“In this world you will have tribulation...”

It’s not the promise I want to hear.

It’s the Passover meal, and Jesus is teaching us like he’s never taught before. Spilling his heart across the table, splashing it across our plates.

“In this world you will have tribulation...”

He’s promised many things before. Comfort, healing, protection. Now... trouble?

I mean, we’ve seen it. No surprises there. “Messiah” didn’t come with “easy” attached to it. We’re under Roman occupation. This is war. Of course there will be trouble.

“But take heart, I have overcome the world.”

Wait.

He didn’t say he’s overcome the Romans. He didn’t say occupation or war or taxes or oppression. He said the world.

“In this world you will have tribulations...”

I don’t understand.

I don’t think I want to understand.

But then I look up from my plate.

Those eyes, those same eyes that pierced my soul the day we met (and every day since).

His eyes are sad... triumphant... and kind.

Always kind.

And this I know:

I don’t have to understand.

Not tonight.

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She’s rushing, no, running to the New York Yankees stadium, laden with merch, late. He’s in a Manhattan suit, a little outraged, looking at the time. They’ve got a plan. They can’t afford to mess it up. Not today.

They make it into their seats, not before they’ve told their informant (i.e. the guy in charge of the kiss-cam) that they need these two people to kiss. The two people being their bosses.

Their plan?

Get their bosses to fall in love, of course. Or go on a date at least.

The ultimate goal? As over-worked executive assistants, they just want a break.

(Spoiler: they’re the ones who end up on a date).

And it all starts with sports.

Yes, this is straight of a rom-com, and of course, that rom-com is Netflix’s Set It Up (2018) starring Zoey Deutch and a (very young) Glen Powell.

We keep our expectations low, when we watch a Netflix rom-com. Yes, it’s one of those sleeping-around 2010s rom-coms and not a map I’d personally use to build a healthy relationship. But in 2018, I was just about to turn 25, the same age as Harper, and I was a writer on a creative team—so her journey as an assistant-to-a-sports journalist (being a writer herself) hit pretty close to home.

But there was something more in Set It Up that hit close to home:

girls passionate about sports.

Harper and Charlie are now in their stadium seats. Harper’s decked out in her Yankee’s gear, and Charlie still in his suit (she roasts him for this, of course). They’re spying on their bosses, but baseball games are long. So they talk.

Charlie’s trying to reassure her that guys love girls who like sports.

Harper rolls her eyes.

With that, mic drop.

Okay, okay, of course it’s not completely true.

I’m probably the least qualified to talk about sexism in sports. I grew up with three older brothers, which is why I chose to play soccer at six years old, then played almost year-round until I graduated. Soccer was one of the most common sports for girls in Hawai‘i in the early 2000s (my high school team only had a couple less players than the guys team). The majority of guys I grew up with were kind and respectful when it came to girls-and-sports. Even today, my guy coworkers are usually the ones asking me to play so we have enough for a five-a-side match.

But this scene still hits a nerve.

In the last four years, I’ve started playing soccer regularly again. Nothing fancy at all, usually just pick-up futsal and a few tournaments here or there. The thing with being a goalkeeper (especially in your 30s) is you don’t have to be as skilled or fit as you used to be. You just have to replace the random guy or girl who doesn’t want to be in goal. But I’ve been playing on the field more, slowly remembering the joy of a sport I played for 12 years (and hopefully getting a little better).

Also, I moved to England, the home of football.

I started following the English Premier League (my brother is a lifelong Arsenal fan, so naturally, that’s who I chose), and then I watched the Euros (European Championships) in 2024. I discovered I spoke the native tongue—football—yet still had a lot to learn. Every match I watched, I upped my vocabulary. Boots. Pitch. Match. Relegation. Promotion. North London Forever. Manager. Walkout. So on and so forth.

But in every room, it was hard to ignore.

I was drastically outnumbered.

At the pub. On the field. At the cafe, debriefing the game. It was me and the boys, over and over again. I’d be kicking myself. Isn’t this the dream? Single girl surrounded by guys, with something to talk about?

It would be the dream.

If I wasn’t haunted by that movie quote.

Guys think that they like girls who like sports. What they actually like is a girl in a very tight sports jersey, serving them wings and getting the terminology wrong.

As a kid, I was a tomboy, no denying it.

I played soccer in tropical heat so much that I didn’t regularly wear makeup until I was an adult. That’s also when I finally learned to embrace that being taller-than-average didn’t just mean I could save goals. It also meant I could pull off some legendary dresses. Slowly, my soccer jerseys disappeared from my wardrobe. But when I started trying to merge my two worlds again, Harper’s words felt scarily accurate.

I started doing depressing girl-math where it felt like every guy was asking out the girls who were “getting the terminology wrong”. Okay, maybe not fully. But it started to feel like the reason I wasn’t taken seriously (romantically) is because I played sports. When you’ve been single for a while, you try and diagnose the issues the best you can. You want fix your problem. However, as we all know, being single isn’t exactly a problem you fix, especially not with girl math.

But more than anything, I wanted to know:

It was the first week of June, but it was pouring with rain.

I leaned the fence (with my umbrella) and spotted my friends. They’d just joined a local 6v6 league and I’d come down that evening, part-support, part-curiosity. Although we usually played weekly on our campus, we hadn’t had enough people. I promised myself I’d find a way to play more regularly.

But… this was a men’s league.

I was painfully aware of it from the first minute.

No girls on the field, no girls on the sidelines, no girls anywhere to be seen. Just 40 British men running around in the rain. Which could be ideal, if they weren’t all swearing a thousand miles a minute. Minus my friends, of course. But no, I hadn’t come to support a crush. Every one of my friends was taken, and I was so grateful. I was there because—shockingly enough—I’m a girl who likes sports.

I actually came for the soccer.

But where on earth were all the girls?

Living in England since 2023, I’ve discovered two things:

1. British (and European) guys will never say they “play football” unless they played semi-pro or above. But they do play, and usually play well. Because they’ve played at every school break time, all their lives.

2. Girls, on the other hand, have a different story. They either play or they don’t. And to play while outnumbered is a conscious decision, over and over again, for all their lives.

This year, I made yet another of those conscious decisions.

I showed up to that field week after week (thankfully the weather got better), sometimes with the wives-and-girlfriends (is WAGs just a European term?), being a ball girl or scrutinizing the shots to see if I’d be brave enough to play goalie, if they ever let me. But more so, I went to investigate the best news: the coordinator was in the process of starting a women’s league, too.

But those Wednesday nights were soon interrupted by a little something called:

Overnight, the globe (including my one of my home countries, the USA) was talking non-stop about the sport I’d cared about my entire life. Suddenly, football wasn’t just NFL. One of my favorite reels was an interviewer wandering around an American sports journalism office asking for guesses on 2022 World Cup final views versus a Super Bowl.

The Americans were flabbergasted at the numbers:

Needless to say, it’s always fun to have Americans wake up to the global sport (but it’s also in the top 3 most-played youth sports in the US).

Did I support the USA? Um, not really. My football fandom has long been reserved for England. Of course, I went nuts for my little New Zealand, who was in the World Cup for the first time since 2010. But their games were generally at 2am here and they exited in the group stage again. Didn’t stop me from buying a New Zealand Football jacket and wearing it everywhere.

And… I don’t think I have the emotional energy to write about supporting England this World Cup. Not yet.

I’m reminded of Harper in Set It Up, yet again.

Part way through the movie, she’s on a dating app (after some encouragement to “get out there”). And I love her. Because this is her go-to DM question:

When Arsenal won the Premier League for the first time in 22 years. When players huddle together to pray. When Vozinha made record-breaking saves and left Cabo Verde (and the world) in awe. When Declan Rice scored in under 3 minutes against France (but wait, I think I laughed aloud with utter joy on that one).

I’ve talked about soccer, because that’s what I know. But there are so many other sports, each with their own moments that make us cry. Every sport deserves its own Substack post. Every sport deserves a fan base to write about it. Every sport has value.

Because whatever the sport, we know the truth.

Sports aren’t statistics. Sports are the expression of the heart. Sports are the last frontier of discipleship. Sports keep you healthy, yet sports also tear you apart. Sports are the grand equalizer, the grand exposer, the grand divider—and if we’re doing it right, the grand unifier. Sports, in short, are a gift from God.

To all people.

And I’m beyond grateful to play a small part.

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I was five years old
when I begged my mum
to let me start
soccer

it was all off the heels
of the 1999
Women’s World Cup
and I had the very first
Soccer Barbie
(even with tiny shin guards!)

and I watched my three brothers
from the AYSO sidelines
in blazing Hawaiian heat
(yes, I got lots of freckles)

and then it began.

I played every year
fall season
then winter select
spring tournaments
spring futsal
pick-up in the summer

repeat

but soon
I could not
shake

my love-hate
relationship
with
soccer

when you start playing at 6,
and don’t stop til you’re 18

when you play year-round
and your weekends are crowded
criss-crossing your tiny island
for tournaments

you’re smitten—of course

but soon
the drive to

perform
perform
perform

(or else you’ll get subbed off the field)

drove me
to despise it.

to be clear,
Hawai‘i cannot
be described as
a soccer-crazed nation

but still, in twelve years
I experienced a
small slice of the poison
that seeps in
which said:

you have to perform
to belong.

and my desire to play
was slowly shredded by
the pressure to pay
a price to get better
that I was not
willing to pay

a soccer player,
in short,
was not the only thing
I wanted to be

so I let go
I moved on
I moved to
a rugby-crazed nation
for ten years

I got my teaching degree,
I joined missions
I played soccer
occasionally,
all the while
forgetting:

twelve years of one sport
is not so easily shaken

then?

in my last months of living
in that rugby-crazed nation
(also known as New Zealand)

my Swiss friend invited me
to watch the Euros online

and

as I soaked up
international football
on a digital screen…

something
shifted

and

I fell in love again.

today I live in
a football-crazed nation

(sometimes they remember
they used to call it soccer)

and oh, I’ve witnessed
the shredding
of the human heart

here,
more than
anywhere else.

but

after two years in England
and traveling Europe
I’ve discovered
toxic performance mentality
is not the only story
of football

after two years in England
and traveling Europe
I’ve also discovered
what God always wanted
when he created sports
in the first place:

it’s where you
experience

when brothers and sisters
dwell together in unity…

you’re
blessed.

