Just a few hours ago, I was soaking in the tub. The window was propped open with a fan, and I was enjoying the smell of fresh-cut grass, the hum of nighttime critters, and the pleasant drop in humidity we’ve been experiencing since last night.

Then I heard it.

Sirens.

I’m questioning, does the hubby have the TV up too loud?

Then I hear it again.

I quickly get out of the tub, wrap a towel around me, and go to my room. Listening intently. My room is closer to the road.

There it was again.

I peep out the window to see an ambulance in my mom’s driveway and two fire trucks in the road in front of her house.

Now, it’s not uncommon for me to see ambulances outside my mom’s house. She has been sick for a long time, dealing with a slew of chronic and complex health conditions. But she normally calls and tells me if she needs an ambulance, and they usually don’t come with their firefighter friends and their sirens.

I quickly throw on some clothes, tell my husband and my grandmother—who had somehow heard nothing—and we head next door.

My stepdad had called the ambulance.

My mom was unresponsive.

Just a few minutes earlier, she had asked him for her emergency glucose shot. Her Dexcom reader was beeping with a critically low glucose reading. She managed to give herself the sugar injection and then fell into a deep sleep he couldn’t wake her from.

The room was filled with about six EMTs and firefighters, plus my stepdad, my husband, my grandmother, and me.

The EMTs had already checked her vitals before I could even ask.

“All good,” they say.

Though, she is indeed out.

Nothing is waking her.

Finally, one EMT gives her a good sternum rub, and it rouses a moan out of her.

She can barely open her eyes and talk, but she tells me she’s tired and her chest hurts. Since she can’t stay awake, the EMTs are forced to take her to the emergency room.

They are able to get a soft stretcher under her body, and all six of the EMTs and firefighters carry her out to the real stretcher and get her loaded into the ambulance.

No one talks about how traumatic life is.

How the repeated sight of your sick mother being loaded onto a stretcher breaks you a little more each and every time it happens.

How you begin grieving a loss you know is coming, but you just don’t know how soon.

When is the last day?

The last conversation?

The last phone ring?

Something inside of you aches.

You look around the room at those there to help. It’s just another day on the job for them. Of course they look unconcerned. They joke around and make casual talk amongst one another as your mother lies there unresponsive.

And then, as they load her up, I walk back home.

I finish brushing my hair and putting lotion on my freshly shaved legs. Things I didn’t do as I rushed out of the bathroom in a towel.

I walk into the living room, where my husband and son are eating and watching an old football game.

Something in me aches.

My mom is in the back of an ambulance, tied to a stretcher. I’ve lost count of how many times she’s been there.

My heart breaks for her pain.

To be sick for so long.

To spend so many of your days in hospitals and at appointments.

I don’t know how to soothe the ache.

I pray a quick prayer, but I’ve prayed so many that the prayers just don’t come out much like they used to anymore. They are short, sweet, and to the point.

“Lord.”

I think about picking up my study on Ruth, maybe typing out a prayer, or working on my blog.

No. None of that is it.

Writing.

Writing is the answer.

And somehow, tonight, that brings me back here.

It’s been several months and quite a few changes later.

I took on a second job as a real estate agent.

I moved from my mother-in-law’s home to my grandmother’s home to help care for her and the house, with the eventual plan of it being ours one day.

Two weeks into moving in, my grandmother broke her arm and had to have major surgery. She experienced a week of post-operative delirium where she, quite frankly, lived in another world.

I’m here to care for her and my mother.

I quit my job as a real estate agent.

I started a new blog.

Jacked my back up pretty good.

And I’m going back to school to be an elementary teacher.

So, I do have many reasons for my disappearance.

But when the pain rises up, the only comfort I can find is in writing.

The tears aren’t coming right now. I think they are all dried up.

But for now, there are words.

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I woke this morning to a text from my stepdad that came through at two a.m.:

“Your mom is back in the hospital. We’re in the trauma unit. When we arrived, her blood pressure was 60/30.”

Jesus, take the wheel.
I barely made it through yesterday’s heaviness, and here we are again.

I feel selfish even saying that. Like I’m complaining.

Some people wake up under a bridge, or in a homeless shelter.
Some people wake up to their child dying of cancer.
Some wake up with severe physical limitations.
Some don’t know how they’ll feed their kids today.

And yet, here I am—struggling with my own issues.
In comparison, I am extremely blessed.
But somehow, my mind doesn’t recognize that.

The heaviness still comes. The hopelessness still lingers.

As I sit in my mother-in-law’s living room, another morning of bad news blares from the TV. Doom and disaster. I can hardly take it. But it’s not my house, and it’s not my choice what’s on the television.

Then my stepdad’s message echoes again in my mind—Mom’s back in the hospital. And I can’t help but think: one day, the news will be even harder to hear. We’ve been battling this sickness for so long. I don’t even know how she does it. She clearly has it much worse than I do.

My husband’s weary voice breaks through next. He’s working so hard, coming home exhausted, to a home that isn’t ours and a bank account that’s empty.

“What’s the point?” he says.
“I’m working for nothing.”

He comes to me for comfort—as he should. But I have no more comfort left to give.

Then there are the kids. The daily fights. Every morning. Every afternoon. Over everything.
I’m just… done.

They don’t see that they’re all each other has.
They don’t see the importance of choosing Jesus over the world, no matter how much I try to teach them.
And maybe that’s because they can’t see the benefit of doing so—when life still feels so hard.

I feel trapped in this in-between place.
A season of transition that never seems to end.
When will I wake up to hope again?

I pray daily for the Lord to deliver me—or, if not, to change me so I can make it through.

But maybe that’s the point. Maybe this ache, this longing to leave the constant place of transition, is what reminds us we’re not home yet.

We live in the “in-between.”
Between what is and what will be.
Between pain and promise.

And one day, there will be a place with no sickness, no sorrow, no lack of anything good.

Jesus, I’m ready for You to come and take us all home.
But until then—I know there’s still work to do. Souls to love. Hope to carry.

So today, I’m asking for an IV infusion of hope—straight into my soul.
Not the kind that fades when circumstances shift, but the kind that anchors me until the storm passes.

Because sometimes, the only prayer left is:

“Jesus, take the wheel—and don’t let go.”

And because I, in myself, have no morsel of comfort or hope left to give, I leave you with words from the only One who truly does—the One who has the words of life.

“Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life.”
— John 6:68

Where else could we turn, but to the God of comfort, hope, love, and peace?

When You Feel Weary and Worn Out

• Psalm 61:2 (NIV)
  “From the ends of the earth I call to you, I call as my heart grows faint; lead me to the rock that is higher than I.”

• Isaiah 40:29–31 (NIV)
  “He gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak. Even youths grow tired and weary, and young men stumble and fall; but those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.”

• Matthew 11:28–30 (NIV)
  “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.”

When Hope Feels Distant

• Romans 15:13 (NIV)
  “May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit.”

• 2 Corinthians 4:8–9, 16–18 (NIV)
  “We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed… Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day.”

🕊️ When You’re Longing for Heaven

• Revelation 21:4 (NIV)
  “‘He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death’ or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.”

• Philippians 3:20–21 (NIV)
  “But our citizenship is in heaven. And we eagerly await a Savior from there, the Lord Jesus Christ, who… will transform our lowly bodies so that they will be like his glorious body.”

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I often read stories of people living the lives they once dreamt of — a quiver full of children, a home filled with laughter and personality, and the comforting smell of fresh, homemade meals drifting through the air. A life where they homeschool their children, teaching values rooted in love, faith, and truth.

I don’t want to sound ungrateful.
I have two beautiful children, a borrowed home (for now), and yes — there are fresh, homemade meals being served here. I truly have all that I need. And I am deeply thankful.

But my heart still desires more.

It aches for the missed opportunities — for the quiver that never filled, for the home that never quite felt like ours, for the chance to homeschool my children and nurture them in the values I hold dear.

Sometimes, my mind wanders to the what-ifs.
What if I hadn’t stopped at two children?
What if we owned a home that reflected who we are — warm, creative, full of laughter?
Would my kids be different if I had homeschooled them?

This morning, as we rushed to get ready for school, my daughter said through frustrated tears,

“I’m tired of being the weird family. I’m the only one who doesn’t celebrate Halloween because of you. Everyone thinks you hate me.”

Her words pierced me.
My children don’t understand that the things I do for them come from love — not control, not cruelty, but conviction. Yet, from their perspective, I’m the “mean mom,” the fun-squasher.

They don’t see the spiritual war I fight silently — for their hearts, their values, their souls.
And sometimes, that reality breaks me.

