Sorensen's Natural Remedies

08/30/2025

Nailed it 🎯 She's from Oklahoma, by the way. The state that decided to require that all public schools from grade 5 to 12 to teach the Bible as a foundational historical document and to have a physical copy of the Bible, the Ten Commandments, the Constitution, and the Declaration of Independence in every classroom. This mandate aims to incorporate Christian teachings into the curriculum and promote the Bible as central to understanding American history and values. The standards require students to identify Christian influences on the Founding Fathers and treat Biblical accounts like the Book of Exodus as historical fact.

08/28/2025

This

I'll never forget the day our youngest sat next to me on the couch watching television. While what we were watching was relatively kid-friendly, I failed to remember there was a reference to Santa being the parents.

I sat still wondering if my son had noticed the conversation. All of the sudden, he pipes up with, "Wait. You're Santa? Santa's not real?"

My husband and older son sat silent, and I chimed in immediately, "Oh my goodness!" With excitement in my voice, I looked at my husband and said, "Do you think he's ready?"

My youngest asked quickly as he straightened himself up, "Ready for what? I'm ready!"

"I think he's ready. " my husband said with a smile.

"Ready for what?! What is happening?!"

"To become a Santa with us, buddy."

"I could be a Santa?!"

"That's who Santa really is, sweetheart. When you are old enough, you learn that giving is better than receiving. You learn to give without asking for anything in return. You become a Santa."

"Oh my gosh! So I'm a Santa now?!"

"You are, my love. Congratulations on being a big kid."

"Who do I give to then?! I'm ready!"

And the conversation continued. And there was no sadness...only excitement. And he purchased items for others with mommy in order to surprise them and see the joy in their eyes.

When our kids grew old enough, they didn't learn Santa wasn't real; they learned Santa is in all of us. And they proudly accepted the new role of being givers.

Credit: Anchoring Hope for Mental Health: Jeremy & Bailey Koch

08/26/2025

"I was feeling pretty jaded this morning as two different sets of parents at Walmart stopped me in the school supplies aisle to complain about how much they had to get their kids this year. 'This is just ridiculous, I don't know how these teachers think we are suppose to get all this stuff.'

As they complained, they seemed to be oblivious to the fact that my cart was filled with a class set of all the supplies they were buying...which should have been a pretty clear indication that I was one of those greedy teachers they were complaining about. While I was checking out though, things took a very different turn. I noticed the man in front of me in the check-out lane was buying school supplies for his daughter. As he went to leave he said, 'You are a teacher right? I just want to thank you for everything you do. I see your cart is full with supplies, and I just wanted to help out as much as I can.' Then he handed me a $25 dollar Wal-Mart gift card, shook my hand, and walked away with his daughter smiling big at me.
While I was extremely moved by the man's generosity, the part that stuck with me the most was the difference in the message his daughter just heard from her dad compared to the other parents who had been complaining earlier.

The kids who heard their parents complaining heard this message: 'School is not important enough to spend money on it, teachers are not to be trusted and have bad judgement, and learning does not require investment.'

The kid who's dad handed me the gift card heard, 'School is important enough that we should give more than required to make sure it is successful, teachers should be respected and valued, and learning requires us giving it everything we have.'

If money is tight, and you struggle to buy your child school supplies, I understand. Don't worry--more than likely your child will have a teacher and a school that makes sure they have the supplies they need to be successful this year. However, as a parent, do your best to send the right message to your child. The man who gave me the gift card not only made my day, but I know that his daughter will enter the classroom this year with a very different perspective about her teacher and her education, and that is extremely powerful!"