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“What separates the casual Jane Austen fan… from the aficionado?” (Austenland, 2013)

Well, finding herself here, of course.

I knew there were a hundred Austen fans. Maybe even a thousand. But since writing 12 Best Jane Austen Film Adaptions, Ranked, I’m convinced there has to be more than a million out there.

And we’re right here.

We’re haunting Substack, waiting for Netflix’s Pride and Prejudice to drop, so we can write a rant on Jack Lowden’s inaccuracy to Darcy (until we see him for 30 seconds in Slow Horses and know exactly why they cast him). We’re right here. Ready to pull out two decades worth of nerd-levels to analyze movies we’ve seen too many times. We’re right here.

Okay, okay, I don’t want to put words in your mouth.

This is me, all me.

I entered the fandom at 12 years old when I saw Pride and Prejudice (2005) in theaters. I proceeded to read every book and watch every adaptation I could find (but this was the era when Netflix was still was a mail-order DVD service, lest we forget).

Northanger Abbey (2007) became my favorite, but when I wrote my ranking post earlier this year, I decided to rank by sheer amount of re-watches to survive my own indecision (if you’re new here, find who had the top spot here).

Of course, I discovered in the comment section that despite my twenty years of fandom, I still haven’t seen some revered classics (mainly Persuasion, 1995). I’d also completely forgotten about an adaptation I’d seen many times.

Therefore, this post.

So, without further ado, here are my favorite Jane Austen spin-offs, ranked.👇🏽

#7 — The Other Bennet Sister (2026)

Why is this last in the ranking, you may ask?

BECAUSE IT WASN’T OUT IN THE STATES AND WHEN I ARRIVED BACK TO ENGLAND I REMEMBERED I DON’T HAVE A TV LICENSE.

A “TV license”, to my non-British-resident friends, is something you have to pay monthly that allows you to watch live TV or access UK streaming services (this is not including what you pay for said services). So alas, I have not watched The Other Bennet Sister yet.

But enough of my rant. I will find a way to watch this soon. Indeed I must, before Instagram Reels shows me the entire series. I keep watching ten-second clips like a lunatic who wants a good show spoiled.

This may have something to do with the fact I recently binged Young Sherlock. Beforehand, I didn’t get the Dónal Finn hype (how could anyone fall for Moriarty?). But halfway through his first scene, I was like—oh, I get it now (do the Irish just have natural charisma?). So I’m looking forward to watching Dónal as an actual (non-evil) lead rather than an arch-nemesis.

#6 — Becoming Jane (2007)

Becoming Jane came out during the 2005-2009 Austen adaptation renaissance, basically the perfect time for a biopic. And yet—I have never been more conflicted about an Austen film in my life.

It was 2007, and my friends and I already had a crush on Narnia’s Mr. Tumnus. Being too young to see Atonement (due to its tragic plot, I still refuse), Becoming Jane finally meant we could prove to all the haters why we had a crush on a faun: James MacAvoy.

Despite this remarkable advantage, from the start I knew I was disinclined to like this movie. We all knew the end: Jane doesn’t get married. No biopic changes that historical fact. So as a high school freshman, I steeled myself for its tragic end, and still hated it (maybe made all the worse by Mr. Lefroy’s absolute charm—once again, the Irish).

Then, growing up on Princess Diaries (its sequel is the best, we all know it) meant Anne Hatheway’s American accent was stuck in my mind. So when she played one of the most famous British women of all time just… I never watched it again. I can’t say it’s a terrible British accent, better than I could ever dream of doing. Just not… authentic.

However, two decades later, there’s one scene that still lives rent-free in my head. It’s classic first-dance banter, where Jane is spouting to Mr. Lefroy that he is “above being pleased” (a bit of a heavy nod to Lizzie and Darcy, but we’re here for it). Lefroy retorts with this:

“I think that you, Miss Austen, consider yourself a cut above the company… secretly.”

Oosh. Just another reminder to get yourself a man who calls you out on your $#@%.

(I have included the exact clip above for your viewing pleasure).

#5 - Clueless (1995)

Clueless was in my best-adaptations post, but I’m just gonna say it’s a spin-off, too. It’s only got the #5 spot but it just really needs an entire category of its own (90s rom-coms based on books? Maybe I’ll write that next).

This film truly is gold. I’m not just talking about that cardigan. “Emma Woodhouse, handsome, clever, and rich, with a comfortable home and happy disposition”—it’s the first line in the book, but still perfectly describes Alicia Silverstone’s performance of Emma. She even pulled off how Emma had lived “in the world with very little to distress or vex her” in the way she drove (well, crashed?) her Jeep through L.A. streets. Perfect.

Maybe more perfect, it has a young Paul Rudd. Need I say more?

#4 — Miss Austen (2025, 4-part series)

We’re all inclined to watch this, not because I said so, but because it’s Keeley Hawes. Not only is she the long-running queen of British period dramas (Wives & Daughters, Upstairs Downstairs, and The Durrells, to name a few), in real-life she is married to our 2005 Mr. Darcy himself, Matthew Macfayden. So, it was only a matter of time before we had an Austen collaboration.

Miss Austen is based on the 2020 novel by Gill Hornby, which was inspired by Cassandra Austen and how she burned many of Jane’s letters after she died (to the despair of every biographer since). But even though this show had a legend like Keeley Hawes, I wasn’t prepared for how hard it would hit me. They give flashbacks to Jane’s writing and publication days, and also the realities of both sisters being single in their twenties, thirties, and beyond.

Let’s just say—it had me in tears, the kind of tears that say “I feel seen” and “wow I want to be like the Austen sisters”.

It’s so worth it.

#3 — Austenland (2013)

You know it already, but simply put—it’s a masterpiece.

Based on Shannon Hale’s 2007 novel (once again, a great year for Austen), it follows every rule of an Austen movie, but absolutely unhinged.

I mean, you put modern-day Americans in a Regency estate in the countryside with British (and Kiwi) “actors paid to fall in love with you!” and well, I’ve never laughed so hard in my life. For example, the pianoforte scene—I still haven’t recovered. And now as a Kiwi-American living in England, the whole movie is made even better.

So thank you, Keri Russell, who also happens to be the real-life partner of our 2013 Mr. Darcy, one of the most underrated (or unknown) Darcys…

#2 — Death Comes to Pemberley (2013, 3-part series)

Even though this came out the same year as Austenland, I missed it for almost five years. To be honest, I was thrown off by the title—oh, they’ve killed Darcy or Elizabeth or one of their kids—and I saw one terribly-designed poster. Oh, if I knew the cast, I would’ve been there in a heartbeat. Instead, I had to be mind-blown years later.

This is everything a spin-off should be. Based on the 2011 P. D. James novel, Death Comes to Pemberley, it keeps to the heart of an Austen movie while successfully pulling off a murder mystery set a decade later with our most beloved characters (who, dare I say, are cast maybe more perfectly than previous adaptations? Shoot me now). I mean, we get Matthew Goode as Wickham. That tells you enough.

But back to Mr. Darcy. In the never-ending wars about Colin Firth versus Matthew Macfayden (and now the upcoming Jack Lowden, who might surprise us all), I’m going to calmly put my hand up and say that Matthew Rhys killed it. I mean, he’s an excellent actor whatever he’s in (if you’ve seen A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood you know what I mean). But as Darcy, he’s that complex combination of severity and sweetness, all in the context of a murder mystery. Brilliant.

But there’s one more Darcy you may have forgotten about…

and he’s in the Pride and Prejudice spin-off we all need right now.

* DRUMROLL PLEASE *

….

…

..

.

#1 — Bride & Prejudice (2004)

You can’t hate this movie. It’s actually impossible. If you don’t like musicals, okay, maybe I’ll give it to you. If you don’t like epic Bollywood dance numbers, I’ll also give it to you. But if you don’t like feeling absolute joy while watching an early-2000s rom com based on our favorite author… well, I can’t help you.

In 2002, director Gurinder Chadha shocked the world with the unexpected success of Bend It Like Beckham. The blend of Bollywood and British rom-com (with excellent storytelling, of course) was fun and fresh, giving a unique window to Indian culture that mainstream film hadn’t yet seen. Two years later, Chadha did it again with Bride & Prejudice.

Since my brother and I went through a brief Bollywood phase (I have no idea how he first found Main Hoon Na), finally watching Bride & Prejudice was like watching Kpop Demon Hunters if you’ve already seen three K-dramas. Here for it.

Best part of the movie? If you’re still skeptical, watch this scene.

You’re welcome.

What are your Jane Austen spin-off rankings? I’d love to hear your top films and series!

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Georgia is a small country sandwiched between Eastern Europe and Western Asia.

I knew it existed—but that was it.

Back in October 2022, I was asked to join a team to do a short ministry trip in Tbilisi, Georgia. Honestly, I just sat in the prayer room for five minutes, looked at the map, and said “sounds good”.

But—Georgia was four flights from where I lived in Hawai‘i. In the back of my head, even when I arrived in Tbilisi that December—I kept wondering:

Why on earth am I going all this way? And for such a short amount of time?

So one icy morning in Tbilisi, I stole a few moments to play piano. Within five minutes, this spontaneous song tumbled out:

I came all this way
to be with you
In the night,
and in the day
to be with you

That’s when I remembered John 17:24.

“Father, I desire that they may be with me where I am.”

It’s Jesus’ desperate prayer, the night before the Cross. He simply wants to be with the people He loves. He crossed the chasm of heaven and earth—to be with us. To be human. To feel what we feel. To laugh with us, to cry with us, to eat with us. To free us. To love us.

And I realized that’s what missionaries do.

We cross oceans and continents to be with the people God loves—and to fall in love with them, too.

It seems a little unconventional. Why not just pray?

Oh, prayer always changes things—and we should never stop asking God to transform the nations.

But being there matters, too.

It mattered, to walk the cobblestone streets first-hand and to hear the clatter of the metro. To taste the melted sulguni cheese and to hold a bouquet of chrysanthemums sold on a street corner.

It mattered, to sing with young Georgians who are fiery for Jesus. To taste their zeal for their nation, for Central Asia, and for the Middle East—to see their generation saved and set free.

