driving across town. “Jesus, your word says that you own the cattle on a thousand hills, so I know you can supply our needs.” I quickly reminded Him, “You’ve already provided the main things for us, but we need many small essentials and don’t have the money. Or not enough, anyway.” I stopped for a moment, then continued. “I don’t know how you’ll answer this prayer, but I know you will because you’re amazing, a loving God.”As was my habit, my mind immediately raced to predict what might happen in answer to my prayer. Would we get an unexpected check in the mail? How about—?” I stopped myself. Why was I searching for a solution? Could any idea I might think of be better than what God could provide? “No,” I told myself.“I don’t know how You’re going to meet our needs, God, but I’ll try, as difficult and unhuman as it may be, to leave the solution to you.” I laughed aloud. “I love surprises; you always come to our rescue, but how and when you do that is always the mystery.”My husband and I had relocated across the country the year before and thought we’d never move again. But circumstances ruled differently, and after discussing our options, we decided our best choice would be to return to the state where we’d lived for many years. Shipping our furniture and belongings the two thousand plus miles was out of the question due to cost, and not confident about pulling a U-Haul, we sold, gave away, or donated all our household goods.After the long, expensive drive, we moved into an empty apartment with boxes of things we couldn’t part with, overstuffed luggage, two camping chairs, and a blow-up mattress. After one horrible night on the air mattress, we were able to purchase a bed and bring it home the same day, something I know was a miracle in this time of employee shortages and long delays.
After acquiring several pieces of essential furniture in the following days, we searched for other things we needed like a bookcase, some lamps, and a small side table/dresser for each side of our bed.Our hunting thru stores in town mainly proved fruitless. It seemed everything was either too expensive or the store didn’t have the pieces we needed. After some discussion, we decided to drive to a big box retailer in a nearby larger city the following Saturday. A search of the store website has proved we’d have a better chance of buying what we needed with our limited budget.I woke up early that Saturday morning, my mind busy with debate. I’d tossed and turned the night before, struggling with thoughts of finances. With the high cost of gasoline, was it worth driving the one-hundred-twenty-mile round trip to possibly not to find or be able to afford what we needed? And guilt. Was I selfish for wanting new stuff rather than used items? Was I asking too much of God?After my daily Bible reading that morning, peace came over me. I felt assured that all would be okay and time began to prove so when the drive to the store went smooth.Since we arrived about ten minutes before opening, we sat in the car for a few minutes, then antsy, we walked to the end of the long line of people waiting to get inside. Our goal was to find what we needed, get the car loaded, and be on our way home before the city traffic became too heavy.After a while, the line began to move slowly. “What’s taking so long? Surely, there aren’t any more covid rules.” Strange, I thought as we made our way around the building.When we finally reached the door and walked inside, an employee shouted, “Show us your family membership card to have a chance at winning a gift card. If you’re lucky, you might win the big prize.” In front of us, people took turns choosing a card from a basket on a table to the side, where several employees stood behind. Now I understood why the line had moved sluggishly.“We have a member card. Do you have it?” I asked my husband as we moved closer to the table.“No, I didn’t bring my cardholder. Or my wallet.”“Oh, I brought them. Remember? You asked me to carry them for you.” I rummaged through my purse and pulled out the cardholder. “Here.”My husband took the card out and showed it to one of the co-workers. The man pointed to the basket. “Okay. Go ahead. Grab one. And good luck.”Impatient to get past the crowd and get on with our mission, my husband snatched a gift card from the nearly empty basket and then turned to me. “Did you get one?”The employee laughed. “Sorry. Only one per family.”My husband handed me the card, and we started toward the furniture section on the top floor. Halfway up the stairs, he turned to me. “Go ahead. Open the card.”I pulled the card open and, shocked at what I saw, showed it to my husband. Inside, someone had handwritten $1500 above the inserted gift card. “Is this for real? I think we might’ve won.”“No way,” my husband said. “I’ve never won anything.”“Well, it sure looks like we won.” I trembled as I continued to stare at the card. “This can’t be a joke.”“Let’s sit down a minute.” My husband headed toward a bench outside in the store’s restaurant. “We have to think about this.”A few moments later, an announcement came over the store’s intercom. “If you won the $1500 gift card, please tell one of our store employees.”We had no idea what the gift card giveaway was about but soon learned that the store was celebrating its 15th anniversary, and the first one-hundred customers in the door had a chance to win one of ten gift cards worth $150 or a special gift card valued at $1500.After finding a store employee, we showed her the gift card, and she made a phone call. Almost immediately, a group of store representatives gathered to congratulate us and snapped a photo of us with one of them. Then I signed some papers, and they exchanged the dummy gift card for the real thing.“Happy shopping!” someone shouted.Astounded by what had just happened, my husband and I set off on our spree, wandering in a daze, amazed at how God had provided for our needs.Later that day, I reviewed our win. Was it all just luck or fate? No! God’s hand was in timing, the drive, every move we made that morning, and culminated with my husband picking the winning card.Isaiah 55:8 (NLT) says, “And my ways are far beyond anything you could imagine.” Could we have ever anticipated how God would supply our needs that day? Nope. Not in a million years! God’s provision is far beyond our comprehension.Copyright © 2023 Charlotte Kardokus

