“Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light to my path.” — Psalm 119:105

Sometimes the hardest part of any journey is the first small step. Not the long road ahead. Not the unknowns. Just… beginning.

As we enter Week 1 of the Magical Quest, let your heart rest in this truth:

You don’t have to see the whole path to take the first step. You only need enough light for right now.

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🌙 Whisper for Caregivers

Begin gently. You don’t have to carry everything at once. Take one small step, breathe once, rest once — and let God meet you right where you are.

The Magical Quest Begins! Finding Father will be released October 1!

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Caregivers often carry more than anyone sees.
We give, we tend, we show up again and again—
and somewhere along the way, asking for help
can start to feel like surrender.

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But this week’s story reminded us of a different truth.
When Allen prayed for one parking spot,
God provided four.
Not because we demanded abundance,
but because God delights in meeting us
with more than we imagined.

This weekend, let your heart rest in that promise.
You are not meant to carry everything alone.
You are invited to ASK—
for strength, for support, for rest,
for the help you need and the help you didn’t know to name.

And as you ask, remember Thursday’s gentle reminder:
God is able to do exceedingly, abundantly
above all you ask or think.

Even in your caregiving.
Even in your exhaustion.
Even in your hope.

And yes—
even in the quiet joy of seeing You Are Not Alone
reach #891 in Christian Marriage,
a small but sweet sign that God continues
to carry this book into the hands and hearts
who need comfort.

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May this weekend bring you moments of ease.
May you feel God’s kindness in small places.
May you receive help without guilt,
and rest without apology.

And may you trust that the God who loves you
still answers with abundance—
sometimes with strength,
sometimes with people,
and sometimes with four parking spaces
in a tiny lot.

Amen.

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A Parking Spot Prayer

I make the drive to the little barber shop in Springfield every six weeks or so. And many times I think to myself, “There are much closer places I could take Allen to get his hair cut.” But I never say it.

I never say it because I remember a few years ago when Allen wouldn’t let anyone cut his hair. One of the aftermaths of his father’s sudden death was my autistic adult son’s reluctance to be touched. By anyone.

His hair became clumped into dreadlocks, hanging limply around his face. I struggled to help him negotiate his loss and maintain some cleanliness.

And I found this little shop, 20 miles away,

that works with adults and children on the spectrum.

And the diminutive Rachel became the only person allowed to cut his hair. Sure, she needed to stand on a box to reach his head, but as the mom of this wonderfully neurodivergent adult, I do what needs to be done.

Last Wednesday, Allen had a 2:30 appointment—far from ideal for two morning people—but it was the only time Rachel could take us. As we climbed into the car, I said, “We’re going to pray really hard that God provides us with a parking spot.”

Before I even started the engine, Allen bowed his head.
“Dear God, thank you for Mom who takes me to get my hair cut and for Rachel who cuts it so well. Please help Mom to find a parking spot so she doesn’t have to go crazy.”

His childlike faith made me smile. Allen never complicates prayer; he simply believes God hears and responds. And in that way, he reminds me of the apostle Paul.

Paul’s Unbounded Faith

Paul has always been my favorite apostle. Scripture never tells us exactly what his “thorn in the flesh” was, but many believe that Paul, like me, had a visual impairment. I’ve never let my keratoconus stop me, and Paul didn’t let his own thorn stop him.

Even in prison, surrounded by guards and relying on Tychicus to write his letters, Paul’s faith rose above the walls around him. His trust was uncluttered, steady, and expectant. Paul believed God could do more than he asked, more than he imagined, more than seemed possible.

Allen’s simple prayer echoed that same spirit—faith that doesn’t measure God’s ability by the size of the need.

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Four Spots, Not One

Despite construction delays, Allen and I reached the shop around 2:15. As we turned the corner, I reminded him, “We’re asking God for a parking spot.”

“Sure!” Allen said. “Look, Mom!”

And there they were—not one, but four empty spaces in the tiny lot.

Allen grinned.
“Look, Mom… God gave you choices!”

In that moment, Ephesians 3:20 came alive. We asked for one spot. God provided abundantly more. Not because He had to. Not because we deserved it. But because sometimes God delights in answering with a wink—overflowing, surprising, tender abundance.