I want to fix it. But I can’t.
I can’t undo the past or rewind time.
I can’t go back and homeschool them.
And truthfully — it wasn’t even an option then.

I was eighteen when my oldest was born — still a child myself. I didn’t yet know the values I live by now. And financially, staying home was never possible. Many years, I was the primary breadwinner. Work wasn’t a choice; it was survival.

So here I am — older, wiser, still dreaming. Grieving what could have been, yet trusting God with what is.

Praying that He will, as He promises, “restore what the locusts have eaten” (Joel 2:25).
That His grace will cover my shortcomings and failures.
That somehow, my imperfect efforts will still yield good fruit.

These days, I work part-time — not because I can afford to, but because I can’t afford not to. I want to preserve some energy and availability for my family, to still have the capacity to create and dream.

I live on a prayer that one day, my consistency and perseverance will pay off — that I’ll become a paid writer, an entrepreneur, and that flexibility and freedom will find their way back to me.

Though my kids are in middle and high school now, I still pray for God to redeem their thoughts and values — to reveal truth to them and give them courage to follow it, even when the world tells them not to.

I still dream of having a home of my own — a place where my creativity spills over into every room, where peace and laughter dwell together. A sanctuary for my family to return to every day.

And maybe — just maybe — God will still grant me the chance to homeschool them before this chapter closes.
Every day, my heart whispers that prayer.
Every day, I believe He’s still writing the story.

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I walked into the front office of the high school, palms sweaty and stomach in knots. I’d always been the shy and quiet kid — the one who didn’t say much. I could get along with any group, but the close friendships I once had were starting to fade. I had acquaintances now, not friends.

Part of that, of course, had to do with the reason I was standing there that day.

I had met a boy — and things went really well. We spent all of our time together. We were best friends first, talking about everything under the sun. He became my safe place, my escape from everything else going wrong. And somehow, by a twist of unexpected events, we ended up married. It happened the summer before my senior year. Sweet seventeen.

Now, I was in the front office to change my records to match my new married name.

As I approached the desk, my nervousness tightened my chest. I barely managed to tell the secretary that I was married and needed to update my documents. She looked at me like she hadn’t heard right and asked me to repeat it. When I did, she said, “Hold on just a second,” and disappeared into the maze of offices behind her.

Then, like I wasn’t even there, I heard her voice echoing from office to office:

“This child is here to change her last name because she’s married.”

The word child stung.

I could hear the gasps and whispers — the laughter, the disbelief — as if my life was a joke being passed around. Soon another staff member appeared and said, “So let me get this straight. You’re married?”

“Yes,” I said quietly.

She led me into a small office to “talk privately.” My face burned with humiliation. I could barely see through the tears filling my eyes. After fifteen minutes of sitting there, listening to adults laugh about me — the very people who were supposed to guide and protect students — I decided I was done.

I wasn’t going to live out that ridicule every day, not with everyone whispering about the girl who got married in high school. What was I thinking? How could this possibly work?

I told the woman I wanted to withdraw from school. I was now an emancipated minor, after all. She laughed again and told me I couldn’t do that. While she left the room, I texted my husband, telling him what was happening. He was furious. He called the board of education himself, and they, thankfully, treated him with far more respect.

Soon, someone from the county office called and informed the school they couldn’t keep me there. The woman came back in, her tone suddenly sharp with judgment. She told me I was making a big mistake — that nothing good would ever come of my life.

By the time my husband arrived, I was exhausted and numb. We both signed the withdrawal papers since, apparently, they wanted his signature too, as he was already of legal age.

We walked out of that high school together, and tears streamed down my face. It felt like I could never escape the judgment — the people who looked at me and saw only a mistake. They saw a seventeen-year-old girl married too young.

What they didn’t see was the life behind that choice — the absence of a father, a mother lost to addiction, the constant moving from one relative’s house to another just to have a place to sleep. They couldn’t imagine my life, and they didn’t care to.

But what they didn’t know was the fire inside me — a resilience that had been forged long before that day.

I went on to graduate from an accredited homeschool program that I paid for myself — a month before my senior class. The very next semester, I enrolled in college.

For the first time, I was legally responsible for myself. I could make my own decisions. And that freedom — that hard-won, fought-for freedom — was something I had longed for my entire life.

And from that fire came something else, too: empathy.

When you’ve walked through the flames, you learn what it feels like to burn — and you never want another person to feel that same pain. Empathy comes naturally to those who have known struggle. Compassion grows in the cracks where judgment once lived.

So now, when I meet someone whose story doesn’t make sense on the surface, I pause. I remind myself that there’s always more beneath what we see — that every face carries a story we might never know.

Before we assume, before we whisper, before we tear someone down, we should stop and ask, “What might this person be carrying?” Because behind every decision is a reason, and behind every reason is a human being just trying to make it through.

Today, I get to see those same cast-away faces — but now, from the other side. I work with young people who have dropped out of high school, helping them earn their GEDs or find jobs. And I see myself in them.

One of my students walks to and from class — an hour each way, rain or shine — and he shows up every single day. He never announced that struggle to anyone; it came out slowly, through trust built on respect and truth.

To some, he might look like “just another deadbeat” who doesn’t have his license or GED. But I see the truth. I see a kid who was dealt a rough hand in life, who wants to get his license but has no one to teach him. I see a kid who fights to reach his goals despite every barrier and obstacle, who shows up with a smile and a laugh that remind me to be grateful for the blessings I have — big or small.

Because there’s always someone carrying more than you can see.

And many of them, somehow, still carry it with joy.

Empathy is born in the fire — in the moments when we are misunderstood, dismissed, or broken. If you’ve ever felt like the world misjudged your story, take heart. One day, that story might be the bridge that helps someone else find hope.

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Everyone talks about the good times, but rarely the bad. Maybe it’s because we’d rather forget or not dwell on what brings us down.

But when we hide the valleys, we create the illusion that everyone else’s life is a highlight reel—always smooth, always blessed, always mountain-top moments.

The truth is, none of us reach the mountain without walking through the valley first.

I’ve learned that my God-given spiritual gifts weren’t developed on the mountaintop—they were refined in the valley.

• Mercy doesn’t come easily to someone who’s never known the need for it.

• Exhortation—encouraging others to keep going—flows more deeply when you’ve fought to climb out of your own pit.

• Faith isn’t truly faith unless you’ve had to trust God when nothing else made sense.

• Help becomes second nature to someone who’s been helpless before.

• Knowledge grows when we lean into the Holy Spirit and seek wisdom through struggle.

Your gifts don’t just appear fully formed—they’re cultivated.

And cultivation isn’t comfortable. It’s a process of stretching, testing, and pruning.

Jesus said in John 15:2 (NIV):

“He cuts off every branch in me that bears no fruit, while every branch that does bear fruit He prunes so that it will be even more fruitful.”

Pruning isn’t punishment—it’s preparation.

A tree doesn’t produce fruit for itself. The fruit exists to nourish others.

So when you’re in a season of pruning, don’t despise it. Don’t rush it.

Let God do His work in you. Because the very valley that’s testing you now is the soil that will later feed someone else’s faith.

Scripture to Reflect On

James 1:2–4 (NIV):

“Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds,

because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance.

Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything.”

Prayer

Heavenly Father,

Thank You for loving me enough to prune me. Even when it hurts, help me to remember that You are shaping me for fruitfulness.

Teach me to see my valleys not as setbacks, but as sacred ground where faith grows deep.

Give me the courage to stay rooted in You when I don’t understand, and the humility to recognize that every gift You’ve given me is meant to bless others.

May my life produce good fruit that reflects Your love, Your mercy, and Your faithfulness.

In Jesus’ name I pray,

Amen

Call to Action

Take a moment today to look back at your valleys.

Ask God: “What fruit are You growing in me right now?”

Then thank Him—not just for the mountaintops, but for the pruning that made them possible.

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Lord, my heart aches.
It aches in places words can’t quite reach.
I feel torn between worlds — the one I’m called to nurture within my home, and the one outside it that demands more of me than I have to give.

How do I care for my family well and still work enough for us to survive?
How do I build a life that feels wholesome and whole when every choice feels like a compromise?

My children are being exposed to things they should never have to see — words, values, and images that dull their innocence and shape their hearts in ways that frighten me. I see their tenderness slipping. I see their curiosity bending toward the world’s noise.
And I feel like I’m fighting a battle too big for me.

How do I teach them to live in this world but not be of it?
How do I help them engage without being marked, to stand firm without standing alone?

I can’t keep them in a bubble, but sometimes I wish I could.
Sometimes I wish I could wrap them in truth and purity and keep the darkness at bay.

