David, our twenty-one-year-old, moved to Virginia last week. Newly assigned to Langley Air Force Base, he is in the throes of in-processing at an enormous base, not knowing anyone or where anything is. He is responsible for putting his space together, finding food, and figuring out how to get where he needs to go—preferably without getting yelled at.

Some parts of military life are predictable no matter where you are, but every base also has its own rhythms, expectations, and ways of doing things. There is a lot to take in. I haven’t heard much from David over the past few days, and I’m guessing that by the end of each day, he has nothing left after being “on” for so many hours.

My last post was about how uncomfortable and unsettling change can be. We respond to change in our own anxious ways because, at some level, change always brings loss. And when we lose something, our natural response is grief. Often, however, we don’t allow ourselves to grieve—or we aren’t even aware that grief is what we are experiencing.

While it’s true that change can leave us scrambling for relief and sometimes responding in ways that are less than lovely, change can also create room for growth, new experiences, new friendships, and places we might never otherwise have known.

Change doesn’t have to set us back permanently. It isn’t only a loss.

I drove with David for part of his trip to Virginia, and we had time to talk about the change ahead of him. During those conversations, I tried to encourage him to see not only the cost of change but also its opportunities.

We talked about how change gives us a chance to see the world differently. It can be a fresh beginning—an invitation to press into what is uncomfortable and discover what new adventure God may have for us. Beyond the cost of change lies an opportunity to trust God’s goodness and depend upon Him for the strength we need for whatever is ahead.

My husband and I have given David all the building blocks we know to give him. We have tried to provide the foundation he needs to build a life he can be proud of. Now, in this new season, it is his turn to begin building.

Moving out on your own is hard. There is plenty to grieve as you leave home and learn to live as an adult for the first time. It is uncomfortable and sometimes scary. But there is also tremendous freedom: freedom to explore new places, meet new people, gain experience, develop skills, and discover more fully who God has made you to be.

David is capable of building a good life for himself if he chooses to step into his new circumstances. I hope the uncertainty doesn’t hold him back as he learns to navigate life at his new base. I hope he makes good friends, finds a faithful church, discovers worthwhile hobbies, builds solid relationships with his coworkers, and finds meaningful ways to use his free time.

Each of us has to work our way through change by going right through the middle of it. We do this in our own ways and in our own timing. Some of us find our footing more quickly than others, but none of us can avoid the process entirely. In fact, no matter how old we get, there is always another level of trusting God.

God often grows His people by inviting them to rely on Him in new ways. We would not naturally choose many of the circumstances that require this kind of faith. It is much easier to stay comfortable, complain, resist, or see ourselves as victims of what is happening to us. But when we begin to recognize how God is using circumstances we never would have chosen for our good, we can welcome change with greater confidence and hope. God remained faithful to Joseph, Moses, and Daniel through circumstances they never would have chosen, and He will remain faithful to us as well.

I imagine every one of us has an opportunity to face change well this week, this month, or this season.

For me, it is the transition to an empty nest after nearly thirty years of having children in the house. I have had my sad moments walking through the cleared-out and cleaned-up bedrooms, now pristine because no one is using them. I know moments of missing my children will continue to catch me by surprise. I will grieve the loss of being with them in the ordinary moments of daily life.

But this season holds opportunities too.

I now have the chance to focus on my relationship with my husband in new and more intentional ways than I could with six children underfoot. I have more freedom to meet with friends, travel, write—and do considerably less laundry. I have a feeling this season will expand my world in ways I can’t yet see.

God isn’t finished with me. He likely has more in store for me than I can imagine. That feels scary and exciting all at the same time.

The same is true for David. He now has the freedom to explore and discover who he is outside the walls of our home. This is good, even while it is unknown and feels a little like a free fall at first. Trusting God requires stepping out of what is familiar and into the place where He is leading. That uncertainty can remind us just how deeply we need our Lord and Savior with us.

And He IS with us, just as He promised He would be:

“And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age” (Matt. 28:20).

What I want David to remember—and what I need to remember myself—is that we must keep our eyes on Jesus. Christ goes with us into unfamiliar places. We may stumble, we may flail around a bit, we may make mistakes as we go, but we can learn from them.

There is grace for our initial resistance, and God asks us to keep moving forward.

We can trust that where we are is no accident and that God will meet us there.

So, while David learns to build a life in Virginia, I am learning to build a different kind of life here. I will pursue friendship, service, healthy rhythms, meaningful work, and new ways of loving my family across the miles. I will fill my days with worthwhile interests and invest my time in the people God has placed around me. Rick and I will learn how to enjoy being the two of us again.

Neither David nor I knows exactly what this new season will hold, but we know who holds us in it.

Change is tricky—grief and possibility tangled together—but perhaps it is also one of God’s most ordinary ways of growing us into the people He is making us to be.

There was a big yellow school bus at the corner today.

The Crayola boxes of crayons and markers are lining the endcaps at the grocery store. It’s time for fresh notebooks, pens and pencils, and new folders. You can sense it in the air. The season is changing.

Even though we’re still in the dog days of summer, the sunlight slants a bit differently, the tree leaves are somewhat translucent, and the neighborhood kids aren’t out playing quite as late.

I wonder, if I were my dog, would I notice? Or am I only aware that we are approaching a new season because the calendar and store marketing tell me so?

Either way, I feel it in my insides that change is coming.

Change can be tough. Sometimes we like it. We may even crave it. But other times, we do everything we can to avoid it.

And there’s a reason for that.

Change almost always involves some kind of loss.

Even change we are ready for can carry a little loss tucked inside it.

I remember when I finally didn’t have to haul a diaper bag everywhere I went. I was very ready for that change. No more diapers and wipes and snacks and extra clothes and random toys and who-knows-what-else stuffed into an enormous bag hanging off my shoulder.

Freedom!

But tucked inside that freedom was a loss I hadn’t anticipated.

My kiddos were growing up.

They were becoming just a little less dependent on me. That was good and right and exactly what was supposed to happen. But it also carried the unmistakable awareness that time was passing and I couldn’t turn it back.

At some level, that was a loss.

And when we lose something—even something we’re supposed to lose—we grieve it.

I’ve begun to notice a pattern that often looks something like this:

Change → Loss → Grief → Anxiety

The change itself may be perfectly good. We may even have chosen it. But something about the old way of life is ending, and endings involve loss. Loss brings grief. And sometimes, instead of allowing ourselves to grieve what has been lost, we try to outrun the grief.

But unacknowledged grief has a way of showing up somewhere else.

Sometimes as anxiety. Sometimes as irritability or defensiveness. Sometimes even as anger that seems completely unrelated to the change itself.