Yes, I could have stayed at home. Yes, God would have answered my prayers.

Many times, that’s what we’re called to do.

But we’re also called to go.

We’re also called to see the answers to our prayers, first-hand.

And that is a privilege I never want to overlook.

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It’s your last week in the office before your sabbatical.

“Sometimes I feel like I’m being grounded,” you say to your coworker, just shy of 5pm.

In a series of not-so-fortunate events, you’ve decided to extend your trip home to Hawai‘i from just a month to … three, maybe five months? You don’t know how long it’s going to be. There are no guarantees, not when you have “sabbatical” and “visa renewal” in the same sentence.

That night in May, you write in your journal. You write how you feel like you’re being grounded. How you’re the media and communications manager for a thriving missions campus and you’re suddenly dealing with nauseous anxiety attacks and feeling like an utter failure. You write how much you adore England with every vein in your body and how it kills you to leave, with no guarantee of when you can return.

That night, you write in your journal:

And it’s nothing new to you.

It’s nothing new to you, me puking all over you.

It’s nothing new to you, my honesty soaking your shirt and swirling around your feet.

It’s nothing new to you.

It’s the middle of sabbatical, but you want it to be the end.

You’re in your hometown and it’s driving you nuts. Well, it drives any thirty-something nuts, to live indefinitely in your parents’ house. You need to get back to England in a month, or else you have to do your whole visa renewal process from Hawai‘i. But it’s August and you’re still in debt, still recovering from that sudden loss of side hustles, still recovering from a decade-in-ministry burnout, still going to counseling every week.

Your brain is feverish, hot and cold, equally desperate to go back to England and equally convinced it’s the last place you should be.

Then your dad has some routine tests.

As the sun sets on Kailua Bay, your mom is telling you on the porch that it’s a tumor and the doctors are optimistic and words like encapsulated and benign and surgery are suddenly the most vital of sounds. The c-word is omitted, in most conversations. But always there. Looming. You can’t know for sure. Not in all this waiting.

Waiting.

You’re no longer waiting for your life in England to begin again.

On the porch, you tell your mom if she wants you at home, you’re not leaving.

England can wait.

It’s December, and the surgery date is set.

The doctors are confident, and your parents are the ones telling you they know it’s time for you to go back, even before the surgery in February. You’re fundraising to be back in full-time ministry again, you’re saving for the thousands of pounds it takes to get a two-year visa. You’re finding out that your missions organization is still waiting on UKVI for their visa license renewal, and so when you have all the money saved, you still can’t apply.

Your visa team tells you to enjoy the sunshine in Hawai‘i. You do. You enjoy everything. Homemade granola scooped into fresh strawberry papaya, with a dollop of greek yogurt on top. Your nephew, playing with yellow tractors. The crash of turquoise waves on lava rock.

But you’re stuck, still.

Waiting.

It’s January.

You finally listen to ’s Sunflowers in Babylon.

It’s different, different than the words he shared a year ago, that morning he told your poetry class somewhere north of London, that the life you long for is hidden in the one you have.

But it’s the same invitation, to be present:

So turn your exile into Eden
and turn your sorrow into a song
Turn your rejection
into the birth pains of restoration
and mine from your frustration
the potential of growth
Pull from your suffering
a morsel of hope…

So, you decide to plant gardens in Babylon. Well, it feels ridiculous to call your tropical hometown by the name of an ancient tyrannical empire.

But you still want to turn exile into Eden.

You teach art to your nephew’s elementary class. You learn to make Vietnamese spring rolls with satay sauce, for your parents. You go to the beach. You write Substack posts. You illustrate Substack posts, too. You play a lot of soccer and watch a whole lot of Premier League. You go to counseling, still—and realize how far you’ve come.

And finally,

at a worship night,

you surrender.

You realize that life will be beautiful even if you never get another visa. You know it could get denied (you’re a missionary kid, and know visas are privileges not rights, even if “God said”)—but now you know, you’ll be okay no matter what. You realize that somewhere between May last year and now, joy is no longer attached to your dream country or your dream job description or your dream little studio flat somewhere north of London. No longer attached to things.

Your joy, it’s Him.

You surrender.

It’s April now.

Late afternoon sun dapples the wall of your flat and you still don’t understand how England can have blue skies on repeat.

On FaceTime, your dad is bantering with your mum that he can lift things over ten pounds. It’s been seven weeks, he’s protesting, and every morning your answered prayer weaves his home-roasted beans into espresso again. Yes, when you sat in that waiting room in ‘Oahu for four hours, you didn’t know. You never can know. But you know today.

So you bundle up (spring is still brisk in Hertfordshire, especially after Hawai‘i), and you amble around the bluebell woods listening to your blackbirds. Then—you stumble into a field of bright yellow. Miles of bright yellow.

You catch your breath.

It was just scruffy grass and dirt when you left.

So many things were.

Now,

it blooms.

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mind the gap / northbound / I finally remember that ThamesLink destination / clinging to suitcases as the trains lurch / sunshine? / still shocked / spring — as I know it — is here.

familiar face at the station / familiar van / what side of the car do I get into? / familiar streets / we’re driving on the wrong side of the road / nope, just back in England / waving, waving / lugging suitcases up the stairs / “I know the world you’ve come from”

walking through the doors / sunshine / my flat / just as I left it 11 months ago / all mine / and I’m so used to transition / that it feels wrong to unpack / two year visa doesn’t seem long enough real

I have to leave, right? / keep things neatly packed / because who knows when this season will end / keep it all in my suitcases / keep the boxes taped up / you can’t unpack / you can’t stretch out / you can’t be at home

prepare to leave / prepare to leave
prepare to leave.

but a quiet voice
reaches through:

stay

it is safe to unpack

it is safe to unfold

it safe

to be

home.

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Things didn’t turn out as we thought.

Caesar and Herod and Pontius Pilate are still on their criminal thrones, we’re still obscure rebels on the run (even more so now), and most say our leader is dead. Gone. We don’t even have the comfort that we’d been with him to the end. We caused his heart-break, and now in our grief we are heart-broken ourselves.

And what kind of fisherman are we? Not a single fish in a whole night.

Hunger gnaws before daybreak.

.

Yet—what’s that?

A man on the beach, calling oh-so-reminiscent of the day it all began.

“Cast your nets to the other side,”—is God mocking us in our grief?

Only one man ever said that to us.

.

But with the tiredness after many tears, we just do it. The ropes slide through my hands, splashing along the side of the boat.

Suddenly, my arms are straining under the weight—who is this man who fills our lack?

John realises it, Peter’s in the water already, and I’m squinting at daybreak—could it be?

.

Come and have breakfast—it’s His hauntingly lovely voice, a cool breeze on a summer’s day.

Come and have breakfast—in the heartbroken disappointment, there’s an invitation.

Come and have breakfast—oh, it’s what Dad always used to sing to us from Asaph’s Psalm:

“Open your mouth wide and I will fill it.”

.

This is not the end.

It’s only the beginning.

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I still wonder

Why the street lights turn off
when the fog is so thick

Why someone can’t simply flick them back on
at least as long as the gloom lasts

And why there aren’t clearer lamps
guiding my way to
what’s next.

I still wonder

If self-timers are ever sensitive
to morning mist
If street-officials have a master switch
to let the light stay on longer
And if I can simply be told
what’s next.

I still wonder

How drivers know when
to turn their headlights on
How cars have beams that pierce
a cloak of fog
And how God
can place a light inside of me
to show me
what’s next.

In reply to my wonderings

A question burns bright,
through the fog:

What if this is about
your heart?

I still ponder

How the whole city
is cloaked in fog—

Yet my heart is still blazing,
alive.

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I’d lost track of when I’d seen the sun.

It gets like that, in England, especially in winter. Days on end, no blue sky in sight. And that’s how Christmas break was in 2024, and it seemed far worse than the last year. I tried to not be too worried.

But there’s something about endless grey skies that seem to highlight the corners of despair you forget about.

You know, those parts of your heart where you wonder if things will change.

Like if you’ll be able to pay your bills without batting an eyelid this month. Like if you’ll ever not miss the countries and cities you’ve left behind. Like if your relationship status will ever shift.

Or if you’ll get that thing you’ve been praying for years.

What endless blue skies in my Hawaiian hometown never seemed to teach me—was how to take out despair, put it on the table, and examine it.

You kinda have no choice, in England.

You can live in denial and binge two TV series in two weeks (I may have done that)—or embrace the long dark of winter and find out what’s really going on inside.

After two Decembers in England, I finally did.

In my case? I found I’d got too used to expecting the worst.

I expected grey skies—in more ways than one.

But then Christa made me a Christmas card that was more than a Christmas card.

It was a pencil sketch of a girl in the rain, holding a newspaper, with the headline: BLUE SKIES.

And she had a look of undeniable hope on her face.

That one drawing—and Christa’s words along with it—jolted me out of my normal rhythms.

“You’ve always been so honest about stormy weather,”

she wrote.

“But you have decidedly chose hope again and again.”

I cried.

Sometimes we can’t see the gold inside us, that’s all tangled up with the grief.

Sometimes it takes our friends, our family, our community to show us the way.

And as that spring arrived, with more blue sky and beautiful train rides than I knew what to do with—that is what I thanked God for.

He didn’t leave me alone.

He was faithful to not only give Himself—but also give friends who were His hands and feet to me.

Great is His faithfulness.

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When Exodus 14 opens, it’s glorious.

After a lifetime of slavery, the Israelites are leaving Egypt. The Promised Land is in sight. They’re free.

Then?

The people of Israel lifted up their eyes, and behold, the Egyptians were marching after them, and they feared greatly (14:10).

How many times have you had that moment?

I know I’ve been there, so many times.

Your breakthrough, just around the corner—but then you hear the rattle of swords drawn against you. Everything you’ve wanted, about to happen—and then it’s on the verge of demolition.

The Israelites reacted to Moses, just like I’d react:

“Is it because there are no graves in Egypt that you have taken us away to die in the wilderness? What have you done to us in bringing us out of Egypt? Is not this what we said to you in Egypt: ‘Leave us alone that we may serve the Egyptians’? For it would have been better for us to serve the Egyptians than to die in the wilderness.” (14:11-12)

On the edge of breakthrough, it feels safer to turn back.