And then there’s the ache for time — the limited energy that feels stretched so thin.
Even when I work, it never feels like enough.
Even when I give my all, it doesn’t stretch far enough to cover the things that truly matter: rest, connection, laughter, peace.

Lord, You see the gap between what I want and what I can do.
You see my longing to be home — to love, to teach, to guide, to nurture my children in Your ways.
You see that I don’t want to live just surviving.
I want to build something eternal in the hearts of my family.

But I can’t do it alone.
And I can’t do it without my husband’s heart walking beside mine.
He doesn’t always see what I see. He worries about provision, and I understand that. But my worry feels different — it’s not about what we’ll eat or wear, but about what we’re becoming.

At night, I look around and we’re all under the same roof but not together.
Each of us behind a screen — me writing prayers on one, him lost in a game or a show, the kids scrolling through their worlds.
It breaks me.
Because this isn’t what I want.
This isn’t what I pictured when I asked You to make our home a place of peace.

And yet here I am — still believing You can redeem this.
Still believing You can turn our hearts back to each other.
Still believing You can show us how to live in this modern world and not be consumed by it.

Jesus, show us the way back.
Back to the table, back to stillness, back to prayer.
Show us how to love the simple again.
To find joy in what’s right in front of us — not what’s on a screen.

Help me remember that You are not silent even when the world is loud.
That You are not absent even when I feel stretched thin.
And that You can do more with my surrender than I ever could with my striving.

So I place it all here —
The ache, the questions, the exhaustion, the longing —
And I ask You to make something holy out of it.

Signed,

A Weary Mother in a Modern World

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“Let go of the desire to figure it all out. Trust in Me,” says the Lord.

Those were the words I heard as I laid outside in my favorite lounge chair.

The sun was soft and low, the kind of light that makes everything look golden just before it disappears.

The air was beginning to change — that faint chill that hints that summer is gone and fall is here.

Crickets began their evening song, and I took one deep, deliberate breath. I wanted to exhale every anxious thought, every what if, every should have been by now.

Because if I’m honest, I thought I’d be further along.
In life. In purpose. Maybe even in peace.

But as I sat there, my mind paused mid-comparison, and a question rose in my heart: Further along than who?

What invisible measuring stick have I been holding myself to?
Who said I was behind?

We talk so much about trusting God’s plan, but deep down, many of us still try to project-manage Him — setting deadlines for our destiny and milestones for our miracles.

We believe if we do enough, pray enough, try hard enough, we can speed up the process.

But God isn’t a formula to figure out.
He’s a Father to follow.

And I’m learning that His silence doesn’t mean He’s forgotten.

Sometimes it’s the stillness between assignments.
Sometimes it’s protection from premature movement.
And sometimes it’s mercy — keeping us close while He reshapes our hearts.

When I think back over my life, I realize there are so many things I asked God for years ago that I simply wasn’t ready to carry.
The doors that stayed closed then make sense now.
The detours, the waiting, even the disappointments — they weren’t punishment; they were preparation.

Moses was 80 before he led his people out of Egypt.
Abraham was 100 before his promise was fulfilled.
Noah built an ark and waited decades before the rain ever came.
These men weren’t forgotten. They were being formed.

And maybe that’s us too.

We can do all the right things and still feel like nothing’s moving.
But maybe “nothing” is exactly what God is using to refine us.

He doesn’t measure progress by motion — He measures it by surrender.

When we stop trying to prove ourselves, we finally have space to hear His voice again.

When we stop performing for His attention, we realize we never lost it.

The truth is, sometimes His silence is not a test — it’s an invitation.
An invitation to stop chasing answers and start resting in relationship.

And maybe that’s the part we’ve been missing.

We’ve convinced ourselves that a life well-lived for God means doing big things for Him — starting ministries, changing the world, leaving a mark.

But what if it’s not about how much we can do for Him, but how much we can trust Him in the stillness?

What if success in God’s eyes is measured not by how busy we are for the Kingdom, but by how deeply we allow His Spirit to transform us into the image of Christ?

Jesus’ public ministry lasted only three and a half years.
Before that, He lived quietly, faithfully, unseen.

And yet, those hidden years mattered just as much as the miracles.

Maybe one day God will call me to something big — or maybe He made billions of us so that each of us could carry out a small part of His plan.

A part that, when lived faithfully, can ripple like a domino effect across eternity.

And the rest of the time?
Maybe it’s not about doing at all.
Maybe it’s about being.
About returning to the kind of relationship humanity once had — walking with Him in the cool of the day, unhurried, unashamed, unafraid.

Maybe the whole point was never the doing — but the togetherness.

So today, I’m choosing to let go.
To trust that when it’s time to move, He’ll make it unmistakably clear.

And in the meantime, I’ll keep showing up where I am.

I’ll drink my coffee slowly, feel the fall breeze against my skin, listen to the crickets, and breathe in gratitude.

I’ll bake the cinnamon rolls. Watch a movie. Read a book. Write just because it brings me joy.

I’ll live like I believe that peace is not found in getting there faster — it’s found in trusting who’s leading the way.

Because maybe progress isn’t about how much we do.
Maybe it’s about how deeply we learn to rest.
Maybe it’s about how quietly we keep believing — even when heaven seems silent.

And one day, I’ll look back and realize that all of it — every still moment, every slow season, every quiet prayer — was building something in me that could never have been built any other way.

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My husband doesn’t come to me for advice.

He doesn’t want me to fix him, correct him, or even help him process.

He just wants me to listen — to be the safe place where he can take off the mask and let out the thoughts that feel too real for the rest of the world.

And most days, I can do that. I can sit beside him and listen, nodding gently, praying silently.

But sometimes, what he says is heavy.

So heavy that my chest tightens and my mind goes into overdrive, trying to figure out how to make it better.

That’s my default — to fix, to counsel, to patch the holes in what feels broken.
But that’s not what he’s asking for.

He doesn’t want a counselor. He wants connection.

Still, it’s not easy.

When the person you love most starts speaking raw truths that shake you, your natural instinct is to either shut down or take over.

I catch myself thinking, “Oh no… did he just say that outloud?” To other people?

I want to protect him, protect us, protect the peace.

But then I remember — peace doesn’t come from control. It comes from trust.
And Isaiah 26:3 whispers,

“You will keep in perfect peace those whose minds are steadfast, because they trust in You.”

The Fear Beneath the Listening

If I’m honest, my fear isn’t really about his words.

It’s about what they could mean.

What if this heaviness becomes too much?

What if his struggle turns into something I can’t carry?

What if his honesty opens doors I’d rather keep closed?

And that’s when the Lord gently reminds me — you were never meant to carry it.

It’s not my burden to bear, even if it passes through my ears.

Marriage doesn’t mean I’m his emotional storage unit.

It means I’m his partner — someone who stands beside him, not beneath the weight of what he carries.

When I try to absorb everything he’s feeling, I rob God of the space to do what only He can do.

Jesus said, “Come to Me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest” (Matthew 11:28).

That invitation isn’t just for him — it’s for me too.

Receive and Release

I’ve started learning what it means to let things pass through me to the Lord.

To sit in the heaviness without letting it take root in my spirit.

When he speaks, I listen — but I also pray in real-time:

It’s a quiet kind of surrender.

It means I don’t have to analyze or advise.

I don’t have to come up with the perfect response.

I just have to stay soft — open enough to receive, wise enough to release.

As 1 Peter 5:7 reminds me,

“Cast all your cares upon Him, for He cares for you.”

Presence Over Pressure

It’s taken me a long time to realize that being a “safe place” doesn’t mean I absorb everything he feels.

It means I create a space where honesty is welcome and grace is stronger than fear.

It means trusting that God can handle what my husband says — even when it’s raw, messy, or emotionally unfiltered.

My role isn’t to filter him; it’s to anchor myself in the One who steadies both of us.

So when his words start to feel too heavy, I breathe.

I remember that God’s presence is already in the room — listening, understanding, holding.

And I silently release it all upward, whispering, “Lord, You can have this too.”

Because love doesn’t mean carrying every weight.

Sometimes, love is the gentle act of letting go — of being near, being kind, being prayerful, and trusting that God will carry what we cannot.

Saving Space in My Heart to Love Him Well

I’m realizing that learning to release his heaviness to the Lord isn’t just about protecting my peace — it’s also about preserving my love for him.

When I hold onto fear, I start to lose space in my heart for tenderness.
Fear turns into frustration.

Frustration into criticism.

And suddenly, I’m not loving him from a place of grace — I’m loving him from a place of guardedness.

Part of my fear comes from knowing how unfiltered he can be.