Short Scripture Lesson — The God of More

Ephesians 3:20 is Paul’s reminder that God’s power is not limited by our requests. We pray within the boundaries of what we can imagine; God answers from the vastness of His abundance. Paul’s words invite us to trust that God is not stingy with His care. He is able to do exceedingly abundantly—a phrase that stacks superlatives to stretch our understanding of His generosity.

Sometimes that abundance looks like strength for a hard day. Sometimes it looks like peace in a storm. And sometimes, it looks like four parking spaces in a tiny lot.

Reflection Questions

1. Where have you seen God provide “more than you asked” in your own life—big or small?

2. What keeps you from praying with the simple, uncluttered faith Allen demonstrated?

3. How might you practice expectant trust this week, believing God can answer beyond your imagination?

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Blessing

May you walk into this week with a heart open to God’s abundance.
May you notice His kindness in small places and His strength in hard ones.
And may you trust, like Allen and like Paul, that the God who loves you
is able to do exceedingly, abundantly, above all you ask or imagine.

Amen.

The complete story of Allen’s unique grief journey will be published by Shakeridge Press on October 1, 2026. The subtitle has been changed to : A Magical Quest of Faith, Hope, and Autism. In future blogs, I will explain the concept of “Magical thinkiing” when it involves those on the autism spectrum.

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If you’d like to support my ministry to caregivers and the publication of my book, you can click the link above.

Caregivers often carry the quiet belief that we must do everything ourselves.
We want to care for our loved one with all the strength we have,
and asking for help can feel like surrender—
as if needing support means we are somehow not enough.

But Scripture reminds us of a different truth.
God invites us to ask, not because we are weak,
but because He is able to do exceedingly, abundantly
above all we ask or imagine.

Asking for help is not giving up.
It is opening the door for God to provide
in ways greater than we expected,
sometimes through strength,
sometimes through people,
sometimes through tender mercies we didn’t see coming.

This week, may you whisper a simple prayer:
“Lord, help me ask.”
And may you find that His provision
meets you gently, generously,
and in even greater measure than you imagined.

Thursday’s “Steps for the Journey” tells the story of God’s provision of a parking spot. You can read it when it publishes.

Paul reminds us, “Care about others as much as you care about yourselves… Think the same way that Christ Jesus thought.” (Philippians 2:3–5, CEV)

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MY BLESSING THIS WEEK

I was blessed by my wonderful mother-in-law, who quietly stepped into the gap left when my own mother died. And I am grateful that all of her children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren were able to vist with her before God took her Home.

MY PRAYER FOR YOU

May Christ shape your instincts toward compassion.
May He soften the hurried places within you.
May He open your eyes to the small needs around you.
May He steady your hands for simple acts of kindness.
May He fill your heart with the humble love that reflects His own.

And as you offer care in quiet, faithful ways,
may you also receive it —
from God,
from others,
from the gentle grace that meets you in every moment.

May you go into the weekend held, guided, and cared for by the One who never forgets your name.

Amen.

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This piece was drafted by me and gently refined with the help of an AI editor. The story, reflections, and blessings are fully my own

I had asked my oldest son, Dennis, what kind of cake he wanted for his upcoming birthday. He took only a scant second to respond.

“Is Mom‑mom coming?”
I nodded.
“Then I want her to make a Poor Man’s Cake.”

Mom’s Poor Man’s Cake was a frequent request from all of my children, and they knew their beloved grandmother would happily make the recipe born in the Great Depression, when milk, eggs, and butter were scarce.

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To them, it was simply a wonderful, dense treat filled with raisins and cinnamon.

But to my beloved mother‑in‑law, Betty, it was something more: a symbol of the resilience that carried her family through hard economic times, and a touch‑point to her own childhood lived at the edges of the John Tyler Arboretum with her brother and two sisters.

I met Betty in 1974, when I began dating her son, Ronald. Very quickly, I was welcomed into the fold of the Cobourn family and became part of their holidays and rituals. While my own mother — also a Betty — was a dear woman, she was not much of a cook. The new Betty in my life was. As her obituary last week noted, “Betty was a terrific cook and hostess, delighting her family with birthday celebrations, holidays, and lunch even if you just came for a spontaneous visit.”

Dinners in her home were set with the good china and a generous spread of dishes — each one prepared with the kind of care she gave to everything she touched.

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But what mattered more to Betty than her cooking or her sewing was her family. She “cared about her family members as much as (probably more than) she cared about herself” (Philippians 2:3–5, CEV).