Back to the old ways of thinking.

Back to the old job.

Back to that old relationship—or back to imagining that never-happened relationship.

Better the old, than [insert worst-case scenario].

Because that’s what new is, right? A worst-case scenario.

But what if your future could be different than you fear?

Moses challenges the Israelites to respond, not react.

“Fear not, stand firm, and see the salvation of the LORD, which he will work for you today. For the Egyptians whom you see today, you shall never see again.” (14:13)

You shall never see your captors again. But his challenge didn’t end there.

“The LORD will fight for you, and you have only to be silent.” (14:14)

Other translations say it like this:

You need only to be still.

This month, when you’re battle-weary and tempted to claw for your own breakthrough, hold up a moment. Take time to listen. Take time to rest. Take time to be still.

The Lord will fight for you.

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I needed a change of pace, but didn’t know it.

A couple years ago, my schedule was a wobbly Jenga tower. Every time someone would ask me to meet, it was as if their finger was on the tower, about to shove.

I mean, 2023 didn’t start that way. It started with Christmas break (which means plenty of beach trips, in Hawai‘i) and started with rest. It started with happily watching the cartoon version of The Boy, the Mole, the Fox, and the Horse and as a result, dreaming of England. And when work started up again, I jumped in with a well-ordered list of responsibilities.

But I had one problem. I didn’t have a lot of margin. And when life started to happen, as life normally does—I started short-circuiting.

Oh, I made time for recovery. There was still journaling and Bible reading in the mornings and Sabbath and even spontaneous lunchtimes spent in the Prayer Room. But these times were starting to feel more like survival than living from the overflow.

I needed a change of pace, but didn’t know how to get there.

Then I added an international trip to the mix.

If I was wobbly to start with—preparing for the trip almost toppled me.

But then I arrived in Mexico.

Instead of sprinting around campus to my office—I threw pebbles into puddles with my nephew.

Instead of speeding to my next ministry event—I read aloud A Tale of Desperaux to my nieces.

And that was just the start.

Then I arrived in England, just for a month.

Oh, I started working again—it was a ministry trip, and so I was in the media office for most of the day, building a website for a missions organization. But I don’t know how to explain it: getting emotional every day—not because you’re stressed, but because you feel so loved.

England is one of my favorite places in the world. I love forests. I love coffee. I love bookshops and walks in the countryside and springtime. Not exactly part of my life in Hawai‘i (and so, it’s no shock I decided to move to England on that trip).

To experience all of those things in my spare time—well, I wanted to cry.

And that change of pace was changing me.

Early one morning, I was doing my routine reading in the spare room. Naturally, I was in Psalm 23 a lot. I was in England—I couldn’t get away from it. Oh, I’ve had it memorized for a few years. But those phrases, shepherd… lie down… still waters. Psalm 23 still got me.

But what stood out this time?

Punctuation.

Yes, I’m not joking—but to a Substack crowd, I realize this is not abnormal.

So, punctuation. I realized there was a full stop in a place I’d never noticed. There wasn’t a comma after “He restores my soul”. It was a period.

Psalm 23 didn’t run on quickly to “He leads me”—instead, there’s a stop.

Now, I’m not an expert on Bible translation punctuation, not at all. I don’t want to over-spiritualize sentence structure. But the fact I noticed the full stop was a good sign that I was slowing down, finally.

The change of pace had changed me.

That spring morning, it became clear.

God’s heart is always to restore and heal me before He leads me “in paths of righteousness for His name’s sake”.

Or, in other words?

There’s usually a rest between restoration and direction.

So, today, if you find yourself in an unexpected delay, or things don’t seem to be moving along, don’t worry.

The change of pace could be changing you.

The Lord is my shepherd;
I shall not want.
He makes me lie down in green pastures.
He leads me beside still waters.
He restores my soul.
He leads me in paths of righteousness
for his name’s sake.

— Psalm 23:1-3 (ESV)

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Last Friday, after two months of waiting for paperwork, I finally submitted my next UK visa application. The application itself took 4+ (painstaking) hours. In the (many) moments when I was over it, well and truly over it—the last line from a poem by kept coming to mind. That day, because of that poem, I knew someone understood. I knew I wasn’t alone.

When I finally submitted my application, all I could do was (get a snack and) write my own version of that same poem. Then Rosa made an official petition for me to share it (ugh, thank you). So here we are…

THINGS I NEED TO PROVE TO THE UKVI THAT I LOVE YOU:

a copy of my US passport / a copy of my NZ passport / my birthdate / that day in Kealakekua, Hawai‘i / the dates of all the trips I took to tell people about you / in the last 10 years / Fiji / Himalayas / Eastern Europe / the Middle East / “tourism” / not missions / which includes “visiting family and friends” / which I do everywhere / the dates of all four visits to see my brother’s family / Mexico / Mexico / Mexico / Mexico / in the last 4 years / but not Australia or New Zealand or US or European trips / only 2024 in Switzerland / and New Zealand / because it’s “recent” / how many days? / I check my photos / oh I have it saved for my US taxes / per diem rates too / but no date can measure / how I encountered you / Italian pizza / chocolate gelato / floating in Lake Lugano

snap back to present / “current residence” / my parents’ address in Hawai‘i / reason for visit? / “visiting family and friends” / there’s no sabbatical / there’s no dropdown menu for your restoration / NHS fee / UKVI application fee / biometrics appointment at Premium VFS Center in Honolulu, with fee / flights to Honolulu / waiting / so much waiting

God, I hope they can at least feel it / through all this paperwork / through all this waiting / how much I love them / how much I love you.

Based on “Things I Need to Prove to the USCIS That I Love You” in Under the Samán Tree by

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Under the Samán Tree by Rosa Lía Gilbert

It wasn’t even February yet.

It was the end of January, and Kenzie was keen for a quick Target run after our media-in-missions course. Except nothing is a quick about a Target run—you go for one thing and come back with ten… twelve… twenty things.

Within the first thirty seconds, this mission took us right past that display. You know the one. Deep red hearts and cute couple catchphrases in silky, sparkling cursive.

“Oh no—it’s Valentine’s Day,” I rolled my eyes.

I was about to launch into my bitter diatribe about how I avoid social media for three days before and after Valentine’s Day because, being single for -th time in a row, I don’t need to be reminded of what I still didn’t have.

But Kenzie ruined it.

“Valentine’s Day is one of my favorite holidays!”

I side-eyed her, as single as me—was she serious? But her eyes were practically sparkling.

“There’s always hope,” she smiled.

Usually, that’s my line.

I’m the optimist. I preach hope wherever I go. Well, except on the 14th of February. I hated it—under the radar. After a decade, romance was still a cosmic lottery promised in marriage sermons, and my relationship history felt like a never-ending episode The Bachelor where you don’t get the rose. Oh crap, did I just use the Bachelor example again?

Maybe it was time to rethink being single on Valentine’s Day.

In my mid-twenties, I wrote a blog post about being single on Valentine’s Day. It was the first time I’d written so openly on the subject—and I got a vulnerability hangover. But girls started to comment how much they’d been impacted by it. How much they needed to hear “being content” isn’t the goal, loving Jesus is (which means we need to be honest with Him, even when we’re not content). He’s with us.

But fast forward three years, and I was in Target, still triggered by flower displays?

Great.

Except Kenzie’s declaration—there’s always hope!—had already started to set things in motion.

The following week, I was at our women’s fitness class. Our coaches often prayed to start and would share a theme or word for that particular day. The intro usually hit me deep, but when Natalie shared that “freedom” was our focus, I wasn’t particularly moved. No problem. It’s for somebody else.

So I got caught up in the group workout with two friends, rotating through burpees (the worst), box step-ups (a bit better), and the row machine (my favorite). I was nailing it. I was great. I had pace. I had rhythm. I was a boss queen.

But in the middle of it all, our coach shouted:

“Don’t forget to ask Jesus what He wants to give you freedom from!”

With no warning, it instantly came to mind:

My box step-up pace was ruined. I could barely hold up one dumbbell.

Not without choking up, anyway. Really, I was crying?

Well.

I knew it was true.

Before I go on—I need to tell you I am a firm believer in grieving well.

Many well-meaning Christians can be too quick to dish out “don’t feel sorry for yourself, thank God for all the good things”—when you really just need someone to hand you tissues and give you a hug.

But as a recovering over-optimist, it took me awhile (most of my twenties) to learn that Jesus wanted to sit with me in my pain, and not rush me out of it. Blessed are those who mourn (Matthew 5:4), remember? So whenever I hear people use phrases like “leave your emotions at the door” or “praise God, ignore how you feel”—I have an allergic reaction. We can’t afford to forget that Jesus is “well-acquainted with grief” (Isaiah 53:3) and “comforts us in all our affliction” (2 Corinthians 1:4).

So, I got through the rest of my weighted box step-ups and told God:

We’re talking about this later.

The next day, I was power-walking to the mailroom from my office. I remembered my workout moment. To me, getting free from self-pity just sounded like denying pain He wanted to heal. What was the difference between the two?

I was surprised with how quick and clear it came to mind.

Kayla, self-pity is about how you want others to treat you.

Grief is about being honest with Me about the pain you feel.

I felt like I’d been hit with a velvet hammer. But I was on a mission to cross off to-do lists (a moment of silence for the graveyard of unfinished lists) and I powered on to the mailroom.

But finally, it all made sense.

For a month, I had started to slip into this mindset: I wanted people to feel sorry for me. I wanted everyone to know the pain I was feeling. Single and 29 with all siblings married—not to mention the work-plus-boys drama that could be a bingeable Netflix show.

The lure of people feeling sorry for me—oh, it was much more attractive than facing my reality.

My reality:

One, I was hurting (therefore, I needed to grieve what hadn’t happened).

and…

Two, I was doing much better than I thought I should be. Really. Being single wasn’t actually the worst thing in the world. Really. I was moving forward in my dreams to write and illustrate children’s books. I was fulfilling my dreams of traveling the world telling stories of what God has done. I was planning a trip to England.

Self-pity was clawing at me, trying to get me to disregard how happy I actually was.

Or should I say, how happy I actually am.

