I had a quiet, beautiful birthday. No big production, just stillness, peace, and the kind of silence that I love.

When I got home that evening, I pulled out my journal, ready to spend some time with God.  I had a plan to look back over the years with a heart full of both gratitude and regret. I was bracing myself to revisit some painful memories, to apologize yet again for the ways I’ve messed up, for the seasons I wandered off course. I was ready to tell Him thank you for rescuing someone like me, someone who’s so often chosen the wrong path when I knew what was right.

But something unexpected happened.

Instead of my planned reel of past failures, my mind was suddenly flooded with memories of good. Beautiful moments. Sacred moments. Times when I had said yes to the right thing. When I showed up even though it was hard. I remembered holding my grandfather’s hand in his final days. I remembered flying overseas to be with my brother after his accident. I remembered adopting my children from Russia. The list went on and on.

It caught me off guard.

Instead of needing to be reminded of my forgiveness, I was reminded of my value. Instead of shame, I felt seen. Loved. Isn’t that just like God?  When we’re ready to lower our heads in guilt, He gently lifts our chin and says, Look again, my child. You’re more than your mistakes.

What a Father.

It’s not that God is unaware of our sin.  But in His mercy, He refuses to define us by it. In fact, He died so He wouldn't have to. That’s the staggering beauty of the cross: sacred grace, poured out on people who could never earn it.  He does not want us living trapped in the shame of our past. He’s not the God of guilt trips. He’s the God who’s always doing something new.

“Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing!” Isaiah 43:18–19

His love is not hesitant or limited.  It is absolute, unrelenting, and defined by compassion. When we see no value in ourselves, He gently reminds us of the value He placed in us from the beginning. When we hang our heads in shame, He is already speaking over us: Look forward, not back. I’m not finished with you yet.  He is the God of new beginnings. Of unending, unfailing, infinite love.

So, as usual, things didn’t go according to my plan when it came to my birthday plans with God.

I thought it would be a quiet time of repentance and reflection, a walk through the memories of mistakes I’ve made. But instead, it turned into something unexpected, a kind of victory lap. A gentle reminder of the good I’ve brought into the world. Of the moments I showed up, stepped in, and said yes when it mattered most.

Instead of failure, He showed me value.

He also reminded me of something we don’t talk about nearly enough: doing good isn’t easy. Those memories came at a price, He reminded me.  Doing good comes at a cost. It takes effort. It takes sacrifice. It often means choosing the harder road, and He sees that. He knows. He understands the invisible weight behind every good thing we choose to do in His name.

I came away from that night reenergized. Reinvigorated. With a new resolve, not to live in the rearview mirror of my past mistakes, but to move forward. To do good. To keep becoming more of that person He sees in me.  Because really, what good does it do to sit and focus on past mistakes, when God is calling us to step into a future filled with purpose?

It reminds me of Peter. 

Breakfast On The Beach

Peter was the disciple who was ready to die for Jesus at any given moment.  He made bold declaration after bold declaration, from a love that ran deep in his heart for his Savior.  Sure, there were times Peter’s ego might’ve gotten the best of him, just like the rest of us. He famously declared to Jesus in front of others, “I’ll never deny you.” 

But then, the night came. That night.

He couldn’t have imagined the horror that was ahead of him. He couldn’t have imagined the fear that would take hold of him.  Everyone turned against Jesus. Everyone was chanting for Him to die. It’s easy to be brave in front of one or two people, but when the weight of an entire movement turns, it’s different.

Then, the exact thing Peter swore he’d never do, he did.  He denied Jesus. During His darkest hour.
The Person he loved most on earth, he denied. Not once, but three times.

It wasn’t like Jesus didn’t know. Jesus knew.  In fact, Scripture says Jesus looked at him the moment it happened, right there in the middle of His pain, right after the rooster crowed.  Peter then remembered Jesus had predicted it, and the weight must’ve crushed him.

The regret. The shame.  Imagine hurting someone you love most during their hardest hour.
Imagine betraying your child, your spouse, while they’re being tortured, and they know it. The love Peter had for Jesus was greater than a love for a child or a spouse, so we can only imagine. 