Let’s be real — some of the things he feels safe saying to me aren’t exactly things you’d want to say to your boss or coworkers.

He’s passionate, expressive, and sometimes unaware of how his words might land outside the safety of our home.

That worries me. Because I know not everyone will give him the grace that I do, or understand his heart like I do.

But here’s the truth I’m coming to accept:

It’s not my job to manage how the world perceives him.

It’s not my circus to run — and yet, too often, I find myself stepping right into the ring, trying to coach, correct, and control what isn’t mine to carry.

And when I do that, I become just as out of place as he sometimes is.

I’m learning that loving him well means trusting God with the parts of him I can’t reach.

It means staying soft, not resentful — loving him not through a lens of fear or judgment, but through one of pure devotion and trust.

Because when I stop trying to protect him from the world and start trusting God to protect us both, something shifts.

I have more space in my heart — not for control, but for compassion.

Not for resentment, but for real love.

And that’s when I can finally see him the way God does:

Not as a man who says too much, but as a man who’s learning how to be free.

And maybe… so am I.

After all, “Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins” (1 Peter 4:8).

A Prayer for the Wife Who Feels the Weight

Father,

You see every word that passes between us — every moment of silence, every hidden fear, every heavy truth.

For the wife who feels torn between listening and carrying, remind her that You are the true Safe Place for both hearts.

Help her to rest in You when her husband’s honesty feels overwhelming.
Teach her how to release every word, every worry, and every weight back into Your hands.

Give her the grace to love without fear, to listen without control, and to respond with gentleness instead of judgment.

Guard her heart from resentment and fill her home with peace that surpasses understanding.

And as she trusts You more, may she see her husband not as her burden to bear, but as the gift You’ve called her to love — faithfully, freely, and covered by Your grace.

In Jesus’ name I pray,

Amen.

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An update from my first week on the job—

Last week, I shared that I was stepping into something new—a job that felt like an answered prayer and a calling all in one.

This past week, I’ve experienced three days on the job so far, and already I can see God’s fingerprints all over it.

Day one: my boss drove 45 minutes one way to visit me (and another new coworker) at orientation. He wanted to personally thank us for patiently waiting through the long hiring process and for joining the mission.

Day two: my first real day in the role.
He said, “We have a meeting at 11—I want you there so you can see how this goes.”

My job is to advocate for and serve youth ages 16–24 who are less fortunate—those in need of a GED, a job, or higher education. I mentor, coach, facilitate, teach, and hold them accountable.

So this young man walks in for his meeting. He’s already earned his GED through our program but is now looking for a better job.
Before I knew it, I’d gone from observing to taking action—helping him meet with an advisor, explore career options, apply to college, and begin financial aid.

I didn’t have to think about it. It just flowed.
It’s what I do naturally—what I would do for free—because God has gifted me this way.

Later that afternoon, my boss and I talked about spiritual gifts.
We realized we’re both exhorters—encouragers—called to build relationships.
And that’s exactly what this job is about: earning trust, creating space, and helping young people see new possibilities.
It’s about breaking cycles of poverty, addiction, and abuse by showing them there’s another way.

It’s been a full week—learning a new job while caring for my mom, who’s been in and out of the hospital three times in the past two weeks. Not to mention, my own family at home.

I’ve been cooking, cleaning, grocery shopping, and creating logs to help her track her eating, blood sugar, weight, and medications. I plan to attend her doctor appointments too—to advocate for her there.

But here’s the good news:
the past few days, she’s been making real progress.
She’s eating nourishing food again and feeling a little better each day.
Next, we’ll add gentle movement to help her regain strength.

I’m pretty tired, sure—but not I’m not feeling drained. I’m feeling empowered and grateful as I’m walking out my calling in real life. Where there’s intentional space in my life just for this.

I’m right where I’m meant to be.

And this is what I’ve learned, both at home and at work:

Sometimes we just need someone to walk with us—
to grab our hand through the hard parts of life,
to help us find our footing again.

And maybe that’s part of our calling too:
to learn how to pair our weaknesses with God’s strength,
and then lead someone else out of their valley.

I’m just honored that God chose me to be someone who offers hope and a rope
in the valleys of life.

Isaiah 58:10 (NIV)

“If you spend yourselves in behalf of the hungry and satisfy the needs of the oppressed, then your light will rise in the darkness, and your night will become like the noonday.”

If you’re in a hard season right now:
Hold on. You’re not forgotten.
God is still writing your story—
and sometimes, the chapters that exhaust us the most
are the ones that reveal what we were made for.

A Prayer for Strength and Purpose

Father,
When I feel tired, remind me that You are my rest.
When I feel weak, fill me with Your strength.
Help me to see purpose in what I’m walking through
and to trust that You’re using it to shape me.
Teach me to serve with love,
to walk with others in their valleys,
and to find peace in knowing You go before me.
Let my life reflect Your goodness—
offering hope where it’s needed most.

In Jesus’ name I pray,
Amen.

🕊 – Jess (She Rises Free)

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I challenged myself to produce an article every day in September and well, here we are! I reached my goal.

It’s officially the end of the month y’all, and I am so proud of myself for pushing through. Now I want to share what I learned and why I did it.

Why I Write

I stumbled across another writer here, —who helps Christian writers write from a place of identity in Christ rather than from a place of striving.

I’ve been slowly digging into his words of wisdom. He shared this in his post “How to Know if You’re Actually Called to Write”:

“You are not a writer who happens to be Christian. You’re a Christian who may happen to write as one expression of your identity in Christ.”

That speaks to me because living from my identity in Christ is what has brought me the most freedom. He also wrote:

“When success becomes faithfulness rather than follower counts, the metrics anxiety dissolves. You’re free to write from rest rather than striving.”

That is exactly what She Rises Free is all about. We are canceling lies and hustle culture over here and living from rest and truth with Jesus at the center.

And I write to share truth I feel compelled to share.

I write because it helps me untangle my thoughts and beliefs from God’s truth.

I write because I love it—because I love expressing how God speaks to me and seeing it in others’ writing too.

Overcoming Fear

As a newbie on Substack and sharing this level of vulnerability, imposter syndrome tried to silence me. That voice asks, Who am I to write this? But I’m committed to living from faith, not fear

I wasn’t going to let it hold me back—and you shouldn’t either. We all have something of value to offer.

Fighting Perfectionism

Perfectionism is often the enemy of done. Thoughts I battled:

• “What if someone else says this better?”

• “I’m not the expert—who am I to share?”

• “I still struggle with this—am I a hypocrite to give advice?”

I didn’t let those questions keep me from finishing posts. Progress beats procrastination here.

Permission to Share “Bad” Posts

This was hard. You won’t always get it right. Sometimes the words aren’t crisp. Sometimes you experiment. Sometimes you look back and realize you made “fifty-leven” typos.

Hear me: It’s okay to have posts that really suck.

It’s okay if no one reads or likes them.

You learn by doing, and you give yourself grace to be human—not AI.

Content I Enjoy Writing

I’m passionate about experiencing freedom in Christ and everyday practical living. How it shows up in writing is still being discovered—and that’s fine.

It will change and grow as I do.

Finding My Voice and Style

Most important to me was that my real voice carry over into my writing.

I wanted people who know me to hear me as they read. My voice is: warm and relatable, conversational and intimate, vulnerable and authentic, transparent and grace-filled, convicting and encouraging.

My style includes: personal stories, Scripture woven in naturally, honest acknowledgment of weakness with Jesus as the solution, practical doable help, validation of readers’ struggles, and gentle encouragement to keep going.

The Lord says it like this:

“My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.”
—2 Corinthians 12:9

That’s the posture of my writing: honest weakness, resting in His strength.

AI’s Place in My Writing

I love working smarter, not harder, so I experimented with AI to see where it fits.

AI is great at:

• Generating title options

• Brainstorming topics

• Editing and proofreading

• Tightening paragraphs and smoothing flow

AI is not great at:

• Writing my articles for me and sounding truly human

• Being the Holy Spirit (obviously)

• Being unique—it repeats phrases and patterns

• Capturing the essence of who I am and what God’s called me to write

I experimented and even shared a post the AI helped produce: “When You Feel Too Tired to Serve: Redefining Ministry as a Mom.” The information was fine, but it lacked personality and the human, Spirit-led nuance I want.

Other Things I Learned

• Posting every day carved out consistent creative time.

• I discovered that I won’t run out of ideas—fear lied about that.

• Daily posting left less space for other content I’d like to create.

• It helped me build a base of articles for my newsletter.

• It didn’t grow subscribers much—engaging in Notes seemed to move the needle more.

So yes—I learned a lot, and I’m glad I did it.

