Sorensen's Natural Remedies

12/15/2025

My dad called at midnight.
He said our dog wouldn’t die until I came home.
I assumed it was guilt. I was three hours away, buried in spreadsheets, cold coffee, and tomorrow’s 9:00 AM briefing. My life was scheduled down to the minute, and none of those minutes included a late-night drive to the suburbs for a fourteen-year-old dog.
“Dad,” I said, rubbing my temples, “he’s old. Just keep him comfortable. I’ll come this weekend.”
The silence on the other end was heavy.
“He’s not in his bed, Mark,” my dad finally said. His voice cracked—the way it hadn’t since Mom died.
“He’s in the garage. By the truck. He won’t let me move him. He’s waiting for the driver.”
That did it.
I grabbed my keys.
The drive was a blur of headlights and regret. I thought about Rusty—our Golden Retriever mix we’d adopted before my junior year of high school. Back when life was simple. Back when it was just me, my dad, and that battered red pickup.
We went everywhere in that truck. Fishing trips. Hardware store runs. Long drives with nowhere to be. I drove. Dad rode shotgun. Rusty ruled the backseat, head out the window, ears flapping like flags.
The house looked smaller when I arrived. The lawn was overgrown. The porch light flickered.
I didn’t go inside. I went straight to the garage.
It smelled like oil, sawdust, and time. Rusty was curled against the driver’s side door, breathing in shallow, uneven pulls. His muzzle was gray. His body looked tired.
“He’s been there two days,” my dad said quietly. “I tried to move him. He snapped. Dragged himself back.”
I knelt down. “Hey, buddy.”
His tail tapped the tire once. He didn’t open his eyes—but he knew.
That’s when I noticed the steering wheel.
My old varsity jacket was draped over it. Cracked leather sleeves. Faded wool.
“I put it there,” my dad said, staring at the floor. “Every day at five. I roll the windows down. Turn on that rock station you liked. We sit here together. It’s the only way he’d eat. He thinks you’re inside paying for gas. He thinks we’re going somewhere.”
That’s when it hit me.
While I was building a career, they were living in a memory—holding onto the boy who used to drive them around.
Rusty wasn’t guarding a truck.
He was holding his post.
So I opened the driver’s door. Slipped on the jacket—it was tight now. Turned the key.
The engine coughed… then came alive.
“Hop in, Dad.”
We sat there for an hour. The truck idling. The garage door open to the night. My hand rested on Rusty’s head through the window.
The vibration calmed him. The smell. The sound. The crew was back together.
Rusty took one deep breath. Nuzzled my hand.
And then—surrounded by his people—he let go.
He didn’t die waiting.
He died arriving.
I stayed until the gas light came on. My dad squeezed my shoulder. No words. Just forgiveness.
THE LESSON
We think our absence is temporary.
Like the people who love us are on pause.
They aren’t.
For your parents—and especially your pets—you aren’t part of their world.
You are their world.
Rusty waited a lifetime for a car ride that never left the garage—just to see me again.
Go home.
Take the drive.
Sit in the truck.
Because the only thing more expensive than gas
is regret