The loss of Jesus over those three days wasn’t just grief for Peter.  It was laced with the terrible truth that at Jesus’ moment of greatest sacrifice, Peter had completely failed Him.  How many times did he replay it in his mind?  How many times did he revisit every mistake, wonder if he had disqualified himself for good?  All those moments, walking on water, acts of faith, devotion...all of it felt erased in one flash of fear.

But that’s not the end of Peter’s story.  And it’s never the end of ours, either.

Our Savior refuses to define us by our worst moment.  Three days later, the most beautiful thing happened:  Jesus rose from the dead.

If that weren’t miracle enough, He went looking for Peter.  When He found him, it wasn’t to shame him. It wasn’t to demand an apology or give a lecture on loyalty.  Jesus found Peter by cooking him breakfast on the beach.

Why was Peter on the water?  Because he (and some of the other disciples) had gone back to his old life as a fisherman.  After that kind of failure, he didn’t think he was worthy of leading anyone, let alone starting a church that would be the most meaningful movement in the history of mankind.

Peter had gone back to what he knew.  After the grief, the failure, and the crushing weight of shame, he returned to the familiar rhythm of casting nets and hauling fish. His heart may have still loved Jesus, but he no longer believed he was worthy of following Him. So he fished.

Then, one early morning, while the sky was still soft with the blush of dawn, someone stood on the shoreline. The disciples didn’t recognize Him at first. But this stranger called out from the shore:

“Friends, haven’t you any fish?”

They hadn’t.

“Throw your net on the right side of the boat and you will find some.”

So they did.

Just like that first time, their nets were overwhelmed with fish, bursting, straining under the weight of grace. In that moment, something clicked.

John whispered it first: “It is the Lord.”

Peter didn’t hesitate.  He didn’t stop to pull in the net. He didn’t wait for the boat to turn around. He didn’t worry about how deep the water was or what the others might think.  He jumped.

Fully clothed, soaking his garments, heart pounding, Peter threw himself into the water. It was the second time he had stepped out of a boat to get to Jesus, but this time, it wasn’t about walking on water.  This time, it was about getting back to Him, as fast as possible.

I imagine Peter swimming hard, his arms cutting through the waves, his eyes locked on the shoreline. No more distance. No more denial. Just the overwhelming need to be near his Savior again.  When he reached the shore, there He was.

Jesus.  Not with a sword. Not with a list of grievances.  But with a fire, breakfast, and the peace and love He always brings to every encounter.

Can you imagine that moment?  The warmth of the fire. The sound of waves lapping quietly behind them. The smell of fish and bread. Peter, dripping wet, breathless, in shock, standing face-to-face with the One he thought he had lost forever.

Jesus simply looked at him.  No condemnation or shame.  Just welcome.  It was reunion.  It was restoration.  It was grace that cooked breakfast and waited patiently by the sea.

Then, Jesus asked a question.

“Peter, do you love Me?”

He asked it three times, one for every denial.  With every answer of confirmation from Peter, Jesus restored him and gave him instructions.

Feed my sheep.
Care for my people.
Follow me.

It’s as if Jesus was saying, I’m not here to relive your worst moment. I’m here to remind you of who you are, and who you’re becoming.  I’m here to give you purpose. I’m here to tell you to look forward, not backward.

God didn’t define Peter by his past.  He gave him a calling.  That’s the kind of God we serve.  The kind who meets us in the middle of our self-doubt and gently says,

“You’re still mine. I’m not finished with you. Let’s keep going.”

Jumping Off the Boat

It’s amazing how quickly we return to what we knew when we’re confronted with our own failure.  When we fail, it’s almost instinctive.  We slip back into old habits, old thought patterns, old versions of ourselves that feel familiar, even if they were never truly safe. It didn’t take Peter long to return to fishing. His Savior was gone (or so he thought) and he had failed in every way imaginable.

He had denied the One he swore to protect. The One he loved most. The shame must’ve been unbearable. Maybe, deep down, he even blamed himself for what happened. Peter, who had always seen himself as a kind of shield for Jesus, now bore the weight of powerlessness and regret.

So he went back to what he knew. Back to fishing.