What have you learned as a newbie on Substack? I’d love to hear how you’re being shaped as a writer.

But just so you know, I don’t think I’ll keep posting daily—so if you don’t hear from me tomorrow, I’m still here. 😉

With love,
Jess

Where are fear, perfectionism, or comparison keeping you from sharing what God has placed on your heart?

This week, give yourself permission to create and share one imperfect piece—writing, a photo, a short video, or a brave conversation.

Choose faithfulness over flawless.

Here’s a prayer for you today:

Lord, thank You for reminding me that my identity is in You—not in my productivity, perfection, or popularity. Help me to create with freedom, not fear. Teach me to value faithfulness over numbers and to trust You with the outcome. May my words bring glory to You and encouragement to others.

In Jesus’ name I pray,

Amen.

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This week I start my new job—eeek! I know, I know…I just sounded like a little girl, but I’m so excited! I’ve been waiting almost two months for this day, and the hiring process has been quite the journey.

But here we are. And here’s what this new beginning means to me:

A New Rhythm

Change can be hard, but it can also be good. My new hours open up so much room for opportunity.

As a recovering Type A planner, I love a structured schedule. My new boss even recognized this about me during my panel interview. He called last week to prep me for orientation and said:

“Okay, I know you are an analytical person, so you’ll want me to lay all the framework. You’ll want to know exactly what I expect. But you’re also a leader, and I know you’ll take what I give you and run with it.”

Goodness, Lord—you must have lined this up perfectly. He couldn’t have described me better.

Here’s what I’m looking forward to:

• Room for morning walks before work to wake up my body and soul outside.

• An hour at the gym after work for building strength, endurance, and confidence again.

• School pick-ups because being present for my kids in the everyday moments matter most to me.

And while part-time work stretches our budget, I trust that God meant it when He said He is my Provider. I’m praying, tithing, and doing all I can to walk in obedience with Him. I know He will honor my efforts—even if I can’t see it now.

A New Challenge

I’ve been told this job will be challenging, but everything in me believes it was made for me.

Building relationships with kids from hard places. Inspiring them to keep going. Holding them accountable. Walking beside them when they don’t believe in themselves.

That’s not easy work—but it’s deeply rewarding.

The same goes for fitness. When I was into CrossFit just a few years ago it taught me to push my body to do things I never thought possible. The hard is what makes it worth it and I’m looking forward to a new physical challenge as well as I’ll have the room for it in my schedule.

Challenge accepted.

A New Opportunity

This role is brand new—not just to me, but to the organization itself. My boss told me:

“I’m not a micromanager. I’ll tell you what we need, but you’ll have full room to creatively achieve the goal. Your main concern is building relationships.”

Yes, there will be the boring stuff too like paperwork, for example. But the heart of this position is serving people. That excites me.

And for the first time since college, I get to work part-time. That feels like a gift. It gives me margin—space to obey the Lord, to breathe, to create, to walk with Him, and to love my people well.

Grateful doesn’t even cover it. I’m overflowing with joy.

A Prayer Request

I know, I usually offer you a prayer, but would you mind if today I asked you for one?

Would you pray for me this week as I begin?

Pray for the souls I’ll meet—that they would see and feel the love of Jesus through me. And pray that I would remain faithful, obedient, and full of grace in this new adventure.

Here’s to new rhythms, new challenges, and new opportunities—all from the hand of a faithful God.

“See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland.” — Isaiah 43:19

With Love,

Jess

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This will be a short one since I’m following God’s command for the Sabbath today. Usually, I try to be prepared ahead of time so I don’t have to post anything on a Sunday—but life has been life-ing, so you get it!

I awoke to the sound of my husband opening the door this morning. He must have gotten up without me hearing because I hadn’t even realized he was gone. Apparently, he was only up for a short time because he came right back to bed.

I decided it was time for me to get up. I needed my coffee and quiet time with the Lord before church—and honestly, I really needed to wash my hair after a long, sweaty day of roller coasters yesterday!

When we returned home from the theme park with family and friends, I went straight to bed, completely worn out. My daughter joined me and fell asleep on her daddy’s side of the bed. The boys, of course, were glued to the TV for another three hours—it was the game of the season. The one they look forward to every year when we play our biggest rival… and usually lose.

This morning, as I was fixing my coffee, my mother-in-law mentioned how fired up my son had been last night over the game. That’s when I remembered—oh yes, the game. Twelve hours of sleep later, it had slipped my mind.

I bit my lip as I looked up the score on my laptop, bracing myself for disappointment. Sure enough, our rival won. Oh well. At least I knew better than to mention it at breakfast. 😬

When my husband finally got up, his mood said it all. He was short and agitated, and I hate when our Sunday mornings start that way. On the way to church, things escalated when he discovered his Bible under the truck seat—wet from a spilled drink.

At first, I snapped back. I was irritated, thinking, No one did it on purpose—just chill. But then I caught myself. If it had been me—if it were something I cared deeply about, if it had been my Bible, and I had also just endured the loss of “the game”—I would have been upset too.

Sometimes we’re quick to condemn others for their reactions, but if the roles were reversed, we’d probably act the same way.

God reminded me again of grace. My husband is still learning to live out James 1:19, a verse I prayed over him this morning:

“My dear brothers and sisters, take note of this: Everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak, and slow to become angry.”
—James 1:19

This has been a personal battle for him, we all have our own.

And wouldn’t you know—the sermon this morning was on that very passage. I love when God lines things up like that.

But here’s the whole point:

“This is the day that the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.”
—Psalm 118:24

Yesterday was long, fun, and exhausting. Today, I woke up sore and tired. My husband woke up in a mood. I could take it personally and let it ruin the day, or I could choose to shrug it off and enjoy the gift of Sabbath rest.

I chose the second option. I worshipped with zeal this morning, listened with open ears, and came home to a lovely after-church nap.

When someone else’s mood threatens your peace, do you respond with irritation—or with grace?

This week, pause before reacting when someone else’s emotions spill over onto you. Instead of taking it personally, try to see things from their perspective. Offer grace where you’d want grace in return.

Here’s a prayer for you today:

Father, thank You for this day that You have made. Teach me to rejoice in it, no matter what moods or circumstances I face. Help me to be quick to listen, slow to speak, and slow to anger. Fill me with Your grace so that I can extend it to others, especially those closest to me.

In Jesus’ name I pray,

Amen.

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You scroll through Facebook and see another friend leading a Bible study.

The church newsletter arrives with volunteer opportunities you can’t possibly commit to. Your heart wants to serve, but your reality is packed lunches, permission slips, and bedtime battles that leave you too exhausted to think about “real” ministry.

Here’s the truth no one’s telling you: You’re already in ministry. Full-time, life-changing, kingdom-building ministry.

The enemy wants you to believe that unless you’re leading something official at church, you’re not really serving God. That lie keeps you trapped in guilt while you miss the sacred work happening right under your roof.

The ministry myth that’s stealing your peace

Somewhere along the way, we bought into the idea that ministry looks like:

• Leading Bible studies or women’s groups

• Volunteering for multiple church committees

• Organizing outreach events

• Teaching Sunday school or youth programs

If you’re not doing these things, you feel like a spiritual slacker.

But here’s what really happened: We let church culture define ministry instead of letting Scripture define it.

Ministry is simply serving others in Jesus’ name. It’s meeting needs, showing love, and pointing people toward God through our actions and words.

Scripture reminds us that “whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord” Colossians 3:23. Every diaper change, every bedtime story, every patient response—when done with love, it’s work for the Lord.

And mama, you’re doing that every single day.

Your kitchen table ministry is changing lives

When my 12-year-old daughter was struggling with friendship drama at school, I didn’t realize our late-night kitchen conversations were ministry. I thought “real” ministry happened at church.

When my 15-year-old son needed help with a science project and I chose patience over frustration, I didn’t see it as serving God. I saw it as just being a mom.

But those moments? That’s where transformation happens.

Your ministry looks like:

• Praying over your kids as they sleep, interceding for their hearts and futures

• Teaching them to handle conflict with grace when they’re fighting over screen time

• Showing them what forgiveness looks like when you mess up and ask for their forgiveness

• Demonstrating God’s love through the hundredth snack request of the day

• Building their identity in Christ through bedtime talks and car conversations

This isn’t lesser ministry. This isn’t preparation for real ministry. This IS ministry.

As Proverbs tells us, “Train up a child in the way he should go; even when he is old he will not depart from it” Proverbs 22:6. You’re not just raising kids—you’re training up the next generation of believers and leaders.

You’re raising children who will impact their schools, workplaces, and communities because of the foundation you’re building right now.