Take that diaper bag.

Not having to traipse around with that heavy thing anymore was wonderful. But suddenly I became anxious that we’d be caught somewhere without whatever important thing had always been readily available in its bottomless depths.

What if we needed coloring books during a long wait at a restaurant?

What if someone needed an extra outfit?

What about snacks? A hair tie? Band-Aids?

My freedom from the diaper bag required new ways of remembering and doing things. Until that became normal, I found myself checking and double-checking how everyone was doing—and sometimes getting disproportionately irritated when I, or someone else, forgot something that really wasn’t very important at all.

The forgotten hair tie wasn’t actually the problem.

Something was changing, and I hadn’t quite figured out how to live in the new reality yet.

I’ve seen this play out in much bigger ways, too.

I remember one of my daughters becoming sullen and uncharacteristically short with her brother. She picked at him until frustration turned into fighting and eventually loud door-slamming.

When I took her aside and tried to figure out what was going on, she wouldn’t talk. She stayed defensive and blamed everyone else.

Finally, I stopped asking questions and simply hugged her.

And then the tears came.

Her brother was leaving for college.

Home was going to feel completely different without him. Would they still be close? Would they stay in touch? What would it be like for her to suddenly become the oldest child at home?

What had looked like anger wasn’t really about her brother irritating her that day.

There was a change coming.

And tucked inside that change was loss.

And underneath the anger was a girl who was sad about losing something she loved and anxious about what would take its place.

Sometimes understanding that changes everything about the way we respond to one another.

Instead of reacting to the door slam, maybe we can get curious about what’s underneath it.

Instead of immediately defending ourselves when someone’s response seems wildly disproportionate, maybe we can slow down long enough to wonder: Has something changed? Is there a loss here I haven’t seen?

And maybe we can ask the same questions of ourselves.

Why am I so bothered by this?

What am I afraid of losing?

What am I grieving that I haven’t allowed myself to grieve?

Understanding the answer doesn’t make every reaction acceptable. But it can help us respond—to ourselves and to one another—with more patience, compassion, and grace.

Because change really is hard.

The school bus pulls up.

The diaper bag disappears.

The child leaves for college.

The job changes. The friendship changes. The church changes. Our bodies change. Our families change.

Another summer ends.

And some of what moves away from us will never come back.

Maybe that’s why Scripture’s repeated reminders of God’s unchanging character matter so much.

We don’t have to pretend that change doesn’t hurt. We don’t have to skip over loss or rush ourselves through grief. We can name what we’re losing. We can admit what we’re afraid of. We can grieve what was good while still stepping faithfully into what comes next.

Because underneath all that change is something—or rather, Someone—who does not change.

“Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever.”

—Hebrews 13:8

The God who walks with us into the new season is the same God who held us through the last one.

So when I see the yellow school bus at the corner and the Crayola boxes stacked at the grocery store, maybe that little tug I feel inside isn’t something I need to dismiss.

A season really is ending.

It’s okay to notice.

It’s okay to grieve what is passing.

And it’s okay to wonder a little about what comes next.

Because seasons change.

He doesn’t.

***Visit The Soapbox Podcast with You Are Inc. on Apple Podcasts to hear an interview I did with Kelsey Smith about the power of the written word.

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I met a lady recently who treads water.

She is at the pool every afternoon for an hour to an hour and a half, treading away, head and shoulders perfectly still as she looks around contentedly, chats with friends, or listens to podcasts through her headphones. She looks as if she were ElastaGirl with extra-long legs, simply standing on the bottom of the deep end, placidly stationed as an in-pool lifeguard, occasionally turning this way and that to take in the scenery.

If you didn’t know what was happening beneath the surface, you would swear she wasn’t working at all.

Meanwhile, down below the water, her legs are churning relentlessly.

I know because I borrowed goggles and checked.

In my high school lifeguarding class, we learned that treading water was never intended as exercise. It was for survival. If you found yourself stranded where you couldn’t touch bottom, treading water kept your head above the surface so you could breathe. If you became exhausted while swimming, it gave you time to recover, reorient yourself, and make sure you were still headed toward shore. As lifeguards, we practiced treading water so we’d be able to support a panicking victim until we could get them to safety.

Watching the woman in the pool, I caught myself thinking about how often I “tread water” too.

If I’m honest, I have become remarkably good at looking calm, capable, and collected while internally churning nonstop just to keep myself afloat. Somehow I can twist myself into whatever shape seems necessary to keep everyone believing I’m standing comfortably on solid ground.

Sometimes it looks like being in the middle of a rant with one of my kids when the phone rings, only to answer sounding like a sweet, cheerful, happy-go-lucky Mom of the Year.

Sometimes it looks like arriving at Bible study with a smile on my face and my homework neatly finished while no one knows I cried the whole drive there because I felt lonely and underappreciated.

Sometimes it’s as simple as saying yes one too many times until I’m frantically running from one commitment to the next, trying to make good on everything I’ve promised.

Somewhere along the way, I confused faithfulness with competence.

I didn’t mean to. It happened so gradually that I almost mistook the weight I was carrying for maturity.

If I just worked harder, smiled brighter, organized better, and held it all together, maybe no one would notice how tired I really was.

But treading water was never meant to become a way of life.

My lifeguarding instructor taught us something else that I’ve never forgotten. Treading water is a short-term solution. It’s meant to conserve energy while you’re swimming toward safety. It’s meant to buy you time, not become your destination.

And when treading water becomes exhausting?

You stop fighting.

You lie back in the water and rest.

You trust the water to hold you until you’re ready to swim again.

Water, of course, isn’t always trustworthy.

God is.

That is exactly what Jesus offers weary people.

“Come to Me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take My yoke upon you and learn from Me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For My yoke is easy and My burden is light.”
—Matthew 11:28–30

Jesus invites me to release it all to Him. His strength is the one I need, not my own.

The longer I think about it, the more I realize I’m not just pretending for other people. I’m trying to convince myself, too. If I just keep churning hard enough, everything will stay afloat. My family. My ministry. My responsibilities. My reputation.

Somewhere deep down, I’ve started living as though it all depends on me.

But it never did.

All my striving only leaves me exhausted and panicked, as though I might sink at any moment.

Floating only happens when we stop fighting the water. Resting in Christ requires the same surrender. We stop believing everything depends on us and begin trusting the One who has been holding us all along.

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I recently learned that our bodies have something called “bully muscles.”

Apparently, some muscles become so strong and accustomed to doing the work that they begin taking over jobs they were never meant to do. As a result, the smaller muscles become weak because they never get the opportunity to engage and grow.