March 27, 2026By the Book“Mom! Come here!"Our daughter’s voice danced down the hall, sharp enough to cut through my clattering dishes and daily routine. I stacked the last plate and half-listened, expecting a homework dilemma or maybe another grand reveal of her newly rearranged room. There was no panic, just the familiar insistence that meant a child’s world had tilted in some tiny, important way.“What’s up?” I called, using a towel to whisk away suds from my hands. But her next shout, echoing from our son’s room, buzzed with excitement and urgency.I hurried, heart tripping with curiosity. Our daughter stood rooted in front of their hamster cage, the one that housed the two small pets we’d bought as companions for them. Our son, unfazed by nightly squeaks and spinning, had graciously agreed to host the cage in his room.Our daughter pointed. "Look, Mom. Babies." Her eyes shone—wide, wild, certain.I leaned in, breath catching. Inside the sawdust, a cluster of pink, wriggling forms pressed against their mother, so small and new they hardly seemed real. I blinked at the evidence of life. The memory of asking for two male hamsters made me laugh, a little stunned. “Looks like someone at the pet store made a mistake,” I managed.Our daughter shrugged, a smile curving her lips. "Not much we can do about it now."“Except give her a new name,” I joked, and our laughter filled the room, light and warm.“What should we do, Mom?” Our daughter’s attention lingered on the cage, her question pressing in the quiet.I hesitated, a tangle of thoughts racing. Should I let her shoulder this new responsibility? At thirteen, she was stretched thin—school, church, friends. Would she see this through?“There’s nine, Mom! Can we raise them? Please?”“It’s a lot of work,” I warned.“I’ll do it. I promise. I’ll take good care of them.” Her conviction was fierce, unshakable.“All right,” I said, still uncertain. “But first, you need to move the father.” The male hamster ran in the wheel, oblivious. “He can’t stay, he might hurt the babies.” I watched as our daughter scooped him gently, moved him to our extra cage, and placed it next to the mother and baby one.That day, before the world was filled with instant answers, we hurried to the pet store, hope and nerves pushing us along. We returned armed with a slim book about hamsters, bags of food, sawdust, and a nervous energy that threatened to spill over.Our daughter dove into the book, checking off each instruction with an earnest nod. Tissue paper for nesting, a warm spot for the cage, heaps of fresh fruit and veggies, and strict orders not to touch the babies. Even the father hamster got extra treats, a peace offering for his exile.In the weeks that followed, the pink, fragile babies sprouted fur, eyes blinking open on a brand-new world. Personalities emerged, some bold, some timid, learning to tumble through the maze of food bowls and running wheel.All except one. Snowball, named for his pale coloring, moved with a pronounced limp. Maybe he’d been injured, or simply born that way, but his spirit never wavered. He chased his siblings, claimed his share of treats, and found joy in every new day, difference and all.Weeks later, the time came to say goodbye. We packed eight little hamsters for the pet store, sadness mixing with pride and relief. Snowball stayed with us, a furry reminder of the weeks we'd spent together, thriving in our care until his peaceful end.Years have blurred since then, and our daughter grew into a lovely mother. She fed her children healthy meals, marked calendars for appointments and birthdays, carved out time for faith, family, and joy. This time, checklists for her family.Did her care for the hamsters teach her to nurture? Maybe not directly. But the lessons of steadfast love, careful tending, following the right instructions, echoed from one generation to the next. She’s followed many manuals over the years, but one book has always guided her heart and her hand.I think of my own mother who raised seven children, most with special needs, all with equal devotion. Her life was never easy, but she raised us right, following the same book I handed to our daughter.And now, that book has been passed on to our grandchildren—a legacy of faith and love, written page by page.What book? The Bible—a living inheritance, shaping our hands and hearts, generation after generation.Copyright © 2013
Charlotte Kardokus