This brings us to the present, three years later—a few days shy of Valentine’s Day.

I’ve been on sabbatical at home in Hawai‘i (transformative and healing, to say the least). I’m now able to apply for my next UK visa (a miracle, after two months of waiting on immigration). I’m about to return to my beautiful little home just north of London, England. And oh yeah, I did write and illustrate that picture book. Dreams seem to have this uncanny habit of coming true. And I keep discovering:

When the Psalmist wrote, “Delight yourself in the Lord, and He will give you the desires of your heart” (37:4)—it doesn’t say one desire.

It says desires.

He gives not one, but many.

I could dread Valentine’s Day yet again, if I wanted to.

I could write a grand history of disappointment. I could avoid Instagram like the plague for the next week. I could binge an inordinate amount of rom-coms (okay, may have already done that).

Instead, I walk through Target—and I’m grinning.

This year, Galentines is front-and-center. Oh, there’s still red hearts and cute couple catchphrases peppered around Target. But somehow the marketing director caught the drift that there’s more to leverage than romance alone. I mean, in Mexico, they get it. Valentine’s Day is called El Día del Amor y la Amistad—literally, “the Day of Love and Friendship”. And this weekend, I’ll be at a girls soccer tournament with my family, having the time of my life—loving and being loved.

So, whatever your weekend looks like, I invite you:

Make time for grief.

but also

Make time for joy.

It’s right in front of you.

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The Himalayan cliff looked nothing like a climbing gym.

“We’re going up that?”

The guide nodded. It was less a rock face, and more a steep, gravelly hill, which felt worse. Our team of twelve—not professional trekkers in the slightest—sipped on water and adjusted their backpack straps. Being a leader, this was not a time to freak out.

One foot in front of the other. Don’t think about the fact that if you fall, you’re taking out three teammates under you. Sing under your breath, over and over again. Pray in tongues. But why on earth are we going this way? Why didn’t we just take the bus route?

It took twenty minutes, tops.

Then the gravel plateaued into red-brown dust and tufts of grass. The sun dipped afternoon-low. A herd of goats emerged, one goatherd limping along with them.

Two of our translators and a team member dropped their packs and practically sprinted to him. The rest of us, we sipped on water, chatted in quiet tones, and prayed.

It took twenty minutes, tops.

He wanted to hear all about Jesus! He had knee pain, and we prayed! Now he’s walking normally!

I was shocked. No matter how many miracles we’d seen, it got me every time. Especially when—if it was up to me—we would have just taken the bus route.

So that was the day I discovered:

Missionaries go where the people are.

A Different Type of Mission Field… ✈️

I’d got my degree in primary teaching and served with Youth With A Mission (YWAM) for three years before I ever joined a media team.

I just expected to keep staffing missionary courses and leading outreaches, with a little writing on the side. Join the media team? Start a blog? Was that even real missions? But when your leader asks you to pray about something, you pray about it. I was amazed when I felt to actually say yes.

Since 2018, I’ve served on missions media teams in New Zealand, Hawai‘i, and most recently England. My role has usually been writing-focused, overseeing websites, blogs, email marketing, and social media. So why have I stayed in it so long? My brother Daniel, a communications technology specialist (and long-time YWAMer), summed it up in 2019. “Missionaries go where the people are,” he explained. We raise thousands of dollars, fly to distant countries, even climb mountains to share the love of God—because that’s where the people are.

But as we know, millions of people are in a new type of mission field—social media.

Whether it’s here on Substack, or on Instagram, TikTok, X, Facebook, and YouTube—we live in a world where it’s not wild to find young adults “realizing they had logged more than 100 days of phone time in a single year”, wrote a recent Newsweek article (2025). Jesus came to seek and save the lost (Luke 19:10). When it comes to loving people online—where do we even start?

So today, here are ten tips from the international mission field on how to love people well—right here.

1. First thing’s in first place ❤️

“And you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength” (Mark 12:30, ESV).

What did I repeat under my breath, clinging to gravel in the Himalayas? It wasn’t some heavenly promise that a man would get healed. It was a love song. Six months earlier, my friend Alea and I had written a little folk-style song about Jesus inviting us to come away with Him. The inspiration was just the overflow of a normal, daily journal time reading Song of Songs 2. Six months later, that’s what got me up a literal mountain.

My dad always says that lovers out-work workers, every time. So if you have any hope to produce some fruitful work, you have to start with love. It seems simple, but no restack, no comment, no subscribe, and definitely no DM can ever satisfy like the love of Jesus. Really, nothing compares to just hanging out with Him. Start there. End there. He’s the best. Honestly, if you just get this, it will be this whole post.

2. Learn the language and culture 🗺️

“Nāu te rourou nāku te rourou, ka ora ai te iwi.”

I first heard this Māori proverb in university, and it still gets me. Translated, it says “with your food basket and my food basket, the people will thrive”. Every country we go to, you bring two baskets: one to receive, one to give. Everyone knows what it’s like when a missionary (or just any Christian) bulldozes with their own language, culture, and expectations. You get to change the narrative.

Last year, I was teaching Gen X missions leaders about the cultural nuances of Instagram Reels. I felt anal about telling them to change a font or adjust an audio—until I realized I was teaching them a language. Learning an accent is tricky. But the more you learn, the more you can love the people you’re trying to talk to. Stay open—every social media platform has its own language and culture (for my cultural adventures upon arriving here, see On My First Impressions of Substack 🙃).

3. Find a “person of peace” ✌🏽

When we brief teams, especially those going to a new location without prior contacts, we teach them to look for a “person of peace”. This is someone local, hospitable, open, and usually well-connected with their community. For example, that one smoothie shop owner who speaks English, teaches you a phrase in his own language, then happens to offer his empty venue out the back for an open mic night.

Look for these people on social media, too. No, I’m not talking about the accounts with the number of followers you crave, but the one or two people who make you think: Wow, I’d like to love others like they do. So, pay attention. Learn. Connect. And of course, shout-out to , , and for being people of peace from the start. Thank you.

4. Pray for people 🥷🏼

When I’m on an outreach, I’m a prayer ninja. I ask strangers if I can pray for them like nobody’s business. In my media office? I kinda forget.

One morning in New Zealand, I was scrolling our Facebook comments on a blog post, a testimony of God providing housing for one of our team. A lady had asked if we could pray for that same breakthrough for her. I started typing, “praying for you…” and instantly, conviction: Will you really? Immediately, I stopped what I was doing and prayed. Within the week, she commented she’d got the house.

So my challenge for you—choose one person on social media and pray for them like you’re on the prayer team at a church conference, breath-mint and all. You never know what could happen.

5. Find ways to serve 🧻

John 13 records the account of Jesus choosing lowest task possible—washing feet. Reserved for servants and slaves, scrubbing a day’s worth of dust and grime was not for a respected rabbi. But on his last night before arrest, Jesus gets low—literally. Afterwards, He tell the disciples: “If I then, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet.” (John 13:14, ESV).

Sweeping floors, scrubbing toilets, holding the dental suction for a medical-missions clinic (while trying not to faint at all the blood)—missionaries are called to bring the presence of a humble God. This, of course, looks different for social media. Getting low can look like making a graphic for a nonprofit who can’t ever pay you “what you deserve”. Getting low can also look like just replying to a comment you forgot about.

So, in the face of the ever-present, intoxicating lure of going viral—wash feet.

6. Share your testimony 📢

I’ve had days on missions trips where serving actually became an excuse to hide. Some moments, it’s much easier to sweep the back porch of a school than to get up in front of 300 teenagers and share how Jesus changed your life. But we need both.

Revelation 12:11 says the saints overcame the enemy “by the blood of the Lamb and by the word of their testimony” (ESV). Your story has power—and many days, the best thing you can post is what God has done in your life (the little and the big!). Testimonies give deep hope and catalyze transformation. So don’t hide—speak up.

7. Keep healthy boundaries 🌳

Oh, I learned the hard way. Missionaries are infamous for pushing the limits—it’s our strength—and obviously, our weakness. Media missions was no exception. I’ve finally learned to have “office hours”, only logging in certain time periods. I’ve deleted apps off my phone, and stranded media usage to my laptop. I take 2-3 days off weekly, and last year, I started my sabbatical, and logged off for three months entirely.

The question isn’t if social media is healthy or not.

The question is: How will you thrive where you’ve been called?

Some of you aren’t called to bring transformation to the digital mission field, and you know it. Some of you are called to love the people closest to you without a #$@% phone in the way. When I was a preschool teacher, I could not scroll in the dark of the nap room and be loving my students like Jesus. Instead, I learned to take time to pray for those kids, every afternoon (with no phone in sight).

But some of you are called to social media, and your scars are living proof that missions work is not easy work.

“There may yet be hope,” writes Lamentations 3:29. Growing up as a missionary kid, I heard dozens of accounts of when a Biblical worldview impacted a nation—shifting its policies, its art, its education, and its infrastructure. I believe the same can happen online. We don’t have to be victim to a flawed platform. As we pray, the literal technology can shift. The algorithm can morph and change to lead people to Jesus. And the remaining chaos in your newsfeed can be a gift that exposes your brokenness, and leads you to deeper healing. Just start by throwing your phone across the room.

8. Function in teams 🎒

We can’t do this alone. One of Youth With A Mission’s key values is “Function in Teams”, and this changed everything for me. However, I realized early on that some of my ministry teammates had very different definitions of “team” than I did. I grew up playing soccer, where interdependency was drilled into me for 12 years straight. I learned a striker’s “epic goal” belonged to me as the goalkeeper just as much as it did to my coach or to the mom who brought the Gatorade. Each team member has a gift—remember, nāu te rourou nāku te rourou, ka ora ai te iwi—and we need to honor each accordingly.

Honoring each other’s gifts also goes for writers, artists, and creatives on social media. “As it is, there are many parts, yet one body” (1 Corinthians 12:20, ESV). Competition has got nothing on collaboration. We need team to thrive.

As recently wrote for ,

Substack put the myth of the solitary artist, the persona of the isolated genius, click-clacking angstily at a typewriter, to death. It does so through algorithms that help Christian writers develop what the music producer Brian Eno calls a “scenius.” A scenius is essentially a group of creatives who fall into the same “scene,” united around niche interests and common values. As iron sharpens iron, so putting creatives in the same shared space spurs mutual creativity and innovation.

