Hunna and Lib

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12/11/2025

The look of pure guilt on his face when he gets caught. 🤣 This little girl is the ultimate dog trainer. Seriously, listen to her! r

12/11/2025

Choosing to focus on yourself doesn’t make you selfish. It makes you aware. You’ve realized that you can’t pour into others if you’re running on empty.

Heal your own wounds first, then help someone else with theirs.

"Mrs. Agnes Peterson, 88, lived alone in a small house on the corner of Elm Street. Every morning, she would carry a sin...
12/10/2025

"Mrs. Agnes Peterson, 88, lived alone in a small house on the corner of Elm Street. Every morning, she would carry a single, bright red wooden chair from her porch and place it under the old oak tree on her lawn. She would sit there for exactly one hour, watching the world go by.

The chair was a gift from her late husband, a simple, sturdy piece he had painted red because, as he said, "It's the color of a good heart."

One day, a group of teenagers, bored and restless, spray-painted a crude, ugly symbol on the back of the chair. Agnes saw it when she went out the next morning. She didn't cry. She just sat in the chair, her hands trembling slightly, and watched the symbol. It was a small act of meanness that felt huge.

A few hours later, a young man named Marcus, a local mechanic known for his quiet demeanor, drove by. He saw Agnes sitting there, staring at the vandalism. He didn't stop.

But the next morning, when Agnes went out, the red chair was gone. In its place was a note, "Borrowed. Will return better."

Agnes was heartbroken. She assumed it was stolen. She sat on the porch steps instead, the silence of the empty lawn louder than any noise.

Two days later, Marcus pulled up in his old pickup truck. He carefully unloaded the red chair. It wasn't just cleaned, it was restored. He had sanded it down, repainted it with a deep, glossy red, and reinforced the legs.

But that wasn't all. He also unloaded two more chairs, one painted a cheerful yellow, the other a calming blue. He placed them next to Agnes's red chair.

"The red one is yours, Mrs. Peterson," he said, wiping his hands on a rag. "The yellow one is for a friend. And the blue one... that's for a stranger who needs a minute."

Agnes, speechless, just pointed to the yellow chair. "That's for you, Marcus."

The three chairs became a landmark. People started stopping. A lonely mother sat in the blue chair and found herself talking to a retired teacher in the yellow one. A young man waiting for the bus sat in the blue chair and found a handwritten note tucked into the armrest, "You are stronger than you think."

The town council, concerned about "unauthorized street furniture," sent a notice.

But before they could enforce it, the community acted. Overnight, three more chairs appeared on the lawn, a green one, a purple one, and a white one. A sign was posted, "The Conversation Corner. Pull up a seat."

The councilman arrived, ready to remove the chairs, but found Agnes and Marcus sitting with the mayor, discussing a new community garden.

The councilman didn't remove the chairs. He went home, found an old, worn-out stool, painted it a hopeful orange, and placed it on Agnes's lawn the next morning.

Today, the corner of Elm Street is known as "The Corner of Good Hearts." The chairs are never empty. And every morning, Agnes sits in her red chair, watching the world go by, no longer alone."

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By Mary Nelson

12/10/2025

Life is far too short to be weighed down by other people’s drama. Protect your peace and make sure you’re not the one creating chaos and calling it unfair.

"Mr. George "The Conductor" Harrison, 72, was a retired train conductor. He lived next to a stretch of abandoned railway...
12/10/2025

"Mr. George "The Conductor" Harrison, 72, was a retired train conductor. He lived next to a stretch of abandoned railway track that ran through his town. The track hadn't been used in twenty years, but it was a constant reminder of his life's work.

One day, he noticed a young man, a high school student named Leo, sitting on the rusted track every afternoon, staring into the distance. Leo looked lost, lonely, and deeply sad.

George wanted to talk to him, but he knew a 72-year-old man approaching a sad teenager would only make things worse.

Instead, George started leaving things on the track. The first day, it was a single, polished penny, placed exactly on the rail.

The next day, the penny was gone. In its place was a small, smooth, gray stone.

George smiled. He went home and returned with a small, antique, brass train whistle. He placed it on the rail.

The next day, the whistle was gone. The stone was still there, and next to it was a small, folded piece of paper with a single word, "Why?"

George knew he had to answer. He didn't write a long letter. He found an old, worn-out train schedule from 1975. He circled a single, tiny stop on the schedule that had been canceled decades ago. He placed the schedule on the rail.

The next day, the schedule was gone. The stone was still there, and next to it was a new note, "What was at that stop?"

George wrote a simple answer, "A fresh start."

This silent conversation went on for weeks. George would leave a small, symbolic item, a conductor's hat pin, a ticket stub, a piece of coal, and Leo would leave a note or a small object in return.

One afternoon, a city official arrived. He was there to inspect the track for removal. "It's a liability, Mr. Harrison," he said. "We're tearing it up next week."