12/12/2025

"My kid came home from school talking about the weird lunch lady.
"Mom, she's so strange. She memorizes everyone's name by the third day. Like, all 600 kids."
I figured she was exaggerating. Teenagers do that.
Then parent-teacher night happened. I was running late, hadn't eaten, saw the cafeteria was open. Grabbed a sandwich. The lunch lady, older woman with gray hair in a hairnet, was cleaning tables.
"You're Zoe's mom," she said without looking up.
I stopped. "How'd you know?"
"Same eyes. She sits table seven, always picks the apples nobody wants because they're bruised. Drinks chocolate milk even though she's lactose intolerant. Hurts herself rather than waste food."
I stood there, stunned. "You know this about my daughter?"
"I know it about all of them."
She kept wiping tables. Started talking, not to me exactly, just... talking.
"Marcus, table three, his dad left last year. Always takes double servings on Fridays because there's less food at home on weekends. Jennifer counts calories out loud to punish herself. Brett throws away lunches his mom packs because kids make fun of the ethnic food, but he's starving by sixth period. Ashley's parents are divorcing, she stress-eats in the bathroom."
"Why are you telling me this?"
She finally looked at me. "Because you're all at parent-teacher conferences talking about grades. Nobody's talking about this. About who's eating, who's not, who's hurting."
"What do you do about it?"
"What can I do? I'm the lunch lady. I make sure Marcus gets those extra servings without asking. I tell Jennifer the calorie counts are wrong, lower than they are. I pack Brett containers of his mom's food labeled as 'cafeteria leftovers' so he can eat it without shame. I bought Zoe lactose-free chocolate milk with my own money, tell her we're trying a new brand."
I felt like I'd been punched.
"Does anyone know you do this?"
"The kids who need to know, know. That's enough."
I went home and couldn't stop thinking about it. Started asking Zoe questions. She confirmed everything.
"Yeah, Mrs. Chen just... sees people. She stopped my friend from... she helped when nobody else noticed."
Turns out, Mrs. Chen had worked at that school for 22 years. Made $14 an hour. Knew the story of every struggling kid who came through her lunch line. Never reported it, never made it official, just adjusted portions, swapped items, paid for things quietly.
Teachers didn't know the extent. Administrators had no idea. She just showed up, served food, and saved kids in ways nobody measured.
Last year, Mrs. Chen had a stroke. Had to retire.
The school hired someone new. Efficient. Fast. Didn't learn names.
Within three months, the guidance counselor's office was flooded. Kids breaking down. Nobody could figure out why.
Until one kid finally said it: "Mrs. Chen knew when we were drowning. She threw life preservers disguised as extra tater tots. Now nobody's watching."
The school brought Mrs. Chen back. Part-time. Not to serve food. Just to be there. They called her position "Student Wellness Observer."
She's 68 now, walks with a cane, can't lift heavy trays anymore.
But she still memorizes all 600 names by the third day.
Still knows who needs what.
Still saves kids during lunch periods when everyone else is just serving food.
My daughter graduated last month. In her speech, she thanked Mrs. Chen.
"Some people teach math. Some teach history. Mrs. Chen taught us that being seen is sometimes the only thing standing between surviving and giving up."
The whole cafeteria stood up.
Turns out, weird lunch ladies who memorize names?
They're the most important people in the building."
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By Grace Jenkins

12/11/2025

My name is Rusty Miller.
Forty-nine years old. Twenty-six years on the road.
I’ve hauled everything from frozen meat to carnival rides, but the heaviest thing I ever carried wasn’t in my trailer… it was a memory.

It happened one winter night in Wyoming—
the kind of cold that bites straight through your jacket and into your bones.

I was driving east, snow tapping the windshield like impatient fingers, when I saw something that made my stomach drop.

A stroller.
Right on the shoulder of the highway.

No car nearby.
No person.
Just a stroller half-covered in snow.

I slammed the brakes so hard my coffee flew out of the holder.

I jumped out of the cab, boots crunching through the icy wind, breath fogging the air.

“Hello?!” I yelled.

No answer.

I moved closer.
The stroller wasn’t empty.

Inside, wrapped in a thin blanket, was a baby—maybe six months old—cheeks red from the cold, tiny fists curled tight from fear.

My heart started pounding.

Where was the mother?

Where was anyone?

I picked up the stroller with both hands and turned it around to shield the baby from the wind. And that’s when I heard it—

A faint cry coming from the darkness below the guardrail.

I rushed over with my flashlight.

A woman lay in the snow-filled ditch, ankle twisted, clothes drenched, lips almost purple.

She looked up at me like she was seeing an angel or a monster—couldn’t tell which.

“Please…” she whispered. “My baby… don’t let her freeze…”

“You got my word,” I said. “Both of you are going home tonight.”

I carried the baby into my cab, cranked the heater to full blast, wrapped her in my spare flannel, and rushed back for the mother.

I picked her up—she weighed almost nothing—and settled her in the passenger seat.

