My writing here on Substack has been spotty at best. I kicked off sometime in late 2024, and then early last year I began in earnest until I flopped, and boy did that sting! That’s not easy to say; in fact, it is downright embarrassing. I was invisible on this platform, thinking, “Wow, that didn’t go over as I hoped.” Even my notes were going nowhere, and it was discouraging. So why bother?

I was beginning to believe Substack was not the place for me.

At the time, I had been on the Blogger platform successfully for over 20 years. That blog was mostly what blogs back in the day were - more like day-to-day journals with some DIY and a recipe. I had fun. But I grew out of it and started to write with a purpose - I felt God placed it in my heart to go deeper, and I couldn’t ignore that. I still can’t! There was a time of sadness for me - outgrowing something that had been a part of my life for so long. Unfortunately, my readers were not comfortable with the sharing of God’s word or deep thoughts - bible devotions. Most wanted the lighter posts - the everyday things, recipes, etc. I felt that God wanted me to share the times in my life that He walked me through - some of the hardest times in my life.

Two other times in the course of those years, I seriously tried to understand and like WordPress. I couldn’t get the hang of it. It was like I had a mental block. I’d stare at the screen, and my brain would freeze. So I gave up. I’ve realized there’s a pattern here, and my usual approach when I get discouraged. This past May, I decided it was WordPress, or that’s it - I would no longer write. I didn’t want that.

It took me 2 days, and I successfully published a blog I’m happy with. There is a steep learning curve for us former Blogger users. I felt like I was learning a new language.

I have a good little thing going on over there - but sadly, most of my longtime readers struggled with the new platform. I did gain new ones, and I’m thankful for that. I really am beginning once again. I remember wondering if I was really ready to call myself a writer, or is once a Blogger always a Blogger? Which always confused me: are Bloggers writers? Do writers blog?

The same friend suggested since I refuse to join any social media, I should check out Medium. I really didn’t want to go that route - I’m a bit shy about marketing myself. I decided I wouldn’t over-think it! Just DO IT. (A leap of Faith)

One day a week, I am a Pro-Life advocate for a Crisis Pregnancy Clinic, and with Bible study (Romans) coming up in the Fall, there is a lot of study. I don’t have the hours to be online. Plus, I am a wife (my husband also serves at the Clinic, coaching young dads), and I’m supposed to be out enjoying my retirement.

So that’s my story, and I’m sticking to it. It’s been a hard road, but I honestly believe it is the one God wants me on.

I’ve been watching a trend grow louder. It’s anything not new, but suddenly everywhere it is becoming louder, and it honestly hurts my heart. I’m seeing more and more Christians fall for it, often without realizing what they’re stepping into, which is heavily aligned with modern Paganism, witchcraft, and Earth-based spiritual traditions.

It’s the idea of Mother Earth and the belief that the ground itself holds healing power.
The suggestion that the earth is some spiritual force we can “connect” to.

I hate to break it to you, Bible-believing Christians, but there is no such thing as Mother Earth or Mother Nature. There is no divine feminine energy in the soil.
There is no spiritual current running through the dirt waiting to fix your life or heal you.

God alone is the Creator of the earth and the universe.
We worship the Creator, not the creation.

But the trend of Earthing or Grounding keeps spreading, and the question I keep coming back to is: Who gets the glory? Because it certainly isn’t God.

The basic idea sounds innocent enough: walk outside barefoot and touch the grass, sand, or dirt. Fine. Enjoy creation. God made it. There’s nothing wrong with that. We’ve done that since time began. Adam and Eve walked barefoot through the garden.

But then it shifts.

Suddenly, you “need” conductive grounding mats, grounding sheets, grounding socks, grounding patches, products that plug into your wall so you can “receive the Earth’s electrical signal” indoors.

Really?

We’ve gone from “take your shoes off and enjoy the grass” to “buy this $150 mat so the Earth can heal you.”

And all the glory goes to the mat, the ground, the earth, Mother Nature.
Not God.

Romans 1:25 warns us plainly:
“They exchanged the truth about God for a lie, and worshiped and served created things rather than the Creator…”

That’s exactly what this trend does. It takes something God made and assigns it power, authority, and healing that belong to Him alone.

It also shows the world that we Bible-believing Christians do not have FAITH that our Creator God can heal. That we need the dirt, the grass, or a healing mat from Amazon.

Yes, go outside. Walk barefoot. Garden. Sit in the sunshine. Breathe fresh air.
Enjoy the beauty of God’s creation.

But don’t give the earth credit for what only God can do.

Creation is a gift.
But it is not a god.

And when the world, even well‑meaning Christians, start looking to the ground for healing instead of the Healer, it’s a sign we need to redirect our gaze upward.

Come on now, this isn’t the time to start drifting away from the God of the Universe. We need to stand strong and alert others. Read your Bibles and stop getting caught up in this nonsense. Remember the seven churches in Revelation, chapters 2 and 3.

• Ephesus: The church that had forsaken its “first love”.

• Smyrna: The persecuted church enduring suffering.

• Pergamum: The church living in a compromising culture.

• Thyatira: The church commended for service but warned against false teaching.

• Sardis: The church is described as having a reputation of being alive, but spiritually dead.

• Philadelphia: The faithful church praised for its endurance.

• Laodicea: The complacent, “lukewarm” church.

Five of the seven churches received a strong rebuke were warned of serious divine consequences if they failed to repent.

Please stop this nonsense and go Back to the One who spoke the earth into existence, back to the One who holds all power, and back to the One who actually heals.

Lord, help us worship You alone, the Creator, not the creation.

Regards,

Debby

Yesterday was an emotional day as I announced my decision to step down from my BSF leadership role to pursue a new ministry. While the teaching leader was aware ahead of time, it was the first time the group heard the news. Saying goodbye has never been my strong suit, so it was bittersweet, filled with both joy and sadness as I shared hugs with friends. Though I will continue attending weekly meetings, I will no longer lead a group. I noticed others were also stepping down, each embarking on new journeys, some to take on greater roles in their churches, and others to be closer to their grandchildren.

It was also Sharing Day, both during our leaders' brunch and with the rest of the members. The ladies stood up with a microphone in hand and shared the beautiful work that God had done in their lives over the past year. There were little ones, just three and four years old, who wanted to thank their children's leaders - though, honestly, they mostly just wanted to hold the microphone! Their sweet and tender breaths brought precious tears to my eyes. Oh, what a generation of little ones being raised in the Lord, who know the Bible! May they go far as they walk with our Lord Jesus!

There was hardly a dry eye in the house.

Yesterday, though, something unexpected happened.

When I walked through the door of my home, a wave of emotion hit me so suddenly that I completely fell apart. Tears streamed down my face as I sobbed uncontrollably. At first, I thought I was simply overwhelmed by all the beautiful blessings and memories from leaving leadership. But underneath it all was something much deeper.

The grief over losing my dog, Laydee, on March 25.

I had tucked that pain away while trying to cope with everything else life has handed me. But grief has a way of quietly waiting until your heart is finally still enough to feel it.

And suddenly, the loss of Laydee opened the door to the old pain of losing my firstborn son, Michael.

After twenty-three years, I cried in a way I hadn’t cried in ages. I wailed from somewhere deep inside, as though every layer of heartbreak I had carefully packed away came rushing back to the surface all at once. Usually, I keep my emotions buried neatly beneath strength, routine, and survival. But yesterday, every wall gave way.

Everything changed the day I lost my son.

The weight of that grief wrapped itself around me for what seemed like a decade. It wasn’t just sadness; it was a soul-deep ache that settled into every corner of my life. For years, I cried. Some days, the grief felt so heavy I thought it would swallow me whole.

Then one day, I realized something: I could not allow grief to completely define the rest of my life. I had to learn how to live again.

So I became disciplined with my emotions. I avoided sappy movies, sentimental books, and anything that would pull me back into that dark well. Little by little, I learned how to function without falling apart every time a memory surfaced.

Not by my strength.

Not by sheer determination.

By His.

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Tomorrow is that day. The day my world changed forever.

It came without warning - a total shock. I was driving with my middle son when my phone rang. It was the Long Beach Police Department. I remember hearing the words, but everything after that became a blur. I was somewhere on Highway 101 when my life split into a before and after.

To this day, I honestly do not remember turning the car around or driving home.

Grief can do that to you. It can steal entire moments from your memory while engraving the pain permanently onto your heart.

The grief episode I experienced yesterday was like a perfect storm of layered grief. It began simmering with a few touching stories and tender memories, then deepened into the pain of losing Laydee, before suddenly reaching a full rolling boil that tied everything together with one enormous bow named Michael. Add Mother’s Day quietly waiting in the wings, and emotionally, I was nearly down for the count.

But something surprised me.

Just as quickly as I spiraled into that intense wave of grief, something I truly have not experienced in years, I came back out of it. The whole episode lasted maybe twenty minutes. Yes, my nose was stuffy from crying, my eyes were swollen and red, and I felt emotionally wrung out… but underneath all of that, I also felt refreshed.

I really needed that cry. And that’s one of God’s mercies, too, that now and then, He gently opens the floodgates, not to drown us, but to cleanse our weary hearts.