But isn’t it fascinating that the moment he realized Jesus was still there, still alive, still loving him, still choosing him, he couldn’t get off that boat fast enough?  He didn’t ask for permission. He didn’t wait for the nets to be hauled in. He didn’t calculate how deep the water was. He just jumped.

Nothing else mattered more than getting back to Jesus.  And you know, the same is true for us.  We don’t lose our Savior just because we fail.

Our failure doesn’t un-resurrect Jesus.  It doesn’t send Him away.  He’s still there. Waiting on the shoreline of our hearts.  When we come to our senses, when grace breaks through the fog of shame, we have only one job: 

Jump off the boat.
Soaking wet clothes and all.
Whatever it takes to return to the One who still calls us “mine.”
The One who heals us, restores us, protects us, and speaks purpose over us again.

Temptation always tries to drag us back into our past.  It whispers about our failures and throws our memories in our face.  But Jesus is always looking forward.  He is always ready to redeem what’s been broken, restore what’s been lost, and rewrite our story with grace.

So when you find yourself drifting back into the old life:
Jump.
Don’t wait.
Swim hard.
Because your Savior is still there, cooking breakfast on the shore, ready to remind you that your story is not over.

I accidentally forgot what day my birthday was on this week.

Well, inadvertently, as did my kids. They scheduled a celebration for a different night, thinking my birthday was on a different day (because that's what I told them, since I can't seem to recall my own birthday). No big deal. We’ll celebrate together on whatever day works best. Honestly, it doesn’t bother me one bit. The truth is, the introvert in me might just be looking forward to how the day will actually unfold.

When I get home from work on my birthday this year, it’ll be quiet.  My kids won't be around.  My Mom won't be, either. Just me and God.  I can’t think of a better way to spend the evening.

No cake. No candles. No party hats. Just some stillness, a soft place to land, and a heart full of memories. I'm not trying to elevate myself or my birthday into something sacred. But I do believe, deep down, that God knows the day He decided I would enter this world. I believe He saw value in that day, even if I didn’t always see it myself.

So, this year, I want to give that day back to Him.

I want to sit with Him and walk through old memories, not all of them easy. Some of them, honestly, are painful. There have been chapters I made a mess of. Seasons where I wandered so far I’m amazed He didn’t leave me there. Times when I sat in pits I dug with my own hands and still, still, He stayed.

That’s what I want to remember.  Not the years I’ve lived but the faithfulness He’s shown.  The goodness. The mercy. The undeserved grace.

My birthday won’t be about balloons or dinner reservations this year. It’ll be about a quiet house, an open Bible, maybe a candle lit in prayer rather than celebration. It’ll be about whispered thank-yous and soul-deep gratitude. And maybe, if the weather cooperates, a walk outside where I can breathe in His presence and thank Him for every breath He’s let me take.

The truth is, I don’t feel all that worth celebrating. But He is.

Once, when I was a teenager, I was driving a black Mustang my dad had bought for $400 and lovingly fixed up for me. I had added my own flair to it (this was the '90s, after all), a bold pink lightning bolt running down the side. To me, that car was freedom and fire. On this particular weekend, a friend and I were staying with family, there to watch my cousins wrestle in a state championship.

After the match, driving back along an empty stretch of gravel road, I wanted to show off a little. I wanted to see what the Mustang could really do.

I didn’t expect to lose control.  But loose gravel has no mercy on Mustangs, even if they have a pink lightning bolt.

In an instant, two teenage girls were spinning and skidding sideways into the middle of a cornfield.  A family cornfield, no less (sorry, Uncle). I never did confess the damage we left behind. But the part that still sticks in my mind all these years later is that the car didn’t roll. It should have. We should have been hurt. Or worse.

No one would’ve found us quickly.  This was the middle of nowhere, long before cell phones were a thing. But nothing happened. Not a scratch, not a bruise. Just two wide-eyed girls in a dusty cornfield with a whole lot of “what ifs” hanging in the air.

It was mercy. Plain and simple.

That moment is just one from a long list, a very long list, of times when my own foolishness could have left permanent scars, and yet, God said no. Not today. Not her.

This birthday, I want to sit with those stories. Not out of guilt, but out of gratitude. I want to remember just how often God has stood between me and disaster. Just how often He’s spared me from the full weight of my own choices.  I want to be the ones who says thanks.