As I heard this, the first thing that came to mind wasn’t actually anatomy.

It was Paul’s description of the body of Christ.

In Romans 12 he writes,

“For just as each of us has one body with many members, and these members do not all have the same function, so in Christ we who are many form one body, and each member belongs to all the others.” (Romans 12:4–5)

I’ve read those verses many times before, but lying on a Pilates mat the other day, they suddenly became more tangible than ever.

God never intended one member of the body to do all the work.

In fact, He intentionally designed dependence into the system.

That is true of our physical bodies.

It is true of our families.

It is true of His Church.

No one part was ever created to do everything.

This became real to me in Pilates.

Over the past several months, I’ve been learning to open my body up, lengthen my spine, stretch my tight hamstrings, release the tension I unconsciously hold in my hips, strengthen the tiny muscles deep in my core, and improve my posture and mobility in general. I love going because I work hard, I feel better afterward, and every week I discover a little more about how wonderfully connected our bodies are.

For me, my bully muscles are my hip flexors.

They are strong, hardworking muscles along the front of my body. During certain exercises, they instinctively jump in and do work that should actually be done by the small muscles in my lower back. My instructor is constantly reminding me to “turn off” my hip flexors so those weaker muscles can finally do their job.

It’s harder than it sounds.

My hip flexors have become so accustomed to carrying the load that they don’t know how to relax. They stay tight and “grippy,” convinced they must remain engaged to keep everything stable. Meanwhile, my smaller back muscles never get stronger because they are never given the chance to work.

Lying there on my mat, trying to convince my hip flexors to take a break, I realized I was watching God’s design play itself out in my own body.

God intentionally designed dependence into the human body.

My weak back muscles need stronger muscles to support them while they grow.

My strong hip flexors need limits so they don’t become overworked.

Neither functions as it should without the other.

God didn’t create one indispensable muscle—or one unnecessary muscle. He created a body whose strength comes from every part faithfully doing what it was designed to do.

How many times have I been the bully muscle?

How often have I stepped into situations convinced that if I don’t hold everything together, no one else will?

How many times have I rushed in because I assumed someone else wasn’t ready?

If I’m honest, one of my favorite phrases is, “I’ll just do it.”

I usually tell myself it’s because it’s faster or easier.

But if I dig a little deeper, I often find fear underneath.

Fear that things won’t be done well.

Fear that someone will fail.

Fear that everything somehow depends on me.

Yet just as my smaller back muscles can never become stronger if my hip flexors keep doing all the work, people rarely grow when someone else is constantly rescued.

Neither do I.

The muscles doing all the work eventually suffer too. They become overused, tight, and “grippy” because they’re carrying loads they were never designed to carry.

I know that feeling.

Maybe that’s why Paul’s picture of the body of Christ is so beautiful.

The church needs every member.

Families need every member.

Every person has strengths.

Every person has limitations.

Dependence isn’t a flaw in God’s design.

It’s His beautiful design.

We were created to give and receive.

To lead and to follow.

To strengthen and to be strengthened.

Whether in a marriage, a family, or a church, everyone is diminished when one person carries what was meant to be shared.

That kind of interdependence requires humility. It means accepting my limitations as readily as I accept my strengths. It means allowing others to contribute in ways that I cannot.

Paul goes on to tell us to “honor one another above yourselves” (Romans 12:10).

No bullying.

And no shirking responsibility.

No believing that my role is somehow more or less important than someone else’s.

Awareness is the first step.

As I’ve become more aware of my hip flexors, I’m learning to let my back muscles do the work they were created to do. My hip flexors haven’t become less important; they’ve simply learned they don’t have to do everything. And my back muscles can’t hide to avoid growing.

They need repetition, patience, and time.

So do people.

Growth is almost always slower than we’d like. It comes through practice, failure, correction, and trying again. When I constantly step in to rescue someone else, I may actually interrupt the very process God is using to strengthen them.

Christ has never asked me to hold everything together.

He simply asks me to be faithful in the place He has given me, trusting that He is faithfully caring for the rest.

My hip flexors are strong.

My back muscles are getting stronger.

Both are needed.

Neither was created to do everything.

God intentionally designed dependence into the system.

Maybe that’s true of our bodies because He always intended it to be true of His people.

There are no bully muscles in the body of Christ—only members learning to faithfully do their part while depending on one another and ultimately on Christ.

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I did something really crazy the other day.

I picked neon pink for my manicure.

I mean ridiculously, shockingly hot pink.

Now my fingers surprise me every time I look at them.

Why did I do this? I’m not entirely sure. It just sort of happened while I was sitting there flipping through the million color samples on those little plastic rings. And yet, I do kind of know.

I wanted something different.

Something more interesting than my usual soft pink or light beige.

I was feeling flashy for a change.

And I wondered if I could pull it off.

Have you ever felt that way? Tired of the safe and expected? Ready for something just a little bit outlandish? A little risky?

Sometimes it’s time to step outside the regular routine and find a safe but real way to rebel against your own predictability.

I know. A manicure is hardly a wild act of rebellion.

It isn’t life-altering.

It doesn’t change my circumstances.

But every time I catch a glimpse of those bright pink nails, I feel slightly outside my norm. A little daring. A little bolder than usual.

And strangely enough, it reminds me of something deeper.

I’ve spent much of my life thinking of myself as careful, responsible, and predictable. Those things aren’t bad. In fact, they’re often gifts. But sometimes I forget that God also created me to be courageous.

Not reckless.

Not loud.

Not attention-seeking.

Just willing.

Willing to step forward when He nudges.

Willing to trust Him when the outcome isn’t guaranteed.

Willing to move beyond what feels comfortable.

I am a daughter of the King, and I have been created to be humbly fearless and quietly audacious because of who I am in Him.

The phrase has been rolling around in my mind lately: quietly audacious.

Most of us think audacity is loud.

We picture the person who commands the room, takes center stage, and never seems to doubt herself.

But perhaps real audacity often looks much quieter than that.

Maybe it’s inviting people to your porch when you’re more comfortable one-on-one.

Maybe it’s introducing yourself first.

Maybe it’s sending the text God prompts you to send.

Maybe it’s extending grace when you’d rather hold onto a grievance.

Maybe it’s taking a step forward before you feel fully prepared.

The older I get, the more I’m convinced that courage is less about confidence in myself and more about trust in God.

Because when I truly trust my Father, everything changes.

I worry less about how I compare to other people.

I love more freely.

I step outside my comfort zone more readily.

I have more grace for mistakes—both mine and everyone else’s.

I can enjoy, learn, and grow without feeling like every outcome depends on me.

For brief moments, I actually live this way.