She tried to speak but her teeth were chattering.

“What happened?” I asked gently.

“We… we were driving to Denver. Car slipped on the ice. Rolled. I climbed out… I tried to get help but—”
She winced in pain.
“No one stopped. Not one.”

I swallowed hard.

Because I knew…
sometimes the world drives right past you when you need it the most.

“I stopped,” I said softly.
“And I’m not leaving.”

I radioed the nearest trucker channel.

“Breaker, anyone near Highway 85? I’ve got a mother and infant in hypothermia danger. Need assistance now.”

Voices crackled in instantly.

“We’re coming.”
“On my way, brother.”
“Warm blankets in my rig. ETA 12 minutes.”

Within fifteen minutes, three trucks surrounded us like a protective shield, headlights cutting through the storm.

We warmed the baby.
Wrapped the mother in heated blankets.
One driver, Dave, had medical training and checked her leg.
Another, Carla, called ahead to county rescue and gave directions.

When the ambulance arrived, the paramedics said something I’ll never forget:

“If she had stayed out here twenty more minutes… neither of them would’ve survived.”

The mother grabbed my hand.

Tears in her eyes.

“You saved us,” she whispered.

I shook my head.

“No, ma’am. We saved you. Truckers don’t leave people in the cold.”

A month later, I got a letter.

Inside was a picture of the baby in a pink snowsuit, smiling so big it almost hurt to look at.
The letter said only one line:

“Thank you for stopping when no one else did.”

I’m Rusty Miller.
Just a trucker with an old rig and a stubborn heart.

And if you ever break down, get lost, or feel like the world has turned its headlights away from you…

Look for us.

Look for the trucks.

We’re out here, rolling through the dark
not just delivering loads…
but delivering hope wherever the road needs it.

11/23/2025

11/16/2025

"Dear Stranger in Target,

You didn't need to tell me, "breast is best" as I was buying a can of baby formula, because I already know.

I know that my husband and I excitedly took the four hour breast feeding class when I was pregnant.

I know that my baby immediately did skin to skin and ate from my breast within an hour of her birth, because it was important to me.
I know that we saw a lactation consultant before we took her home, and again a few weeks later.

I know that we struggled at first. That some nights we both cried together. That my dear friends swore it would get better. I know they were right, and it did.

I know "breast is best" just like you do.

But, let me tell you what else I know.

I know that my baby began screaming after she ate. Writhing in pain. Inconsolable.

I know over the last month and a half I have exclusively pumped and tried slow flow bottles of breast milk, I have tried different positions, I have seen another lactation consultant.

I know I have held my child, my baby, while she screamed for hours- one day for eight hours straight.

I know we have been to see the pediatrician at least twice a week since she has been born.

I know that I tried cutting soy, and dairy, and leafy greens from my diet to make my milk more digestible for her.

I have pumped- and I'm still pumping- enough to have hundreds of ounces of breast milk in my freezer even though she will likely never be able to eat it.

All because "breast is best."

And then finally, we tried the hypoallergenic dairy protein free formula you saw me buying today. And the screaming lessened. And my baby started smiling. She started interacting. She started sleeping.

And I cried. Because I thought breast was best. I thought my body failed her. I thought she wouldn't be as healthy on formula.
I know you think I must not care or I'm lazy, or maybe you were genuinely trying to be helpful and thought no one had ever told me the benefits of breast feeding.

But, you are wrong. What I know that you don't is that breast ISN'T always best. I know happy, healthy baby is best. I know FED is best.

What I'm sure we both know is that parenting is hard. Really hard. That sometimes what we plan for and what we want just doesn't work out, but we are all here trying to do what's best for our babies.

So, dear stranger, next time you see someone buying formula, try to remember that mamas should support each other. Think about everything you might not know. Remind yourself that "fed is best" and smile because it means someone loves their baby enough to do what's best for them.

Love,

Another Mom Doing Her Best and a Happier Formula Fed Baby"

< By Annie Ferguson Muscato >

11/16/2025

He's not wearing her t-shirt or singing her songs in the car.