March 22, 2026Little Robot Man“Are you ready?” My husband’s voice cut through the morning fog—urgent and impatient as always. He never liked being late, and today was no different.Standing behind our SUV, I called out, “Did you get everything in the trunk?”"Yep," our son replied. Worn out after two years of fighting an unexplained illness, he got into the car. More than anyone else, he needed this weekend getaway.With my morning coffee in hand, I took the wheel for the initial leg of our journey. We traveled northeast toward Moses Lake, Washington, eager to reunite with close friends. Passing briefly through Portland, we continued onto I-84, where the gleaming Columbia River and the misty cascade of Multnomah Falls greeted us—a familiar reminder of nature’s ever-changing beauty.My husband and son drifted off to sleep, and I quietly thanked God for the peace in that moment, despite our ongoing hardships. By midday, under the desert sun, we arrived at our destination. Our friends met us with hugs, laughter, and a simple summer meal.That evening, we decided to join our friends in a game of Mexican train dominoes. "Would you like to play with us?" they asked our son. He chose to watch TV instead. While I hoped he would join the game for some enjoyment and distraction, I placed my trust in God, believing He knew what was best for him.The next morning, we toured the peninsula, wandered through the serene Japanese Garden, and watched in amazement as a 747 taxi trainer flew slowly, and almost noiseless, overhead. After lunch with our friends at their favorite deli, my son and I headed to a thrift shop we’d spotted earlier, searching for items he might resell—a small way to earn money while out of work.Once inside, we split up, scanning shelves and bins. “Did you find anything good?” I asked when we met at a corner. He shook his head, staring at his almost empty basket.I silently pleaded, God, please help me find something and began my final search. Scanning shelves and boxes filled with miscellaneous items, I spotted a small worn box labeled “Potholder Loom.” As I opened the box, memories flooded back of countless childhood hours spent crafting potholders at my grandmother’s house.Rather than the anticipated potholder loom kit, I found just one unique toy inside. Since I thought my son might be interested, I handed it to him as we waited to check out. He looked at it carefully, examining every side. “Let’s see… it’s black, has no feet—it’s a robot man PEZ dispenser from Austria. Maybe it’s worth something.”He paused, then asked the cashier, “How much is this?”“Twenty-five cents,” she said.When we returned to our friends’ house, our son’s curiosity led him to look up the dispenser online. “It’s vintage,” he exclaimed, more excited than before. “I’ll list it at auction and see what happens.”While we enjoyed an afternoon with friends, our son frequently checked his phone as he watched the bids for his item climb. By that evening, he'd managed to sell the small robot figure for over two hundred dollars—well above what he had expected from a thrift store discovery.I quietly thanked God. The blessing didn’t arrive with fanfare but hidden inside an old box—a reminder that hope can appear in unexpected forms, like a little robot man. As Scripture reminds us: “And my ways are far beyond anything you could imagine.” Isaiah 55:8 NLTCopyright © 2026 Charlotte Kardokus