I have just the right words for one of my children.

I treat my husband with gracious kindness instead of impatience.

I make a new friend.

I follow the Lord’s prompting.

I let go of something that normally would have consumed my thoughts.

And those moments are incredibly freeing.

Living like God is truly in charge is a beautiful way to live.

The problem is that I don’t stay there.

Too often, I slide right back into the driver’s seat of my life and quietly boot God into the backseat.

I start worrying.

I become impatient.

I get annoyed when things don’t go my way.

I complain.

I try to manage outcomes that were never mine to control in the first place.

And before long, the journey feels exhausting.

It’s funny, really.

I decide I’m in charge, and everything gets harder.

Apparently, I wasn’t meant to be God.

My shocking pink manicure has become an unexpected reminder.

Not that I need to be bolder for the sake of being bold.

Not that I need to reinvent myself.

Not even that I need more confidence.

What I need is greater trust.

Every time I catch a glimpse of those ridiculously pink fingernails, I smile. Not because they make me brave, but because they remind me where bravery comes from.

I don’t have to control everything.

I don’t have to have all the answers.

I don’t have to be the most capable person in the room.

I am a daughter of the King.

My Father is good.

And He is very good at being God.

Maybe that’s the boldest way of all to live.

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After a whirlwind of a spring, summer is feeling just as it’s supposed to—hot and lethargic.

Soft nighttime breezes, sprinklers, lightning bugs, watermelon. Pool chlorine and wet towels. Long walks and kids riding bikes. Popsicles and ice cream. Sidewalk chalk and lemonade and sandals.

And lots of porch sitting.

In fact, one evening not too long ago, while we were sitting outside (on the porch, of course), Rick commented that I should have some friends over for a Porch Party.

“A porch party? What’s that?” I asked.

“You know, just having some folks over to hang out on the front porch. You could have food and drinks and talk about whatever it is you and the girls talk about and just be together.”

“Hmmm,” I said. “Intriguing idea...”

Secretly, I was a bit intimidated by the thought of randomly having people come over for no other reason than to sit on my porch. I’m far more comfortable in a one-on-one situation than a group setting, and if people are coming over, it seems like there should be a purpose, a meeting or announcement or celebration or something.

Is it enough of a purpose to just come sit on a porch?

What if we run out of things to talk about?

What if no one comes?

And yet, the idea wouldn’t leave me alone.

God kept tapping me on the shoulder and whispering to my heart that this was something I could do. Bring people together. Serve them whatever you have. Make it special and intentionally about them.

A few weeks later, I sent out invitations, gathered some food, tucked flowers into pots and vases around the porch, and we had ourselves a Porch Party.

There was no agenda. Just being together.

We talked and laughed and told stories. At the end of the evening, we divided up the leftover chicken, pasta salad, and strawberry shortcake so everyone could take some home. Before the evening ended, I gathered all the flowers and vases, and my friends made bouquets from them to brighten their own homes and remind them of our time together.

As it turns out, none of my worries came to pass.

We had plenty to discuss, plenty of stories to share, plenty of food to go around, and plenty of requests to please do this again. Everyone wanted to return for another Porch Party.

I was honestly surprised by the response.

But it felt good to have listened to God’s prompting and created an evening to serve others simply because they mattered.

Earlier this week, I hosted our second Porch Party. This time, we decided to be a smidge more intentional and talk about the book Theo of Golden.

Since one of the main settings in the novel is a coffee shop called The Chalice, we created our own coffee bar complete with homemade vanilla syrup, a variety of milk options, and to-go cups with lids. We brought desserts to share and even invited a resident artist friend who sketched each of us while we sat and discussed life and the book.

For those who haven’t read Theo of Golden, the story follows Theo, who moves to Golden, Georgia, and becomes intrigued by the many sketches hanging on the walls of The Chalice. He decides to purchase the drawings and return them to the people portrayed in them. As he does, he gets pulled into their lives and stories, forming friendships and discovering the beauty of intentional kindness.

The more we talked about the book, the more I realized how naturally our Porch Party had gravitated toward its themes.

Intentionally pulling people together from different spheres of life.

Listening to their stories.

Creating a safe space for friendships to grow.

Finding simple ways to serve generously.

That’s what Theo did.

And, in its own small way, that’s what a good porch party can do too.

Looking back, I think God knew exactly what He was doing when He used Rick to plant the idea of a porch party in my heart.

The gatherings themselves have been lovely, but perhaps the greater gift has been what happened in me.

God has been teaching me that hospitality doesn’t have to be complicated. Friendship doesn’t require a program. Community often begins with something as simple as opening a door, setting out a few chairs, and saying, “Come sit with me awhile.”

Stepping out of my comfort zone to invite people over and share my porch turned out not to be difficult at all. In fact, I discovered that I genuinely enjoyed it. I loved preparing the details, welcoming people into our space, and creating an environment where others felt seen and cared for.

I already have ideas for future Porch Parties.

And maybe that’s my encouragement to you, too.

You don’t even need a porch.

It could be a driveway party. A backyard gathering. A kitchen table with coffee and cookies.

Just pull some people together.

Listen to their stories.

Serve them whatever you have.

Make room for friendship.

In a world that often feels hurried, isolated, and distracted, those simple acts of hospitality may be more meaningful than we realize.

After all, every open door, every shared meal, every chair pulled up to the porch is a quiet reflection of the welcome we’ve already received from Christ. As Paul writes, “Therefore welcome one another as Christ has welcomed you, for the glory of God” (Romans 15:7).

Perhaps every porch party is, in its own small way, an echo of the Gospel.

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A week ago, our daughter Rebekah and her now husband took their marriage vows before God in front of a dancing willow tree under perfectly blue skies with their closest family and friends surrounding them. Yet, even as I watched them with shining eyes, listening to their promises to care for and love each other through thick and thin, I thought of another couple.

My parents will celebrate their anniversary next week.

One marriage is a week old; the other is going to be 60 years old.

Those vows my parents spoke to each other in 1966 are still holding, just as they sat holding hands at Rebekah’s wedding. Since that moment, I have found myself contemplating what happens between the wedding day and the 60th anniversary.

It’s easy to get caught up in the beginning.

The dress.

The flowers.

The photos.

The food.

The start of something new is full of excitement and fresh commitment and sparkling passion. It’s beautiful and breathtaking. As it should be.

The vows spoken at a wedding are easy to say because they are made in a moment filled with joy.

The miracle is not making the vows.

The miracle is keeping them.

At some point, we move past the beginning and into the murky middle. Eventually, we have to choose to stay committed even during the mundane Tuesdays of life.