You need community: find one, create one, pray for one (and if you’re still stuck—or even if you’re not—become a Local).

Teams change everything.

9. Use what’s in your hand 🤲🏽

“What is that in your hand?”

It was 2010, and Darlene Cunningham, co-founder of YWAM, was quoting Exodus 4:2 from the conference tent stage. At seventeen, I’d already heard the sermon a dozen times (the trials of being a missionary kid). But for some reason, this time—it stuck. God asks Moses what’s in his hand, and uses it to perform miracles. But it’s not just there. David with his lyre in Saul’s court (1 Samuel 16:18). The boy with five loaves and two fish (John 6:8). Mary of Bethany and her alabaster jar (John 12:3).

Over and over again, God shows us that we don’t have to overthink it. We just have to use what’s in our hands.

It hit me hard in 2010—I’d just started my first blog. Facebook Notes and BlogSpot were all the rage, with MySpace phasing out and Instagram being a literal newborn. I kept writing, and didn’t stop. So, don’t overthink it. Sometimes what’s in your hand is exactly what’s going to change history. Or—at least, bring a little sparkle to someone’s scroll. ✨

10. Practice gratitude 🎁

Finally, channel your inner “Joy” from Inside Out. Blue hair and all. 🩵

Gratitude shifts our perspective, aligns our heart with Biblical truth, and saves us from our tendency to prepare for the worst. One of the most repeated commands in the Bible is remember, for good reason. Remembering who God is, and what he has done, is a surefire way to approach any situation with confidence. Even in moments of deepest grief, saying thank you for a simple cup of coffee or the way a song came on shuffle at just the right moment—that’s where God met me.

When you find yourself overwhelmed and overstimulated by your digital mission field, take a step back. Thank God for the beautiful gifts in the physical room right in front of you. The twirling candlestick on the table. Your steaming mug of tea. The banana-papaya muffin your mum just baked.

Then, when you’re ready (and it may be the next day, or the next week), go back to your newsfeed—and start thanking God for the beautiful gifts there, too.

In the words of the late Loren Cunningham, co-founder of Youth With A Mission:

“Jesus is winning!” 🎉

Coda.

Social media is where the people are—but it’s not where we want them to end up.

Substack, Instagram, TikTok, X, Facebook, YouTube… at their best, these are bridges for us to find real-life connection and community. And it’s my dream, that instead of pronouncing all platforms as doomed—we become disciples who ask God his thoughts on the matter. Because you never know what He might do—through others, and even through you.

Finally, thank you so much for coming along this journey today, it means the world.

And I’d love to hear from YOU—how have you seen God’s fingerprints on social media? Has someone’s testimony online impacted your life? What are unique ways you’ve been able to connect with people online?

Let’s party in the comments.

(Or in a real-life cafe! Or in the very least, Zoom! DM me!)

☕️

Lots of love,
K.N.

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Twelve. It’s a dangerous age to be introduced to a gateway drug. You’re on the edge of high school, about to forge new relationships, interests and fandoms. You’re ready to plough straight into your life and make your own wild choices.

Twelve. That’s when I watched Pride & Prejudice (2005) in theaters.

I was smitten, obviously. I read every book and watched every spin-off I could get my hands on. BBC had their Austen renaissance at the perfect time (2005-2009). This was the beginning of streaming services—I may or may not have watched a couple ripped movies on YouTube (still in infancy herself) until my conscience got the better of me. So VHS tapes or DVDs it was, from the library or birthday gifts. I was hooked.

* MY AUSTEN DISCLAIMER *

Of course, my Austen addiction hasn’t been without its side effects. Throughout my twenties, I realized how my Austen craze—while making me historically literate—also pulled me from reality and desensitized my ability to go after my dreams. Watching a six-hour miniseries set in England is easy. Spending six hours in real-life London (and ultimately moving to England)—now in my thirties, it’s been harder and better than I could have dreamed.

Yet the Truth Remains Universally Acknowledged…

For all my rants on the issues of living in a romantic fantasy world, there’s no doubt. Jane understood the intricacies of the heart, and executed them masterfully. Yes, I learned the hard way—a woman who never married should not be your exclusive authority on love. However, I’ve also learned the emotional health and relational realism in her novels are incomparable with modern rom-coms (the therapist-and-filmmaker team at Cinema Therapy give an in-depth analysis on this). So, I’m still here.

I’ve peeled back my Austen fanaticism over the last few years, but I can’t always hide it. I may not have read Tolstoy or Steinbeck, but can I tell you the tiny details between any two Austen film adaptions and their source novel? Yes. A thousand times yes.

So, to honour that little girl who really just wanted to move to England and write a book, here’s to Austen—and all the brilliant minds who have brought her stories to life.

Ready?

Here are my favourite Jane Austen film adaptations, as ranked by how many times I’ve rewatched them (give or take a few) 🙃

#12 — Mansfield Park (1999)

First off, we’ve got Mansfield Park (1999). This has got the #12 spot due to the fact that I’ve only seen this once—and I’ve still not got over the fact that they created subplots and gave Fanny Price lines from Jane Austen herself. This mixing character-and-author worked for Jo March and Alcott in Little Women (2019) but I just never thought it worked here.

But there’s a young Jonny Lee Miller as lead Edmund Bertram and some more who’s-who from Downton Abbey, which makes it worth the watch for sure.

#11 - Sense & Sensibility (1995)

Before there’s a riot in the comment section, please remember when you were twelve. Colonel Brandon (by Alan Rickman) is my hero today, but when I was twelve, the age gap plot was too large a canyon for my romanticism to cross (in that regard, I was Marianne). Emma Thompson and Kate Winslet are a triumph—there will never be an argument there. But I only came back to this one once or twice (but more on S&S later).

#10 — Clueless (1995), Emma (1996) and Emma (1996)

We had not one, but three Emma adaptations in two years (I was only three years old, but my spirit must have known). Gwyneth Paltrow’s Emma is iconic, and Kate Beckinsale wasn’t bad in the least, but this I had against them—they seemed far too grown up. Yes, you get the “handsome, clever, and rich” line to perfection, but the book gives off this vibe that Emma is also just young. Which means that Clueless hits it out of the park—and young Paul Rudd is adorable. Need I say more.

#9 — Mansfield Park (2007)

Part of the 2005-2009 Austen renaissance, this adaptation is the reason I never loved 90s Mansfield Park. It’s 2007, remember. High School Musical 2 has just come out and Troy Bolton’s side-swoop is the only hair style you could ever love. So… Edmund Bertram’s hair might be responsible for my love of this movie? Crap. But despite this movie getting hammered in a recent ranking—it’s an underrated gem. At least high school Kayla thought so.

#8 — Emma. (2020)

I’ve had to be careful of my full promotion of this film in my Christian and family-friendly circles because yes—you’ve got partial nudity in the first five minutes. Gotta love that Jane Austen’s stories are so (generally) clean that filmmakers are like, well, better throw in some butts while we’re at it. Okay, disclaimer out of the way…

I saw this in theaters in New Zealand—the screenwriter, Eleanor Catton, is a Kiwi, so we were contractually obligated to endorse it. But sitting in that theatre, all I was thinking was: Oh my gosh, they’re going to keep making Jane Austen movies for the rest of my life—and I’m so glad. Anya Taylor-Joy is brilliant, the Wes-Anderson-esque cinematography is a dream, and the ending adjustments? Emma actually instigating the apology to Mr. Martin? It unfolds her beautiful character development all the more. And the nose bleed? It’s just hilarious (watch the behind-the-scenes—it was real).

So, #8 on my list ONLY because I physically haven’t had enough time to rewatch it as the older movies. Absolute win.

#7 — Pride & Prejudice (1995, 6-part series)

1995-1996 was a wild time for Jane Austen, with its crescendo being, dare I say, the most iconic adaptation of all time. I watched this from our library’s VHS collection after we saw the 2005 movie in theaters. My older brother walked in and was able to point out every character (because yes, he knows his Austen, too). Colin Firth is legendary. I just didn’t rewatch it as much, because um, yes, it’s six hours long.

Now I’m based in Hertfordshire (when I’m not waiting on my UK visa renewal), this series hits different. Growing up in Hawai‘i, all those countryside walks were fantasy. After living in England for almost two years, the every-day-ness of Austen makes me appreciate her brilliance all the more.

#6 — Persuasion (2007)

I have the sweetest little soft spot for this film. No, we’re not talking about Netflix’s 2022 attempt. My main beef with that movie was simply that Dakota Johnson is American, and that’s all I will say. But this movie, ugh, is just delightful. Yes, it’s as awkward as a made-for-BBC movie could be in 2007. But Anne Elliott’s journey of being ever-people-pleasing to having absolute “strength of character” makes me tear up every time.

#5 — Emma (2009, 4-part series)

“Badly done, Emma!” never hit as hard for me as it does in this four-part miniseries. Emma is finally young, not a dignified 30-year-old. Romola Garai and Jonny Lee Miller (yes he’s back!) have the time to show the art of the slow burn—and we get parts of the book that didn’t make it to all those 1.5-hour movies. As a result, the side characters make way more sense, too. Me and my high school friends had a huge crush on Rupert Evans as Frank Churchill, dubbing him “Mr. Smiley”. But of course, find yourself someone who will tell you “badly done” when you deserve it. That’s the real swoon.

#4 — Northanger Abbey (2007)

When people ask me my favourite Jane Austen novel, it’s simple. Northanger Abbey. I credit this movie. Yes, it’s a 2007 BBC film, like Persuasion. However, both Felicity Jones and J.J. Feild went on to star in award-winning films and blockbusters, leaving us with this gem. Northanger Abbey is Austen’s parody of the 19th-century gothic genre, while still giving us wise warnings on the dangers of being swallowed by books and living in a fantasy world (familiar, much?). But gosh, it’s always difficult to pull myself out of this story—because Mr. Tilney is my favourite. “He understands muslins, Catherine!”. Enough said.

#3 — Pride & Prejudice (2005)

Before you murder me for this being #3—I had to limit my intake on the 2005 for a few years, all because I overdosed. No, I’m not the type of girl that chucks it on the background to do work (you know who you are)—so I won’t match some play counts. But I watched it at least once a year, so now I can only bring myself to watch with a group, or my favourite—with someone who’s never seen it.