So tomorrow marks the day when I will venture out to the grocery store, my trusty list in hand, ready to plan my weekly menu for my husband and me, something I take pleasure in doing regularly. Okay, so yesterday, I faced a wave of emotions that washed over me like a sudden storm. I allowed myself to cry, releasing the pent-up feelings I've held onto, and now, thankfully, that tumult has subsided. I feel a sense of calm returning to me. - returning to a normal, regular day, which I much prefer. I’ve done the balloons and the memorials, which, for me, don’t help me. I’d rather it be a normal, regular day.

And rather than viewing my moment of vulnerability as a sign of weakness, I choose to embrace it as a testament to my humanity. After all, it has been 23 long years since my son passed away, a loss that still aches in the depths of my heart - a mother’s heart. It’s only natural to grieve, and in those tears, I find sorrow and most of all, healing.

Thank you for being here.

In Christ, Debby

After weeks of watching church online, we decided it was time to stop feeling sorry for ourselves, get off the couch, and visit the church we’ve been following. We needed that gentle nudge out the door, as we were beginning to enjoy watching Cozy Church online with a coffee cup in hand, a blanket, and curled up on the sofa.

When it comes to friendliness and welcoming new people, my last church truly set the bar high. They made me feel like I belonged right away and took a genuine interest in us. That’s actually quite impressive, because many churches, especially larger ones, can feel cliquish or distant.

I’ve come to realize that the big, mega-church setting just isn’t for me. I tend to get lost in it, and even smaller fellowship groups can still feel somewhat disconnected. I’m drawn to a church where I can know at least half the people by their first names. Is that even realistic anymore? I’m not sure, but I know that’s what feels like home to me.

Today’s church was nice. The ushers welcomed us, and during the meet-and-greet time, a few people came up, shook our hands, and introduced themselves. It was kind and appropriate, just not the same level of immediate warmth we experienced at our last church.

The sermon was good, just as we expected. We’ve been following along online since the pastor began teaching through Hebrews, and we’ve already been enjoying it. It’s a smaller church with only one service, which I really like.

All in all, this was just one step, with many more to go.

We didn’t meet the pastor today. We’ve decided we’ll do that around week four. We’re also not rushing to “join” a church this time. Looking back, I think that may have been part of our mistake before. We were swept up quickly in what I now understand could have been “love bombing.”

So the fact that this church wasn’t overly warm right away doesn’t mean anything negative. If anything, it may simply mean they are as careful as we are. They smiled, said, Welcome and for now, that’s enough.

I will admit, I was very comfortable in our previous church. But I’m beginning to understand that quick, intense warmth isn’t always the healthiest foundation for long-term belonging.

One thing that really stood out to us today was that at the top of their prayer list was a call to pray for Israel. That matters deeply to us. In our previous church, there was little to no acknowledgment of Israel, especially in light of recent events. That silence was difficult for us, particularly because we are involved in the Friends of Israel Tikvah ministry. At times, it felt like they simply didn’t know what to do with us. We were oddballs, and they kept on love-bombing us into submission.

Today, the sound of the shofar called people into the sanctuary. It wasn’t necessary, but it was meaningful and, to us, a welcome surprise.

We also noticed that the church appears financially stable and not heavily in debt, with consistent giving. The ministries they support are ones we’re already familiar with and have appreciated in the past.

So, step by step, and Sunday by Sunday, we will trust God’s timing in showing us what He would have us do.

In the meantime, I want to learn to enjoy the process rather than just endure it. Finding the right fit matters, but “fit” doesn’t mean perfection.

For now, we’ll keep showing up, one Sunday at a time, trusting that God doesn’t rush His direction, but gently reveals it. And maybe that gentle nudge is enough for today.

Thanks for dropping by.

Debby

It has been nearly three weeks since we quietly stepped away from our church community. There was no scandal. No moral failure. No dramatic exit. Just a theological difference neither side could reconcile, and what seemed like the most peaceful decision was to part ways.

I expected sadness. I did not expect silence.

No texts.

No “How are you doing?”

No coffee invitations.

Just a quiet absence where fellowship once lived.

Every Wednesday, I see one woman from our former couples group there at BSF - in the sanctuary where all groups meet to listen to the lecture, and then we break up into smaller groups. We always greeted each other and smiles - talked a little… However now, as we’re walking out the doors to our classrooms, it is remarkable how skillfully she navigates the hallway to avoid me. Eyes lowered, as she dodges through the crowd as though proximity to me might require explanation. I never imagined that shared meals, shared prayer, shared laughter could evaporate so quickly. And yet here we are.

The Ache of Being Unseen.

What makes this so disorienting is not simply the loss of a building or a ladies’ prayer group and study. It is the sudden unraveling of relationships I believed were rooted in something deeper.

Scripture calls the church a body. A family. A fellowship of believers. So when the connection disappears without conversation, it wounds.

The apostle Paul knew this ache. In 2 Timothy 4:16, he wrote:

“At my first defense, no one stood with me, but all forsook me.”

Wow, even Paul - faithful, steadfast Paul! But he does not end there. In the very next verse, he says:

“But the Lord stood with me and strengthened me.” (2 Timothy 4:17)

People may falter. The Lord does not. Praise God.

When Conviction Creates Distance

Jesus Himself experienced something similar. After a hard teaching, many disciples turned away. In John 6:66, we read:

“From that time many of His disciples went back and walked with Him no more.”

Not because He sinned. Not because He failed. But because the truth is divided. Sometimes disagreement is not rebellion. It is conscience. And when conscience cannot align, separation may be painful but necessary.

The Fog of Not Knowing

One of the hardest parts of this season for me has been the wondering. What is being said? Are we misunderstood? Were instructions given to avoid us? Perhaps none of those things is happening at all. But when you are suddenly outside the circle, your mind tries to fill in the silence.

The Psalmist understood relational loss when he wrote:

“When my father and my mother forsake me, then the Lord will take me up.” Psalm 27 10

If even the closest earthly bonds can fail, how much more fragile can church friendships be? Yet David anchors his hope not in people but in the Lord who gathers the rejected and steadies the shaken.

What This Season Is Teaching Me

Whether I like it or not, I am learning that silence can reveal where our sense of belonging was quietly resting.

Was it in Christ?

Or was it in the comfort of shared routines?

Ouch! I am also learning that not every church dynamic is healthy simply because the teaching is strong. A church can preach verse-by-verse truth and still struggle with relational maturity. And perhaps most importantly, I am learning that stepping away does not mean stepping out of the family of God.

The family of God is not confined to one congregation. It is secured by Christ Himself. He does not avoid me in the hallway. He does not avert His eyes. He does not treat difference as a contagion.

Moving Forward...Very Carefully

As we begin the slow process of looking for another church, I feel hesitant. Will I feel safe joining another women’s church group? Can I trust another small group with my heart? Will the community feel genuine or situational?

Healing takes time, and perhaps this quiet space is not rejection but preparation.

I would love to hear from anyone who has experienced this or is navigating similar challenges. If the silence from those you once considered family has left you feeling disoriented, please remember: You are not cast out from the Kingdom, nor are you spiritually contagious. You remain embraced in God’s love. The Lord is steadfastly by your side, and rest assured, He is very much present.

I truly appreciate the opportunity to express these feelings. Sharing my thoughts in this way brings me a sense of relief and clarity. Thanks for being here on this journey…

Debby Marie

There comes a time in our lives when we simply know we are getting older. Forget the marketing mantra that “70 is the new 60.” I even heard someone say, “90 is the new 60.” Come on… do you really believe that?

I’m not trying to be a Debby-downer on my 72nd birthday today. I just tend to relate more to what is real and what is true. Of course, there are those times when I feel like I’m 40. We all have those moments.

But the reality is, no matter how you look at it, you cannot stop the aging process. So you might as well get a grip on it, embrace it, and enjoy this season, or you’ll drive yourself crazy, never be truly happy, and steal precious time from the limited years you have left.

My dear sister died at 56. She believed that if she simply denied aging, she could somehow escape it. Growing older deeply bothered her; the weight gain in the middle, high blood pressure, wrinkles, sagging skin, and varicose veins. She worked in the daycare and preschool world, and even as a highly skilled director, she faced ageism and discrimination. She pushed herself relentlessly, always striving to reclaim the youth she once had.

Just days before she passed, she was out in the playground with the children and sat down to tie a little girl’s shoe. She was reprimanded for that - told that someone in her position should not need to sit down. That following Monday, they let her go. Three days later, she lay down for a nap and died peacefully in her sleep.

Fifty-six years young.

It still gets to me.

She had an aggressive health issue that she kept to herself, trying to manage it on her own. She never spoke of any of it. You can’t do that. And she shouldn’t have had to.

A few years ago, my husband had to undergo a cardiac catheterization. That was our moment, the moment we realized that, as a couple and for him personally, we were entering uncharted territory. We didn’t like it. But the aging process doesn’t care how we feel. It just keeps doing what it does.

Thankfully, he didn’t need a stent or bypass at this time. Medication has managed it, and for that, we continue to be deeply grateful.

Standing at the pharmacy afterward, we looked up at one of those overhead cameras. There on the screen was an older couple - a white-haired woman and a balding man with a white beard.

“Is that really what we look like?” he asked.

“I guess so,” I replied.

We laughed and held hands as we walked out the door.

“There they are again!” he said, spotting our reflection in the mirrors.

“Yeah,” I said, smiling, “they’re following us.”

And they are.

Old age really does follow us around, so we might as well get used to it. Better yet, learn to walk with it, laugh with it, hold hands through it, and give thanks for every step we’re still able to take. Because growing older is not a punishment. It is not a failure. And it is certainly not something to fear.