It reminds me of a moment in Scripture.  Jesus was traveling along the border between Samaria and Galilee when He encountered ten men with leprosy. They stood at a distance, outcasts, unwanted, unclean, and they called out to Him for mercy. Of course, He gave it. He told them to go show themselves to the priests, and as they went, they were healed. Ten lives transformed, ten stories rewritten.

But only one came back to say thanks.

Through The Eyes Of A Thankful Leper

I don’t remember the last time someone touched me.  Not gently. Not kindly. Not without flinching.

Leprosy doesn’t just eat at your skin. It eats at your identity. Slowly. Cruelly. It begins with numbness. You don’t feel the burn from a cooking fire. You don’t feel the rock that gouges your heel. Then the wounds come and they stay and they spread. Before long, your body becomes something people fear to look at.

I've watched pieces of myself disappear, literally. Fingers. Toes. Feeling. Dignity.  Maybe worse than what the disease did to my body was what it did to my place in the world. I had to leave my home, my family, my life. The priests said I was unclean and God had turned His face against me. I wasn’t welcome in the temple anymore.

I lived outside the city, with others like me. People who coughed in the night and cried out when their skin cracked open. We were the walking dead, untouchable, unapproachable, and unwanted. If someone came near, we covered our faces and shouted out warnings:  “Unclean! Unclean!”

You stop being a person after a while. You are, instead, a warning.

We had heard the stories about Jesus. He touched lepers.  Yes, He touched them. Who does that? Who risks being defiled, contaminated, cast out themselves? But we heard Jesus had this way of breaking every rule that needed to be broken.

And then, He came.

We saw Him approaching the village, walking along the border between Samaria and Galilee. I didn’t expect Him to come our direction. No one ever did. People kept their distance from our little patch of forgotten earth.

But He turned toward us, ten broken men standing in the dust, holding more shame than skin on our bones. 

And, He looked at us.  Not through us. Not around us.

He didn’t flinch.  He didn’t step back.  He didn’t turn His face in polite avoidance the way others did.  He saw us.  He saw me.  

That was especially surprising to me, because I was a Samaritan.  The illness had forced us together. Jews and Samaritans, people who normally wouldn’t even speak to one another, now bound by a shared suffering. In the leper colony, all those boundaries blurred. Pain has a way of leveling people.

But still,  I was used to being doubly dismissed. First for my disease, and second for my heritage. Yet Jesus looked at me, a Samaritan, and didn’t look away.

Then came the command: “Go, show yourselves to the priests.”

As we walked, skin that had rotted began to knit together. The pain dulled. Strength returned. I watched my hands come back to life in front of my eyes. Hands I hadn’t wanted to look at for years.

The others ran ahead. I don’t blame them.  They had families to return to. Priests to show themselves to. A new life waiting for them that they had been dreaming of for years. For a moment, my feet turned with theirs. My heart raced with the hope of restoration, of everything I had lost being suddenly, miraculously returned.

But then, something stirred deep in me. A force I hadn't felt before, and it was something I couldn’t ignore.

I stopped. because it wasn’t enough just to be healed.  I needed Him to know.  I needed Jesus to know what this meant. What He meant.

He didn’t have to stop that day. No one would have questioned it if He kept walking. No one ever came our way, and even fewer acknowledged us as people. I was a leper. A Samaritan. I lived with layers of rejection.

But He had seen me.  I couldn't go another step without falling at His feet to say thank You.

So I turned around.  And I ran, not from shame this time, but with tears blurring my vision and praise burning in my chest. I ran to the feet of the One who had done what no one else ever had:

He saw me.
He healed me.
He loved me.

I collapsed before Him, overwhelmed and undone.  I didn’t have fancy words. Just worship. Just awe. Just the kind of gratitude that comes from knowing you’ve been rescued in both body and soul.  So I knelt low and I worshiped.

He looked at me and said," Rise and go; your faith has made you well.”  I knew something else had happened, something more than skin-deep.  There was a second miracle that day.

The first miracle healed my body.  The second healed my soul.