When serving feels impossible in this season

I know you’re thinking: “But I can barely keep up with laundry, let alone feel like I’m changing the world.”

That exhaustion you feel? It’s not disqualifying you from ministry—it’s proof of how hard you’re working in it.

God doesn’t need you to be superwoman. He needs you to be faithful with what’s in front of you.

Jesus showed us this principle perfectly. When Jesus fed the 5,000, he didn’t create food from nothing. He took what a child offered—just five loaves and two fish—and multiplied it Matthew 14:19-21.

In the same way, God wants to multiply your simple, daily offerings. Your “little” offerings matter:

• The Bible story you read even when you’re tired

• The patient response when you want to yell

• The prayer you whisper over a sick child

• The way you handle disappointment in front of your kids

• The grace you show when plans fall apart

God is multiplying these moments in ways you can’t see.

Practical ways to embrace your current calling

You don’t need to add more to your plate to serve God well. You need to recognize the ministry already happening and be more intentional with it.

Start with prayer

Ask God to help you see your daily interactions through his eyes. When you’re changing diapers, you’re serving. When you’re breaking up arguments, you’re peacemaking. When you’re making dinner, you’re providing.

Look for teachable moments

Those car rides, bedtime routines, and meal times are prime opportunities for ministry. Ask your kids about their day. Share what you’re learning about God. Let them see you working through challenges with faith.

Invite others in

Your home can be a place of ministry without formal programs. Invite the new neighbor for coffee. Include the single mom from school in your weekend plans. Let your kids see you caring for others.

Serve within your capacity

Jesus himself withdrew to rest when the crowds pressed in Luke 5:16. If the Son of God needed to step away and recharge, how much more do we?

Maybe you can’t lead a Bible study, but you can text encouraging verses to friends. Maybe you can’t organize the church potluck, but you can bring an extra meal to a struggling family. Small acts of love are still ministry.

Remember your influence extends beyond your home

Your kids’ friends see how you handle stress. Other moms watch how you respond to challenges. Your neighbors notice the peace in your home. You’re ministering to people who aren’t even on your radar.

Why this season of ministry matters most

Here’s what I wish someone had told me when my kids were little: The ministry you’re doing right now will impact eternity more than most formal church programs.

The character you’re building in your children will influence their children and their children’s children. The way you model faith in ordinary moments shapes how they’ll understand God for the rest of their lives.

When my 15-year-old son helps a struggling friend or my 12-year-old daughter stands up for someone being picked on, I see the fruit of years of “just being a mom.” Those kitchen table conversations about kindness, those bedtime prayers, those teachable moments in the grocery store—they’re all showing up in how they treat others.

Your ministry is generational.

When the guilt tries to creep back in

Satan loves to make you feel guilty about what you’re not doing so you miss the significance of what you are doing. When that voice starts whispering that you should be doing more, remember:

• Jesus spent 30 years in relative obscurity before his public ministry. Hidden seasons aren’t wasted seasons.

• Mary chose the better portion by sitting at Jesus’ feet instead of rushing around serving Luke 10:42. Sometimes rest IS the ministry.

• God gave you these specific children in this specific season for purposes beyond what you can see.

Remember what God told the prophet Samuel: “The Lord does not look at the things people look at. People look at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart” 1 Samuel 16:7. God sees your heart, mama—and it’s beautiful.

You’re not behind on your calling. You’re not wasting your gifts. You’re not letting God down.

You’re right where he wants you, doing exactly what he’s called you to do.

The ripple effect of faithful motherhood

Every generation needs mothers who understand that raising children is sacred work. In a world that devalues motherhood, your commitment to this calling is counter-cultural ministry.

When you choose to see your role as ministry instead of just duty, everything changes:

• Your patience increases because you’re serving God, not just managing behavior

• Your perspective shifts from surviving to stewarding these precious lives

• Your purpose clarifies as you realize you’re part of God’s plan for the next generation

• Your peace grows because you’re no longer striving to prove your worth through external service

What if this IS your life’s greatest ministry?

What if the work you’re doing right now—the sleepless nights, the endless questions, the character training, the love you pour out daily—what if this is the most important ministry you’ll ever do?

What if God looked at all the ways he could use you and chose to give you these children because he knew you were the perfect person to shape their hearts for him?

What if your kitchen table conversations change the world more than any conference stage ever could?

I believe they do.

Your ministry matters. Your season matters. Your faithfulness in the small things is preparing you for whatever God has next, but it’s also accomplishing more than you know right where you are.

Moving forward with confidence

You don’t need to choose between being a good mom and being used by God. Your motherhood IS how God is using you.

Stop apologizing for this season. Stop feeling guilty for not doing “more.” Stop believing the lie that your daily acts of love aren’t significant.

Start seeing your home as your mission field. Start recognizing your influence as ministry. Start believing that God knew exactly what he was doing when he gave you these children in this season.

You’re not too tired to serve—you’re serving so faithfully that it’s making you tired.

And that’s exactly the kind of ministry that changes the world, one heart at a time.

Here’s a prayer for you today:

Dear Heavenly Father, help me see my motherhood through your eyes. Show me the ministry happening in my daily routines and give me strength for the sacred work of raising these children. Help me trust that you’re using me right where I am, and give me peace about the season I’m in. Thank you for choosing me to be their mom and for using our home as a place where your love is experienced and your truth is taught.

In Jesus’ name,

Amen.

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This has been a super hard decision:

• I’ve officially broken up with my credit cards.

• I resist the urge to buy pretty things I don’t really “need.”

• I’ve said no to those spontaneous trips to the convenience store for drinks and snacks (and restaurants—fortunately my MIL loves me enough to pay for lunch every now and then at our favorite places).

• And here’s the real kicker—I no longer fill my virtual shopping carts with things I “want” to buy. (Gasp! I know.)

Okay, I’ll be honest: we’ve stopped for snacks and drinks a couple of times, but other than that, we’re doing really well!

Truthfully, I’ve always considered myself more of a saver when it comes to finances—but I guess that’s only in comparison to my husband, who is a spender through and through.

But here both of us are—stumbling along on this new path we are on called the “no-spend” journey.

We’re barely paying the bills right now with all the debt we’ve accumulated. So, in the spirit of buckling down in every other area of life, we’re doing the same here.

We’re changing our mindset, we are refusing any new debt, and we are paying off old debt.

• We’ve cut all unnecessary expenses (yes, even Amazon applies here, though the Playstation stays because apparently to some it’s “necessary” 🙄).

• We’re paying all bills with one income.

• We’re putting the other income straight toward debt.

• We do still tithe and give because that’s important to us and there’s a blessing in it (Malachi 3:10, Proverbs 3:9-10, Luke 6:38, 2 Corinthians 9:6-8).

But, Jesus take the wheel because at this rate, it might take five years to pay it all off. So yes, I’m praying big for God to bless us with some unexpected checks in the mail or maybe a promotion!

Those gas station runs and Chick-fil-A stops add up. It doesn’t matter that it’s God’s chicken—unfortunately I’ve found that it has real calories and real effects on the bank account.

Proverbs 21:5 reminds us: “The plans of the diligent lead surely to abundance, but everyone who is hasty comes only to poverty.”

It’s not about perfect decisions and it doesn’t happen overnight—it’s about the consistent, intentional steps toward financial freedom.

But, we are learning from our mistakes, modeling wise choices for our children, and seeing that the buy now, pay later is just not worth it.

So, with all that, what’s one small, faithful step you can take this week to honor God with your finances?

Write it down, commit to it, and take that step—no excuses.

Here’s a prayer for you today:

God, teach us to be faithful in the little things, in everything that we do, even when it feels slow or impossible. Remind us to slow down and prayerfully ask for Your input in our financial decisions—big or small. Help us resist the temptation to overspend and move too quickly. Guide us in making wise, intentional financial decisions. Give us the patience, discipline, and grace to trust that small steps today will lead to freedom and abundance tomorrow.

In Jesus’ Name I pray,

Amen.

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Last Thursday, I finally sat down to write after finishing some chores when my phone buzzed. It was a text from my dad.

Now, mind you, I usually get one text a year from him—on my birthday, if that. I hadn’t seen him for more than ten minutes in over four years, so yeah… it caught me off guard.

He’s always liked the surprise-appearance thing, and honestly, it was a nice surprise. I met my dad at the park, and we walked and talked for a good long while about life.

Then we hopped in his truck to surprise the kids by picking them up from car-rider line.

My daughter looked confused at first when she saw me in the passenger seat of an unusual vehicle.

Her first thought? “Mommy’s cheating on Daddy!” She said she would’ve called her dad immediately—until she realized who was really driving.