When my own mother passed away in 2002, Betty stepped into the role with quiet grace. And when my husband, her son Ron, became ill following a car accident in 2000, she did everything she could to help us — offering the kind of steady, practical care that never called attention to itself but always made a difference.

I sat at the funeral service of this beloved woman on August 10, memories from the 51 years I had known her swirling gently through my mind. The service was held in the same place where my husband’s had been held seven years earlier, and the familiarity of the room pressed tenderly against my heart.

My emotions moved in waves — gratitude giving way to grief, love mingling with loss, and surrender deepening into sorrow.

Betty had been, in a word, a true mother.

And I recalled a conversation she and I had repeated many times since Ron’s passing.

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“Ron called me that afternoon,” she would say. “We talked for a while, and he said he was feeling different somehow. Not sick, exactly. Just different.” She would always sigh here. “I told him things would be alright. I told him I loved him. And I never knew it would be the last time I spoke to him this side of Heaven.”

My darling husband passed away just a few hours later.

As her service continued, I whispered a quiet prayer of thanks: Ron had the comfort of his mother’s voice in his last hours — a final act of care from the woman who had loved him since the moment he drew breath.

I have no doubt he was waiting for her at the pearly gates — the son she loved so fiercely, the one she comforted in his final hours. And if I know Betty, she didn’t arrive empty‑handed.

Perhaps she brought him a Poor Man’s Cake, the same simple, sturdy sweetness that had carried her through childhood and blessed every generation that followed.

In a world that often celebrates what is grand, she taught us to cherish what is given quietly — a warm kitchen, a generous heart, and a Poor Man’s Cake that tasted like love.

Her legacy is not measured in the size of her table or the number of her recipes, but in the care she wove into every moment, every meal, every conversation, every goodbye.

And now, as we release her into the arms of God, we carry her legacy forward — not in grand gestures, but in the quiet, faithful care she modeled so well.

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🌿 Reflection — Philippians 2:3–5 (CEV)

Paul writes, “Don’t be jealous or proud, but be humble and consider others more important than yourselves. Care about them as much as you care about yourselves… Think the same way that Christ Jesus thought.”

Betty lived these words quietly and consistently. Her care was never loud or showy; it was woven into the way she cooked, the way she listened, the way she mothered, and the way she comforted her son in his final hours. She cared in the Christ‑shaped way — humbly, generously, instinctively.

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🌿 A Quiet Prayer

Lord,
Thank You for the gift of those who care in quiet ways —
who serve without spotlight,
who love without condition,
who give without keeping score.

Teach us to carry that same spirit into our own days.
Help us to see the needs around us,
to offer kindness without hesitation,
and to care for others as tenderly as You care for us.

May Betty’s legacy of humble love
take root in our hearts
and grow into small, faithful acts
that honor You and bless those we meet.

Amen.

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A WHISPER OF ENCOURAGEMENT

And if no one has told you this today, hear it now:
You are cared for. You are seen. You are held in the quiet love of Christ, and His care is already reaching toward you.

Sometimes the smallest acts carry the deepest love — a meal prepared, a listening ear, a presence that doesn’t need words. Care rarely arrives with fanfare; it slips in quietly, steady and sure.

WHAT’S COMING ON THURSDAY’S STEPS ON THE JOURNEY

This week’s Thursday post is very personal, a tribute to my dear mother-in-law who passed away on Sunday, August 2 at 9:40 PM, just a few hours after her last visitor, my oldest son Dennis.

“Mom” was a wonderful mother and grandmother, a great cook, a talented seamstress, and beloved by her family. I hope you will read my tribute to this lovely woman who was famous for her “Poor Man’s Cake.”

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A BRIEF LESSON FROM SCRIPTURE

Paul reminds us, “Care about others as much as you care about yourselves” (Philippians 2:3–5, CEV). Not in grand gestures, but in the humble, Christ‑shaped way that notices, tends, and honors. Exactly the way my mother-in-law did.

Today, let your heart lean toward someone who needs gentle care. A whisper of kindness. A moment of patience. A simple act that says, You matter.

WHERE DO YOU HEAR GOD’S WHISPER TODAY?

Let Christ teach you the quiet way.

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This piece was drafted by me and gently refined with the help of an AI editor. The story, reflections, and blessings are fully my own

Yet I am always with you;
you hold me by my right hand.