The real story is what happens between “I do” and “till death do us part.”

Sixty years is a long time.

It’s thousands of ordinary mornings and countless shared meals. It’s celebrating victories and carrying burdens. It’s choosing forgiveness when you’re hurt and extending grace when it’s undeserved. It’s learning each other’s weaknesses and deciding to love anyway.

No one takes wedding photos of those moments.

Yet those are the very moments that build a marriage.

My parents have stayed the course through raising children, moves and transitions, financial stresses and health frustrations, disappointments and pressures, and changing seasons of life. There have been a myriad of glorious days as well as hard days.

But no matter what, my mom and dad have had to make the conscious choice to be for each other, to remain faithful to their promises, and to die to self in order to elevate the other.

At the heart of every enduring marriage is sacrifice—the willingness to die to self so another can flourish.

It’s actually a mirror of God’s covenant love for us.

In His dedicated and unconditional love, God sent His Son to die on our behalf when we could do nothing to save ourselves from our brokenness. Jesus chose to be for us. He is faithful to His promises to remain and never leave us. He sacrificed Himself in death in order to elevate us to life.

He is committed to loving us forever.

He is in it for the long haul, mundane Tuesdays and all.

Our response is gratitude and a willingness to follow Him the rest of our days.

Marriage, at its best, points us toward this greater reality.

Perhaps that’s why marriage points us to Christ. The God who keeps covenant with His people is the God who enables ordinary people to keep covenant with one another.

One day, Jesus promises He will return for His bride, the Church. There will be a heavenly wedding and feast. He will dress His bride in pure white, and there will be no more sorrow, no more tears. God’s children will enjoy the full life that was always intended for them.

What Rebekah and Craig celebrated last week will be a mere shadow of the joy and celebration to come.

Until then, they will begin building a life together one ordinary day at a time. There will be seasons of delight and seasons of difficulty. There will be reasons to celebrate and reasons to grieve. That is simply life.

The willow tree that shaded their vows will sway through changing seasons, just as every marriage must weather seasons of its own.

But every lasting marriage is built the same way—through thousands of ordinary decisions to love, forgive, serve, and begin again.

As I watch one marriage begin and another celebrate sixty years, I’m reminded that faithfulness is beautiful.

Not flashy.

Not dramatic.

Not always easy.

Just beautiful.

One week.

Sixty years.

Both testify to the same truth: God’s faithfulness sustains us.

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This is not new for us. We’ve been going to baseball games together practically since our first date over 35 years ago. You might say baseball is in my blood after all the games I’ve been to. Both of my brothers played in college, Rick coached the game, and all four of our boys have played baseball. Three played on into college, and one went into professional ball. We are a baseball family

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Last night, we were at the Cowley Tigers game to cheer on our youngest son, Josiah. He’s the shortstop for Cowley College, and they are in their end-of-season regional tournament.

It was a perfect evening for baseball — light wind, setting sun behind us, comfortable temperatures — and as we settled into our seats, I could feel the energy and anticipation between the two teams. The dugouts were ready to play ball.

The game got underway, and I found myself thinking about all the hours our family has devoted to this sport. I can’t even begin to calculate the time given to backyard games, practices, road trips, and tournaments.

You might say baseball has dominated our lives.

There’s a lot I love about the sport, especially at the beginning of the season. The green grass in spring. The seventy-degree days. The clean uniforms. The new faces and returning players. The energized coach. A fresh stat page.

The start of a new season means anything can happen.

And then eventually, the grind hits.

Mid-summer, it’s hot and miserable, especially on turf. The stats have been accumulating. The errors add up. The slump feels long and impossible to climb out of. Energy is waning. Teammates are annoying, the umps are terrible, and the coach is always yelling. Games feel long. It’s hard to stay devoted.

Yet it’s amazing what you put up with for the love of the game.

I watch as Josiah comes to the plate to face the opposing pitcher.

Ball one.

“Good eye, Jojo!” I call.

The next pitch comes in, and he fouls it off into the stands. He steps out briefly and takes a deep breath to settle himself. Then the fastball comes.

Josiah swings mightily and connects, sending the ball deep into center field with power. But the centerfielder, already waiting at the wall, reaches up and snags it out of midflight.

Out number two.

Baseball is a game of inches.

The pace of baseball allows for a good amount of contemplation for a mom. As I sit there keeping track of the game, I return to my thoughts of how one stays devoted to such a game of failure. What we’re willing to go through, as players or fans, even if there’s only a sliver of hope.

Hope.

That is an important word in baseball. And in life.

Because eventually, a slump comes. The coach yells. Umps make bad calls. The game of life isn’t always easy or fair.

The world often treats hope like wishful thinking — a fragile optimism that maybe things will improve somehow.

But Scripture describes hope differently.

Biblical hope is an anchor for the soul, “sure and steadfast” (Hebrews 6:19), rooted not in circumstances but in the unchanging character of Christ. It’s the confident assurance that God remains faithful even in long seasons of disappointment, exhaustion, uncertainty, or waiting.

If we are anchored in Christ, then we have reason to stay devoted.

Devoted to Him.
Devoted to others.
Devoted to a life well-lived even through hard seasons.

That kind of hope keeps us going. It steadies us when life feels long and wearying. It reminds us that failure is not final and hard seasons are not forever.

Life, like baseball, is often a game of inches.

And to stay in the game, we must keep our eyes fixed on Christ — the One who holds our future securely and promises us “a future and a hope” (Jeremiah 29:11).

Josiah’s team won last night and will play again tonight. So they’ll lace up their cleats again, take ground balls again, and step back into the batter’s box again.

Because that’s what hope does.

It keeps showing up.

Even after the long slump.
Even after the bad call.
Even after the line drive dies in someone else’s glove at the wall.

Hope believes there is still another inning to play.

And maybe that’s why baseball has always resonated so deeply with me. Beneath all the statistics and competition, it quietly rehearses something true about life itself: we keep stepping back into the box because we believe the story isn’t over yet.

As followers of Christ, our hope is not rooted in momentum, talent, outcomes, or perfect seasons. It is anchored in the unchanging character of God. And because of that, we are free to remain devoted — to love well, persevere through disappointment, and keep living faithfully through every hard inning.

The lights eventually shut off over the field last night.

Players gathered their gear.
Parents folded up chairs.
Dust settled back into the baselines.

But tonight, they’ll do it all again.

The hope stays alive.

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This is a story about a wedding dress.

But as it has unfolded, I’ve realized it was never really about the dress at all.

Somewhere along the way, it became a picture of something much bigger.

It’s about what happens when something is broken in a way you can’t fix… and what it looks like when God quietly, personally steps in.