George was devastated. He rushed to the track to retrieve his items, but Leo was already there.

"They can't take this," Leo said, holding the worn-out schedule. "This is our stop."

The official, a man named Mr. Thompson, was unmoved. "It's a decommissioned line. It's coming out."

Just then, a small crowd of people arrived. They were all holding small, symbolic items, a flower, a piece of art, a handwritten poem. They had been following the silent conversation on the track.

Leo had posted about the track on a local forum, calling it "The Unscheduled Stop."

"This track isn't just metal," a woman said. "It's where we leave our worries. It's where we find hope."

Mr. Thompson, the official, looked at the crowd, then at the single, smooth, gray stone that Leo still held. He recognized the stone. It was the same one he had left on the track twenty years ago, when he was a lonely teenager struggling with his own path.

He didn't remove the track. He called his office.

Today, the track is still there. It's been officially designated as a "Historical Walking Trail." They built a small, wooden platform where the "Unscheduled Stop" used to be.

George is the official "Station Master." He still leaves a small, symbolic item on the rail every morning. And Leo? He's now a civil engineering student, working on a project to turn the entire abandoned line into a greenway.

The track never carried a single passenger train, but it carries the hope of the entire town.”
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By Mary Nelson

12/10/2025

A sweet and gentle moment showing a tiny baby cuddling a fluffy kitten. A pure moment of comfort, joy, and adorable charm.

"Mrs. Clara Bell, 79, was known for her apple pie. It wasn't just a pie; it was a legend. Every year, she baked one for ...
12/10/2025

"Mrs. Clara Bell, 79, was known for her apple pie. It wasn't just a pie; it was a legend. Every year, she baked one for the town fair, and every year, it won the blue ribbon. But after a small fire in her kitchen, her most prized possession was ruined, her mother's wooden recipe box, charred and waterlogged.

The box contained not just recipes, but handwritten notes, spilled coffee stains, and the history of her family's cooking. Clara was devastated. She tried to recreate the apple pie from memory, but it wasn't the same. The magic was gone.

Her grandson, Leo, a young man who worked in tech support, saw her sadness. He knew he couldn't replace the box, but he had an idea.

He posted a simple request on the town's community board, "Seeking memories of Clara Bell's Apple Pie. What did it taste like to you?"

The next day, the responses started pouring in. Not just compliments, but details.

"It tasted like cinnamon and a secret spice I could never name," wrote the retired school principal. "It tasted like my first date with my husband," wrote a woman who was now a grandmother. "It tasted like the first time I felt truly welcome in this town," wrote a new resident.

Leo started compiling the memories. He realized the "secret spice" was actually a combination of three common spices, used in a very specific ratio. He found a faded note from a neighbor mentioning that Clara always used a splash of apple cider vinegar in the crust.

He spent a week working with his grandmother, using the community's collective memory as their guide. They didn't just recreate the pie, they perfected it.

When the town fair came around, Clara didn't enter the pie. Instead, she set up a small table with a sign, "The Community Pie. Baked with your memories."

She served slices for free. People tasted it and gasped. "It's back!" they cried.

The fair organizer, a man who strictly enforced the "no outside food" rule, approached Clara's table. "Mrs. Bell, I'm sorry, but you can't be selling food here without a permit."

Clara smiled. "I'm not selling, dear. I'm sharing. And this pie belongs to everyone who helped me remember."

The organizer, who had grown up on Clara's pie, just shook his head and walked away. He returned a moment later with a blue ribbon. He didn't pin it on a pie. He pinned it on Clara's apron.

The next week, Leo and Clara launched a website, "The Community Recipe Box." It's a digital archive where people can upload their own lost family recipes and the stories that go with them. It’s not just about food, it’s about preserving the taste of memory.

Today, the website has thousands of recipes from all over the country. And Clara? She's baking again, but now she's teaching others how to find the magic in their own lost recipes."

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By Mary Nelson

"My name’s Easton. I’m 83. My hands shake now, but my eyes still work. Every Thursday, I walk to the CornerCare Pharmacy...
12/10/2025

"My name’s Easton. I’m 83. My hands shake now, but my eyes still work. Every Thursday, I walk to the CornerCare Pharmacy. Not for my pills, I have those delivered. I go for the people.

See, I was a schoolteacher for 42 years. Third grade. I learned this, loneliness isn’t about being alone. It’s about being forgotten.

At the pharmacy, I noticed something. Young mothers juggling toddlers. Old men staring at prescription bottles like they’re in a foreign language. Cashiers rushing, heads down. Everyone seen, but nobody known.

So I started small.

When Maria the cashier handed me my receipt, I said, “Your daughter’s recital was last week, wasn’t it? How’d she do?” Her eyes widened. “You remember Maya?” I nodded. “You mentioned her practicing ballet in the kitchen. I hoped she didn’t trip over the cat again.” She laughed, a real, watery laugh, and for a second, her shoulders dropped.