In the act of returning…
In the kneeling…
In the gratitude…

Something inside me was restored. 

I came to say thank you and I walked away whole.

The Turnaround

Not everyone turns back.  Ten were healed, but one returned.

I’ve thought a lot about that moment, the decision to stop, to turn around, to go back and say thank You. It’s easy to run forward into the newness, the celebration, the freedom of healing. God knows He's done a lot of healing in me.  But,  there’s something sacred in the pause, in the remembering, in the act of gratitude.

That’s the heartbeat behind how I want to spend my birthday this year.  I want to be the one who turns around.  I want to sit with God in the quiet of my living room, Bible open, memories laid bare, and offer Him the one thing I know I can give: my gratitude. My praise. My worship.

Not because everything in my life is perfect, but because He is.

I’ve seen Him show up when I didn’t deserve it. I’ve seen Him protect me when I was reckless, provide when I was desperate, and stay when I wouldn’t have blamed Him for walking away.  I’ve been healed more times than I can count, sometimes in ways I didn’t even know I needed.

So this year, the candles and cake can wait.
But the praise? That can’t.

This is my turnaround moment.
Not away from Him.
But toward Him, again and again and again.

Sometimes miracles don’t look like miracles at all. They don’t come with fireworks or fanfare, or even a large audience. 

No one talks about it much, but a faithful life is often a quiet one. It’s not always the loudest voice in the room or the most dramatic testimony on stage. Sometimes it’s showing up to work, coming home, and being present. Sometimes it’s making dinner, folding laundry, checking in on a friend, reading your Bible, and walking your dog before the sun goes down. It’s choosing peace. Choosing discipline. Choosing to trust God with the small things, over and over again.

We live in a world that celebrates the flashy.  Big moves, bold declarations, overnight transformations. But so often, real beauty is found in consistency. In quiet obedience. In doing the thing God asked you to do… again. It’s kind of like saving for retirement: it doesn’t look like much at first. Just a small deposit here, another there. But with enough time, it builds a kind of security no one can take away. The faithful life is like that too, it compounds. Maybe what some people call a boring life is actually a beautiful life.

That’s where I find myself these days. I’ve been walking 20 miles a week for three weeks straight to train for my SEIT (Super Exciting International Trip).  But I also do it just to move my body, clear my mind, and breathe a little deeper. Every week, I pray God gives me the energy to do it again. Because walking has become more than a habit, it’s slowly becoming a rhythm.

Ever since I committed to this walking goal, I’ve started to see my city differently. When you slow down and move at the pace of your own two feet, you notice things.  Small shops tucked between buildings, a new coffee place you’d usually speed past, a winding trail that wasn’t even on your radar before. These walks have become little windows into a quieter world, one I didn’t know I needed.

Zeus, my loyal (and slightly dramatic) husky, has become my walking buddy when the weather allows. He’s not exactly built for July. Let’s just say summer turns him into a panting mop with legs. But on the days when the temperatures dip just enough, like today, he’s ready. He made it a mile and a half this morning before his pace slowed and his eyes started pleading for mercy. 

But he didn’t quit. He never does. His tail kept wagging, and he trotted on beside me, doing his best to keep up. That’s the thing about Zeus, he always wants to come along, no matter how hot it is or how far we’re going. He shows up, and he gives what he’s got. It’s a simple kind of loyalty that tugs at my heart every time.

Today’s walk took us somewhere new, a shaded trail tucked behind a grove of trees I hadn’t explored before. The sun was still low enough to stream through the branches in golden streaks, and the birds were singing like it was their job. Zeus was smiling (as much as a dog can smile), and I felt that strange, holy hush that sometimes settles in when you’re not trying too hard, when you’re just there.

In that moment, I thought, Who would’ve guessed I’d enjoy walking this much?

I used to think that doing something “meaningful” had to look big. Loud. Impressive. But more and more, I’m learning that meaning often slips in through the back door of the ordinary. It hides in Tuesday morning walks, in tired dogs who won’t give up, in sunlight through trees and the whisper of birdsong. It lives in faithful routines, in the quiet choice to keep going, in the daily yes to whatever God is inviting me into.