This past week, we focused on the loneliness caregivers often feel, and rejoiced to know that God ALWAYS holds us by the hand.

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I was scared. My seven-year-old self was headed into surgery. It was all very loud and bright and frightening. But as I was wheeled down the hall and into the surgery suite, my dad held my hand.

“I’ve got you,” he said. “And I won’t let go. Even when you’re on the other side of the door, I’ll still be here, holding your hand.” Dad gave my hand an extra squeeze.

And I knew he would remain there, holding me.

Just as my earthly father held my hand to keep me safe, so does our Heavenly Father. Psalm 73:23 says he holds our RIGHT hand; in the ancient Eastern world, the right hand was seen as a source of strength and power. This means that God’s power and authority are with us at all times. He is not a distant, faraway God, but He is right next to us.

While the surgeon prepped me for an appendectomy, I could no longer see Dad. But I knew he was with me, still holding my hand. We may not see a physical version of God in our lonely moments, but we can trust that He is there.

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He is always holding our hand.

Thursday’s Steps on the Journey showcased the second half of the podcast I did with Penni Cooke and Mary Whittaker. If you missed it, you can watch it here.

How has the God who holds your hand blessed you this week?

My dear mother-in-law, Betty, went home to be with her Savior on Sunday, August 2. I was blessed to call her “Mom”!

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And here’s an update on how my little book is doing in the world.

If you’d like to purchase a copy for yourself or a friend, you can click here.

This piece was drafted by me and gently refined with the help of an AI editor. The story, reflections, and blessings are fully my own.

This is the second part of the podcast—Manna-festations—with Penni Cooke as host and Mary Whittaker, who is caregiver to her husband Dwight, as another guest. We continued to talk about the challenges of caregiving and the loneliness caregivers experience.

Psalm 73:23 “Yet I am always with you; you hold me by my right hand.”

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The Loneliness No One Talks About

Caregivers are lonely in ways most people never notice. The world sees the person who needs the care — the illness, the decline, the appointments, the crisis moments. But they often don’t see you. They don’t see the quiet ache of being the one who holds everything together. They don’t see the weight you carry in silence.

Mary noted that people are often there for the moments of crisis—the hospitalization, the surgery, the death—but do not see the millions of micromoments that make uip the life of a caregiver.

Losing the Person You Love While They’re Still Here

One of the deepest forms of loneliness comes from the loss of companionship with the person you love. Illness changes them. Slowly at first, and then all at once. You lose conversations, shared routines, inside jokes, the easy companionship that once filled your home. You lose the person who used to carry life with you.

For me, that loss came gradually as Ron’s condition worsened. I kept showing up — for him, for our children, for our life — but inside, I knew I was losing my partner piece by piece.

Mary’s experience was a bit different. Dwight was disabled when they married, but as his disease progressed, she found herself making many adjustments, even needing to leave her position as a media specialist to care for him.

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Carrying the Future Alone

I also knew the future would rest on my shoulders, so I pressed forward with graduate work, earning both an MEd and an EdD. I did it because I had to. I did it because I knew our family would depend on me.

But even in all that achievement, loneliness followed me like a shadow.

A Book I Never Planned to Write

I didn’t want to write a Bible study. I wanted to write novels — stories that let me escape into imagination. But in 2024, Flourish Writers offered a course called Light the Way, and my friend Jan convinced me to join her. “We’ll help each other,” she said. And so I signed up, not knowing that the book I resisted writing would become the book I needed to write.

Much of it came from the journals I kept during those caregiving years — pages filled with prayers, exhaustion, hope, and grief. I’ve come to believe it is important, even sacred, to tell your story. When we speak honestly about our journey, we help others find their way through theirs.

Mary points to Hagar (Genesis 21) as an example to caregivers. Forgotten and abandoned, Hagar ran to the desert to die and found God who knew her and called her by name.

Why I Write for Caregivers Now

That is why I write for caregivers now. I want you to know that you are Seen, Loved, and Carried — one step at a time. Even in the loneliness. Even in the long nights. Even when you feel invisible.

Caregiving is lonely. But you are not forgotten. You are not unseen. And you are not walking this road by yourself.

One step at a time, you are being carried.

If you would like to purchase the book, or gift it for a friend, you can click the link here.

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“Yet I am always with you; you hold me by my right hand.”