He's just a regular dad. Football on Sundays. Coffee in the morning. The kind of guy who fixes things and doesn't say much.

But he couldn't stay quiet about this.

Because every time Taylor Swift showed up at a game to cheer for Travis Kelce, the jokes started flying. The eye rolls. The complaints about "too much Taylor."

And it hit him like a punch to the gut.

Here was a woman who had built an empire. Who had turned her pain into poetry that millions of people carried in their hearts. Who had stood up in courtrooms and boardrooms and never backed down.

And grown adults were mocking her for... what? Smiling? Clapping? Being happy?

He thought about his own daughter. Watching. Learning. Seeing which women the world decided were "too much."

So he sat down and wrote something that made the internet stop and think.

"I'm not here to argue about music," he started. Simple words. Clear as day.

He wasn't defending her songs. He was defending something bigger.

The right to exist without apology. The right to show up and take up space. The right to love someone out loud without becoming a punchline.

He listed the facts like he was building a case. Over 300 awards. Billions added to the economy. Quiet donations to food banks in every city she visited. Lyrics studied at Harvard and Stanford.

But then he got to the part that mattered most.

The story about the radio DJ. The man who assaulted her and then had the audacity to sue her when she spoke up about it.

She could have settled quietly. Could have made it disappear with money and lawyers.

Instead, she counter-sued for one dollar. One symbolic dollar that said: "This isn't about money. This is about right and wrong."

And she won.

That's when his message became crystal clear. This wasn't about Taylor Swift the pop star. This was about Taylor Swift the woman who refused to be silenced.

"She reminded every young woman: your voice matters," he wrote.

The dad's post started spreading. Not because it was clever or witty. Because it was true.

Parents shared it. Teachers printed it out. Young women screenshot it and sent it to their friends.

Because finally, someone had said what needed saying.

That success doesn't make you a target. That joy doesn't make you "too much." That supporting someone you love isn't a character flaw.

His daughter read it too. Saw her dad stand up for a woman he'd never met, simply because it was right.

And maybe that's the real victory here.

Not the millions of views or the thousands of comments. Not the interviews or the headlines.

It's the lesson that rippled out from one dad's keyboard into living rooms and classrooms everywhere.

That respect isn't something you earn by being small and quiet. It's something you give because everyone deserves it.

That our kids are watching how we treat successful women. And they're learning what we think they're worth.

That sometimes the most powerful thing you can do is refuse to let cruelty become normal.

He ended his post with a challenge: "We can do better. Our daughters deserve better. Our sons need to know that kindness, success, and womanhood are never reasons for ridicule."

Simple words from a dad who just wanted the world to be a little kinder.

And somehow, it was.


~Forgotten Stories

11/12/2025

"Jack Flaherty was adopted at 3 weeks old. He ended up being raised by a single Mother. He wanted to quit baseball his Freshman year. His Mom told him she understood and he could, as long as he told his younger brother that when things get tough it's ok to quit. Jack went to practice the next day.
Now Jack will be pitching in the NLCS with his Mother watching. This was them last night after his 6 inning start. Before going in the clubhouse. Before popping champagne with his teammates. Before talking to the dozens of worldwide sports networks begging him for his ego and attention.
He went to see Mom first.”..

11/12/2025

11/11/2025

She was a single mom of four — 9, 5, 2, and just 6 weeks old. 💔
Life had already been throwing punches: her ex was gone, her truck barely held together, and every grocery trip felt like a marathon.

That night at Winn-Dixie, it was pouring.
She loaded up her babies, soaked to the bone, bags in hand.
When she turned the key — nothing. Dead battery.

No phone. No family nearby. No help in sight.

For two long hours, she asked over twenty people for a jump.
Not one person said yes. Not one even said no.
They just walked by — as her newborn screamed, her 5-year-old melted down, her toddler cried she was hungry, and her oldest tried her best to hold it all together.