This life I’m living might not look exciting to some, but maybe that’s okay. Maybe faithfulness was never supposed to be flashy. Maybe it was always supposed to be steady. Rooted. Beautiful in its simplicity.

I’m starting to think that God delights in our mile-and-a-half Tuesdays. I can’t speak for Him, of course, but I wouldn’t be surprised if He smiles when we lace up our shoes and keep walking anyway. Not because we have to. But because we trust Him enough to show up again.

A faithful life isn’t always headline-worthy. But it is heaven-worthy. 

Walking with God

Walking with God is a theme that runs all through Scripture. And it’s rarely flashy. It doesn’t usually come with thunder or applause. More often than not, it’s quiet, steady, and deeply intentional.

Take Enoch, for example. He was the seventh from Adam, tucked into a genealogy in Genesis 5 where every name ends the same way: “and he died.” But not Enoch. The Bible says, “Enoch walked with God; then he was no more, because God took him away.” (Genesis 5:24)

While others simply lived, Enoch walked with God. It wasn’t just about survival, it was about relationship. To walk with God is to set Him always before us, to care in all things to please Him, and to aim never to offend Him. It’s to follow Him as dear children.  If you’ve ever had little ones trailing behind you through a store or across a parking lot, you know that kind of closeness. That kind of attention. Enoch lived that way, with constant care in how he walked through the world, and given the timeframe he was likely rejected for it.

Hebrews 11:5 tells us, “By faith Enoch was taken from this life, so that he did not experience death… For before he was taken, he was commended as one who pleased God.”

And how did he please God? By faith. Not by doing something big and loud, but by faithfully walking, day after day, with his heart set on the One who created him.

I saw that kind of quiet faith up close when I was a kid. One summer, I stayed on the farm with my great aunt and uncle to help during wheat harvest. My job wasn’t complicated.  I made sandwiches and rode along to deliver them out to the field hands. But what I remember most isn’t the sandwiches or the combine rides. It’s my great uncle.

Harvest meant long days, sunup to sundown, but no matter how early the work began, he was always up before the sun. You’d find him in the kitchen at a wooden booth, steaming coffee in hand, head bent low over his Bible. He wore the same overalls and farm hat every day, and if you happened to walk in while he was reading, he’d gently close the Bible, place it in the window sill, greet you with a smile, and give you his full attention.

He did this every single day. It didn’t matter if it was summer or winter, harvest or rest. His rhythm didn’t change. He wasn’t flashy. He didn’t have a stage. He worked on trucks, fed calves, and made his way into the fields alongside his sons. He did preach a few times at their small country church, but he wasn’t famous. When he died, his obituary was short and simple. It said he loved the Lord.

And yet, to this day, I cannot think of anyone in my life who walked with God like my great uncle did.  Beautifully, quietly, and faithfully. His was a life well-lived. Not headline-worthy, but heaven-worthy.

It reminds me of Elijah, standing on the mountain waiting for God to speak. There was a mighty windstorm, but God wasn’t in the wind. Then came an earthquake, but God wasn’t in the earthquake. Then a fire, but God wasn’t in the fire. And after all of that came a still small voice, and that’s where God was. (1 Kings 19:11–12)

Isn’t that just like Him? While the world looks for God in the loud and spectacular, He so often meets us in the quiet. In the simple. In the steady. In a man with a Bible and a coffee cup before dawn.

Faith That Grows

That kind of faith, the kind my great uncle had, doesn’t usually begin with fanfare. It begins small. Sometimes, it begins as quietly as a whisper, a thought, a decision to open the Bible before sunrise or walk a mile on a Tuesday.

Jesus once told His disciples that faith, even as small as a mustard seed, could move mountains. And it’s fascinating that He chose a mustard seed. It’s tiny. Barely noticeable. But once it’s planted, it doesn’t stay small. It grows into something much larger than you’d expect, something that offers shade, shelter, and space for others. In some places, mustard is even considered a weed because it spreads so persistently. It fills empty spaces. It pushes through cracks in the soil. It grows even when it’s overlooked.