A WHISPER OF ENCOURAGEMENT

Even in the loneliness caregiving brings — the quiet moments no one sees, the ache of doing life without the partner you once knew — you are not walking alone. There is a Hand that has not let go of yours. A Presence that stays near. A Love that steadies your steps when you feel unsure. You are held today, and you will be held tomorrow.

WHAT’S COMING ON THURSDAY’S STEPS ON THE JOURNEY

This Thursday, I will be sharing the second half of the podcast with Penni Cooke and Mary Whittaker. All caregivers, we talk about how lonely it can sometimes be to be caring for the partner who used to share life with you.

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And while most people will be “there for you” during moments of crisis, it is the small, everyday moments of a caregiver’s life that leaves us feeling forgotten.

A BRIEF LESSON FROM SCRIPTURE

Psalm 73:23 assures us that God’s presence is continual; He is near to us through every trial. Because He is holding our hand, he is actively suporting us and guiding us, not just watching from far off.

The caregiver can:

• Keep God at the center of our decisions, trusting His guidance.

• Remember that His presence is the greatest assurance, especially when circumstances seem unjust.

• Seek His perspective when we feel confused or discouraged, knowing He is “continually with thee.”

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GOD’S WHISPER

How is God supporting and encouraging you today as He holds your right hand?

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As this week comes to a close, may you feel God’s kindness in every place your heart has circled. Grief does not move in straight lines, and neither does healing. Both return in their own time, carrying reminders of what you’ve loved and who you’ve lost.

If you have felt a familiar ache rise again, may God meet you there with gentleness.
If you have remembered someone with both sorrow and gratitude, may His peace settle softly over you.

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If caregiving has asked more of you than you expected, may He strengthen you for the steps ahead and comfort you in the ones behind.

You don’t have to understand the whole story.
You don’t have to see the beauty yet.
You only have to rest in the One who holds time—and your heart—in His hands.

May the God who has set eternity within you bless your coming and going, your remembering and your returning, your mourning and your dancing.
May He make something beautiful in its time.
And may you feel His steady presence in every step on the journey.

Thursday’s Steps on the Journey spoke about the circularity of grief as my mother-in-law lives out her last few days. If you missed it, you can read it here.

Ecclesiastes 3:11–12

He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the human heart; yet^[a] no one can fathom what God has done from beginning to end. ¹² I know that there is nothing better for people than to be happy and to do good while they live.

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The Loops of Grief

Grief is not linear. It loops, returns, interrupts. It circles back when we least expect it. Scripture already knows this.

I sat beside Allen and spoke gently. “You understand, don’t you, that Mommom is very ill?”

He nodded. “I know. And I will miss her. But I just can’t go see her, okay? I don’t want to remember her that way.”

“Alright,” I said, placing my hand on his knee—my way of telling him I respected his decision.

Death is not easy for anyone, but for someone like my son, whose mind works in mysterious and beautiful ways, it is unfathomable. When his father died seven years ago, we began a long journey to find Ron again—a journey that became the heart of Finding Father. And when my own father died two years ago, Allen spiraled into a darkness that took months to climb out of.

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Now my dear mother‑in‑law, the last of my children’s grandparents, is nearing the end of her life. I want Allen to know what is happening, but I also want to protect him from memories that might be too heavy for him to carry.

And truthfully, I want to protect myself as well.

I have walked on from the losses in my life—my mother, my husband, my father—but as my mother‑in‑law nears the end, I find myself back there again.

Grief is not a straight line we walk. It’s a language we learn.

Ecclesiastes 3 speaks of the seasons God has prepared for the world: spring, summer, autumn, winter. The calendar moves them through the year in an orderly sequence, but life rarely follows the rules. Warm days arrive in the middle of a frigid February; snow covers early Easter flowers. We humans expect straight lines because they make sense to us. But grief—and life—does not work that way.

The chapter also speaks of “a time to weep and a time to laugh… a time to mourn and a time to dance.” These are not sequential ideas. They overlap. They braid together.

I lost much when my husband died—his love, his companionship, his steady presence. But I also gained much—stories to tell, books to write, a ministry to help others.

Sorrow and Beauty share a sentence

This, then, is the grammar of grief: the way sorrow and beauty share the same sentence.

This weekend, my daughter and her husband, my oldest son and his girlfriend, and I will visit “Mom”. She is a woman who truly did “Good while she lived”, who loved with all her heart, and who spent her 99 years on this earth gently following God.

