Vol. 1, Issue 1
Outlast The Storm
Healing Broken Families
Families may appear perfect, yet many hide deep struggles behind closed doors. Abuse, neglect, and fractured relationships leave lasting scars—children feel rejected, and parents sometimes withdraw, devastating family bonds and clouding hope for healing.
Drawing from personal experience and a foundation in God’s Word, I share my journey toward restoration and offer guidance to others facing similar trials. By sharing our experiences, we can bridge the gap between hurt and healing, ultimately strengthening both our families and communities.
If you feel overwhelmed by family rejection and brokenness, know you’re not alone. Connecting with others who have overcome similar hardships is essential for emotional and spiritual renewal. I invite you to explore my blog for heartfelt insights and practical solutions, (copy and paste) https://ronmcelfreshwriter.com/blog/ and to join my mailing list for updates. Together, we can journey toward healing and transformation.
SPOOK COME OUT AT NIGHT
By Ronald McElfresh
At 74 years young and a lifetime of questionable decisions behind me, I’m in the twilight of my hunting days—and possibly my life. The sun had just dipped behind the ridge, casting shadows that reached out like the fingers of a debt collector. I told myself I’d leave before the “woolygibies” came out, but plans are just wishful thinking.
About two hundred yards uphill, a herd of elk emerged as if from thin air. I squinted. One was definitely a cow—not the farm kind, mind you, but one without antlers that probably critiqued my fashion choices. Rising from my moss-covered throne, I aimed, steadied, fired. The report echoed, and I heard that satisfying thump, the universal sound of “this is going to get complicated.” The cow and her posse bolted east, flaunting their newfound cardio skills.
“Perfect,” I muttered. No answer from my buddies on the radio—probably too busy telling tall tales or eating gas-station jerky. That meant I, Grandpa Thunder Knees, would have to climb alone, headlamp aglow, into the dark woods where every rustle is an insurance premium waiting to happen.
The forest swallowed me in seconds. With each creak and snap, my imagination served up a buffet of horrors. An hour later, I spotted blood—more than a nosy neighbor’s CSI episode. My heart thumped along to its own blues rhythm. Head down, I traced hoof prints through a maze of logs and foliage that whispered, “Bet you wish you stayed home watching reruns of Matlock, huh?”
Then, a snap—a sound right next to me. I leaped so high NASA almost called to ask if I’d seen their latest satellite. A red fox darted by, tail up, looking like he’d just won the scare prank Olympics.
“Okay, breathe,” I told myself, practicing yoga-level denial. The headlamp cast a crimson halo as I pressed forward, playing detective in a real-life game of “Who Wants to Be Eaten by Something?” An owl hooted, each call a countdown of, “You’re next.”
Then I felt it—the universal prickling of every horror movie cliché. The air thickened, my neck hairs transformed into a punk rock mohawk, and the temperature dropped so fast I swore my knees would freeze, titanium and all. A deep growl came from behind, the kind that would make even my fearless grandma clutch her pearls.
I didn’t think; my legs, blessed by the ghost of Usain Bolt, sprang into action. I leaped over dead logs as if they were hurdles in an Olympics for geriatric daredevils. Ponderosa pines blurred, junipers were shredded behind me, and my knees? They somehow got the memo to behave. I reached the ridge, panting like a dog in August, and dared to glance back. No bear. I guessed he found the cow more appealing—likely a bear on a glutton-free diet.
Collapsed on a rock, I wheezed, half expecting my soul to come out with the next breath. The headlamp, my lone companion, still clung to my forehead like a desperate friend. No radio. The bear must have mistaken it for a chew toy. Great.
The fence appeared ahead like a mirage—five strands of rusted hope. “Almost there,” I whispered, legs shuffling like they’d just remembered they were seventy-four. The woods were eerily silent—even the crickets were out on vacation. Then, the crunch of a twig. I turned my lamp, vision tunneling as two glowing eyes met mine. The snarl that followed could have scared a ghost back to life.
“Nope, not today!” I screamed internally as I attempted an Olympic high jump, clearing the barbed wire in an awkward blur of limbs and titanium and Face-planted into a snow drift.
Up in a heartbeat, I sprinted, breath fogging the air like a locomotive in distress. Another glance back—no cat, but I wasn’t taking any chances. The arenaline buffet was serving until I collapsed or combusted.
Then, just as I was mentally composing my obituary—“Hunter Found in Fashionable Panic”—I spotted footprints, massive enough to belong to a Sasquatch with size 22 shoes. My neck hair did their punk act again as the stench of damp skunk and expired onions wafted over. I lifted my headlamp slowly, dread filling me like gas in a station wagon. Eight feet up, fire-red eyes met mine. Big Foot himself, looking like he had plans.
Somehow, I remembered my rifle, my trusty Steven’s 7 MIL loaded with deadly 175-grain Speer soft nose bullets hanging at my side. In a single, ungraceful spin, I aimed, fired. Big Foot’s snarl became a startled “Did you just shoot me?” gasp. But then, headlights blazed from behind. Gene’s truck—my knight in rusty armor—and three hunters burst out, rifles ready.
Big Foot pivoted, muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “Damn, I’m out of here,” and bolted into the woods. I melted into the snow, grateful and completely out of run. My buddies hauled me into the truck, their laughter loud enough to wake the trees.
I didn’t sleep for a week and swore off hunting.
Well, almost.
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My wife and I have been married for sixty years, and I can honestly say we might not have made it this far without learning how to recognize our strengths, grow through our weaknesses, and appreciate the way we’re wired differently.
The insights we’ve gained came largely from the teachings of Florence Littauer and, more recently, Marita Littauer. Their work on personality types has been a game-changer in how we relate, communicate, and support one another.
I encourage you to explore this resource for yourself. Marita Littauer offers practical, biblically grounded tools that can help strengthen your family relationships. You can find her materials here: (copy and paste)
👉 https://thepersonalities.com/personality-and-family-relationships
Below is an excerpt from her website that I’ve left unchanged for your reflection:
The Personalities in Family Relationships
As we have addressed in previous blog posts, The Personalities are a valuable tool for understanding yourself and getting along with others. They are, however, vital within family relationships.
Within a work or social setting, removing oneself from a difficult relationship can be done fairly easily. You can quit and find a new job. You can put distance between yourself and a friendship that is no longer working. But terminating a relationship within a family can have high social and economic costs. Those costs frequently cause someone to remain in the relationship—despite the distress that may be present.
Because The Personalities are easily understood and can be quickly applied, they can often provide almost instant relief—even when only one person is actively working to apply the knowledge. And this makes The Personalities especially important in family relationships.
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