It is a sacred season, one filled with grace, deeper love, gentler hearts, and a growing awareness of just how precious each day truly is.

“So teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.”
— Psalm 90:12

Lord, teach us to treasure each day You give us so we can walk gently, love deeply, forgive freely, and hold tightly to the people You have placed in our lives. May our hearts grow wiser, softer, and more grateful with every passing year.

Because of Jesus, I am Debby

Photo of Castle Crags, Ca

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“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” Psalm 34:18

It has been one week since we formally resigned from our church. What followed was a flood of emotions - grief, loss, confusion, relief, and unexpected peace, all weaving together in ways I didn’t anticipate. I found myself walking through familiar emotional territory, recognizing the stages of grief that I once learned so painfully years ago. Though this loss is far different and much less than losing a child but the echoes of that journey reminded me once again how deeply God meets us in times of surrender and change.

The Stages of Grief

The Kübler-Ross model of grief consists of five stages: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance.

Over the past week, I’ve carefully reflected on each of these stages and how they have shown up in my own heart.

Denial

Denial is often confused with shock. Both are responses to pain and overwhelming situations, but they aren’t quite the same. Shock sets in immediately when reality hits, and everything feels surreal. Denial lingers. It’s the refusal or inability to fully accept what is happening.

I experienced shock that it happened, and it happened so quickly. But I am thankful that I haven’t remained in denial about the situation itself.

However, I do recognize a year-long season of denial that came before this.

For nearly a year, my husband lovingly shared his concerns about our church. Because they were kind and caring and had been such a blessing to us, I pushed his concerns aside. I minimized them. I tucked them away. I didn’t want to face them.

Over time, though, little things began to surface that unsettled my spirit. I noticed them. I felt them. Yet, I continued to push them down, not necessarily denying them, but avoiding them. And as always, what we suppress doesn’t disappear. It simply reemerges somewhere else.

I think I can safely say I am now through the denial stage, and honestly, that brings relief. Denial can become incredibly heavy to carry.

Anger

This one is harder.

At first, I didn’t feel angry at all. I felt peace. We knew we had followed our conscience and obeyed the leading of the Lord.

But I tend to overthink - replaying conversations, wondering what I should have said instead of what I did say. And that’s when anger creeps in.

Sometimes I find myself muttering under my breath while folding laundry or wiping kitchen counters. Certain words echo. Certain moments sting. When my husband and I talk about parts of that final meeting, the anger surfaces again.

We were only in the office for maybe six minutes. But it felt like an hour.

Anger, I’m learning, is a major part of releasing pain. And I am trusting God to help me move through it without becoming bitter.

Bargaining

This one barely made an appearance.

Just once, a fleeting thought crossed my mind:

“Maybe I could still attend the women’s Bible study.”

But I quickly realized that wouldn’t work, especially since the leader is the elder’s wife, who was deeply angry.

No. That door is closed.

And that’s okay.

Depression

I have experienced true depression in the past, and this isn’t that.

This is sadness. A heaviness of heart, and at this writing, is beginning to not feel like grief at all!

Each day, I feel a little stronger. A little lighter. A little more hopeful.

God is faithful.

Acceptance

Today, I feel acceptance.

I know grief doesn’t move in a straight line. Something unexpected may trigger a memory or emotion, and I may briefly revisit one of those stages again. But overall, my heart is settling.

Peace is returning.

There is Grace in the Healing because, all in all, I am doing well.

Yesterday was especially sweet. My husband and I spent the day together, unhurried and intentional. Every morning, we begin our day the same way: talking, praying, lifting up our families, those who are struggling, our nation, and Israel. We thank God for who He is and all He has done.

That first hour with the Lord is better than a morning shower, which refreshes the soul and sets the tone for the day.

After reading our devotion, we watched a sermon from a local church we are prayerfully considering. (This will take a few months - we will not rush into another church) If we do decide to go the “church” route, or perhaps a home church.

By the end of yesterday, I realized something - I didn’t feel deprived. I didn’t feel displaced. I felt lighter.

As if a weight had been lifted.

Denial can be exhausting. Letting go brings freedom.

Later in the afternoon, I did some reading. One recommendation was This Is Not Church by Bo Prichard, which offered a thoughtful perspective. I also read several Substack articles on Lent that gently affirmed what I’ve been sensing about certain man-made church traditions. A few kind comments from readers encouraged my heart more than they know, and I thank you for that.

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” (Psalm 34:18)

Walking gently with Him,

Debby

*All photos are mine unless otherwise noted.

As a Christian who deeply loves and respects the Jewish roots of my faith, I often notice theological and spiritual tensions that many believers never think about. Over time, I’ve learned to live with those tensions. If something isn’t a salvation issue, I usually try to let it go. Otherwise, I would feel like I was constantly in conflict.

But is that always the right thing to do?

My husband believes that when teaching or practices contradict Scripture, they must be lovingly challenged. That conviction recently placed us in a painful and unexpected position.

One of the recurring struggles for me has been how our church observes communion during the Advent season. To many, it is beautiful. To me, it felt deeply uncomfortable almost sacramental in a way that leaned toward Catholic theology rather than what I am used to.

There was also the matter of the bread. We believe leaven symbolically represents sin, and that Jesus, being Jewish, would have used unleavened bread at Passover. Using leavened bread during communion felt inconsistent with both biblical symbolism and historical context. If Jesus was the "Lamb of God" participating in a Passover meal, he would have been observant of the Law, which strictly forbade hametz (leaven) during that week. To suggest he used leavened bread essentially "replaces" the Jewish reality of Jesus' life with a later Christian tradition.

I feel strongly about this.

Last year was our first Advent season at this church. At the time, we didn’t realize how deeply liturgical their practices were. That was our mistake. We should have asked more questions before formally joining. LESSON LEARNED!

After discussion, the pastor graciously allowed me to use matzah. But when I did, it still wasn’t right. Communion, for me, is sacred and intimate, not something I want to feel self-conscious about. Instead I found myself distracted, uncomfortable, and grieving that my convictions were being set aside in favor of church tradition. I honestly just didn’t want to be there, period. We even skipped a few Sundays during this time.

Little did I know, that behind the scenes, my husband and the pastor were also debating theology - including communion, going back and forth. Both men are passionate. Both can be stubborn. And eventually, those tensions came to a head.

As Lent approached, the pastor sent out an email explaining their theological reasoning. While I respect those who wholeheartedly embrace Lent, I personally do not feel called to observe it. I never have before and I’m not about to now. After prayer and much discussion, my husband and I decided we would quietly step back during the six-week season and return afterward.

We never intended conflict. We simply needed space to remain faithful to our convictions.

Instead, this decision triggered an emergency meeting with the pastor and two elders. They said, the Pastor was disrespected and we were causing dissention. (We have not shared any of this to anyone) This meeting felt formal. Heavy. Almost judicial. I immediately sensed where this was heading. By Saturday evening, after prayer, we knew what we needed to do. We wrote a resignation letter, deciding to resign our membership rather than continue a cycle of debate, tension, and misunderstanding.

The meeting itself was deeply uncomfortable. One elder was visibly angry. Another sat in silence. The pastor continued trying to debate theology and change our minds. They wouldn’t drop it and let us just go. Eventually, we handed them the letter and quietly left.

I cannot fully describe the sadness that followed.

I genuinely loved much about this church. I cherished the women’s Bible study. I valued friendships. Walking away felt like a death of sorts. I found myself vacillating between grief, doubt, guilt, and peace; sometimes all in the same hour.

Were we wrong? Did we fail? Should I have simply gone along to keep harmony? Yet beneath the sorrow, I still believe we did what we had to do.

Looking back, we recognize our mistakes. We should have more carefully examined the church’s theology and practices before becoming members. We should have asked harder questions earlier. That part is on us

But I also know that remaining silent while slowly compromising deeply held convictions would have cost me something far more precious - my integrity before God.

What has hurt the most is the relational loss. Almost immediately, communication stopped. The women’s Bible study I loved is no longer open to me. It feels eerily like being “put out,” and that grief still lingers. If we have never become members and just have left, would we be put through this? LESSON LEARNED - do not become a member.

Right now, I find myself disillusioned with the institutional church. I love the Body of Christ. I love fellowship. I love worshiping with other believers. I want to belong again, but this experience has left some wounds.

And yet, I still trust God. I believe He is faithful. I believe He sees. I believe He leads gently, even through loss.

Sometimes obedience is costly. Sometimes standing quietly for truth leads to unexpected grief. But sometimes, the path God asks us to walk is narrow, lonely, but still absolutely right.

May He give us wisdom, humility, grace, and peace as we walk it. Oh and strength, too!

Walking in His grace, Debby

The start of a new year always excites me and makes me look forward to a fresh start. Who doesn’t enjoy a new beginning or the next chapter in a good book? This year feels a bit different, though. In March, I’ll turn 72, and honestly, that number surprises me more than any before. I’m not sad or afraid, just telling the truth. Getting older reminds me that while today feels familiar, tomorrow is still uncertain. That is the same for all of us. No matter how healthy or fortunate we are, we can never be sure what a new year will bring.

Sharing these thoughts as we age can help us connect with each other and offer support to one another by just being there. I believe when we keep these thoughts bottled up, and don’t share, that is when anxiety visits us.