March 15, 2026Praying for FriendsMinutes after midnight, the light of my laptop glowed in the quiet house. Instead of dialing numbers, I tapped out a group email with trembling hands. “Please pray for our granddaughter. She has pneumonia. It’s bad, and she’s on her way by ambulance to Doernbecher Children’s Hospital in Portland.” I hesitated, rereading the words, wondering if they carried the weight of my worry, then pressed send and folded my hands in the soft darkness.I stared at the screen as the message disappeared, trusting my friends to respond. There was no need for follow-up, no need to spell out the desperation. This group—the Oregon writers, new but already dear—had a reputation for rallying around a need. One message, and I knew invisible hands would be joining mine in prayer, words rising in the stillness of their own homes.By noon, sunlight warmed the hospital windows and the doctors declared our granddaughter well enough to go home. I typed another message to my friends, the words tumbling out with relief: “…you’re the best friends ever. Thank you for praying!”Sitting back, the realization settled over me—a gentle presence. Friendship, once a distant hope, now surrounded me, answering prayers I’d barely dared to whisper.In childhood, cardboard boxes and suitcases appeared as frequently as birthdays, always waiting by the door. Each new town meant new faces, and I stopped reaching out, bracing for the inevitable goodbyes. By the sixth high school, I kept my books close and my heart closer, convinced that investing in friendships was a gamble not worth taking.Walls grew. I told myself, “I don’t need anyone. I’m just fine left alone.” School activities filled the silence—band, writing, debate—each one a shield and a substitute. I became an expert observer, sitting at the edge of laughter, watching girls lean into each other’s stories, invitations for sleepovers drifting past me like leaves on a stream.The habit followed me—into college, into marriage. This time, I couldn’t blame moving. I pointed inward instead, chalking it up to some flaw in my upbringing that kept me on the social sidelines.But life, persistent as ever, nudged me into a vibrant new church. Invitations arrived like unopened gifts—women smiling, asking me to join, to share, to belong. I shrank back, comparing myself—my house, my car, even my prayers—finding myself lacking each time.One day, Emerson’s words echoed in a quiet moment: “The only way to have a friend is to be one.” I let them settle, uncomfortable and true. I realized my prayers were hurried, self-focused. If I was to find a friend, I needed to first become one. “God, please teach me to be a friend,” I whispered, hoping for change.The journey was messy, slow. My hands shook the first time I joined a writers’ group, heart pounding as I lingered at the back of the room. Excuses came easily—“They won’t want to know me. I haven’t been published. I don’t belong.” Even as I watched an accomplished writer, Birdie, her arms full of books, I counted all the reasons I didn’t measure up.Still, I kept showing up. In time, silent observation gave way to tentative conversation. Each kind word, each shared story, chipped away at the old walls. The more I practiced friendship, the more my confidence grew—enough to speak in front of women’s groups, to teach at conferences, to belong.Friendship, I learned, is a journey, a daily act of courage. Today, my life is rich with friends—more than I can name. Some worship alongside me; others walk a different path. All are gifts. Proverbs 18:24 lingers in my mind: “A real friend sticks closer than a brother.” In every answered prayer, in every shared sorrow and celebration, I see how God has made me a friend and surrounded me with them.Copyright © 2023 Charlotte Kardokus