And then — a soft knock on the window. 👴

A 74-year-old man stood there, cane in one hand, kindness in the other.
He handed her warm deli food — chicken strips, biscuits, bottles of water — and said,
👉 “Feed those babies and yourself, young lady. I’ve got a tow truck on the way. My wife will be here shortly to take you home.”

He did exactly that. His wife showed up minutes later and drove them home safely.
The tow truck handled the rest.

But the story didn’t end there.

The next morning, that same man showed up at her house — with a mechanic.
They fixed her battery. Her alternator. Even her broken window.
When she asked what she owed, the mechanic just smiled:
👉 “He already paid for everything. He said the only payment he wants is for you to never give up — and to keep being an amazing mom.”

She broke down in tears.

That man — who didn’t know her, who owed her nothing — gave her more than a car repair.
He gave her hope.

He wouldn’t even take a hug.

Now she’s determined to pay it forward — because kindness that pure deserves to keep going. ❤️

< Tawny Nelson >

11/11/2025

Two kids knocked on my door offering to rake my entire yard for $10 total—and what I did next changed how they'll see hard work forever.
It was a Saturday afternoon when I heard the doorbell. Two boys, probably around 11 or 12, stood on my porch holding rakes that looked almost too big for them. The taller one cleared his throat nervously: "Excuse me, sir. Would you like us to rake your yard? We'll do the whole thing for ten dollars."
I looked past them at my lawn. Leaves everywhere. It was going to be at least two hours of work, maybe three.
"Ten dollars each?" I asked.
They glanced at each other. The shorter one shook his head. "No sir. Ten dollars total. We'll split it."
Five dollars each. For hours of hard labor.
I could have said yes. I could have gotten my entire yard raked for pocket change and called it a teaching moment about negotiation. But something about the way they stood there—hopeful, polite, willing to work—reminded me of myself at that age. Hustling. Trying. Just wanting a chance.
"Alright," I said. "You've got a deal. Get started."
For the next two and a half hours, I watched those kids work. They didn't cut corners. They didn't complain. They raked every section, bagged the leaves, and even swept off my driveway without being asked. When they finally knocked to let me know they were done, they were sweating, exhausted, and smiling.
I walked out with my wallet. "You boys did incredible work," I said, handing them four twenty-dollar bills. "Here's your payment."
The taller one's eyes went wide. "Sir, we said ten—"
"I know what you said. But I also know what two hours of quality work is worth. You earned every dollar of this."
They stared at the money like they couldn't believe it was real. Then the shorter one looked up at me and said quietly, "Thank you. Really. Thank you."
As they walked away, I heard them talking excitedly about what they'd spend it on. And I realized something: we talk a lot about teaching kids the value of hard work, but we don't always show them that hard work actually gets valued.
Those boys didn't ask for a handout. They offered a service. They showed up. They delivered. And in a world that sometimes feels like it punishes effort and rewards shortcuts, I wanted them to walk away knowing that good work doesn't go unnoticed.
If you work hard, if you show up with integrity, if you give your best even when nobody's watching—good people will see it. And they'll bless you for it.
That's not just a lesson for kids. That's a lesson for all of us.

11/03/2025

The decade of disco and bell-bottoms gave us something else worth remembering.

10/27/2025

I can't "LOVE" this enuf!!!!

TRUE STORY: This laundromat owner posted his WiFi password publicly - and a mother told him it saved her daughter's future 💙
Ken Barrett runs multiple laundromats. For years, he's kept his WiFi password posted in his stores as a "guest network."
One day, a mother approached him with tears in her eyes:
"If it wasn't for your free WiFi, my daughter and her friends may not have graduated."
Her family couldn't afford internet at home. After the library closed each night, the kids would walk to the next block - to Ken's laundromat - just to finish their homework.
When Ken heard this, he didn't just keep the WiFi on...
He added benches and tables. Made it comfortable. Created a safe study space.
Now in 4 of his 5 locations, students have a free place to learn after the library closes.
One password. One policy. Changed lives.
This is what real community looks like. ❤️
📍 Meet Ken Barrett - a laundromat owner who proves that small acts of generosity create massive ripples.