I recently shared these thoughts with the women in my Bible study. I told them that this stage of life feels new and unfamiliar. I’ve never been 72 before, nor have I traveled this part of my journey. Naturally, questions come to mind about the health of both my husband and me, and what lies ahead. They aren’t anxious questions, I’m just curious. As I shared, I could tell that many of the ladies share these same feelings and questions, whether we voice them aloud or ponder them quietly.

The next day, during another Bible study, we read from Isaiah 46. As I read it, verse 4 really caught my attention:

“Even to your old age and gray hairs I am He, I am He who will sustain you. I have made you and I will carry you; I will sustain you and I will rescue you.”

It felt like God was answering that quiet question in my heart. I hadn’t asked Him yet for reassurance in prayer but there it was. God was reminding me that getting older doesn’t mean being left alone. The same God who made me still promises to carry me.

What stood out to me most was how gentle God’s words are. He didn’t say, “Be strong,” or “Figure it out.” He said, I will sustain you. I will carry you. Growing older might feel new to us, but it isn’t new to Him. Every part of our lives happens under His care.

Stepping into the unknown can feel uneasy, but it’s never unsafe when God is leading us. Even if we can’t see what’s ahead, His promises stay the same. We aren’t expected to carry ourselves into the future. Instead, we’re invited to trust the One who carries us.

Maybe that’s the real gift of getting older. It’s not about losing our certainty, but about growing in trust. There’s a quiet confidence that our lives are still held by our Creator from start to finish.

Oh what a Faithful and Reassuring God we have. I know I can rest in the truth that He will sustain me and carry me through these upcoming years of uncertainty. I know I can trust Him with each passing year.

Be Blessed!

“Even to your old age and gray hairs I am He, I am He who will sustain you. I have made you and I will carry you; I will sustain you and I will rescue you.”

Isaiah 46;4

In the aftermath of Charlie Kirk's tragic assassination, a profound sadness washed over me, prompting a deep introspection about my identity in Christ. I found myself deeply reflecting on the sacrifices I am willing to embrace for His sake. Am I doing enough?

As long as I have breath in my lungs and a mind open to understanding, I firmly believe that we are never too old to share the transformative word of God:

• To those who wander in darkness

• With individuals who identify as Christians yet remain entangled in the allure of the world.

• with those burdened by fear

• And with those striving to please everyone around them.

The list of those in need of God's message goes on indefinitely.

I've been a blogger on the Blogger platform since 2006. For nearly five years, I wrestled with the challenges of maintaining my personal blog. I poured my heart into crafting daily posts that reflected every subject matter that crossed my scattered mind - from my political beliefs to my love of God, hoping to ignite discussions and share my opinions with others, to fluffy pieces about my home and family. Despite my efforts, those opinion posts had limited views. When I posted fluff pieces (snips and snails and puppy dog tails), my readership increased.

It became evident that the path I was pursuing with my blog was misaligned with the purpose that God had envisioned for me.

I came to a profound realization: it was time to breathe new life into my personal blog. A stirring in my spirit felt like a calling from God, urging me to step beyond my previous boundaries. For far too long, I had succumbed to complacency, grappling with the heavy weight of anger and bitterness that had festered during the pandemic. This negativity seeped into my being, and I found myself no longer the person I once was. Although my love for God remained, I sensed that a distance had crept between us. My engagement with His Word had dwindled, and the vibrant connection I once cherished felt all but lost.

This led me to embark on a fresh blogging journey. Unfortunately, in the transition, I lost a number of followers who had supported me along the way. Now, over a year later, my posts garner more than 2,000 views each.

However, before I take a bow, I suspect that a considerable portion of that traffic might be generated by bots, which raises questions about the reliability of those numbers and the actual engagement level of my audience.

Oh well, it’s all in the hands of God.

I belong to a vibrant niche of Christian bloggers, and I have known many of them for decades. We have all watched ourselves grow older through our daily posts, where we support and encourage one another. It's a wonderful network, yet I sometimes feel as though I'm merely preaching to the choir. It can be disheartening to sense a lack of interest in my message from those who share my faith. Recently, I've noticed a notable shift among specific individuals who, not long ago, were enthusiastic participants in the conversations surrounding my posts. They've seemingly withdrawn from leaving comments entirely, yet I find them engaging in lively discussions on other blogs. This contrast has piqued my curiosity, leaving me wondering what may have prompted this change in their interactions.

Was it something I said?

This silence feels particularly sad coming from my sisters in Christ. It's one thing for those outside the faith to overlook what I have to say, but when it comes from those within my community, it's a different kind of sadness. I find myself reflecting on possible reasons behind this shift. Perhaps some of my content is considered dull, lacking the whimsical, light-hearted touch that others seem to prefer in blogs. Conversely, others might find my messages too convicting, prompting them to shy away rather than confront the challenging truths I share. The uncertainty of their reactions leaves me pondering how to bridge the gap and foster a deeper dialogue within this supportive circle. Should I give up and close up the shop?

I've always felt a profound calling to uplift Christian women by nurturing their spiritual growth and steering them away from the distractions of the world. Yet, I've encountered too many who seem reluctant to embark on a deeper spiritual journey. This is why I find such joy in Substack - this vibrant community of passionate Christian writers. Through the act of reading the wonderful writers here on Substack, I feel a surge of energy and a renewed sense of purpose as I commit to my deeply held passion for "preaching to the choir" on my personal blog. I aim to share my reflections and insights in a way that genuinely nurtures and elevates their soul, creating a space where positivity, trust, and encouragement flourish.

I won’t be giving up and closing up the shop.

I found myself pausing before putting pen to paper here on Substack. Torn by my apprehension to express my innermost thoughts about my side gig - my personal blog. But I’m someone who constantly reflects on my feelings and emotions through writing, so I felt an undeniable urge to share this.

I have always had to remind myself, whether it’s on my personal fluffy blog or here on Substack, to remain focused on who I am writing for. It’s not about chasing views or followers; it’s about touching the souls of those who may find exactly what they didn't know they needed.

Yesterday, in my once peaceful neighborhood, we experienced a “shelter in place” alert on a street that has a troubling history of domestic violence from one house. This isn’t the first time; just a month ago, we went through a similar lockdown. A heavy sense of unease formed in my stomach as I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was the same house once again. The echoes of sirens, helicopters overhead, a school lockdown, and the fear that grips our neighborhood are reminders of the darkness lurking behind closed doors.

This morning’s news has left me shaken - a 31-year-old man has been arrested and has confessed to a gruesome crime - the murders of a mother and her son, both found lifeless inside their home. The report was sparse on details, but my mind races with the implications. I can't shake the unsettling feeling knowing that I’ve walked along that very street countless times, having likely passed by that house, oblivious to the tragedy that unfolded within its walls. Domestic Violence.

I’m familiar with the complexities surrounding domestic violence, as both my sister and her daughter found themselves ensnared in toxic relationships. My sister, enduring a series of abusive partnerships, faced countless hardships at the hands of men who disregarded her worth and treated her poorly. Tragically, my niece grew up witnessing this troubling dynamic, which shaped her perceptions of love and relationships. In her quest for companionship, she chose a partner towering at 6'8", a stark contrast to her petite 5' frame. Unfortunately, this choice led her into an abusive cycle, where she was subjected to the same brutal treatment she had seen inflicted on her mother. (that’s another story for another time)

I just don’t understand it. My sister and I were raised in the same loving household, where our parents instilled in us the unwavering belief that we should never allow a man to lay a hand on us. Our dad, a loving, protective figure, always stood as our shield, ensuring that we felt safe and valued. Growing up, I held tight to that sense of security, certain that I would never fall victim to such a fate. Yet, my sister chose a different path.

It all began in high school. There she was, a radiant cheerleader with a captivating smile, possessing both beauty and intelligence. Despite her popularity, she seemed to attract boys who treated her with disdain and disrespect. One pivotal moment in high school stands out - during what was supposed to be a dinner date, her companion abruptly abandoned her, leaving her alone and flustered to cover the tab. Time and time again, she would brush off these incidents with a casual excuse, “Oh, it was just a misunderstanding,” and without a second thought, she’d return to him as if nothing had happened.

Over the years and through a series of difficult marriages, the relentless abuse left deep scars on her soul. In her desperation for escape, she turned to alcohol, becoming a closet drunk; her secret was known to only one person - me. Having once shared my life with an alcoholic, I had learned to recognize the subtle signs of addiction. I could see the telltale markers in her demeanor, the moments of fragility veiled behind forced smiles. I was a grateful friend of Lois (Al-Anon), and now I was painfully aware of the silent battle she fought every day but would never admit to anymore.

In the final two years of her life, she discovered a truly good man who loved her deeply, a significant milestone after enduring four tumultuous divorces. He seemed to be the one who could finally bring her the happiness she craved. Yet, despite this newfound connection, she continued to struggle with her alcoholism. The grip of addiction tightened around her, a relentless battle made even more difficult by her persistent denial.

One fateful day, my brother-in-law returned home to an unimaginable scene - my baby sister, just 56 years old, lay lifeless on her bed. As the coroner meticulously examined the surroundings, he sifted through her drawers, discovering an assortment of vodka bottles hidden within. The revelation hit my brother-in-law like a thunderclap; it was a shocking testament to the turmoil beneath her surface. Her body bore the gruesome marks of advanced cirrhosis of the liver, yet we remain haunted by a question that lingers in the air: Did she understand the gravity of her situation, or had she simply surrendered to the belief that she was beyond saving? A year later, I sat with her husband, who revealed the depth of his pain - a profound sense of betrayal mingled with grief. He recounted how he stumbled upon an alarming cache of vodka bottles scattered throughout their home, claiming that he was completely oblivious to her struggle.