March 8, 2026Missing PiecesBetween retirement and covid sheltering, my husband, Dennis, found putting puzzles together entertaining and relaxing. Most of the time, anyway.“Well, this was a waste of time,” Dennis’s frustration was evident as he reached for the puzzle box. “We can’t donate or give away a puzzle missing a piece.”“Not again!” I stood over the card table, hands on my hips, staring down at the space in the puzzle he’d just finished. Feeling cranky, I snapped, “Can’t you ever finish a puzzle without losing a piece?”“I don’t know. No matter how careful I am, I seem to lose one with every few puzzles.” He stared up at me. “I looked under the table, everywhere.”As a pre-teen, Dennis had two missing pieces in his life. The most crucial was Jesus, and the second one was family. Abandoned by his mother and left with his abusive father, he ran away. Sent to many foster homes and met with constant rejection, he faced a life of loneliness and little hope. My husband had no idea God had already prepared a place for him in his aloneness, that he would fill a missing piece for a foster family praying and searching for a young man to mentor.Placed with a minister’s family, Dennis’ new and final foster family’s unconditional love, teaching, and prayerful intercession led him to accept Jesus as his Savior, filling the most crucial gap in his life. Then they gifted him their last name on his eighteenth birthday, legally changed, giving him the family life he desired.But there was still one missing piece; his birth mother, who’d left a hole in his heart. For many years, I prayed our children could meet their “real” grandmother, that my husband would be able to fill the last missing piece in his life.“Do you suppose your mother has ever tried to find you?” I asked, “or have you tried to find her?”“Why would I want to find her? She didn’t care about me, or she would’ve taken me with her. Besides, she probably remarried, changed her last name.” I heard the hurt and anger in his voice. “As for her, if she’s tried to find me, she wouldn’t have any luck. Remember? I changed my last name.”Then one day, a call came from my husband’s uncle, a police detective who’d used his available resources to search for his sister. “Dennis, I found your mother. She’d like to see you and your family if you are interested.”Several months later, after much apprehension and prayer, we traveled across the country to meet Dennis’ birth mother. As the train rolled into the station at our final destination, I uttered a silent prayer.God, you know how much this means to Dennis, but also how hard it’s been, the questions, the anger. Please soften his heart as he meets his mother. Let there be forgiveness on both sides and help us to accept each other as family.As we greeted his mother, there were hugs, tears, and forgiveness, and we met more relatives in the following days. But his “real” family’s different lifestyles and lack of belief in God brought us gratefulness that, like the parable of the lost sheep, God had searched for Dennis, found him, and placed him within the Christian fold.God knows the empty pieces in our lives. Sometimes He allows us to search for what is missing, and other times, He does the probing, leading us to just what we requested. But from time to time, He intervenes, whether to our understanding or liking and points us to His chosen solution.Later that day, as I cleaned the house, I picked up my husband’s robe, and something fell to the floor. “I found it,” I shouted as I picked up the puzzle piece. “Somehow, it fell into your robe pocket.” He smiled as he put in that last piece, completing the puzzle and perhaps remembering how God had filled the missing parts of his life.Copyright © 2026 Charlotte Kardokus