Little terd. I couldn’t believe she thought that of me—but at least she’s loyal to her dad. I assured her I’d never do such a thing, but if I did… she’d be the last person I’d tell! 🤐

My son, on the other hand, thought I just bought a new truck—so at least he doesn’t assume the worst of me!

After pick-up, my dad took us all out for ice cream. Somehow, both my dad and I ended up with the exact same flavors and toppings. (Genetics are wild!)

By evening, we were back in my driveway, and my dad, my husband, and I sat and talked for hours on end. And we could have kept going. When there is so much distance for so long, there’s a lot to catch up on.

From this precious, surprise gift—God saw fit to bless me with—I realized a few things:

• As a kid, our perspective is shaped by what we see and what we’re told. It’s easy to misunderstand or misjudge. I got to hear my dad’s heart about some difficult times during my childhood, especially around my parents’ divorce.

• My dad is human. (You’re probably thinking, well duh!) But seriously—sometimes we forget that our dads have feelings too. He shared an emotional, vulnerable side with me that drew deep compassion and overwhelming grace from my heart for him.

• I still want my daddy. My heart used to ache for my earthly father’s love, affection, and acceptance. I so wanted to be the apple of his eye, but he never seemed to notice me.

As I got older, grew with the Lord, and my earthly father’s presence became less and less, I thought to myself, “Well, I don’t need him anymore.”

I have my Heavenly Father, and He gives me all the things my earthly father never did.

So yes, I’m grown now, healed, and I have the Lord with me at all times—I—don’t— need— my— dad.

But I still want him.

That old familiar ache never seems to fully go away. All it takes is his presence again to draw it back out.

I can’t explain it, but I guess it’s true what they say about daddies and daughters—there’s a bond that’s not easily broken, despite everything that has come between us.

I’m thankful my daughter has her daddy in her life—and that she is loyal to him. She should be—he would give his life for her if need be.

I am grateful—my dad walks with the Lord now—a reality I never thought I would see. I guess somewhere between Jesus, hardship, and age, his heart has softened quite a bit.

He tearfully shared with me how he wished he could have been there more for us when we were young.

My response was, “I hear in Heaven, we get do-overs.”

No, it won’t be exactly the same—it will be better. There won’t be pain or tears, distance, or any other obstacle that will come between us then.

And that night as I lay in my bed ready for sleep—a gentle smile came across my face and a peace that only comes from knowing: death isn’t the end when Jesus is in the middle.

Revelation 21:4 – “He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.”

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My body has always been quick to let me know when I’m not treating it well. Lately, my “flesh” has been very happy—chips and salsa at the Mexican restaurant, garlic rolls and pasta when we have Italian. But this summer, my indulgences finally caught up with me.

With the start of summer came a big change for my family and me, and I admittedly unplugged from the “rules” that usually keep me in line. Dessert twice a day? Sure. Who cares. Let’s eat and be merry—an Ecclesiastes kind of season.

Then this morning happened. I looked in the mirror: acne popping up, skin oily, jeans snug, and my daughter poking at my muffin top and double chin. Kids are brutally honest, y’all. 😬

Yes, I’ve been walking most days—but we know it’s 80% diet, 20% exercise. Ugh. If only it were the other way around!

So today, I’m putting my foot down—not saying I’ll never indulge again, but saying this: the tiny decisions matter.

I left the maple syrup out of my oatmeal.
I skipped the bread with my soup at lunch.
Dinner tonight? Half my plate green veggies, half protein.

For me, having PCOS means my body functions better with fewer carbs, so this is me honoring the temple God has given me.

1 Corinthians 6:19 reminds us: “Do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit within you?”

Stewardship starts with the small, faithful choices.

Next week, I might finally check out that gym I’ve been thinking about—for that hour I have to myself between work and the school pick-up line.

And I challenge you to do the same. Stop trying to make a mountain out of a molehill. Don’t think of it as one gigantic move—think baby steps:

• More veggies, less carbs.

• More water, less soda (or sweet tea).

• More healthy fats, less fried foods.

Six months from now? Maybe I’ll button my jeans without sucking in. Maybe you’ll reach your goal too.

We can do this together. Small, steady, faithful steps—they add up.

Here’s a prayer for you today:

God, thank You for the body You’ve given me. Help me make small, faithful choices that honor this temple, even when it’s easier to indulge. Help me to be able to enjoy the health that comes with good choices—increased energy, strength, and better moods. Give me strength, wisdom, and discipline to steward what You’ve entrusted to me. Remind me that change doesn’t happen overnight, but through consistent, tiny steps.

In Jesus’ Name I pray,

Amen.

So, tell me:

What’s one small choice you can make today to honor your body? Comment below—I want to celebrate these tiny wins with you!

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Okay, real talk, y’all—I have this pattern I’ve noticed in myself: I make perfection king over completion. Not intentionally, of course. It always starts with the best intentions, but somewhere along the way it ends with me spinning my tires in the mud.

Take meals, for example. I’ll spend 30 minutes scrolling Pinterest for the perfect healthy recipe, saving them like I’m curating a cookbook… and then I end up pouring a bowl of cereal because I’m overwhelmed and out of time. (Anyone else’s fridge full of perfectly good eggs while they’re googling “Whole30 breakfast ideas”? Just me?)

Or cleaning. I’ll get myself all hyped to declutter—“this is gonna be great,” I tell myself. Then instead of folding the actual laundry in front of me, I’m watching a YouTube video on “7 Steps of Scandinavian Minimalism.” By the end, the laundry’s still there, my brain’s fried, and I’m questioning all my life choices.

Same thing with family vacations. We’ll talk about it, maybe even research, but never take the actual step—like setting aside $100 a month or booking the Airbnb. My brain insists it has to be harder than that. And don’t even get me started on workouts—I’ll spend hours crafting the perfect plan and then never actually do it.

Why? Because I convince myself I need the perfect plan before I can move. And in the process, I overthink, overplan, and overanalyze myself right out of the actual doing part of the work. I make easy, hard and simple, complicated. (Lord, help me!)

But, here’s the truth: complexity only feels productive. It’s like wearing workout clothes all day but never hitting the gym. It looks the part. It feels like you’re prepared. But it’s just ends in avoidance. And to be honest, it doesn’t even count as productivity if you never follow through.

You can color-code, organize, and systemize your little heart out, but if nothing gets done—it’s meaningless. Waste of time. (And yes, I’m talking to myself here.)

Life doesn’t have to be that hard. We pile on extra steps, extra rules, extra tabs open in our brains until complicated becomes the enemy of done.

Proverbs 14:23 says it like this: “In all toil there is profit, but mere talk tends only to poverty.”

The Hebrew word for “toil” in this verse is ʿeṣeb. It means labor, effort, the kind of sweat equity that comes from actually showing up and doing the thing.

Not researching reviews all day. Not “scrolling Pinterest for inspiration.” It’s the kind of work that actually makes forward progress. It’s the fold-the-laundry, cook-the-eggs, put-in-the-reps kind of work.

“Profit” is mōṯār—gain, surplus, advantage. Even the small steps, even folding laundry or cooking the eggs in your fridge, move the needle forward.

“Talk” is dāḇār. Now, this is interesting because dāḇār doesn’t just mean “chatting.” It’s broader—it can mean word, matter, or even a “thing.” But here it’s pointing to empty words… all the dreaming, planning, promising, and over-explaining with no follow-through. Basically, lip service.

So, Solomon is basically saying: get to it or live in poverty.

You can end up poor in finances, poor in peace, and even poor in purpose.

Here’s the real mic-drop: the gain is in the doing, not the talking.

So what if we stopped making everything harder than it has to be? What if we just did the next obvious, faithful step? Like:

Eat the eggs instead of searching for new complicated recipes you’ll never cook anyway.
Fold the laundry first instead of reorganizing your entire closet.
Pick one priority today and give it your whole focus instead of half-doing 20 things.

Systems are great. Ideas are fun. But simplicity equals sustainability.

So here’s my challenge—for you, for me, for anyone who’s tired of drowning in their own overthinking: look around today and find one place you’re complicating the simple. Then ask yourself: what’s the next obvious step? Do that. Let the rest wait.

Because in the end, it’s not the complicated strategies that change our lives—it’s the small, consistent, faithful steps.

What’s one thing in your life right now that would get easier if you stopped overcomplicating it? (Don’t worry, I won’t judge your Pinterest board addiction.)

Here’s a prayer for you today:

Abba Father, help me see where we’re making life harder than it needs to be. Give me clarity for what really matters, courage to take the next faithful step, and grace to let the rest go. Help me to apply simple systems that consistently lead me to finishing the work.