Last fall, my daughter Rebekah and I found ourselves in Columbus, Ohio for a short weekend together with her sister. The wedding was still months away, and on a bit of a whim, we decided to go try on dresses. There was no pressure to find anything. It was simply a chance to begin—to get a sense of what she might like.

It felt light. Unhurried.

Just a mother and her daughters, making space for something new.

And then she put one on.

I remember watching her face more than the dress itself. There was a kind of quiet certainty there—something settled, almost before any of us had time to process it.

She smiled confidently. She knew.

And if you know Rebekah, you know that kind of decisiveness doesn’t come quickly. So Elisabeth and I caught each other’s eye in the mirror, sharing a small, surprised smile. This was the one.

We said yes to the dress that day.

Cancelled the rest of our appointments.

It all felt so easy and joyful. Like one of those sweet gifts God sometimes gives where everything simply falls into place.

Months later, after a few simple alterations, we picked the dress up one final time before she moved across the country.

As we were about to leave, I hesitated.

“Why don’t you just try it on one more time?” I said.

I can’t fully explain why. It was a small thing. Almost an afterthought.

But it wasn’t.

She stepped into the dress…

and almost immediately, we both felt it.

Something had changed.

The dress no longer moved or laid the way it had before. Even the softness and sheen of it seemed different. The bodice didn’t fall right. The hemline looked uneven. What had once felt beautiful and settled suddenly felt wrong.

It wasn’t the dress she had chosen.

We stood there for a moment, neither of us quite knowing what to say.

The wedding was just two months away.

Rebekah, in her way, tried to steady the moment.

“It’s okay,” she said softly. “It’s just a dress.”

And I understood what she was trying to do—to keep perspective, to not let something material carry too much weight.

But it wasn’t just a dress.

Not really.

It held meaning. Anticipation. It was supposed to be perfect.

And beneath her words, I could feel the disappointment settling in.

When a seamstress later confirmed what we already feared—that the dress had shrunk, and there was nothing that could be done to restore it—the reality of it all seemed to land more fully.

There was no fixing this.

That night, I lay awake for a long time.

My thoughts moved in circles—replaying decisions, wondering what I could have done differently, wishing I had spoken up more clearly somewhere along the way.

It’s a familiar place for a mother, I think—that quiet sense that you should have somehow protected your child from disappointment.

And now what? How were we going to fix the un-fixable?

By morning, I knew I needed to go back to the alterations shop and talk through what had happened.

I wasn’t walking in with a plan, exactly. Just a hope, maybe, that something could be made right in a small way.

Before I left, I stood in the kitchen and prayed—simply asking God to go before me, to give me the words, to steady what felt uncertain.

As I picked up my tea, I noticed the tag for the first time.

Be fearless. All you need will be provided.

I held it there for a moment longer than usual.

Not because everything suddenly felt resolved—but because I sensed, in a quiet way, that I was not walking into this alone. The tea bag felt like personal encouragement.

A little later that morning, a friend stopped by.

As we talked, I shared what had happened and what I was about to do. Without hesitation, she said, “I’ll come with you.”

And just like that, something shifted again.

There was unexpected companionship in a place I had been preparing to enter alone. I could go into this confrontation without fear; what I needed was already being provided.

We went into the shop together, unsure of how the conversation would go.

I had walked in prepared for awkwardness or defensiveness. Instead, the shop owner immediately wanted to make it right.

I was hoping for reimbursement of the dry cleaning cost.

“We’ll replace the dress,” she said.

I remember blinking, trying to catch up with what I had just heard.

This was lavish provision.

And yet, even then, the story wasn’t finished.

Because as we began looking for a replacement, we discovered that the dress itself no longer existed. It wasn’t in stores. It wasn’t being made anymore.

What had once been an unexpectedly perfect find was now nowhere to be located.

And then came a phone call I could never have foreseen.

The designer himself had heard about what happened.

He spoke with a kindness that felt almost personal, as though this mattered to him too.

“We can make the dress for her,” he said. “In time for the wedding.”

There was a pause before he added gently, “We don’t usually do this.”

And then, just as gently, he explained the cost.

Four thousand dollars.

I could hardly believe what I was hearing. It felt unbelievably kind… and yet completely out of reach.

I returned to the alterations shop and shared what I had learned. This was the only path forward—in order to replace the dress, it had to be to remade.

Be fearless. All you need will be provided.

We waited to hear what the alterations shop would do.

When the call finally came, it carried more than just an answer.

Between the shop and the dry cleaner, they said, they would cover the cost.

All of it.

That night, I lay awake again.

But this time, it wasn’t restlessness.

It was the slow, dawning realization that this was never just about a dress.

Because what we had in front of us was something we could not fix.

It wasn’t a matter of effort or creativity or trying harder.

The dress had been altered in a way that couldn’t be undone.

There was no path back to what it had been.

And no way forward that we could create on our own.

And then, into that space…

someone stepped in.

Not because they had to.

Not because they owed us anything.

But simply because they chose to.

They did what we could not do.

They made something new where what we had was no longer usable.

And the cost was covered.

Fully.

And as I lay there in the dark, it felt almost impossible to miss what this was pointing to.

Because this is the gospel.

We stand in trepidation before God with what we cannot fix.

Not slightly flawed.

Not in need of minor adjustment.

But undone in a way that we cannot repair ourselves.

And God, in His mercy, does not ask us to figure it out.

He does not hand us instructions or expect us to somehow make ourselves whole again.

Instead—

He steps in.

At great cost to Himself…

He provides what we could never secure.

He makes whole what we could never make whole again.

He covers what we could never pay for.

And what He offers is not a patched version of what once was—

but something entirely new.

Pure.

Whole.

Untouched.

Given, not earned.

For Rebekah, it means a dress made specifically for her—exactly as it was meant to be.

But even that feels small in comparison.

Because what God has done for us is infinitely greater.

It is extravagant.

But this is who God is.

He steps into impossible places.

He does for us what we could never do for ourselves.

And at great cost to Himself, He covers it fully.

We need not fear; in fact, our only response is gratitude.

Deep, overwhelmed, undeserved gratitude.

I am still undone by it.

“Do not be afraid. I will provide for you…” (Genesis 50:21)

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I’ve been on the road a lot lately.

Watching the miles disappear in my rearview mirror. Taking in the passing landscape—neon green trees just beginning to leaf out, black, rich farmland freshly turned, cattle scattered across the hills with their wobbly calves close by.

Gas stations and rest stops. Car snacks and early morning sunrises that have me reaching for my sunglasses. The fading light of day with its spectacular sunset colors. Roaring trucks, construction crews in orange vests, rush hour traffic. Unfamiliar neighborhood streets that aren’t mine—but lead to the people who are.