March 1, 2026Why I Do What I DoMy footsteps hardly interrupted the silence as I pitter-pattered down the hall, crossed the living room, and went straight to our apartment’s large east-facing windows. Anxious for light, I opened the miniblinds and gray light flooded in, replacing the darkness of the room.Peering out, I soaked in the beauty of the autumn colors. Surprisingly, even the distant scattered fog patches held some elegance. As beautiful as my world was at that moment, something was missing. I needed more.I walked to the other side of the room, retrieved my stereo remote from a shelf, and with a simple click, the sweetness of worship music filled my ears, the songs supplying me with encouragement. I returned to the windows and stood silently, peering out to the tree-covered hills, my heart filled with thankfulness for God’s goodness and mercy.I was born in Rhode Island, the third of seven children. My older sister and I were blessed with perfect sight and hearing, but life took a different path for our five siblings. Three were born deaf, the other two, either legally or totally deaf and blind.Life wasn’t easy in my childhood years. My parents struggled to deal with the challenges of my hearing-impaired and sight-impaired siblings. Money was scarce, help fell short, and the days seemed long. To ask for anything for myself often left me guilt-ridden, and with my siblings needing the bulk of my parents' attention, I felt abandoned and often sat in silence, angry at them and the world.The summer before junior high school, I had no goals. No purpose. And no friends. Who would want to be my friend? Come to my house? We were poor, my clothes old, and I had a house full of brothers and sisters who had special needs and were often misunderstood. I had no confidence, and sometimes, with all the challenges, I felt as if I were essentially blind and deaf. It seemed no one saw me or listened to me. Anger and self-pity were on a crash course to destroy my young life.One day, bored and lonely, I wandered down the street to a small church. I was curious about the sign in front. It read Vacation Bible School. I had nothing better to do. With my parents' approval, I began attending the daily Bible lessons, especially enjoying the craft classes.I’d previously accepted Christ as my Savior, but after a week of Bible stories reminding me of God’s love, my eyes were opened. I found new confidence and trust in God and decided I’d do my best to use my sight and hearing, God had blessed me with, to help others.A few weeks into seventh grade, I brought home a large carrying case. “What’s that?” my mother asked. She stared down at the case I set on the floor. “It’s a baritone,” I said. “Today, I asked if I could take band and my counselor said yes.” I went on to explain. “I told her I didn’t have an instrument. And that you can’t afford to buy me one.” I pointed to the horn. “That’s why I have this. My band teacher said the school would loan me something, but because I joined the band so late, this is the only instrument they had left. I’ll learn to play it… I know I can.” I faithfully practiced and it wasn’t long until I was promoted from the beginning band to the advanced band, where I went on to also play trumpet and French horn.From the whistling piccolo to the thumping bass drum, whether the singleness of one musical part, or the unity of all the instruments blending in harmony, I loved band. Music always produced a wonderful story, something I often wished I could share with my deaf brothers and sisters.A few years later, on the first day of my sophomore year of high school, I was happy with my classes, except for the typing class I’d been assigned. After I pleaded with my counselor to change the class, she switched me to a creative writing and speech class.“Isn’t there another music class I can take?” She shook her head.I didn’t have confidence to write. The thought of creating anything on paper scared me. But I quickly adapted. My first assignment was an essay titled “Peace is Attainable.” As I tackled the challenging task, a love of writing was born within me. Similar to my love for music, I discovered a new passion for writing, and each pursuit depended on either sight or hearing.“You’re a good writer,” my writing teacher informed me, “but this class includes more than that.” He paused, then continued, “Your essay is good, and I like how you compare attaining world peace to an orchestra … the unity, the different parts coming together. In fact, I’ve decided to enter you into a contest at our local Lions Club. So, you’re scheduled to present your essay as a speech, at their meeting next week.”I was petrified. I’d never given a speech before. I had no idea what to expect. With the lack of oral communication in my house, I had no confidence and rarely voiced myself. Nonetheless, I practiced my speech, prayed, and was amazed when I won the first-place trophy, besting two other students, including our student body president.A year after I graduated from high school, I boarded a flight and was soon on my way from Los Angeles to London. I sat alone, petrified. I’d never flown, and in fact, had rarely ever been away from home.The trip quickly became more than professing my independence. As I traveled, I recognized God’s blessings. As I placed my trust in the Lord, my confidence rose, and my passion to serve God was renewed.I experienced the hush of Madrid at siesta time, the roar of the merry crowds in France on Bastille Day. The cooing of hundreds of pigeons waddling near Notre Dame. My ears soaked up the sounds from Frankfurt to Rome, sadly something my deaf brothers and sisters would never experience.I was privileged to see the historic art at the Louvre in Paris, the beauty of the Swiss Alps, and the Catacombs of Rome, although dull, gray, and lifeless. My eyes beheld what my blind brother and sister would never enjoy.The years have passed. The flickering flame of words in my heart, once barely kept alive by an occasional article written for a church newsletter, burns bright. I fill every moment I can with writing, whether in bright space filled with music, or in a dull and soundless place. From the colors of the rainbow to the cry of an eagle, the world is filled with beauty to fill the eyes and music to fill the ears.As I continue to write, I long to be eyes and ears for those who haven’t seen or heard God’s good news, to bring new sight and hearing to all who read my work.God’s word says, “But blessed are those who trust in the Lord and have made the Lord their hope and confidence.” Jeremiah 17:7 (NLT)I am blessed. This is why I write. This is why I do what I do.Copyright © 2026 Charlotte Kardokus