From Leland Michael

08/24/2025

I Harvested Your Lettuce. But I Can’t Afford a Salad
They used to spray us with cold water so we wouldn’t pass out in the fields.
Not the crops—us. Human beings.
It wasn’t some union-regulated safety protocol. Just an old man with a hose, walking up and down the rows like he was watering tired plants instead of teenagers and grandmothers bent over lettuce heads in 102-degree heat. I remember flinching every time that water hit my back. Not because it hurt—but because it reminded me I was still alive.
I was sixteen the first time I stepped into the fields. I didn’t have a work permit, didn’t speak much English, and had no idea what “labor laws” even meant. All I knew was that my family needed money, and lettuce needed picking.
We lived in a rusted trailer off Highway 99 in Central California, a couple hundred yards from the edge of the field. The kind of place with one working faucet and a fridge that made more noise than it kept things cold. My father had gotten sick—lungs full of something the doctors didn’t have time to name—and the bills stacked higher than the kitchen table.
So I quit school and picked up a knife.
Not the kind you see in fancy kitchens or on those TV cooking shows. This one was short, serrated, duct-taped at the handle. The kind that left blisters if you held it too long without gloves. We used it to slice heads of romaine and iceberg at the base, fast and clean, like clockwork. One head every four seconds if you were good. And I got good, because slowness meant hunger.
There’s a rhythm in the fields. You wake at 4, step into the fog, and your knees are wet before you reach the rows. By 5, the foreman’s barking orders in two languages—none of them kind. By 10, your back screams and your skin burns through your long sleeves. By noon, the crates are stacked and shipped off to stores you’ll never shop at.
Let me tell you something about lettuce.
It’s delicate. It bruises if you’re rough. Wilts if you take too long. It’s the diva of the vegetable world. Demands perfect temperature, perfect moisture, perfect light. We treated it better than we treated ourselves.
Once, I remember seeing a head of butter lettuce wrapped in mist behind the glass at a Whole Foods in Fresno. $4.99. I stared at it like it was gold.
Back in the field, I made 98 cents per crate. Took me five crates to earn what that one head cost. But even if I’d saved every cent, I wouldn’t have bought it. Lettuce, to me, was work. Not food. The same way a coal miner doesn’t dream of eating coal.
People like to talk about “farm-to-table” these days. Cute little chalkboard signs. Instagram hashtags. Rustic vibes. But nobody wants to see the brown hands that picked their kale. Nobody posts the part where Maria, six months pregnant, vomits into her bandana because the heat’s too much and the foreman won’t let her rest. Nobody wants to hear how the guy next to me kept cutting even after slicing his thumb because he couldn’t afford a hospital visit.
That’s the thing about this country. It wants our labor, not our lives. Our sweat, not our stories.
I worked in those fields for twenty years.
I missed birthdays. Buried my father without flying back home. Watched my little brother leave for Iraq and return without speaking much. Got married. Got divorced. Saw the inside of an ER once, after a heatstroke. The nurse called me “Juan” even though my name is Pedro. I didn’t correct her.
Over time, machines started coming in. Big, expensive harvesters that didn’t need water breaks or bandaids. At first, we laughed. The machines missed too much. Bruised the product. But they got better. And cheaper. And they didn’t complain.
One morning, the foreman—new guy, younger, white—told me my “position was no longer necessary.” Said it like he was doing me a favor. Handed me a check that wouldn’t cover two weeks of groceries.
I was 37, with a worn-out back, bad teeth, and no diploma. No union. No benefits. Just a limp in my right leg and calluses where my fingerprints used to be.
That was the first time I stepped into a grocery store without scanning for discounts. I walked the aisles slow, like I was in a museum. Looked at rows of bagged salad mixes—triple-washed, pre-chopped, and smiling back at me like they’d grown themselves.
I reached out to touch one, just to feel the chill.
Then I saw the price. $6.49.
I laughed. Not because it was funny. But because it wasn’t.
There’s this idea that America takes care of its workers. That if you work hard, keep your head down, show up every day, you’ll be alright.
But I worked hard. And I’m not alright.
I have arthritis in both knees. Skin damage on my neck. No savings. No 401(k). And the only time I see a doctor is when the pain’s worse than the cost.
I live in a room behind an auto shop now. I fix flats. Patch up tires. Work under the table for a man who knows not to ask questions. I eat beans and rice. Sometimes a little chicken if it’s payday.
But I still walk by the produce aisle sometimes. Just to look.
I wonder if anyone thinks about us—about the hands that bled so those greens could sit pretty in clamshell containers. I wonder if the college kid holding that salad knows it once grew in 110-degree heat. That someone’s mother picked it, standing in dirt, stomach growling, no break, no shade, no thanks.
Maybe not.
But I think about it. Every time I see a head of lettuce, I remember.
I remember the cold water on my back.
I remember the knife in my hand.
And I remember the taste of nothing—because I harvested your salad,
but I’ve never eaten one.
The soil remembers our footprints long after the grocery shelves forget our names.

Credit goes to the respective owner.
[𝘋𝘔 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘰𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘭]
Follow Us ℕ𝕚𝕣𝕗𝕠𝕩
🐾☘️🪶🍂🌿🍁🌾

08/16/2025

Oh...
MY 💜

Last year I noticed a woman in a restaurant saying “hello” to everyone that walked by her table. I asked my waiter if she was the owner 😂 and they said that she was actually a lonely woman who would sit in that booth for hours. That morning I went over and chatted with her for a little while.