She will not remember our visits, but we will. And in that remembering we will begin our own circles of grief.

And as I prepare myself—and Allen—for this latest chapter in a long story of love and loss, I find myself gathering the memories we will carry forward: the laughter around her table, the way she loved her grandchildren, the quiet strength she offered in seasons when we needed it most.

Grief moves in circles. But so does love. And in God’s timing, both become part of the beautiful mystery we cannot fathom—from beginning to end.

1. Where have you noticed time looping in your own life—through memories, emotions, or unexpected returns of grief?

2. What part of your story has recently resurfaced, and how might God be meeting you in that return?

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This piece was drafted by me and gently refined with the help of an AI editor. The story, reflections, and blessings are fully my own.

You can support my ministry for caregivers—and help feed my son—by clicking the link below. Any amount is appreciated!

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A Gentle Blessing

May God meet you kindly in every place your heart returns.
May His peace steady you, His comfort surround you,
and His beauty rise in its time.

May you feel His presence in each step of the journey today.

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A Whisper of Encouragement

Caregiver, if today feels like a day when time is looping—when an old ache returns or a familiar worry rises—you are not going backward. You are simply touching a place your heart has known before.

Grief and love both move in circles.
And God meets you in every return.

He is shaping beauty in ways you cannot yet see, holding the moments that feel too heavy, and steadying you for the ones still ahead. You don’t have to understand the whole story. You only have to take the next small step.

You are doing holy work.
And you are not walking it alone.

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What’s Coming on Thursday’s Steps on the Journey

Tuesday’s post is about a subject we are all familiar with: grief. As my dear mother-in-law enters her last few days of earthly life, I find myself returning again to earlier losses of my husband and my father. Grief is a dichotomy: it can sit beside joy. If you have experienced a season of grief, I hope you will take a few minutes to read it.

Grief is not a straight line we walk. It’s a language we learn.

A Brief Scripture Lesson

Ecclesiastes 3:1 reminds us, “There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens.” This emphasizes that every phase of life—birth, death, joy, sorrow, work, and rest—has its proper time, and recognizing this helps us navigate life with patience and faith rather than frustration in both good and challenging times.

God’s Whisper

Where can you hear God’s whisper today?

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Caregivers walk in tender places. The dialogue Mary, Penni, and I shared was both honest and hopeful, a recognition of the challenges of caregiving as well as the blessings.

If you’d like to listen, the episode is here:

What We Talked About

Penni is a host who shares warmth and honesty with her viewers. and she offered both Mary and me a space to talk about many things caregivers experience:

• The quiet courage we carry, often unnoticed, often unspoken.

• The ache and beauty of writing from lived experiences of grief, loss, and lasting love.

• The God call behind the writing of You Are Not Alone and the new journey toward Finding Father: A Journey of Faith on the Autism Spectrum

• The way God meets us in the messy, painful, and unspoken ways of caregiving — not only in the surgery unit, but in the moments where we’re simply trying to keep going.

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A Moment That Stayed With Me

There was a point in our conversation when Penni said, “In chapter ten, you mentioned a time that you were, “treading on unknown ground’. Can you tell us about that time?”

And I was catapulted back to that dark day when Ron’s incision had split open while I was in a graduate school class, and two of my children needed to handle the crisis without me.

I left the class as soon as my daughter called my cell phone, praying all the way to the hospital not only for my husband but for my children who had to shoulder much of their father’s illness.

“They’re alone,” I told God.

That event, when I felt totally at sea, was one of the many times God reminded us that He was still present.

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Why This Episode Matters

If you are:

• a caregiver

• someone carrying a quiet grief

• a writer trying to tell the truth

• or simply a person longing for encouragement

I think this conversation will meet you right where you are.

Penni’s ministry is tender and Spirit-led, and I’m grateful she welcomed my story into her space.

A Blessing for You Today

As you watch, try to sense the nearness of God.
Know that His kindness is in the many pauses in the life of a caregiver.

Trust that He is with you through every step of the journey.

You are seen. You are loved. You are carried―one step at a time.

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This piece was drafted by me and gently refined with the help of an AI editor. The story, reflections, and blessings are fully my own.

You can support my ministry for caregivers—and help feed my son—by clicking the link below. Any amount is appreciated!

Buy me an Iced Tea!