That’s what walking with God does to our faith. It doesn’t just exist, it expands. Quietly. Steadily. Faith grows in the everyday choices to trust Him, to spend time with Him, to seek Him in the ordinary. And before you know it, that little seed of faith has worked its way into your thoughts, your rhythms, your responses. It changes how you work, how you love, how you endure. It even changes how you walk, perhaps physically (in my case) and spiritually.

But here’s the thing: it can be tempting to believe that attention equals importance. We live in a world obsessed with the visible, the celebrated, the platformed. Even in the Christian world, we can fall into the trap of thinking something only matters if it has a sound system, a projector, and a well-designed logo. And those things are all fine, if they’re done with the right heart. But they’re not what make something important.

Faith doesn’t have to be flashy to be fruitful. And obedience doesn’t have to be loud to be powerful. The world may overlook the early-morning Bible reading, the faithful work behind the scenes, the mile walked in prayer, but God doesn’t. Heaven notices. Heaven sees.

Because a faithful life isn’t always about doing something big. Sometimes it’s just about doing the next right thing, with God beside you, and maybe a tired husky trailing behind.

It’s been blazing hot here in the Midwest lately, hot enough to make you question every life choice that led to being outside at noon in June. But, the reality is we’re not even into the dog days of summer yet, and I'm already complaining about the heat.

I’ve been trying to squeeze in long walks to prepare my body for some hiking and climbing I’ve got coming up on my Super Exciting International Trip (SEIT for short). The trails around my little apartment are sun-drenched with very little shade, so by the time I finish a walk, I feel like a rotisserie chicken that forgot to get turned.

Yesterday, I was embarking on my walk, and I planned to leave our Husky, Zeus, behind. He's got a thick coat better suited for snowbanks than scorched sidewalks, but every time I head for the door, he begs to go. And I do mean begs.  He very good at whining, pawing, and staring at me like I’ve betrayed him personally if I don’t bring him along.

So, I gave in and I took him with me. True to form, he was thrilled, until about a mile in. That’s when the heat got to him. He stopped to sniff the grass, and I figured, good, he needs a breather anyway. Except this wasn’t a breather. This was a plan.

Nestled in that grass was a mud puddle beyond my field of vision.

Before I could stop him, my white-and-black Husky was full-on rolling in it like a pig at a spa. By the time we headed home, I didn’t have a dog anymore.  I had a squishy, dripping mudball on a leash. But he was thrilled. Proud, even, because he got to be with me on my daily walk.

But, we weren't finished.  As we neared home, we faced one last obstacle: the hill. It’s steep, there’s no shade, and it hits right at the end of the walk, when the sun is merciless and the exhaustion sets in. Zeus, now a steaming heap of damp fluff and grime, started lagging behind.

So I talked to him.

“Come on, buddy. You’re a good boy. You can do it. Who is a brave Husky? Zeus is!”

And somehow, with just those words, he found a second wind. His trot picked up and his tail lifted. Encouragement got him up the hill, even though all he wanted was to roll around in another mud pit.

I’ve thought about that moment (after Zeus endured his bath after post-walk, which he loudly protested). Sometimes the climb feels brutal. The path is scorching, we’re carrying more than we expected, and we feel like we’ve turned into something unrecognizable along the way.  Maybe we even rolled around in a little mud, just trying to cool off or cope. But what gets us through isn’t finding shade or waiting for perfect conditions. It’s simply being reminded: You’re not alone. You can do this. You're doing great.

Under the Broom Tree

He collapsed under a broom tree and begged God to take his life.

That’s where we find Elijah.  Not standing boldly on a mountaintop calling down fire, but lying in the dirt, exhausted, frightened, and done. This wasn’t a dramatic outburst. This was the cry of a man who had reached his absolute limit.

When we read in 1 Kings 19 that Elijah asked God to take his life, it’s easy to assume he was being overly dramatic. But let’s remember, Jezebel the queen, had just vowed to make sure Elijah was dead by the next day. We can be assured she wasn’t planning a swift or merciful death. This was going to be brutal. Elijah had every reason to be terrified.