The pervasive shadow of domestic violence loomed over her life, leaving indelible scars that shaped her very existence. Though she may not have faced the ultimate tragedy of death at the hands of her spouse, each harrowing incident sliced away at her spirit, gradually eroding her sense of self-worth. The relentless cycle of abuse enveloped her in a fog of denial, trapping her in a world where hope seemed like a distant memory, and the echoes of her suffering reverberated through her soul, whittling her down piece by fragile piece.

I have an intense aversion to domestic violence in all its forms, and I find alcoholism equally abhorrent. It's a profound wrong, an evil that seeks to entwine itself around individuals, preying on their aspirations and dreams, gradually pulling them into a dark abyss. The insidious nature of these evils grieves me deeply, as they dismantle lives and shatter hopes, leaving behind a trail of despair and suffering.

The murder that occurred yesterday hit me hard, evoking a cascade of memories and emotions that drew me back into the labyrinth of “what ifs” and the haunting, “woulda-shoulda-coulda’s. It’s been a decade now, yet the weight of her absence still hangs heavily in the air I breathe. I often find myself grappling with the nagging question of how I could have intervened, how I could have changed the course of her fate. But deep down, I understand that ultimately, the choice to break free from that oppressive cycle lies with the individual.

I often found myself sharing my thoughts about Jesus with her, hoping to spark an interest. Yet she would always respond with a dismissive air, as if my words were mere frivolities unworthy of her attention - “too cool” for that kind of talk, she would say. Still, there was something in her demeanor that intrigued me; I couldn’t shake the feeling that, beneath her nonchalant exterior, she was quietly absorbing everything I said. I would catch her gazing off into the distance, lost in contemplation, her expression hinting at a deeper reflection. But despite those fleeting moments of connection, nothing ever seemed to break through the wall she had built around herself.

I can only hope that, despite my inability to protect her from the domestic abuse that haunted her or to shield her from the drugs and alcohol that ravaged her body over the years, perhaps one small seed of understanding the love of Christ managed to take root before she left this world.

She had every material possession her heart desired, surrounded by abundance. Yet, amidst the trappings of wealth, what she truly needed was the profound and steadfast love of her Heavenly Father. This love, as beautifully defined in 1 Corinthians 13:4-8, was the kind that offered patience and kindness, devoid of arrogance or pride, and which promised to endure through all trials and tribulations. It was this divine connection that she, I believe, longed for most deeply, a love that transcended all earthly treasures.

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.

If you are aware of someone who is trapped in an abusive relationship

https://www.thehotline.org/

If you find yourself living with an alcoholic and are in need of support.

https://al-anon.org/

A first-generation Christian is someone who courageously ventures into faith to form a relationship with Jesus Christ, in contrast to those who were brought up in the faith, having been passed down by their parents. We were the ones who had to initiate our own faith journey, often without knowing much, by consciously deciding to embrace the life-changing message of the Gospel.

Wow, when you really think about it, that’s some serious dedication! And the best part? We were never in it by ourselves.

Many second-generation Christians do not understand the journey some of us have taken to emerge from the depths of darkness. I lost old friends along the way; neighbors shunned me. Even my own parents doubted my ability to succeed. My sister distanced herself, and my niece called me “weird.” Okay, I admit, I dove in headfirst, eager to share the profound freedom in Christ that had swept over my soul. I longed for others to experience the same liberation that filled my heart with light and hope.

I had no idea of the challenging path I was to embark on. I was always playing catch-up as I navigated the intricate landscape of a new belief system and its associated practices. I was now part of this new spiritual family of God, yet there were times, I didn't always feel welcome. It took some time before this new identity was accepted and before I found fellowship and support among these mature believers.

It has been 40 years now, and one might expect that after walking with my Savior for so long, we would be better understood, particularly when participating in Bible studies and small groups. We can recall our past as sinners, making those poor choices that complicated our lives. What many do not understand is that we possess a unique understanding of those who haven’t had the chance to know Jesus from a young age, and we understand them.

Is there a divide in the church?

There shouldn't be, after all, many early Christians were first-generation Believers. - They were among the first to hear and respond to the Gospel message after Jesus Christ's resurrection. The early church was composed of individuals who came from various backgrounds, including Jews and Gentiles, who had not previously known Christ. They embraced salvation through faith in Jesus and became part of the new covenant community.

The early Christians often faced significant challenges and persecution for their faith. They had to navigate a world that was largely hostile to their beliefs. We are all familiar with the hardships the Apostle Paul endured in his faith. The Holy Spirit empowered the early Christians to live out their faith and spread the message of Jesus Christ, and that same Holy Spirit is doing the same thing with new believers today.

Their journey was not without struggles, but they were encouraged to stand firm in their faith and rely on God's grace.

"In all this, you greatly rejoice, though now for a little while you may have had to suffer grief in all kinds of trials. 7 These have come so that the proven genuineness of your faith—of greater worth than gold, which perishes even though refined by fire—may result in praise, glory, and honor when Jesus Christ is revealed." 1 Peter, 6-7

" Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters,[a] whenever you face trials of many kinds, 3 because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance. 4 Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything." James 1:2-4

Through it all, they learned to depend on Christ's life within them, which enabled them to live victoriously despite external circumstances.

(Philippians 4:13; Colossians 1:27).

Forty years ago, I immersed myself in the Bible, read numerous books about the Bible, and listened to Christian radio. I was a frequent visitor to the Christian bookstore, eagerly devouring everything I could to deepen my knowledge and avoid embarrassing myself in front of those who had been raised in the faith. At my first women's retreat, I was unfamiliar with the prayer they asked us all to sing—the common doxology.

Praise God, from whom all blessings flow;

Praise Him, all creatures here below;

Praise Him above, ye heavenly host;

Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Amen.

I might have heard about it in a movie; it wasn’t practiced at my church, and I was completely unaware. I tried to act like I knew - lip-syncing the doxology so as not to feel like an outsider.

I was blessed to discover a church with which I felt a connection. —a Bible Teaching Church that delves into Scripture verse by verse every week. This emphasis played a vital role in my spiritual journey. I became part of a fellowship group composed mainly of mature believers, and although I occasionally felt out of place, it was an enriching experience for those early baby steps. My church started a lively recovery ministry that I was a part of. Alongside fellow strugglers, we gathered to share our experiences, strength, and hope as we learned through the guidance of the Holy Spirit. It was a supportive environment that strengthened my faith and fostered lasting relationships.

My past, BC (Before Christ), with its challenges, guided me to Him and has shaped me into the person I am today. Throughout my early faith journey, I faced many difficulties. But despite these challenges, they ultimately led me to a deeper relationship and reliance on the Holy Spirit, which is immeasurable.

Are you a “First Generation Christian” or just starting your journey of faith in Christ? I’d love to hear your story!

Thanks for being here.

When my eight-year-old, Michael, and his five-year-old brother received an invitation to a week-long summer club by the Child Evangelism Fellowship, I decided to go for it. I usually kept my distance from the enthusiastic “Born-Again” teacher at Michael’s school, who often made me uneasy with her Jesus-centered conversations. However, when she offered to drive my boys, I felt grateful. It was a perfect opportunity for me to have some quiet time, allowing my baby to nap undisturbed while enjoying a few hours to myself amidst the busy life of a young mom. She was a genuinely kind person, and I appreciated her warmth, but I often found myself feeling a bit uneasy in her presence. Her conversations seemed to revolve endlessly around Jesus, a topic that made me uncomfortable.

I’ll risk it -

Little did I know that first day would not only alter the course of Michael's life, but mine as well, his five-year-old brother and eventually the rest of our family. As Michael, with his bright blue eyes shimmering with innocence, expressed an overwhelming joy in discovering his Savior, I felt a tug at my heart. His gaze pierced through to my very soul, filled with a mix of exuberance and vulnerability, leaving an indelible mark on that fleeting moment.

“Mommy, do you have Jesus in your heart?”

I had navigated a labyrinth of difficult choices in my past, but one resolution remained steadfast in my heart: I was determined never lie to my child. The weight of honesty felt vital, a promise etched deep within me, guiding my every word and action as I embraced the role of a parent.

The summer five-day club blossomed into a weekly after-school Good News Club hosted in the cozy atmosphere of a welcoming home. Once again, our dedicated public school teacher, Helen, took on the responsibility of shuttling my boys to and from the club. She would generously leave behind a collection of intriguing books for me to explore, whether I wanted them or not - introduced me to the local Christian radio station, KFAX, here in the San Francisco Bay Area. Accompanied by a carefully crafted schedule of its engaging programming, I found myself captivated, and before I knew it, I was tuning in and listening to the broadcasts. I remember - J. Vernon McGee's "Thru the Bible" while driving my boys to school. The voice of this beloved preacher filled my car and set the tone for our day. Inspired by his teachings, I decided to unearth an old King James Bible, a gift from my mother that had long been gathering dust on a shelf. Alongside it, I rediscovered The Living Bible, a modern translation I had purchased when it first hit the shelves back in 1971 or 1972. As the boys returned home, I would eagerly sift through the pages of their Bible work, absorbing the fresh insights they had gathered that day. Together, we would dive into the rich verses of scripture, as I guided them to memorize each line. In the process, I found myself learning alongside them, discovering wisdom within those sacred texts.