February 23, 2026God, the ProviderAfter a particularly financially trying time, my husband and I decided to take a relaxing trip to the ocean. Along the highway, sun rays poked from between pillowed clouds and light fog floated among wind-bent evergreens perched on jutted cliffs.How could one not believe in God, the provider?After about an hour, we stopped at our favorite beach, tucked in a bay. Carrying folding chairs and a cooler with drinks and snacks, we headed to our preferred spot. Once situated in my beach chair on the sandy shoreline, I leaned back and closed my eyes. Fresh ocean breeze tickled my skin and the rhythmic music of breaking waves soothed my ears and weary mind.I thought about the Israelites journey through the wilderness; how God had provided their needs, as underserving as they were at times. God’s goodness flooded my thoughts. Even though sometimes, like the Israelites, I wandered in circles or grumbled because I wanted things beyond the necessities, I knew God had, and would continue to provide my needs.Invigorated with gratefulness, I opened my eyes, taking in the sights and sounds. Across the bay, lazy sea lions rested in the sun, and on the seashore, laughing children dug tunnels in the sand. A sharp squawking from overhead caught my attention. I looked up.A large flock of seagulls circled and eventually landed nearby. Unable to resist the unrelenting calls of the birds, my husband tossed a cracker, immediately scooped up by a speedy gull. Seemingly not satisfied, the victorious bird stood bold and shrieked out a call, perhaps a plea for another cracker, or maybe an invitation for his fellow birds to join him.As more seagulls assembled, I studied the growing circle. They stood close, their webbed feet planted on the sand and wings held strong and resistant against the blustery sea breeze. Among the crowd, I couldn’t help but notice one gull who stood clearly shorter than the others. Suddenly frightened by a child’s shout, the gathered seagulls lifted like kites and scattered. As I watched them soar, I realized why the one bird had stood shorter; he had no feet.Obviously not a new injury, the footless seagull seemed to cope well. After a few minutes, the cluster of white and gray birds landed nearby once again. Among them was “No Feet,” who seemed unafraid. He stood firm against the gusty breeze, staring at us, seemingly with more intensity than the other birds.We had thrown crackers at him, and apparently, he remembered. As we tossed snacks, not only was No Feet focused, but to our amazement, he bested the other gulls when it came to speed. He grabbed snack after snack until we had no more to give.When No Feet flew up the coastline and disappeared, I wondered how the bird survived. Where and how did he get his food? Then story of the Israelites in the wilderness came to my mind again. How did God feed the Israelites? He provided them with manna. Day after day. The Bible says God brought the manna right to the doors of their tents, provided according to each need.I looked out to rippling waters of the bay. I realized the waves breaking off shore held the answer to No Feet’s survival. Just as God had supplied the Israelites each day with manna, likewise, with each ocean tide, God would bring crab and fish right to No Feet’s door in the water. The seagull was already well provided for, just as God would provide all my needs.Copyright © 2026 Charlotte Kardokus

February 15, 2026Jesus on the Mainline“Grandma, your telephone is ringing.”
I stared at my grandmother hunched over the kitchen counter. She was busy with something I looked forward to, something worth waiting for; she was filling baking sheets with rounded tablespoons of oatmeal raisins cookie dough. She stood quiet, seemingly ignoring the telephone and my question. I wondered why. “Aren’t you going to answer it?” Silence followed. Maybe my grandmother’s gray hair held the answer to my question. Had her old age dulled her hearing? Maybe she hadn’t heard me, or the ringing of her telephone? Or perhaps she was silently lip praying, something I thought kind of strange. I looked closer. Nope, her lips weren’t moving. The black, corded rotary dial telephone, attached to the wall, rang once again. Two short rings followed a long ring. “Grandma! Can’t you hear your telephone ringing?” I asked, the tone of my voice rising with each word. My grandmother turned to me and smiled. “Of course, I heard the telephone. But I didn’t answer it because the call wasn’t for me. We have a party line, which means we share the line with several other families, and we all have different rings.” She grabbed the two filled baking sheets, walked to the stove, and put them in the oven. “So, it’s important for everyone to remember which ring belongs to who and to not answer someone else’s call.” She stared at me with her big blue eyes. “Because if you do, you might hear something you shouldn’t and that wouldn’t be nice, especially if it’s something very private or personal.” The aroma of fresh baking cookies began to fill the room. I knew if I waited until they were baked and cooled, my grandma would reward me with a cookie or two, and would send me home with more to share with my brothers and sisters. “Sorry for shouting at you, Grandma. I didn’t know about the party line thing since we don’t have a telephone at our house. My mother says it’s too expensive.” “I know and that’s okay.” Grandma pointed to the window. “The telephone man who came was careful to explain the different ring combinations and who they belong to. My telephone calls start with a long ring, followed by a short one, and then, another long one. The ringing you heard was for the Dunnings, who live across the street. If you’re here again when the telephone rings, listen carefully and you’ll know if the call is for me or not.” With the days of party-line calls long gone, this memory reminds me of a once favorite hymn, “Jesus on the Mainline” we often sang at church. The congregation, some with hands raised, others smiling or with tears streaming down their cheeks were reminded of their opportunity to call on their savior as they sang “Jesus on the mainline, tell Him what you want.” Everyday millions of people call on Jesus thru his mainline of prayer. Just like I learned to wait
patiently for my favorite cookies, I’ve learned that sometimes it requires endurance while waiting for God’s response to my call.
Often the waiting seems forever, but patience can be strengthened when basking in the aroma of His peace while waiting for His decision. His word says He hears our voice, and knows our needs, even before we call. He will always answer. In his time. Then you will call, and the Lord will answer; you will cry for help, and he will say: Here am I.
Isaiah 58:9 (NLT)Copyright © 2026 Charlotte Kardokus