In Jesus’ Name I pray,

Amen

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Every morning I drag my butt out of bed after smacking snooze (not once, not twice, but at least three times 🙃). Pretty normal for me these days.

My Garmin will flash its usual “poor sleep” rating—but honestly, I don’t need a fancy gadget to tell me what I already feel in my body. Exhausted. Heavy. Behind before I even get started

Here’s the reality: I’ve put on thirty-plus extra pounds over the years, and I know deep down I need to buckle down and get moving again. But knowing and doing? Those are two totally different beasts. I want to change, but I can’t seem to get the ball rolling.

I’m tired all the time. And the irony? I waste the very moments I could be using to fuel my body by laying in bed, convincing myself “just five more minutes” will somehow fix my fatigue. Spoiler alert: it never does.

About what I do with the time, the body, the life God has placed in my hands.

Jesus said in Luke 16:10: “Whoever is faithful with very little will also be faithful with much.”

The Greek word for faithful here is pistos—it means trustworthy, dependable, someone who can be counted on. And “very little” in Greek? It literally means microscopic, the tiniest thing.

Even the minutes between my first alarm and my third snooze. Even those small choices that feel too tiny to matter.

But they do matter. Because faithfulness in the little is what prepares us for the much. If I can’t be faithful with something as simple as my morning minutes, how can I expect God to trust me with the bigger assignments He’s called me to?

So maybe it’s not just about weight or energy. Maybe it’s about my mindset. Maybe every time I say no to the snooze button and yes to showing up, I’m actually practicing faithfulness, training my spirit as much as my body.

And here’s where this gets real for all of us:
We’ve all been snoozing on something. A calling. A habit. A relationship. A dream.
We tell ourselves we’ll “start when we feel ready.” But readiness isn’t what makes us faithful. Obedience is.

The little choices stack—and over time, they create a life.

So here’s my Monday challenge for you (and me): Don’t snooze on your life. Don’t despise the “little.” Pick one thing you’ve been putting off and do it—today. Show up. Be faithful. Trust that God sees even the tiniest acts of obedience, and He can multiply them into much more than you imagined.

So, what’s the “little” thing in your life that God is asking you to be faithful with right now?

Here’s a prayer for you today:

Abba Father, You know my desire to make the harder, better choice and glorify You in all that I do. Help me to change my mindset and start seeing the value in the tiniest of decisions. Help me to recognize where I’m choosing procrastination in my life instead of obedience.

In Jesus’ Name, I pray,

Amen.

The other night I did something that felt borderline illegal in today’s world: I stopped.

Not the “ugh, I’m too tired to move” kind of stop, but the kind where you actually choose to pause.

So, here I am—sitting under my gazebo with a mug of decaf coffee in hand (don’t come for me, caffeine after 4 pm isn’t my friend) admiring God’s handiwork.

The air smelled of a mix between pine and honeysuckle, the sky was painted with orange and pink, and the birds and bugs were having a full-on worship service.

I wasn’t multitasking myself into oblivion. No folding laundry. No emails. No endless mental to-do list. I was intentionally—resting. Just allowing my mind and body to sit in stillness.

And it felt… weird. Like I was breaking some unwritten rule. Our culture has wired us so deeply to believe rest is something you earn—after you’ve hustled, produced, taken care of everyone else, and proved your worth.

But one early June morning this summer, I found myself under the gazebo with my coffee, breathing in the quiet. And in that quiet, I finally realized how exhausted I had been. My soul exhaled in a way it hadn’t for years.”

It was in that early summer morning that Matthew 11:28 came rushing to mind: “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.”

In Greek, that word “rest” in this verse is—anapausis. It isn’t suggesting here to just “take a nap.” It’s renewal. Relief. A deep, soul-level reset. (Basically, the thing we’ve all been desperate for but keep trying to find in a self-help book or that 800 calorie piece of cheesecake.)

The truth? Rest was never meant to be a reward you earn after checking off enough boxes. From the very beginning, God built it into creation itself. Genesis says He finished His work, then He rested. Blessed it. Called it holy. That means Sabbath wasn’t God saying, “Well, I’m done, I might as well kick back.” It was God saying,

And remember that story about manna in Exodus 16? God provided bread six days a week, but on the seventh He told them not to gather—just rest. No striving. No scrambling. Just trust.

It wasn’t even really about the bread—it was about whether they believed He’d take care of them if they stopped all that grinding. (That one stings a little, doesn’t it?) Because I had to be honest with myself: I was wired for constant productivity—so much so that I honestly didn’t even know how to stop. And when I did, it felt… wrong to me.

But when I choose to rest—even in small ways, like turning off notifications, or sitting outside with zero agenda—I’m practicing faith. I’m saying: “Lord, I trust You enough to stop. I trust You to hold the world long enough while I pause.”

But I had to convince myself and completely rewire my brain to recgonize this: rest isn’t laziness. It’s holy defiance against busyness. It’s worship. It’s the sacred rhythm God gave us to remind us we are not defined by what we do—but by who He is.

So today? I’m resting. Not as a luxury. Not as a reward. But as resistance to the pressures of the world. I’m intentionally stopping as a form of worship, trust, and obedience to Jesus.

Maybe you need to ask yourself too—what is it that you believe about rest? Have you always thought of it as a reward? Or is it something you have intentionally built into your days—without feeling guilty?

Here’s a prayer for you today:

Lord, teach me to rest in You—not just physically, but with my mind and soul. Help me stop measuring my worth by what I do, and start resting in my identity apart from my accomplishments. Help me to start trusting You to hold the world while I pause. Let me experience the fullness of life and soul-level rest and renewal You intended for humanity through Your sacred rhythm of rest.

In Jesus’ Name I pray,

Amen.

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The other day, I was sitting in church listening to the pastor preach, and my mind wandered. (Don’t judge—you’ve done it too.) I found myself thinking, “Wow, he’s really doing ministry. Like the real thing.” What a dream.

And then I caught myself, because for years that’s exactly what I believed—that ministry only counted if it happened on a stage, behind a pulpit, or in some official church program.

It felt like this big, untouchable thing other people did—not me.

I used to think I wasn’t truly serving God unless I worked at a church or became a missionary. (Because, you know, being a mom, a friend, or a human apparently didn’t count?)

I prayed for years that He’d reveal my “calling” so I could leave my “regular” job and finally do something that mattered.

So I threw myself into volunteering at church. Women’s ministry. Sunday school. Nursery. VBS. (Basically, if there was a sign-up sheet, my name was on it.) And secretly, I hoped one day it could become my real job.

And eventually—it did. God opened the door for me to work in full-time ministry, and honestly, it was everything I dreamed of. Hard, exhausting, stretching in ways I didn’t expect… but so fulfilling. I loved it. Until one day, God called me away.

And that’s when He started to show me something I’d missed all along:

It’s listening—really listening—to a friend.
It’s cooking dinner for your family even when you’re tired. (Yes, again.)
It’s sitting with someone who’s grieving.
It’s choosing forgiveness when it would be easier to hold a grudge.
It’s sending a simple text: “Hey, you’ve been on my mind. How can I pray for you?”

Most of it doesn’t get noticed. None of it feels “big.” But maybe that’s exactly the point.

The Bible says in 1 Peter 4:10, “Each of you should use whatever gift you have received to serve others, as faithful stewards of God’s grace in its various forms.”

And maybe that’s the heart of it—God’s grace showing up in a million small ways through ordinary people. Through us.

But what if your calling is right where your feet are?

I’ve learned from experience that God doesn’t waste gifts. Not the ones you think are too small or too random. Not the ones that you take for granted. All of them were meant to be shared—to be the blessing someone else needed.

That weird skill you don’t know what to do with? That passion you think nobody else gets? That one thing that feels super ordinary, but comes so easily for you? Yeah, He can use it—and He delights in doing it.

Maybe the people who need your ministry aren’t sitting in a pew on Sunday. Maybe they’re across your dinner table. In the grocery line. On the other side of a late-night scroll when your words pop up on their feed.

So if you’ve ever wondered, What’s my calling? maybe start right where you are. Ministry isn’t always about going somewhere new. Sometimes it’s just opening your eyes to what God is already doing right in front of you.

Here’s a prayer for today:

Lord, Give me Your eyes to see and identify those “everyday” gifts that You have blessed me with. Help me stop chasing the idea of “big ministry” and learn to see the value in the small. Show me how to use the gifts You’ve given me right here, right now for Your glory and someone else’s benefit. Teach me to be faithful in the ordinary and trust You to make it eternal.

In Jesus’ Name I pray,

Amen.

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