I still struggled to comprehend the intricacies of Christianity. It felt as though I was navigating a vast ocean of beliefs and stories, seeking the elusive Cliff Notes that could distill the essence of the entire Bible into something manageable and understandable.

I arranged a time to visit Susie, the warm-hearted woman who hosted the Good News Club in her cozy home. She was refreshingly relatable, having navigated her own struggles with drugs and alcohol and possessing a genuine humility about her past. After only six months of being born again, she didn’t come across as preachy; instead, she radiated a sense of authenticity that drew me in. As we sat together, she guided me through her “Soul-Winners Bible,” sharing its profound insights with passion. Just three months later, in a moment filled with sincerity, I prayed alongside Susie and embraced my journey of faith, becoming born again myself.

My two boys were thrilled when I shared the good news, while my husband wore an expression of frustration on his face. Retreating to my room, I sat on the edge of the bed, allowing the weight of my actions to settle upon me.

In that stillness, a revelation washed over me—God had taken the child I once viewed as a punishment for my past transgressions and transformed him into a guiding light, leading me toward His embrace.

It wasn't my will, but His.

Ephesians 1:11 states, "In Him we were also chosen, having been predestined according to the plan of Him who works out everything in conformity with the purpose of His will." This passage inspires us to recognize that God has a unique plan and purpose for each of us, skillfully orchestrating our lives to align with His divine will.

You might find yourself curious about what became of Michael. He blossomed into a remarkable young man, fully embracing the beauty and challenges of life. He still struggled with physical issues and discrimination. With a heart dedicated to serving God, he graduated from California State University, Long Beach, a testament to his perseverance and commitment to his education. He was on the verge of embarking on a master's degree, eager to deepen his knowledge and make a positive impact in the world. Then, at the tender age of 25, he experienced a profound transition, as Jesus lovingly welcomed him home.

Yesterday marked Michael's 48th birthday, a reminder of the years that have slipped away since. I've often found myself pondering the kind of person he might have become. Each Thanksgiving, every wedding celebration, and all the birthdays that have followed have been infused with a tangible absence, a gap that has lingered for 22 long years.

Why, Michael? I would be deceiving you if I claimed this question never crossed my mind. It has lingered in my thoughts, a persistent whisper in the depths of my consciousness. Ultimately, I must remember that my Lord, the Sovereign Creator of the Universe, holds the key to this profound mystery beyond my comprehension. All that remains for me is to place my unwavering trust in Him, surrendering to His divine wisdom and timing.

I strive to embrace a spirit of joy. Michael has been ushered from this world into safety, liberated from life's hardships. I am, indeed, grateful for the time we had and the memories we cherish, even as I continue to navigate the profound loss that continues to leave an indelible mark on my life.

As a first-generation Christian, I was not raised with biblical truths, like those fortunate to be "trained up," so I have had quite the journey of transformation. I wasn’t raised to be a heathen, not by a long shot. With two devoted grandmothers who fervently prayed for us, their unwavering faith certainly left its mark. Our family celebrated a secular Christmas, complete with the warm glow of twinkling lights, and we always enjoyed the presence of a nativity scene, nestled on top of the Zenith television console. My understanding of Easter was quite shallow at the time; I grasped only that Jesus was crucified, but the concept of Resurrection eluded me entirely. I couldn't comprehend the reasons behind his sacrifice or its significance. The Ten Commandments were familiar to me. That was all I had in terms of knowing about genuine Christianity. Yet, despite these snippets of spirituality woven into my upbringing, my family never gathered for church services together.

When tragedy strikes, it often presents a profound challenge, especially for those who lack a relationship with Christ. We may find ourselves grappling with despair, missing the hope and assurance that a connection with Him can provide. Yet, for those who have not yet come to faith, such moments of crisis can serve as a poignant catalyst for introspection - an invitation to seek answers and delve into the profound questions that life poses.

A wave of reflection washed over me, urging me to confront my tumultuous past with drugs and alcohol. It felt as though this child was not merely a new beginning but rather a form of reckoning, a consequence for my past transgressions handed down by a deity I had never truly believed in. The weight of this realization was both humbling and terrifying, and I couldn't shake the feeling that my life was about to change in ways I could not begin to comprehend.

Fortunately, a couple of years before Michael was conceived, it was as if a higher power was gently guiding me to recognize a vital truth: if I truly desired to bring a child into this world, I needed to transform my life. I’m grateful that I managed to turn my life around and clean up my act, yet I still felt a profound distance from God, as I found myself lost in my own head, seeking answers within instead of turning to Him.

The months following were a whirlwind of emotions—bliss intertwined with an overwhelming sense of dread. While he was the picture of a cheerful baby, radiating joy and innocence, I found myself engulfed in a storm of anxiety. My mind became a relentless factory of worries; each thought morphed into a new source of concern. I fixated on his health, fretting over every slight cough and sneeze. I agonized over his future - how would he navigate school with ease? Would he run and play like the other children? I spiraled deeper into this cycle of apprehension, each worry stacking upon the last, until I felt utterly unraveled, a shadow of my former self.

I was acutely aware that something was not right within me. To compound the situation, my husband was drowning his anxieties in alcohol, desperately seeking solace from his mounting worries. With the weight of financial burdens, the pressure of providing shelter, and the responsibilities of parenthood pressing upon him, he turned to the bottle as his refuge. Meanwhile, I found myself spiraling deeper into a whirlwind of concern for our marriage, each thought amplifying my fears. My life felt like a chaotic cyclone, with everything I held dear spinning wildly out of control.

When Michael turned one year old, we reached out to Little People of America, a remarkable organization dedicated to coming alongside families like ours. They provided invaluable resources that eased many of my worries through the camaraderie and guidance of other average-sized parents raising children with dwarfism. Their support fostered a sense of community and understanding, helping us navigate our unique journey with confidence.

I still hadn’t surrendered. As the months unfolded, life began to improve, yet I found myself slipping back into the familiar mindset that I didn’t truly need a God. I convinced myself that all I required was a supportive community and a wealth of knowledge to raise my son.

In the eight years that followed Michael's birth, I joyfully welcomed two more sons, both of whom grew to be of average stature and free from orthopedic and health challenges. Throughout this period, I persevered through my struggles primarily in solitude, grappling with the weight of my circumstances. I maintained a mild depression. Yet, amidst the daily challenges and the echoes of my past, I reached a pivotal moment of clarity—a realization that there had to be a deeper purpose awaiting me, something more profound that I needed to seek in my life.

As time went on, the cracks in my marriage deepened. My three sons yearned for a father figure, yet what they received instead was a man lost in a haze of alcohol and marijuana, struggling to confront his own emotions. He spun a web of lies that left us feeling abandoned, and I found myself in the role of caretaker, nurturing him as if he were my fourth son. The weight of responsibility pressed heavily on my shoulders as I tried to fill the void he left in our lives.

Change was necessary. In my search for solace, I started watching the tele-evangelists, drawn in by their charismatic presence and uplifting messages. I craved the comforting, feel-good aspects of Christianity, yearning for hope and light rather than the weighty, complex doctrines that felt too burdensome for my already strained existence. I longed for a divine intervention that would magically transform my life, wishing for a benevolent God to wave a wand and restore my happiness, just like that—if only I could feel joy once more.

I envision God as the musical Conductor of my life, skillfully orchestrating each moment to serve His glory and to bring about my ultimate good.

Romans 8:28, "in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose." Even amid the trials and tribulations that life may present, God guides our lives like a Maestro directing musicians to create harmony, unveiling a plan that goes beyond our understanding. Though sometimes difficult to discern, it contributes to a greater narrative filled with hope and divine intervention.

A sense of divine intervention was drawing near, a powerful force swelling on the horizon. But was I truly prepared to embrace it?

*All photographs featured are my original work, unless explicitly stated otherwise.

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“The heart of man plans his way, but the LORD establishes his steps.” Proverbs 16.9

In case you missed Part 1

It was the morning of August 3, the day I had eagerly anticipated for so long, I was ready!

✔ The crib, my baby's cozy sanctuary, was adorned with soft bedding and nestled in the corner of our bedroom, perfectly set up to welcome its new occupant.

✔ The changing table stocked with an array of diapers, wipes, and little clothes, all meticulously and lovingly organized

✔My bag, filled with essentials for me and a brand new matching nightgown and robe.

✔And lastly, the baby’s coming-home outfit, a delightful little ensemble, was folded neatly and waiting with anticipation.

By mid-afternoon, with the summer sun casting its warm glow, I hopped onto my bicycle and set off on an adventurous ride. I was resolute in my goal to transform this journey into the onset of labor. As I navigated the terrain, my round belly made balancing on the bike a challenging feat, each bump and jolt threatening to unseat me. By the time I returned home, my muscles throbbed with fatigue, and I felt a disappointment wash over me as I realized I couldn’t kickstart my labor and delivery as I had hoped. The anticipation had built up inside me, and not being able to take that crucial step left me feeling deflated.

The calendar turned to August 4th,

Then August 5th,

And finally, August 6th.

Hope began to wane as each passing day brought no promising developments or unexpected contractions.

Gee, I can't control this after all.

I believe this was the first pivotal moment that began to open my heart to the possibility of something greater than myself. This recognition of my limitations eventually led to a search for something greater, and God is always ready to meet us in that place of need. However, I wasn’t ready yet, and it wouldn’t be that easy. I was stubborn.