My kids are scattered now.

So I drive.

I never imagined this part of life quite like this.

I pictured one home—the place where everything would happen. Birthdays and graduations, backyard gatherings, holidays, weddings, babies. A lifetime of memories held within the same walls.

But that’s not been our story.

We’ve moved often. Our most recent move to Kansas came just as our youngest boys were finishing high school. And now, my kids have built lives in other places—Kansas City, Ohio, Tennessee, Pennsylvania, Texas.

They are building careers and marriages and rhythms of their own.

And so, I drive.

On my last trip—an epic three-week loop through the Midwest—I saw all six of them. It was soul-filling and hard at the same time. I loved stepping into their worlds, seeing their routines, meeting their people.

And then, saying goodbye.

That part doesn’t get easier.

Knowing it will be a while before we’re together again. Talking by phone or FaceTime, which is good—but not the same. Daily life continues to move forward, but without me in it.

At least that ribbon of highway brings us back to one another.

And somewhere along the way, it brings me back to myself.

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It takes time to drive from Wichita to any of these places.

There’s no shortcut. I have to pass each mile physically before I make progress from point A to point B. And somewhere in that steady movement, something else is happening too.

There’s space on the road, and I’m learning to sit with it.

To process the letting go—and the promises to stay connected.

The road gives me space I don’t always make otherwise. Space to pray more honestly. To notice what’s going on inside me. To pay attention to what God might be teaching me as the miles go by.

Some stretches are quiet and open, the kind that let my mind settle.

Others feel long and restless, where I’d rather just be there already—wherever “there” is.

And in both, He meets me.

God knows the road I’m on. Not just the one stretching out in front of my car, but the one unfolding in this season of life.

“He knows the way that I take; when He has tested me, I will come forth as gold.”
—Job 23:10

I feel that tension on the road sometimes—the weight of it. The goodbyes. The distance. The letting go that doesn’t really feel finished.

And yet, underneath it, a quiet steadiness.

A reminder that even this—especially this—is part of something purposeful.

That the hard things are not wasted.

That somehow, in the miles between us, He is refining all of us.

I’m learning to rest in this season as it is.

To trust that God meets me in each mile of the journey—both on the road and in my own heart.

And that this is what love looks like now.

Miles driven.
Goodbyes held a little longer.
And the quiet, steady choice to keep showing up anyway.

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Spring has come.

The days are longer, the air is warmer, and everything feels like it’s waking up again. Birds are singing, flowers are beginning to bloom, and neighbors are out grilling in the early evening light. I throw open the windows, eager to air out the musty rooms and let the fresh breeze carry winter away.

But once the windows are open, I see them more clearly.

The dirt caked along the sills. The streaks left behind from January’s icy rain and wind. Spider webs tucked into the corners. A line of dead flies gathered along the edges. Fingerprints. Nose smudges. Paw marks.

Every window needs attention.

So, it’s window-washing day.

I mix the vinegar solution, dig out the microfiber cloths, and retrieve the squeegee from the bottom of the cleaning bin. The ladder comes out next. It’s not a small task. It takes planning—just the right kind of day. Not too hot, not too cold, with a stretch of clear weather ahead.

It’s the kind of job that’s easy to put off.

Because once you start, you really have to keep going. It’s messy, inconvenient, and mostly thankless.

But when it’s done…everything changes.

Light pours in differently. The view sharpens. You realize how much you were missing, even when you thought the windows were “clean enough.”

As I worked my way around the house, wiping down each pane, I started thinking about what windows are for.

They let certain things in and keep other things out.

I want the sunshine in, but the rain out. The breeze in, but the bugs out. The warmth in, but the cold out. Windows create a boundary.

They also help me see.

From inside, I can look out and notice what’s happening beyond me. From outside, I can look in and catch a glimpse of what’s within. Windows are places of both protection and perspective.

And somewhere between the rinsing and the wiping, I started to think about another kind of window.

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There’s a concept often called a “window of tolerance.”

It’s the space where we are able to stay calm, present, and grounded—even when life feels stressful or uncertain. When we’re within that window, we can respond thoughtfully, feel emotions without being overwhelmed by them, and make decisions that reflect who we really are.

But when we move outside that window, things shift.

We react more quickly.

We feel urgency where it isn’t needed.

We shut down or lash out.

And it’s usually not our best selves that show up there.

If I’m honest, I don’t always notice when my window has narrowed.

But sometimes, it becomes obvious.

The other day, my son kindly started the laundry for me. Later, I realized he had forgotten to add the detergent. Without thinking, I reacted—frustrated, sharper than I needed to be—and made him feel like he had done something really wrong.

It wasn’t really about the laundry.

It was the accumulation of the day. The noise in my head. The sense of one more thing not done quite right.

And almost immediately, I knew I was out of line.

A smudge on the glass.

The next day, I went back and apologized. Not because I handled it well—but because I didn’t.

These are the moments that help me see.

The overreaction.

The withdrawal.

The tension that rises too quickly.

They are small, but they matter.

They are clues—smudges on the glass.

And instead of pushing past them, I’m learning to pause. To pay attention. To ask what’s really going on underneath. To slow down long enough to let a little more light in before I respond.

It’s slow work.

Sometimes frustrating work.

But every now and then, almost unexpectedly, things begin to look clearer.

A conversation goes differently.

A moment that might have escalated…doesn’t.

I stay present when I might have pulled away.

Clean windows don’t change what’s outside.

They change how clearly we can see it.

And maybe that’s part of what this season invites us into.

As we open the windows of our homes and welcome in the light, perhaps it’s also time to tend to the ones within us.

Not perfectly.

Not all at once.

Just enough to let a little more light in.

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To open class, our guest speaker asked each of us to describe something beautiful we had seen that day.

As others mentioned fragile raindrops clinging to the windowpane or delicate pink blossoms just beginning to open on the trees outside, I found myself thinking about a duck.

There was nothing particularly striking about her—brown feathers with a few white ones mixed in, orange webbed feet, beady black eyes, and a yellowish bill.

What caught my attention as I watched from the sofa inside was her movement.

She walked up and down the sidewalk, never straying far from a certain spot—a flower box nestled between the walkway and a busy four-lane road.

Every so often, she would settle herself into the leftover, decaying growth inside the box.

But if someone passed by, or a car sped past too loudly, she would flutter up anxiously and pace the sidewalk until she could return again.

As I watched, I began to understand:

this mama duck had built her nest in a very unfortunate place.