Well I have had breakfast at that restaurant a couple of times and always make it a point to sit with her for awhile and catch up. Today when I asked her how everything has been going she said, “oh great, yesterday I got to add a name to my list!” I didn’t minke what she was talking about so I asked about it and she told showed me a notebook she carries. In it she writes down all of the friends she makes and a little something about them that stood out to her 🥹

I asked her if I could read what she wrote about me on thr day we met and this is what it said, “Misha - blonde, wears glasses. Today he made me feel special because he told me my smile was pretty. Want to see him again.” 😭😭😭😭😭

How precious is she? It made my heart really happy to see all of the names of people who have stopped to say hello to her, and I hope that list keeps growing.

08/15/2025

The judge found the felony charge excessive and released him from custody.

08/15/2025

"I never meant to start a revolution from my kitchen table. At 63, I just wanted someone to notice the boys.

Every afternoon around 3:15 PM, they’d slump against the brick wall of our apartment building, three teens in worn hoodies, kicking stones. My husband, Francis, called them "troublemakers." But I saw the way Jamal’s eyes darted to the closed library sign, how Mateo’s backpack hung empty, how Leo’s fingers kept tracing the same page in a waterlogged math book. They weren’t skipping school. They were stuck.

One Tuesday, rain turning the sidewalk to glass, I walked out with my grocery bags. "You boys look cold," I said, my voice shaky. "My kitchen’s warm. Got coffee. And.... well, I taught algebra for 40 years. If you ever need help?"

Jamal snorted. "Old people don’t know nothin’ ‘bout school now."

But Leo’s eyes flicked to my grocery bag, flour, sugar, coffee. Real food. Not gas station junk.

"Come on," I insisted, water dripping off my nose. "Just for 20 minutes. My husband won’t mind. He’s snoring through golf on TV anyway."

They didn’t come that day. Or the next. But on Thursday, Leo showed up, hood pulled low, shivering. "My mom’s working doubles at the hospital," he mumbled, staring at my chipped Formica table. "Can’t help me. And.... I’m failing."

I didn’t lecture. Didn’t ask about his home life. Just slid my chair closer. "Show me where you’re stuck."

We worked in silence at first. Then he whispered, "Why you doin’ this?"

"Because someone helped me once," I said. "When I was scared of numbers too."

Word got out. Soon, Mateo arrived with a crumpled geometry test. Jamal brought a history essay typed on torn notebook paper. I used my pension to buy notebooks. Francis grumbled but started leaving extra meatloaf on the table. "Fine," he’d say, avoiding their eyes. "Just keep the noise down."

Then came the fight. Leo didn’t show for three days. When he finally came, his eye was swollen shut. "Got jumped," he mumbled. "For wearin’ these." He tugged at his hoodie, the school colors. "Said I ain’t supposed to try."

My hands shook as I cleaned his cut with a warm cloth. "You are supposed to try," I said, my voice breaking. "You’re supposed to win."

That night, I called the school. Not to tattle to ask for more books. The librarian, Ms. Rivera, showed up the next day with a stack of novels. "Leo mentioned you like mysteries," she said, placing The Westing Game on the table.

Something shifted. Kids started bringing others. A girl named Aisha arrived with her little brother, needing help with fractions. A single dad, Carlos, asked if he could "borrow" my table after work to study for his GED. We squeezed around the Formica, elbows bumping, sharing pencils and thermoses of soup.

One afternoon, the building manager, Mrs. Gable who’d complained about "loitering" knocked. She set down a box of new calculators. "My grandson’s in college now," she said stiffly. "Thought these might help."

We never called it a "program." Never took photos for social media. It was just... the kitchen. Where Mateo aced his citizenship test. Where Aisha got her first A in science. Where Carlos, now a nurse’s aide, taught us all how to check blood pressure.

Last month, Leo graduated high school. First in his family. At the ceremony, he found me in the crowd. He didn’t say much. Just pressed a folded paper into my hand. Inside, a single sentence in careful handwriting
"You showed me the table wasn’t just for eating. It was for building."

Now, other apartment buildings have "homework kitchens." In basements, community rooms, even a converted janitor’s closet downtown. No fancy signs. No rules. Just tables, chairs, and someone saying, "Sit down. Let’s figure this out together."

Francis still watches golf. But sometimes, he leaves four coffee mugs out instead of two.

We don’t fix the world with grand gestures. We fix it with open doors, stubborn hope, and the quiet understanding that no one fails alone when someone else is willing to sit at the table with them."
Let this story reach more hearts....
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By Grace Jenkins

08/15/2025

Not all heroes wear capes!