Is there anything too hard for God?

At 3:52 a.m., I woke suddenly: my water had broken. In that instant, an intense wave of contractions began, each one surging through me like a powerful tide. I quickly called the hospital. They reassured me to take my time, reminding me that it was my first birth. My mom had always said she experienced rapid labor, but somehow, it felt as if no one truly believed it would happen to me. Yet, as the minutes ticked by, the urgency heightened, finally, at 5:52 a.m. Michael entered the world at 7 lbs: 4 ounces, 17 inches.

I expected to hear that sweet, joyous sound of newborn lungs filling the air with their first cries, heralding his arrival into the world. Instead, all I could hear was the frantic flurry of medical staff, their voices of urgency as they rushed to his side and then to me, their questions pressing in like the weight of the moment itself.

"He has club feet."

"He isn't breathing."

"Something is wrong."

The demeanor of the medical staff was as unwelcoming as a cold, dreary day, lacking the warmth and kindness one might hope to find in a place dedicated to new life. It felt as though I had ruined their day. The glances they cast in my direction carried an unmistakable trace of pity - It was an experience unlike anything I had ever encountered before.

I strained to look up and around, my heart pounding in my chest. There he was – my baby’s father – his face an ashen gray, and they were administering oxygen to him, and a wave of terror washed over me. Panic settled in, heavy and suffocating, as if a massive weight had lodged itself in my chest. I could barely think, my thoughts swirling like a turbulent storm.

"Is my baby alive?"

"Is my baby okay?"

"What is happening?"

Suddenly, I heard the physician's curt command slicing through the chaos, ordering the nurse to “shut her up.” Before I had a chance to grasp my racing thoughts, they pressed a cold mask over my face, and as the darkness began to close in, I felt myself slipping into a brief, disorienting unconsciousness.

I've often wondered what truly unfolded in my subconscious mind during that moment of darkness. Did a divine presence whisper to me, reassuring me with a gentle voice that while the journey ahead would be fraught with challenges, I would emerge stronger on the other side? God's invisible qualities and divine nature are evident in creation, so people have no excuse. (Romans 1:20) This means that even in a subconscious state, the evidence of God is all around us, and He can use it to draw people to Himself. God can work through our dreams, visions, and other experiences to reach those who do not yet believe. I believe this with all my heart and soul.

When I regained consciousness, in my private room, the stark reality confronted me. My precious firstborn child had been diagnosed with a rare bone dysplasia, leading to dwarfism. My heart sank as I took in the details: his tiny feet were curled inwards, and his lungs were a testament to his fragility. Even the simplest act of sucking was beyond him; he needed to be gavage-fed, a tube ensuring his survival where nature had faltered.

As they gently placed my newborn son, Michael, in my arms, an overwhelming sense of determination surged within me. In that precious moment, I resolved to be the best mother I could be, embracing the challenges and joys that lay ahead. From the first time I saw him, his bright eyes sparkled with an alertness that suggested a remarkable curiosity and a sense of purpose.

As the day progressed, the news gradually sank in, striking me like a thunderbolt, leaving me reeling in disbelief. I felt utterly shattered, caught off guard by a reality I had never anticipated. During my pregnancy, I had been blissfully unaware, with no tests available or warnings to hint that anything could be amiss. I had envisioned a typical journey into motherhood, but instead, I was thrust into this world of uncertainty, unprepared for the challenges that lay ahead. I didn’t see this coming during my LaMaze classes!

After two painful days in the hospital, they sent me home. As I stepped through the threshold of my home, the echoes of dreams unfulfilled swirling around me. I couldn’t shake the profound ache of the child I had imagined I would be cradling in my arms. The weight of my sorrow was compounded by the heart-wrenching reality of the little one I had left behind at the hospital, fragile and connected to machines by tubes that pulsed with a mechanical rhythm.

Was I being punished by God (the one I didn't believe in) for all the bad things I had done in my life?

Throughout my teenage years and into my early twenties, Christianity remained an uncharted frontier for me, shaped by an absence of traditional religious beliefs. I eagerly embarked on a journey through various alternative paths, captivated by the enigmatic allure of witchcraft, the intriguing mysteries of the occult, and the intricate patterns woven within astrology. The significance of numerology beckoned to me like a hidden language waiting to be decoded. My quest for meaning was far from linear; I often found myself wrestling with the heavier questions of existence, embracing agnosticism during moments of doubt and introspection. At other times, driven by a fierce spirit of rebellion, I would fervently declare myself an atheist, dismissing conventional beliefs with a wave of defiance.

I became deeply captivated by the concept of reincarnation, thanks to Dr. Silvia Brown, a medium and psychic. I would often lose myself in contemplation of the possibility of having lived past lives. In one particularly adventurous chapter of my life, I embraced the identity of a witch - though I preferred to think of myself as one who practiced the light arts, affectionately labeling myself a "good witch." Yet the most haunting decision I ever made was undergoing an abortion right when Roe v. Wade became law. The weight of guilt settled heavily on my heart, mingling with a deep-seated self-loathing that I never expected to feel. Each day, I grappled with these emotions, their intensity disturbing my peace and leaving me restless, trapped in a struggle I thought I would be able to navigate more easily. I was anxious to make right a wrong.

Where did that come from?

As July draws to a close, my thoughts drift back nearly 48 years to a poignant time in my life, when I was pregnant and waiting to welcome my firstborn son. The due date, August 3, loomed ahead like a beacon of hope. At just 23 years old, I felt a mix of exhilaration and trepidation, emotions that often overwhelm mothers-to-be. The air was thick with anticipation, not just for the tiny being I yearned to cradle in my arms, but for the uncharted journey of motherhood that lay ahead. I found myself daydreaming about the life I was about to nurture: What would he look like? What dreams would he chase? Would I be the mother he needed, guiding him with love and wisdom? And above all, would he love me back? Each thought was laced with both joy and a touch of vulnerability, reflecting the profound transformation that was about to unfold.

During that time, there were no tests to guide us; we essentially "winged it," embracing the unknown with a sense of adventure.

Despite the monumental task of carrying a new life within me, my pregnancy unfolded beautifully, almost like a picture-perfect dream. I never felt overwhelmed by the physical changes; instead, I reveled in the miracle of creation. Each day brought me closer to meeting my little one, and my only longing was to welcome my baby into the world. The moment felt right, and I was ready.

She/He would be Shannon if it were a girl and Michael if it were a boy.

As July faded into the early days of August, I found myself crossing the threshold of my due date, a moment I had long anticipated. It felt surreal to be in this liminal space, teetering between expectation and impatience. My obstetrician’s reassurance had filled me with hope, but now that the time had arrived, I was left to surrender to the whims of nature. The tension was palpable as I stood on the brink of new beginnings.

It astonishes me still to this day, when I was without a moral compass—no Jesus, no God to reach for as my own. I felt content in my independence and rebellion, convinced that I could navigate my life just fine without any spiritual guidance if there were such nonsense. Yet here I was standing on the brink of one of the most significant events I would ever experience, completely isolating myself from the Most High God, enveloped in a sense of arrogance that craved nothing but one more box of Pampers.

I got this!

When we as individuals are convinced that we have everything figured out and feel no need for God, it often signals a deep-rooted sense of self-reliance and an air of pride.

I read all the books, spoke with other mothers, and was as ready as I possibly could be. The profound truth remains: we are all inherently reliant on God, who serves as the ultimate source of life, wisdom, and understanding. - whether we like it or not.

The Bible reminds us that "God opposes the proud but gives grace to the humble" (James 4:6), illustrating God's preference for a heart that acknowledges its limitations. Acknowledging our need for God marks the true beginning of wisdom, as it is written, "the fear of the Lord is the beginning of knowledge." This humble recognition opens the door to a deeper relationship with God and a richer understanding of our place in the world. (Proverbs 1:7).

Thank you for accompanying me on this series - along the winding path. I wish for you to be richly blessed.

Because of Jesus,

I am Debby

"Apart from me, you can do nothing" (John 15:5)

As a devoted, old-school blogger, I've been journeying through the vibrant and ever-evolving digital landscape since the late 1990s, a time when the internet was a thrilling frontier bursting with creativity and innovation. In 2003, I eagerly embraced the Blogger platform - excited to carve out my own unique niche in the flourishing online blogging community. Since then, I have passionately maintained my personal blog there, pouring my thoughts and experiences into a space that has become a vital part of my daily activity and a connection to fellow bloggers I have now known for many years.

I’ve often expressed a desire for my writing to transcend the conventional boundaries of a simple blog, to resonate with readers on a deeper level. However, in recent years, my enthusiasm has been tempered by a series of frustrating technical issues, as Blogger has consistently failed to update my posts. This has left me feeling disconnected from my readership. After investing so many years and effort into crafting meaningful content, it’s disheartening to think that my work might go unseen and unread, yearning for the engagement it deserves.

I've started to wonder if God is signaling that my simple little personal blog isn't the right path for me. I’ve come to realize that my little personal blog isn’t the ideal avenue for me. It’s precisely for this reason that I’ve chosen to establish my presence on Substack, where I can delve deeper into the subjects that matter most to me.