However, I’m still mad at Elizabeth for saying “your hands are cold” to Darcy’s open profession of love at dawn. FOR GOODNESS’ SAKE, LIZZIE! TELL HIM YOUR AFFECTIONS AND WISHES HAVE CHANGED SINCE LAST APRIL! But I will say no more.

It’s a masterpiece.

However, there’s another masterpiece, just lesser known…

#2 — Sense & Sensibility (2008, 3-part series)

If you haven’t seen this, don’t listen to the YouTube or Substack rankers who berate or belittle it. Watch all 3 episodes on BBC Playback right here—then decide for yourself. (Forewarning, they make it saucy for the first minute, then it’s chill for the rest).

I’ve watched and rewatched and rewatched this Sense & Sensibility. Why? The soundtrack is magical. The scenery is a dream unlocked—English cottage by the sea. We get parts of the book that never made it to the 1995 adaptation (yes, Willoughby came to visit Marianne when she was sick and yes, Colonel Brandon really fought him in a duel). We actually get to know Margaret (she is such a mood). We finally have time to see Edward fall in love with Eleanor. And Edward is played by none other than just-before-Downton-Abbey Dan Stevens (known to the world now as Matthew)—but here he’s brunette. Need I say more?

But for number one, drumroll please…

….

…

..

#1 — Austenland (2013)

“What separates the casual Jane Austen fan… from the aficionado?”

Well, finding her way to Austenland, of course.

Before 2013, I’d never seen a movie twice in theaters. I was in the middle of university in New Zealand—but when I saw Austenland with one group of friends, I knew I had to go back with my Austen-loving bestie. Michaela and I still quote it.

This is one of those movies you cannot explain to someone who doesn’t know Jane Austen. It is pure chaos, with book-and-movie references hitting you at 100 mph, using every period-drama trope known to woman. But Austenland knows what it’s doing, and executes it flawlessly.

It casts J.J. Feild (our hero from Northanger Abbey) alongside Bret McKenzie, whose “some Kiwi actor” Hobbit reference was priceless to first hear in New Zealand (he really was in The Hobbit, not to mention being half of Flight of the Conchords). Keri Russell and Jennifer Coolidge are queens (honestly, how did they get them for this movie?!). Throw them all together in a manor house in England and you get a comedic triumph.

Of course, Austenland is ridiculous.

But have I seen it more times than Pride & Prejudice itself?

I cannot say for certain.

But oh gosh, I guess I’ve just told Substack…

It’s very likely.

What are your favourites? I’d love to hear your top re-watches (and spin-offs welcome!).

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All stories are two-edged swords
but you will tell them anyway.

You say it
in a way
that implies:
I like that.

but it’s something that haunts me:

fame and fortune,
stories so good
that they get so big
somehow they’re no longer your own
they get twisted, pulled
people feed on them
for their own fevered obsessions
and your story writhes, alive
but never in the way
you meant it to be

but—stories are a two-edged sword, not one

as a creative,
it haunts me,
but not enough to deter me:

for there’s the other side
that makes it worth it

stories so good
that they get so big
somehow they’re no longer your own
they morph and move
into the hearts of men
making them cry,
making breathe again
inspiring worlds
inspiring creativity
inspiring a girl

to go home and write poetry
and dream of a time
where she writes and writes
writes a book
and doesn’t stop writing.

So—all stories are
two-edged swords:

Will you tell them
anyway?

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I got a message as follows:

Hi Kayla! Would you be potentially be interested in doing a reading at this Ekstasis event in January in London?

Just your average DM.

Naturally, I replied saying I had to check my work schedule “but should be free”. I failed to mention I’d clear everything to be there. The chat continued, discussing whether Ekstasis wanted an existing piece, or something new.

I seem to remember reading something by you about living in the imaginary, and moving into an understanding of the real... do I recall correctly?

I froze.

I knew exactly what they were referring to. It was one of my favorite pieces that I’d ever written.

It also just happened to be about my addiction to the British romance genre—and how utterly single I was.

I’d never been more freaked out in my life.

Escaping the Fantasy World: How I’m Learning to Turn Dreams into Reality came from a night when I was recovering from an infatuation with a boy who barely acknowledged my existence. My heartbreak had led to serious life evaluation. That evaluation led to revelation. That revelation, as per usual, led to a blog post.

Around the same time, Ekstasis Magazine was going wild. I’d followed their social media for a few years, resharing posts and drooling over their print magazine. I dreamed of being part of something like it. Not Ekstasis, of course. Something smaller would do. But when they opened submissions for their upcoming publication, something came over my fingers and I just—did it. Filled out the form. I’d write a passion piece—what it was like to grow up in Hawai’i without seasons. I was invited to submit.

I spent umpteen hours working on that piece… and it wasn’t chosen. I had a pity party. Then I realized I really did want to keep taking risks and writing pieces that might never see the light of day. Then I noticed @ekstasismagazine started following me. Major social media victory. But it got swallowed by a minor life event—I moved from Hawai‘i to just north of London, England.

Just in time for Inkwell.

That December, I practiced reading my piece a dozen times. I’d record myself, then record again. I made minor adjustments. I tried to embrace the anticipation and ignore the nausea, especially when the set list changed and I was now last. Insanity. I’d never read my writing out loud, not like this. Not to a group of strangers. In London, no less. And definitely not last.

However, like most nights that make you want to throw up at the thought of them, the 12th of January 2024 still arrived. I donned my long puffer coat and hopped on the train to London alone (there’s just something about daintily holding your fancy dress on an Underground escalator). Oh, at least fifteen of my friends would be joining me later—but this was a pilgrimage all my own.

To survive the nerves, I journaled on my phone. I remembered what a friend of mine had told me earlier that week:

You’re going to have so much fun.

For now, my hands were shaking.

(the legendary human behind those DMs) opened the night, and introduced . Poetry continued to cut straight to the heart with Jacob Lee, , Ife E. Sonaike, , and . Then and read their gorgeous essays. By the time started reading, my hands were shaking again.

Then I was up there. Then I was reading. Then it was done.

In the aftermath, wide-eyed girls (alas, no gentlemen) came up to me and shared how much my essay connected with them. Turns out there are a lot of recovering Jane Austen addicts in London, no surprises there. Finding these kindred spirits meant the world to me.

But dare I say—my favorite part was meeting the writers.

As the cheeseboard thinned out and chairs were stacked, us writers fan-girled over each other. We laughed over how wildly nervous we’d been. We gushed over our favorite moments. We chattered—I can’t wait until you write your book! or, where can I buy your book?

Most of all, we wondered—could this happen again?

Then, of course, we headed to the pub.

The thing about revolutions is that you don’t realize you’re part of one when it’s happening. You get this sense that yes, something strange and mysterious and providential is happening. But no, you don’t know you’re part of something that will become the shot heard round the world. You don’t know that New York, North Carolina, and Colorado are going to be next, you don’t know what you experienced in Hanbury Hall will happen in many more rooms than that. You don’t know this is the start of a renaissance.

All you know is that you told a room of over a hundred people that your dream was to write and illustrate a picture book, so you better damn well finish it (even if you have a full-time role with a missions organization). All you know is now you happily comment on anything Ekstasis shares and you rant to anyone who will listen about the power of vulnerability and community. All you know is you find like-minded Christian creatives wherever you go. And you create, because you know you’re not alone.

A year on, when you’re heading to the next Inkwell and is visiting from Scotland, of course you’re going to spend the day in London together. Of course you start with brunch at WatchHouse, of course you ogle vintage books in Charing Cross, of course you dawdle so much in the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square that you’re late for your pre-event dinner with and company.

Except I wasn’t presenting. Not that night.

At the tail end of dinner, Julia was scribbling down her poem to present, and I was just… making small talk. For a moment, oh, I wished I was reading, too. I wanted the distinction. The notice. The importance. The feeling of throwing up—wait no, not that. Instead of presenting, I got to be present in a whole new way. I listened to ’s latest songs—without stressing about reading next. I giggled with Julia and Mary in the most inopportune moments. I teared up during ’s essay on creative friendship. Together, we listened to the announcement that Ekstasis was finally, simply .

And I actually got to the cheeseboard this time.

God knows I needed it.

Meanwhile at work, I was inching closer and closer to burnout.

It turns out you can’t move countries twice in two years (New Zealand to Hawai‘i to England), lead two social media teams at once, work a media job on the side, and publish a book in your free time—without experiencing some side effects.

After a string of (stressful) events, a teammate urged me to pray about staying longer than my planned month at home in Hawai‘i. I’d always had a respect for sabbaticals (of course we should rest every seven years!) but somehow I’d made it a decade in ministry without any significant season of debriefing or recovery. That was about to change.

When I started sabbatical, my counselor firmly instructed me that I needed to rest—mind, body, soul, and spirit. Burnout wasn’t some catchphrase anymore. It was a physical reality. I was fried from nonstop social media—I could barely be in the same room when two screens were going off. I logged out for three months.

But I still got Inkwell’s emails.

Every week, I devoured the writing of more and more Christian creatives across the globe. With every post, I felt what I felt that first evening in Hanbury Hall:

I’m not alone.

Every month, Inkwell hosted an online workshop for young creatives. With every Zoom call, I was convinced of what we discovered that second evening in Hanbury Hall:

Creatives need community.

But how?

I was in this awkward in-between season. On sabbatical, staying in my parents’ house, waiting to apply for my next UK visa. Yes, I had time to write and write and write. But when Inkwell launched Locals—I felt stuck. I desperately wanted to start a group of 4-10 creatives who met together monthly. Just not when I was in-between two countries.

So my prayer came, barely whispered:

How do I do creative community, right now?

It started small. I made a Substack profile (finally), and started writing weekly. I had cafe mornings with a bestie to work on creative projects—her photography, my writing or art. I’d tune in to every Inkwell workshop possible (Carolyn—do me and get an attendance medal??). And I continued to pray.

Then Julia texted me from Scotland, asking if I wanted to read some chapters of her in-progress fantasy novel.