She must have chosen her spot in the quiet of an evening—perhaps on a calm weekend when the road was still, the air soft, and the river across the street easily accessible.

It must have seemed like a suitable place to settle in, build a nest, and lay her eggs.

And then Monday came.

Monday—with its noise and traffic and constant movement.

But here’s the unexpected, beautiful thing:

This mama duck did not abandon her nest.

She stayed.

Again and again, she returned to that small flower box, tending her eggs in the midst of the chaos around her.

Like it or not, this was now her place, and she was determined to make it work—even when her feathers were ruffled by the noise and confusion of trucks and motorcycles and curious passersby.

The tenacity of this mama duck felt like a quiet testimony to the countless mothers I know who have willingly and sacrificially created homes in the unlikeliest of places.

I think of my grandmother, who had three young children—my mother still an infant—while living in a dugout carved into the side of a hill in occupied France during World War II.

Her husband had been seriously injured and was in the hospital, and she was left to find safety for her children amid constant air raids.

She took refuge in that crude shelter, hiding her children and making quick, dangerous trips out to find food when she could.

And she took refuge in Psalm 91:

“He will cover you with His feathers, and under His wings you will find refuge.” (v. 4)

While she was being a kind of “mama duck” for her children, she was also being reminded that she herself was held—gathered under the protective care of her Heavenly Father.

Perhaps that is what home is, at least in part.

Not always the place we would have chosen.

Not always calm or quiet or ideal.

Sometimes home is formed in places that feel uncertain, even fragile.

And yet, home is where we stay.

Where we tend what has been entrusted to us.

Where we return again and again, even when the surroundings feel unsettled.

That mama duck did not relocate when the world around her grew loud.

My grandmother did not wait for perfect conditions to care for her children.

They stayed.

They adapted.

They created something steady in the middle of disruption.

And perhaps that is the quiet, unseen work of so many mothers.

We build homes not only in places of peace, but in places of tension.

We create warmth in the midst of uncertainty.

We gather our people close, even when the world around us feels loud and unpredictable.

And we do it, often, with feathers a bit ruffled.

But we are not left to do this work alone.

If God covers us with His feathers—if we are invited to find refuge under His wings—then even the most unlikely places can become spaces of safety and belonging.

Even a flower box beside a busy road.

Even a dugout on the side of a hill.

Even the many homes we build and leave behind over the course of our lives.

Because home, ultimately, is not defined by the steadiness of our surroundings.

It is shaped by presence.

By love.

By faith.

By the quiet, persistent work of staying.

And that is something truly beautiful.

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We are here after a cross-country trip to move my girl into her new apartment. She will now be states away, starting her new job on Monday. In three months, she will be getting married and her new husband will be moving in. It’s a lot of new.

It’s a lot of new for both her and me. Rebekah is our youngest daughter who has been living with my husband and I for the last six months in order to save money before all this transition. With her moving to Pennsylvania, Rick and I will become empty-nesters, now that all of our six children are off on their own adventures. New seasons of life for each of us.

New beginnings are exciting AND overwhelming. They’re full of potential AND full of anxiety. They hold so much promise AND so much loss. I have felt those paradoxical emotions multiple times during our family’s multiple moves, and I do all over again even now, standing in my daughter’s apartment. This is familiar and yet unique territory all at the same time. I know that every new season or new place has God’s fingerprints on it, that He is present and powerful in it, and that He provides what we need at exactly the right time we need it. Yet, once again, I need reminders of these truths because the bottom line is change is hard. Change can get us all jumbled up inside, and I for one, need to be reminded of God’s unchanging nature when everything around me is new and different.

That’s why I am working on an Ebenezer of sorts. In 1 Samuel 7:12, an Ebenezer is referenced as a stone of remembrance: “Afterward, Samuel took a stone and set it upright between Mizpah and Shen. He named it Ebenezer, explaining ‘The Lord has helped us to this point.’” My Ebenezer is the book I’m writing to help me remember God’s faithfulness throughout the numerous moves our family has made. In every season of life, with every new circumstance, God has consistently been present, teaching me essential life lessons of His character. My Ebenezer memoir is written to remind me (and my kids) of His trustworthiness when it feels like life is upside down and out of control.

As Rebekah returns to the apartment, climbing up the steep stairs with her wedding dress carefully held high above her head so she doesn’t accidentally step on it, my eyes shine with quiet tears of pride and anticipation. Rebekah is beautiful and resilient and strong even as she wonders if she has what it takes to live on her own, start a new job in a new city, and finish final plans for her wedding. I know she does. I know because I’ve written about her and about how God’s timing in and provision for her life has always been perfect, even when it has seemed hard and confusing and “wrong.” I know God will hold her and provide for her at just the right moments because I’ve seen Him do it in the past. My Ebenezer reminds me that God has helped her to this point. Why would He stop now?

Change is hard, sometimes crazy hard. But what I write about is God’s goodness and trustworthiness in the midst of the constantly changing lives we live. Specifically, I write about moving and transition and lessons God has taught me on the journey to find home. I write about faith, memory, and the quiet work of building a home through many seasons of change. I write about being rooted in motion.

Rebekah’s going to have a fabulous spot; it’s a process and will take time, but I’ve helped to get her started. Rick and I are going to enjoy our place in life too. It’ll be somewhat bittersweet as we sort out how to be empty-nesters, but I’m looking forward to time together in a new way. God is in the midst of it all, teaching, reminding, and leading us forward to the home we long for…and here, I raise my Ebenezer.

Some of those homes held only a few years of memories. Others shaped entire seasons of our lives. Each move carried its own mixture of excitement, uncertainty, and quiet grief as we learned to begin again somewhere new.

After walking through many of those transitions with my husband and our six children, I began to notice something: the question of home is deeper than geography. Home is tied to belonging, faith, memory, and the people who share our lives.

Somewhere along the way I started writing these stories down.

What began as scattered reflections eventually became a memoir about the moves our family has made and the lessons God has taught me in the midst of those seasons of change. Writing it has helped me remember how consistently God has been present—guiding, providing, and shaping our family in ways I often didn’t recognize until much later.

This blog is a small space where I’ll share reflections related to those themes.

Here you’ll find essays about:

• home and belonging

• faith in seasons of transition

• family memories

• the quiet work of building a life through change

Occasionally I’ll also share glimpses from the memoir itself as it moves toward publication.

If you’ve ever had to leave a place you loved…

If you’ve ever started over in a new community…

If you’ve ever wondered how faith grows when life feels uncertain…

You may find something familiar here.

You’re very welcome to subscribe if you’d like to receive new essays in your inbox as they are published.

I’m glad you’re here.

— Karin