Then there was Mr. Caleb. He’d come in every week for heart medicine, silent as a shadow. One rainy Thursday, I stood beside him at the counter and said, “Your grandson’s building that model airplane, right? The red one?” He froze. “How’d you....?” “You showed me the photo last month. Said he named it ‘Sky Serpent.’” That’s when his voice cracked, “He passed last Tuesday. Leukemia.” We stood there, two old men holding paper bags, rain tapping the window. I didn’t say “sorry.” I said, “He’d have flown that plane to the moon.”

Word got around. Not online. Not with signs. Just whispers.

One Tuesday, a young woman named Chloe came in, exhausted. She’d been caring for her dad with dementia. She forgot her own prescription number. The line grew impatient. I stepped forward. “Chloe’s prescription is under Clark,” I told the cashier. “Her dad always asks for peppermints after.” Chloe burst into tears right there. “No one’s called him ‘Clark’ since Mom died. Everyone says ‘the patient.’”

I didn’t fix her life. I didn’t give money. I just remembered.

Last month, the pharmacy owner called me aside. “Easton,” he said, “you’ve changed this place.” He showed me a notebook behind the counter, “Easton’s Notes” filled with scribbled reminders, “Ask Lena about her garden tomatoes,” “Ask Carlos if his fishing trip rained out.” Even the new cashier, a tough-looking kid named Dex, was writing down names.

Yesterday, I saw Dex crouch beside Mrs. Gable, 92, waiting for her arthritis meds. He didn’t just scan her bottle. He said, “Your roses blooming yet, Edith?” She beamed. “The yellow ones finally did!”

I walked home slowly. My knees ache. But my heart? Full.

Here’s what I learned after 83 years,
We don’t need heroes in capes. We need humans who pay attention.
A name remembered is a soul seen.
And sometimes, the bravest thing you can do, is to say, “I recall you matter.”

Today, at CornerCare, they still say it,
“What would Easton remember?”
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By Mary Nelson

12/10/2025

You may never get the apology or explanation—but you will get peace when you choose healing. Keep your eyes on God and your feet moving forward.

"Mr. Walter, 76, lived across from the city's busiest bus stop. Every day, he watched people stand, shift their weight, ...
12/10/2025

"Mr. Walter, 76, lived across from the city's busiest bus stop. Every day, he watched people stand, shift their weight, and look tired. The city had removed the old wooden bench years ago, citing vandalism.

Walter, a retired furniture restorer, decided he couldn't stand the sight of tired people anymore. He spent a week in his garage, working on a beautiful, sturdy bench made of reclaimed oak. He painted it a deep, forest green.

Under the cover of darkness, he placed the bench exactly where the old one used to be. He didn't sign it. He didn't tell anyone.

The next morning, a young woman with two heavy bags was the first to sit. She sighed, a sound of pure relief. Walter watched from his window, a small, private smile on his face.

The bench quickly became a fixture. People used it to rest, to wait, and sometimes, just to talk. A group of high schoolers started leaving books on it, a tiny, unofficial "take a book, leave a book" library.

Then, the city's Public Works department noticed. A crew arrived with a truck and a notice, "Unauthorized structure. Must be removed."

A small crowd gathered. A man in a suit, who used the bench every morning to tie his shoes, stepped forward. "You can't take this," he said. "It's been here for weeks. It's part of the stop."

The foreman, a young man named Kevin, pointed to the notice. "It's city property. It's a liability."

The crowd started to murmur. Then, an elderly woman, Mrs. Chen, who used the bench to rest her groceries, spoke up. "It's not city property," she said quietly. "It's our property. It's a gift."

The foreman was unmoved. "We have to take it."

Just as the crew was about to load the bench, the man in the suit pulled out his phone. He called the mayor's office. He wasn't just a commuter, he was a local council member.

He didn't argue about the law. He just said, "Mayor, I'm looking at a dozen people who are about to lose the only piece of kindness they see all day. This bench is doing more for community morale than any budget item we've passed this year."

The foreman got a call. He sighed, folded the notice, and drove away.

The next day, Walter found a small, official-looking plaque screwed discreetly into the back of the bench. It read, "The Walter Bench. Dedicated to the Unseen Kindness of Willow Creek."

Walter, who had never wanted credit, felt a warmth spread through him. He didn't tell anyone he was Walter. He just went out, sat on his bench, and watched the world go by, now with a quiet sense of ownership.

Today, the city has a new program called "Adopt-a-Bench." But the original, the forest green one, is still the most beloved. And every morning, Walter is there, watching the ripple effect of a single, unseen act of kindness."

Let this story reach more hearts....
Please follow us: Astonishing
By Mary Nelson

12/10/2025

A soft, heart-touching moment of a baby spending time with an adorable kitten.

12/10/2025

Distance reveals desire or detachment.
Give it time—you’ll either miss it or forget why you ever held on.

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194 Clarksburg Park Road
Phoenix, AZ
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