A Whisper of Encouragement

For one moment, take a deep breath. No one needs you now. Breathe in the truth: God will meet you not only in the strong places of your caregiving, but in the tender ones where you feel too tired and weak to continue. The ground may feel unfamiliar beneath your feet, but God is still with you.

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What’s Coming on Thursday

Two weeks ago, I was asked by Penni Cooke of Mannafestations to join her in a podcast about my book, You Are Not Alone: Rest and Refuge for Spousal Caregivers.

Mary Whittaker, a friend who had served on my launch team and who was also a spousal caregiver, joined us as we talked with honesty about the scared weight we all carried as caregivers to our husbands.

Penni asked me about a statement from Chapter Ten of my book;

And it took me back to that moment, years ago when caregiving was new, and I needed to allow God to walk with me.

A Brief Scripture Lesson

Psalm 91:13 says, “You will tread on the lion and the cobra; you will trample the young lion and the serpent underfoot.”

This verse was a reminder to me that even when the path we are walking is tricky and unknown, God is still with us. Lions and cobras are both dangerous predators, but the verbs “tread” and “trample” remind us that we can overcome these enemies. God equips us with a strength we did not know we had.

Caregiving is unknown territory. We cannot prepare for it. But we can trust that God walks beside us.

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God’s Whisper

Where can you hear God’s whisper today?

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A Song for Your Journey

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This week, I wrote about the gentle routines that carry my son and me through each day, recognizing how the routines keep Allen steady. But I also saw how the routines can be bent if needed, as long as the comfort remains. Even when the details shift, the promise steadies him.

I saw how the simple habits Allen and I have established in our life of two is similar to the steadfast presence of God.

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It is these small rhythms that keep Allen grounded. Each promise—Monday morning at the Chi Cafe, Thursday night ice cream—extends his trust of the world and his understanding of it. They are his “shalom shalom.” Perhaps there is, in your life, a similar version of our Thursday Ice Cream Promises that help you or a loved one make sense of a world that swirls too quickly with noise and actions.

Reflection:

Where does God meet you with shalom shalom, that doubled peace Isaiah promised? Where do you, like my son, retreat from the busyness of the world and into a familiar routine?

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Let those steady routines of your life remind you that you are safe, seen, and held by God.

Blessing:

May God steady your heart in the simple places, and you feel His presence in the rituals of your life.

May you have Shalom Shalom. Peace doubled, layered over layer.

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Link:

If you missed the post on Thursday, you can read it here.

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This piece was drafted by me and gently refined with the help of an AI editor. The story, reflections, and blessing are fully my own.

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My son needs routine. It’s the way he makes sense of a world that doesn’t always feel predictable, and it’s why his grief took its own shape when my husband died. Structure isn’t just comfort for Allen — it’s how he stays steady.

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Life with him has a rhythm:
Monday breakfast at the Chi Café.
Tuesday laundry.
Wednesday lawn care.
Thursday market with pizza and ice cream for dinner.
Friday games with his sister and brother‑in‑law.

These small anchors hold him. They hold me, too.

But every now and then, the schedule needs to shift. And when it does, I always let Allen know ahead of time.

Last week, I told him on Monday, “I won’t be home for dinner on Thursday. I’m meeting friends from school.”
He nodded. “Okay.”

I reminded him again on Wednesday. Another nod.

And on Thursday, as I grabbed my keys, I told him once more.
“I’m heading out to dinner with friends.”
“Alright,” he said. “Can I still cook a pizza?”
“Of course. I just won’t be here to eat it.”

He nodded again, thinking it through. Then his real question surfaced — the one that mattered most:

“But you WILL be home in time for ice cream, won’t you?”

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That’s the heart of it.
Not the pizza.
Not the schedule change.
Not the dinner I’d miss.

Ice cream is our Thursday night ritual — the quiet moment at the end of the day when he knows I’m home, the world is right, and he is safe.

Routines aren’t just habits.
They are promises.
They are the way some hearts stay steady.

Scripture for the Journey

“You will keep in perfect peace those whose minds are steadfast, because they trust in You.” — Isaiah 26:3

Isaiah wrote these words during a time when God’s people were longing for stability. Their world was shifting — nations rising and falling, threats pressing in, routines disrupted. Isaiah 26 is a song of trust, a declaration that even when life feels unpredictable, God Himself becomes the steady ground beneath our feet.