You know that feeling when your favourite TV show finishes a season and you have to wait an undetermined length of time before the next? Yup, it’s the worst. And that’s exactly what it’s like to read a book as it’s written. I survived Julia’s cliffhangers by typing increasingly unhinged Google Doc comments (especially on paragraphs with her romantic leads). Okay, yes, I gave some helpful writer feedback too, but here’s the thing. You gotta care about a story. And Julia, dang, she has me hooked.

So I keep typing those Google Doc comments.

Most of all, I keep telling her to write.

Because that’s what she—and so many others—did for me.

When people ask me how I actually finished my picture book, I don’t tell them about routines or strategies. I tell them about people. I tell them about the small group in Hawai’i who met on Thursday mornings at 7:30AM and prayed for my wild idea. I tell them about the two girls in England who would send me voice memos instructing me to finish the @#$% book. And I tell them about Inkwell.

Oh, I spent many years thinking I needed more time, more skill, and more work to get a book done. All of those are necessary, yes. But that’s not what brought my book to the finish line.

In the two years since the first Inkwell, I discovered something pretty simple.

Relationships get books done, not time.

When you throw yourself into community, and keep showing up, when you’re honest with those people about your dreams, and you ask them for accountability, but most of all, for prayer…

That’s how your dreams

(and creative revolutions)

become reality.

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When I started following YWAM Harpenden on Instagram, they were deep in winter.

Except winter in England doesn’t actually mean snow. Not usually. Not in Hertfordshire.

It means 3:30pm sunsets and the occasional frost and becoming best friends with your hot water bottle. It also means legendary board game nights (that Sherlock Holmes night was the best, followed by the Bananagrams tournament), but I digress.

I remember the first snowfall I saw—it was March 2023—and the whole campus was covered. I mean, I watched it from Hawai‘i on Instagram. I was about to visit YWAM Harpenden for a scouting trip, but by the time I got there it was fully spring. No snow.

When I moved to England that September, I waited for just one snowfall.

Just one to cover the ground.

When SNOW ACTUALLY FELL FROM THE SKY (my emotions in said moment) in January 2024, I freaked out. I mean, I’d seen snow before. But growing up in Hawaiʻi and living in New Zealand, you only see it up the mountains. Snow was just for Christmas movies or Calvin & Hobbes or vibey Substack posts.

So yes, I sprinted out of my office squealing, “IT’S SNOWING!”. And yes, my Swedish coworker rolled his eyes. Flurries are not real snow, of course. But my coworker from the South happily squealed with me, and soon the Brazilians were out there too. Working and living on a missionary training campus has its perks—you can always find someone will freak out about snow with you.

But the flurries didn’t settle, and it didn’t snow again that winter.

In November 2024, I was visiting New Zealand for a ministry trip (with family reunion thrown in, of course).

November is the first hint of Kiwi summer, and it’s marvelous. Even with all my hope for snow, I was desperate for sunshine again (the UK can be rough).

But at the end of our missions conference session—my BeReal notifications from England exploded. NO NO NO, I literally yelled in the middle of the auditorium.

Out their window, white. The road, white. All of campus, white.

AND I WASN’T EVEN THERE.

I arrived back, no snow. Stayed in England all through Christmas, no snow. Deep fog, but no snow.

Then January 2025.

Still no snow.

On a Saturday morning, I started telling God how I was tired of wanting and waiting.

For quite a few things. Not just snow.

I wished I could just be content, kill the desire.

That’d be easier, right?

Gently, gently, these questions came to mind:

“Are you mad that you wanted to move to England?

Are you mad that you wanted to write a book?

Are you mad that you wanted a home to call your own?”

All of those things had happened in the past year and a half. The Book of Proverbs doesn’t lie when it says a “desire fulfilled is a tree of life”. Seeing those dreams become reality was worth all the delay, all the grief, all the disappointment.

So I answered: No, no, no.

Gently, gently, He responded:

“Neither will you be mad for wanting the things you want right now.”

That night, it happened.

And it kept snowing. And snowing. And snowing. When I woke up early the next morning—our campus was a literal winter wonderland. Oh, nothing more than a few inches. But snow to blanket it all—it was exactly what I wanted.

(And we don’t know who was more stoked, me or my friend’s two-year-old).

Oh, wanting something is hard. I know.

But wanting something doesn’t have to kill the joy in front of you, either. You can equally enjoy this season and look forward to your next one, all at once.

In the meantime? Don’t beat yourself up for your desires.

Dare to hope again.

Because you might just see snow this year.

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I love this time of year.

You know, decorating Christmas cookies, sipping egg nog, and golden-lit nativity scenes. But give it a week or so.

I start going insane.

The consumerism? No. Non-stop events? Not really. The frenzied shopping? Maybe. Navigating overstimulation is a part of life in our digital era (especially when you’ve worked as a social media manager). Christmas is just a season where I get to navigate it professionally. But no, it’s not that.

The insanity starts small.

I’ll Be Home For Christmas on the Ross speakers. Instagram pic of snow out an airplane window. A coworker asking, “You going home for the holidays?”

Home.

But at this point, I’m almost manic. Oh, I mean, it’s all internal. I don’t show it. I’m good at that.

Home.

It’s ringing in my ears. Not like silver bells. More like a throbbing headache.

Home.

Christmas always reminds me I don’t have one.

I’ve always envied the one-passport holders.

You know, those people who get asked where they’re from and you can say one country, one accent, one language, sometimes even one town. You don’t have to ramble for five minutes attempting to tell the somewhat confusing story of your background. Simple is more beautiful than you realize. At one point I even gave up and would just say I was from “America”. Of course, people were kind and wanted to know. So I whittled down my answer to two sentences.

My immediate family didn’t help. My three older brothers and their families had the audacity to add two more countries to our cultural chaos, with one more language and two more accents. Then I moved to yet another country (with yet another accent—with same words, totally different meanings).

So, coordinating a Christmas location with my immediate family (let alone extended family) has always been like playing whack-a-mole. You can’t get them all at once.

Then that random coworker asks if I’m going home for the holidays. I want to laugh. Or cry? Both, of course.

But for every Christmas that I’ve replied no—I’ve also said yes.

Home just looks a little different.

I’ll be home for Christmas.

The sun is blazing, it’s 77°F (25°C), and we’re on our way to the beach. There’s turquoise water and my sister-in-law is still in shock that it’s December. Mele Malikimaka plays on the radio, we drink our egg nog on ice, and when we get home, my mom is baking biscotti (but we make sure the windows are wide open, because the oven does not make things cozy, not here).

Then, our Candlelight Service isn’t at church, we’re driving up the coast to the Hilton Waikoloa, and twinkle lights dance across the hand-crafted lagoon, and we’re praying the mountain breezes slow down so we can actually light the candles on the Grand Staircase. I read the Bible passage and then the hula hālau dances and I get a little teary.

I’ll be home for Christmas.

The sun is blazing, it’s 42°C (107°F), and we’re on our way to the beach. The kookaburras chatter in the eucalyptus forests, but we’re speeding down the motorway, and they just sound like monkeys on someone’s phone. Then there’s sand dunes, more sand than I’ve ever seen in my life, with jellyfish-infested water. I’m upset because the sting on my leg disappears after a day—I wanted a battle wound.

Then I’m at Lewis House, this classic brick manor-house-turned-mission-house, and we’re singing Jingle Bells except it’s the Aussie version, and my brother holds my newborn niece (who got to play Jesus in a Christmas play already), and all is calm, and all is bright.

I’ll be home for Christmas.

My grandparents’ tea cups are out, with my auntie’s white-and-clay pottery. My uncle is churning out flat whites on his Italian machine, until we run out of milk and have to get to Countdown. Sourdough is cut, farm eggs poached, Christmas piano gently trills. New Zealand is the Shire, there’s never a doubt, green rolling hills and wild pines and hard-earned pints.

We drive to the coast and the pohutukawa trees are fluffy-red in bloom and my Hawai‘i childhood means I still can’t get in the water, even though it’s summer. It’s way too cold. But I start a banana-peel war with my cousins and then we patter around in the mud flats looking for shells and I imagine when my grandparents used to celebrate Christmas at this very place.

I’ll be home for Christmas.

I’m in my flat’s kitchen, baking muffins, playing Ingrid Michaelson’s Looks Like a Cold, Cold Winter from my laptop. I look out my cross-hatched windows, dull clouds with fog rolling by, and friends walk past, bundled up in long puffer coats with their breath curling upward. I finally get it, all those winter Christmas songs.

It’s getting dark at 3:30pm (terrible, I know), but we make the 30-minute train ride into the city, and Christmas Lights by Coldplay isn’t just my favorite holiday song from my senior year... it’s reality. I took my feet to Oxford Street… and there are the angels sparkling, Harrod’s looks like a rom-com, and I wonder how on earth I get to be in London for Christmas.

But I’m not home, not yet.

Not until it’s Christmas Eve at 11pm, and I’m in St. Albans Cathedral, just north of London. Hymns echo up into majestic stone arches, as they have for hundreds of years. It’s family, deeper than my wildest dreams. Awe-striking.

Except… three somewhat-questionable individuals are right behind me, giving swear-peppered commentary through the entire service. I want to turn around and ask them kindly to maybe not make fun of the priest’s vestments. I want them to know we can all hear them. I want to tell them to shut up.

Then, in the not-so-quiet, it hits me:

Sometimes, I hate this time of year.

You know, well-intentioned coworkers asking if I’m going “home” and desperately missing my family (and friends-that-are-family) spread across the globe.

But you don’t have to have multiple passports to feel this ache.

Not at all. The ache comes for all of us, whatever your nationality, wherever your family resides, however many cities you’ve lived in. The homesickness of Christmas.

But give it a week—and things start to shift.

Is it the Advent devotional? No. The Christmas Eve service? Not really. The family gift-giving? Maybe. All of these things help you remember the why of the holidays, wherever you are in the world. But no, it’s not just that. It’s that question again:

“Are you going home for Christmas?”

But this time, you’re almost… peaceful. Oh, I mean, you’re still achey at times, but you’re learning how to navigate that. You breathe deep.

Home.

It’s ringing inside. Not like silver bells.

Home.

More like the Grinch hearing Whoville’s song at dawn.

Home…

Christ came so we could have one.

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