Two Worlds, One Roof

April 6, 2026Reflecting on this week’s story, Not in a Million Years, led me to this week’s theme: What is Normal?Navigating unexpected moves, financial uncertainty, and the search for everyday essentials challenged every definition of “normal” I once held. Looking back, I realize I never truly understood what “normal” meant. Growing up with siblings who had disabilities made it clear that my life was uniquely different from those around me. Their experiences opened my eyes to the many ways families adapt and persevere, and I became acutely aware that my own daily reality didn’t always match what I saw in others’ lives. That awareness shaped the way I viewed the world and taught me that “normal” is often just a matter of perspective.Yet, through these experiences, I’ve learned that “normal” can be as fluid as life itself—sometimes comfortingly routine, sometimes wildly unpredictable.This chapter is just one piece of my ever-evolving journey, and I’ll be sharing more glimpses into my background and transformation in the weeks ahead. As part of my ongoing blog, Two Worlds, One Roof, I leave you with Not in a Million Years, and I hope you’ll join me as I continue telling fresh stories and exploring the shifting landscapes that shaped my life—and perhaps, together, we’ll redefine what “normal” truly means.

May 30, 2026Hello and welcome to my blog!If you’ve visited my website, you may already know a bit about my background. I grew up in a family of seven children, and I was one of two siblings without hearing or sight impairment. Our parents, though not highly educated but very independent, did their best to raise us with the resources they had, even if their limitations affected our care in many ways. I share these experiences not only to give insight into my life, but also because they shaped who I am and the stories I write.As you read along, I’ll be sharing more pieces of my background with each new topic I discuss. I invite you to join me every week for a fresh story and deeper insight into the experiences that have shaped my life. Your presence and engagement mean a lot as I open about my journey.This week I leave you with my story, “By the Book, and this verse, one of my favorites. “And let us not be weary in well doing: for in due season we shall reap, if we faint not.” Galatians 6:9 (KJV)I hope you’ll return each week to another chapter in my journey, where I’ll continue sharing stories that reflect both the joys and challenges of my upbringing. Until then, may your days be filled with encouragement and inspiration.See you next week. Happy Easter. He is risen!

Encouragement for Daily Life

These Cup of Comfort devotional books include my writing along with heartfelt stories from fellow believers, all centered on God’s love and faithfulness. Each page offers a gentle reminder of the hope and comfort our faith brings to daily life. These books make wonderful gifts or daily companions for anyone seeking to draw closer to the Lord and be encouraged in their walk with Him.

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NOTE: These books can also be purchased on the Simon and Shuster publishers website, Barnes & Noble online, and other places where books can be purchased online.

LIVE Published True Stories

Over the years, I have been honored to share my personal experiences and reflections through LIVE, an Assemblies of God weekly Sunday take-home paper for adults. The stories highlight moments of faith, hope, and perseverance and are genuine accounts from my life, crafted to inspire and encourage readers.Below are a few copies containing my stories:God’s Peace, Not in a Million Years, Robot Man, May Baskets, and Saved at Hanauma Bay

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Ⓒ 2026 Charlotte Kardokus All Rights Reserved