The phrase perfect peace is actually shalom shalom — peace doubled, peace layered, peace that settles the heart. And the word steadfast means anchored, fixed, held steady in one direction.

Where Scripture Meets Our Story

Allen’s routines aren’t just habits — they are his anchors. They give him a sense of safety, predictability, and peace in a world that often feels confusing or too fast.

When he asks, “But you WILL be home in time for ice cream, won’t you?”
he’s really asking:
Will the part of the day that helps me feel safe still be there? Will the world still make sense? Will you still show up?

That’s his version of shalom shalom — the peace that comes from something steady.

My presence, my routines, my gentle reminders — they are the way Allen experiences steadfastness. They are how he finds calm. They are how he knows he is held.

And in a deeper way, they mirror the heart of God:
A God who shows up.
A God who keeps His promises.
A God who brings peace through consistency, compassion, and presence.

Just as Allen’s mind stays steady when the rhythm of his days holds, our spirits stay steady when we trust the One who never changes.

A Quiet Closing Thought

Ice cream on Thursday nights may seem small, but for Allen, it’s peace. And maybe that’s the quiet reminder Isaiah was giving us all along — that God meets us in the simple, steady places and keeps us in perfect peace, one faithful moment at a time.

Reflection for Your Heart

As you read about Allen’s Thursday ice cream ritual, I wonder if there’s a place in your own life where God meets you with shalom shalom — that doubled peace Isaiah promised.

Maybe it’s a small routine that steadies you.
Maybe it’s a person who shows up with consistency.
Maybe it’s a quiet moment at the end of the day when the world finally softens.

Take a breath and consider:

• Where do you feel most anchored right now?

• What simple rhythm helps your heart settle?

• Where might God be offering you perfect peace in the ordinary?

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Sometimes the holiest moments are the ones that look like ice cream on a Thursday night — small, steady reminders that you are held, seen, and loved.

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“You will keep in perfect peace those whose minds are steadfast, because they trust in You.” — Isaiah 26:3

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In a world that keeps shifting under our feet, routine becomes a kind of mercy. Allen needs the steadiness of familiar steps—same breakfast, same rhythm, same anchors to hold onto. And sometimes I realize: I do too.

So today, I’m letting the small routines become whispers of peace. A cup of tea. A quiet breath. A moment to remember that God is the One who steadies both of us.

On Thursday, I’ll share Ice Cream Promises—a reminder that even in the swirl, sweetness remains.

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This past Thursday, I shared an interview with Donna Woolam of “Living My Best Life” and talked about the many times my daughter and I were able to offer comfort to other caregivers in hospital waiting rooms.

We could say “I understand,” and mean it. We could offer comfort that comes not from theory, but from lived experience, from nights of prayer, from weary hope, from the God who met us in our own need.

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Comfort offered by a caregiver carries a particular weight. It is tender, honest, and deeply human. It reminds us that we are not alone, that our stories matter, and that God is still moving in the hidden places.

What blessing has God shown you this weekend? Where might you bless others on your journey?

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In case you missed Thursday’s post, here is the link to the interview.

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Today I’m sharing a conversation that has stayed with me for years. Donna Woolam invited me onto her Living My Best Life series to talk about long‑term caregiving—what it looked like day to day, how it shaped my faith, and the quiet courage it takes to keep showing up when life becomes heavier than you ever expected.

This interview was recorded during a tender season, soon after Ron’s death. I was still teaching full-time, trying to find my way as a widow, and helping Allen on his own grief journey.

• The reality of long-term caregiving—the routines, the exhaustion, and the sacredness woven through ordinary days.

• Survival tips that carried me—small practices that helped me breathe, rest, and stay grounded.

• Anticipatory grief—how it begins long before loss, and how it reshapes the heart.

• Ron’s death—the moment everything changed, and the slow, faithful work of healing that followed.

• The early beginnings of Allen’s story—why I knew his grief needed to be written, even before I knew how.

Substack pulled a few short clips from the interview, and I’ve included them here as well. They capture the heart of the conversation—honest, tender, and rooted in the belief that caregivers are never as alone as they feel.

I hope you’ll take a few minutes to watch. If you’re walking through caregiving, grief, or the long road of rebuilding after loss, may this conversation offer companionship and a little breath of hope. And if someone you love is carrying a heavy story, feel free to share this with them.

Thank you for being here. Your presence in this community matters more than you know.

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