Honestly, if I’m going to invest my time and energy into crafting a post that ultimately gathers dust, languishing in obscurity with no readers to appreciate it, I might as well be here, articulating my profound thoughts in the tranquil recesses of my mind. At least in this private space, I can create joyfully, free from the weight of expectations. And who knows? If I remain steadfast and consistent in my expression, I might attract a few kindred spirits along the way, turning solitude into an unexpected community.

Waiting on God is not a passive state of idleness; rather, it embodies an active trust and deep reliance on His infinite wisdom and perfect timing. It requires a posture of unwavering faith, embracing the belief that God is intricately working behind the scenes in our lives. This trust reassures us that His plans for our futures are not only good but also filled with purpose and hope, guiding us through uncertainty with a promise of fulfillment.

I will wait on the Lord—and I will write as if no one is reading. I will trust Him and be patient.

You might be surprised to hear that trees are my absolute favorite living plants! While I love flowers too, nothing compares to the beauty of a tree.

I’m captivated by the bark of big trees. It brings a rich texture and unique character to any scene, framing a photograph in a way that feels both natural and artful. There’s just something about that rugged surface that adds depth and balance, making it a perfect focal point in many of my shots!

Wandering through a dense forest of trees feels magical. Each glance reveals a world filled with wonder and mystery, as sunlight flitters through the trees, making every moment enchanting.

Trees stand as powerful symbols within Scripture, embodying life, growth, and the abundant provision of God.

The Poem

When I was a sophomore in high school, back in 1970, I was in a creative writing class—a class I was excited about, despite my notorious habit of skipping classes whenever I felt like it. I was pretty good at crafting excuses to avoid school, but as you can imagine, it eventually caught up with me. I had managed to miss an entire quarter of classes, and my parents were not pleased when they were notified.

To stay in the class and avoid being kicked out, I struck a deal: I would complete a folder filled with my original poems, covering all the different types we had studied. It sounded like a fair trade at the time, but I soon realized I was in over my head.

I needed one more poem - desperate for inspiration (and running out of time), I had a rather questionable idea: I decided to borrow from a poetry book perched on the shelf, thinking I could just copy this one simple little poem. A risky move, but at that moment, I felt like I had no other choice. It was just one little poem about trees. Surely no one would notice. Little did I know that this would lead to a whirlwind of consequences I couldn’t have anticipated!

Looking back now, it felt like my teacher was waiting for an opportunity to get back at me. When I finally turned in my work, he seized the chance to publicly read my poems to the entire class over the course of several days. Just my poems! Talk about being put on the spot! It was his way of teaching me a lesson, and trust me, I felt utterly humiliated.

I think that I shall never see

A poem lovely as a tree.

by Joyce Kilmer

As Mr. Pucci read the poem aloud, I could hear the giggling from my classmates— I might as well have been a shining beacon of embarrassment. Mr. Pucci turned to me, his eyebrows raised in inquiry.

“Debby, did you write this?”

I took a deep breath and replied, “Yes.”

The class held its breath in anticipation, a charged silence hanging in the air. As soon as I uttered that one word, laughter exploded around me, each giggle ringing out like a warning bell that I was teetering on the edge of more trouble...

Now and then, I'll catch sight of a tree, and I’m flooded with memories of that poem and that embarrassing incident.

Happily,

I've turned a new leaf and no longer lift the lines from others’ poems. And as for rebellion? It’s no longer part of my story.

Just as the intricate rings of a cut tree unveil the stories of its growth over the years, my life's journey reflects a remarkable tale of continuous growth and transformation. Each year adds one new layer, shaping the person I am today.

Psalm 1:3 : "He is like a tree planted by streams of water, which yields its fruit in season and whose leaf does not wither—whatever they do prospers."

My adult sons departed for the Lost Coast, and my maternal instinctive response was a familiar one:

“I hope they are safe.”

But then a thought struck me—“Why wouldn’t they be?” They have been honing their passion for backpacking in the wilderness for over 15 years. The Lost Coast, while wild and untamed, doesn't harbor bears that I know of; only mountain lions roam its rugged terrain. Perhaps there are some clandestine cannabis cultivations hidden away in remote areas, where only the most adventurous—or foolish—would dare to tread. The lush greenery thrives in the shadows, sheltered by dense foliage that obscures it from the casual passerby, creating an air of secrecy and danger that keeps most at bay. However, they are seasoned adventurers, well-versed in the beauty and risks of the outdoors, and of this area, always taking every precaution in life’s unpredictable journey.

As I stepped away from that knee-jerk feeling of worry, I was enveloped by a deep sense of joy at the thought of them pursuing something they love. It was a vivid reminder of the importance of trust—trusting in their capabilities and, ultimately, trusting God.

Trusting God in the wilderness is a powerful theme woven throughout Scripture, providing profound encouragement and insight for those navigating challenging or uncertain seasons of life. The "wilderness" serves as a poignant symbol of trials, testing, and spiritual growth within the biblical narrative. During these arid and desolate times, when faith is often stretched to its limits, the opportunity to deepen one’s trust in God emerges with striking clarity. It is in this terrain, marked by struggle and uncertainty, that true resilience is forged, allowing individuals (and Moms) to discover a richer, more profound relationship with God.

Biblical Examples:

1. The journey of the Israelites in the wilderness after their exodus from Egypt exemplifies God's faithfulness, as He provided manna and water, teaching them reliance on Him (Exodus 16:4, Exodus 17:6).

2. Similarly, Jesus’ time in the wilderness, where He faced temptation, emphasizes trust in the Father and the importance of Scripture (Matthew 4:1-11).

Key Principles for Trusting God in the Wilderness:

Rely on God's Provision - Just as God provided for the Israelites in the wilderness, He assures us He will meet our needs in any circumstance. Trusting in His provision means believing He will sustain us, even in uncertainty (Philippians 4:19)

Embrace God's Presence - The wilderness can feel isolating, but God promises His unwavering presence. He walks with us, offering comfort and guidance, reminding us that we are never alone (Deuteronomy 31:6).

Hold onto God's Promises - Scripture is filled with promises that anchor us during turbulent times. Trusting God means clinging to these assurances and believing in His unchanging faithfulness (2 Corinthians 1:20).

Grow in Faith - The wilderness can be a place of profound spiritual growth. Trusting in God during hardships deepens our faith and strengthens our relationship with Him (James 1:2-4).

Reflection Questions:

1. How can you rely on God's provision in your current wilderness experience?

2. What promises from Scripture can you hold onto during this time?

3. How might God be using this wilderness period to grow your faith and trust in Him?

4. In what ways can you remind yourself of God's presence and faithfulness daily?

Trusting God in the wilderness is about recognizing His sovereignty, goodness, and love, even when circumstances are challenging. It's an opportunity to deepen your relationship with Him and experience His faithfulness in new and profound ways.

Take Care and always put your Trust in God.

My husband and I are proud members of the Friends of Israel North American volunteer network, known as Tikvah's Ministry, where we find purpose in serving the Jewish community and making a difference together.

“Tikvah” is the Hebrew word for “hope”. Biblically speaking, hope is more than a wish; hope is an eager expectation of good things to come. FOI quote

The mission is to inspire and equip volunteers to serve, support, and bless the Jewish people with the love of our Messiah, Jesus while providing valuable resources and educational opportunities to local churches.

This has been a cherished dream and a profound goal for me for years. My journey began in the 8th grade, when my teacher, Mrs. Shapiro, introduced me to the richness of the Jewish people and culture. Her guidance ignited a passion within me, leading me to express my desire to convert to Judaism to my mom. Although I was a minor and had to wait until I turned 18, the seed of this aspiration never faded. Life (God) guided me down a different path, yet my love for Judaism and the Jewish people remained unwavering.

When I first began my search for Truth, I felt a sense of joy when I discovered that Jesus was Jewish! My mom introduced me to Jesus during our conversations around Easter and Christmas, as she lovingly placed the nativity on the mantle. However, she never shared the details about this remarkable man. Forty years ago, when I embraced Jesus as my Jewish Messiah, I was filled with a desire to learn more. Attending a great Bible-teaching church in the San Francisco area, I realized I was too immature at the time to fully appreciate the profound connection between Judaism and my Messiah. I was laying the foundation for my journey.

In those early years, my journey involved reading extensively and engaging in fieldwork with a Jewish ministry, all while holding a deep prayer for Israel and staying attuned to their news.

Then I met my second husband, a kindred spirit who shared my deep passion and love for Judaism and Israel. He was attending a Messianic Congregation in Washington State, where our hearts interwove through faith and purpose. We married, not under the chuppah as we had envisioned, but united in spirit and love, bound by our shared commitment to the Jewish people.

Throughout our marriage, we have joyfully embraced our faith as members of Messianic congregations, passionately striving to establish a community in our new area with a fellow Jewish believer about 16 years ago, and consistently celebrating our connection by attending Israel Day in San Francisco and other meaningful events.

In the summer, when FOI hosted an event at a local church, we embraced the opportunity to listen and learn, igniting a meaningful journey with this ministry. After completing a transformative nine-week online course, we were invited to join others from around the world, deepening our connection and purpose.

I often get asked if we’ve visited Israel and while we haven’t been able to make that a reality for financial reasons, our love for Israel remains strong! You don’t have to travel to Israel to love Israel. We’re dedicated to making a positive impact on public opinion and addressing misunderstandings about church teachings like replacement theology. Serving our Jewish friends, regardless of their journey to recognizing their Jewish Messiah, is our calling. We’re in it for the long haul, and our love and friendship are truly unconditional!