Meat sticks are the fastest-growing snack category in America. Up >10% since last year. People are getting the message that they need protein! Meat is satiating, does not spike blood sugar. And a meat stick is way better than an ultra-processed protein bar. 🙌👊
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The protein diet that will make you fit and slim.
@drgabriellelyon doctor and nutritionist, of @DanicaPatrick show us what to eat and why!
Author of Forever Strong: A New, Science-Based Strategy for Aging Well check out her new book.
"My son brought home a classmate who smelled like cigarettes and wore the same shirt three days straight.
Connor's eight. Came home Tuesday and said, "Mom, can Aiden come over? His house doesn't have internet for homework."
Aiden showed up. Skinny kid, unwashed hair, shoes held together with duct tape. Flinched when I touched his shoulder.
"You hungry?" I asked.
He nodded. Ate four sandwiches without looking up.
While the boys did homework, I noticed Aiden had no backpack. Just papers shoved in his jacket. His math worksheet had the wrong answers, but clearly he'd tried hard. Real hard.
"Aiden, want me to check your work?"
"My dad usually helps, but he's..... busy." The way he said 'busy' made my stomach hurt.
Connor whispered to me later, "Aiden's dad is sick. Real sick. And his mom left last year."
Aiden started coming over daily. Always hungry. Always grateful. Never asked for anything.
One evening, he didn't leave. Just sat on our couch at 8 p.m., staring at his phone.
"Aiden? Doesn't your dad wonder where you are?"
"He's sleeping. He sleeps a lot now."
Red flags everywhere. I drove him home. The apartment was dark, freezing cold. His dad answered the door, rail-thin, coughing. "Sorry. I work nights, sleep days. Aiden knows to manage."
He was lying. No night job. Just too sick to care for his kid.
I did something maybe I shouldn't have. Called CPS? No. I just started showing up.
Brought dinner "by accident-made too much." Picked up Aiden for school "since we're heading that way anyway." Bought Connor new shoes and coincidentally grabbed a pair "in the wrong size, can Aiden use them?"
Aiden's dad, Mike, finally broke down one Saturday. "I have stage four liver disease. No insurance. Can't work. Can't afford treatment. I'm trying to keep us afloat until...... until I can't anymore. Then he goes to foster care."
"What if he didn't?" I said.
My husband and I aren't rich. We're barely middle class. But we had a spare room.
Mike moved in three months ago. Hospice comes twice weekly. He's in our downstairs bedroom. Aiden's upstairs in what used to be my craft room.
It's not legal guardianship. It's not foster care. It's just...... what you do.
Mike's got maybe six months left. He watches Aiden and Connor play video games from his bed, tears streaming down his face. "He's laughing again," he whispers. "I forgot what that sounded like."
Last week, Aiden called me "Mama Lisa" by accident. Turned bright red. "Sorry, I meant"
"It's okay, sweetheart," I said.
Mike heard it. Squeezed my hand. "Thank you for letting me stay long enough to see him okay."
I don't know what happens when Mike dies. Maybe Aiden stays. Maybe we figure out custody. Maybe it gets complicated.
But right now? Two boys are doing homework at my kitchen table. One of them finally has shoes that fit.
Sometimes saving someone doesn't look like a big heroic moment. Sometimes it looks like extra sandwiches. Wrong-sized shoes. A spare bedroom.
Pay attention to the kid in your child's class who wears the same clothes. Who's always hungry. Who doesn't get picked up on time.
You don't need to be perfect. You just need to notice.
And maybe make one extra sandwich."
Let this story reach more hearts....
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Ai image is for demonstration purpose only.
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By Mary Nelson
"My name's Raymond. I'm 73. I work the parking lot at St. Joseph's Hospital. Minimum wage, orange vest, a whistle I barely use. Most people don't even look at me. I'm just the old man waving cars into spaces.
But I see everything.
Like the black sedan that circled the lot every morning at 6 a.m. for three weeks. Young man driving, grandmother in the passenger seat. Chemotherapy, I figured. He'd drop her at the entrance, then spend 20 minutes hunting for parking, missing her appointments.
One morning, I stopped him. "What time tomorrow?"
"6:15," he said, confused.
"Space A-7 will be empty. I'll save it."
He blinked. "You... you can do that?"
"I can now," I said.
Next morning, I stood in A-7, holding my ground as cars circled angrily. When his sedan pulled up, I moved. He rolled down his window, speechless. "Why?"
"Because she needs you in there with her," I said. "Not out here stressing."
He cried. Right there in the parking lot.
Word spread quietly. A father with a sick baby asked if I could help. A woman visiting her dying husband. I started arriving at 5 a.m., notebook in hand, tracking who needed what. Saved spots became sacred. People stopped honking. They waited. Because they knew someone else was fighting something bigger than traffic.
But here's what changed everything, A businessman in a Mercedes screamed at me one morning. "I'm not sick! I need that spot for a meeting!"
"Then walk," I said calmly. "That space is for someone whose hands are shaking too hard to grip a steering wheel."
He sped off, furious. But a woman behind him got out of her car and hugged me. "My son has leukemia," she sobbed. "Thank you for seeing us."
The hospital tried to stop me. "Liability issues," they said. But then families started writing letters. Dozens. "Raymond made the worst days bearable." "He gave us one less thing to break over."
Last month, they made it official. "Reserved Parking for Families in Crisis." Ten spots, marked with blue signs. And they asked me to manage it.
But the best part? A man I'd helped two years ago, his mother survived, came back. He's a carpenter. Built a small wooden box, mounted it by the reserved spaces. Inside? Prayer cards, tissues, breath mints, and a note,
"Take what you need. You're not alone. -Raymond & Friends"
People leave things now. Granola bars. Phone chargers. Yesterday, someone left a hand-knitted blanket.
I'm 73. I direct traffic in a hospital parking lot. But I've learned this: Healing doesn't just happen in operating rooms. Sometimes it starts in a parking space. When someone says, "I see your crisis. Let me carry this one small piece."
So pay attention. At the grocery checkout, the coffee line, wherever you are. Someone's drowning in the little things while fighting the big ones.
Hold a door. Save a spot. Carry the weight no one else sees.
It's not glamorous. But it's everything."
Let this story reach more hearts....
Credit: Mary Nelson
@Rainmaker1973 Ahhhh…. The reason for venous insufficiency when the “second” heart fails it leads to fluid build up in the legs. Jeff & gmas problem as a result of being sedentary & not keeping that second heart in good shape
📣 Attention AWSA sisters! Feeling that mid-afternoon slump coming on?
Come find me Friday for my workshop:
"Fit to Lead: How Physical Health Powers Your Calling."
💪 I promise it’s not burpees and kale.
🧠 We’re talking energy, focus, and how to steward your body so you can follow His voice (even when He leads you to… #Hotlanta 🥵).
✨Bonus: I’ve got HEALTHY SNACKS
Yes, real ones. Free. Delicious. And I bet the only workshop with that pick-me-up 😆
If you're wondering whether to come... just remind yourself to:
Turn that hunger into holy ambition—snacks provided.
📍See you Friday. Come grab a seat (and a snack).
Friends at home, say a prayer for me. I have a crazy busy schedule Wednesday through Monday 😇, including a live TV segment on Thursday. God is so good and FUN!
PS: Shout out to @SimplySnackin and @MunkPack for fueling hungry writers and speakers!
PPS: Did I mention . . . snacks? 🤣
#FollowHisVoice #AWSA2025 #FitToLead #SugarFreed