What had Jezebel so enraged? Just before this moment, Elijah had stood alone on Mount Carmel, surrounded by 450 prophets of Baal and 400 prophets of Asherah, all backed by the royal court. He had issued a challenge: whichever god answered by fire would be recognized as the true God. The prophets of Baal cried out all day with no result. But when Elijah prayed, God responded with fire from heaven, consuming the soaked sacrifice, the altar, even the water in the trench. The people fell on their faces, declaring, “The Lord—He is God!” Elijah then ordered the false prophets to be seized and put to death. It was a total spiritual victory, but a personal disaster for Jezebel.  She saw her power, her gods, and her pride publicly shattered.

It’s fascinating to consider Jezebel’s reaction in that moment. She had just witnessed, through reports and eyewitnesses, the power of the living God. Fire from heaven. A prophet standing unshaken. This was a crossroads: she could have turned in awe and belief, or she could double down on her rage. She chose the latter. She didn't repent.  She retaliated.

And so Elijah ran. He ran into the wilderness until he physically collapsed. He curled up under a desert bush, a broom tree, and fell asleep. Can you imagine the kind of weariness that overtakes a person who has been running for their life? The kind that doesn’t just press on your body, but your soul? That’s where Elijah was.

But God met him there, not with judgment or disappointment, but with tenderness. He sent an angel (not once, but twice) to bring him food and water and let him rest. No lectures. Just compassion. Just care.

When Elijah finally found himself in the quiet of a cave, God came to him again. But this time, not through wind, not through fire, not through an earthquake. All those loud, dramatic signs passed by, though, but Elijah didn’t even flinch. Then came a gentle whisper. And that’s when Elijah covered his face. Not in fear, but in reverence, because he knew exactly who was speaking to him.

It’s amazing, isn’t it? The same Elijah who stood with fearless faith on Mount Carmel is now trembling in a cave. One moment, courage. The next, fear. Faith doesn’t always march in a straight line. Sometimes it stumbles. Sometimes it collapses. And yet, God remains faithful.

God asked, “What are you doing here, Elijah?” Not because He didn’t know, but because He was drawing Elijah into conversation. Drawing him out of despair. Elijah answered with the full weight of his discouragement, and God listened. And then, without fanfare, God responded to every fear. He assured Elijah that the wicked house of Ahab would fall. He reminded him he was not alone.  There were still 7,000 in Israel who had not bowed to Baal.

Elijah’s fears, complains, and exhaustion were all answered with truth, tenderness, and reassurance.

That’s the kind of God we serve. One who sees us when we collapse in the dirt.  One who feeds us when we’re too weak to move. One who speaks in a whisper when the world feels deafening. One who gently reminds us: You’re not alone. You’re not forgotten. You’re not finished.

We need that reminder often. Encouragement isn’t a luxury, it’s part of survival. And how beautiful is it that we serve a God who never tires of whispering it again and again: You can do this. I’m with you. You’re doing great.

One Step at a Time

I’ve never laid under a broom tree and begged God to take my life, but I have had seasons where I didn’t want to wake up to the pain anymore.

After my divorce, there were mornings I would lie in bed and dread the day ahead. Not because I didn’t love my kids.  You bet I did. They were the reason I got up, the reason I kept going. But the weight of it all felt unbearable. It wasn’t just heartbreak. It was the slow, steady ache of a life that had unraveled. I was exhausted, not just emotionally, but deep in my soul. There comes a point in suffering where you no longer know how to keep lifting your head. You’re not trying to be dramatic, you’re just trying to survive.

Looking back, I know this much for certain: God never left me.

He met me there. Over and over again. In the quiet moments. In the tears. In the middle-of-the-night conversations I wasn’t sure anyone heard. He didn’t drive me forward with guilt or shame. He didn’t lecture me for my grief or tell me to get over it. Instead, He encouraged me, sometimes with just enough hope for one more step. One more breath. One more day.

Like Elijah, I was met with compassion, not condemnation.

Even on the days I stayed in bed. Even when I wallowed or doubted or felt completely faithless, God stayed faithful. He gently reminded me to keep going. One foot in front of the other. Eyes on Him.

And the more I followed, imperfectly, painfully, the more He strengthened me.

Elijah’s story didn’t end under the broom tree. It wasn’t the final word over his life, and it’s not the final word over mine (or yours). His journey continued. He got up, he heard the whisper, and he walked into the next assignment God had for him. Everything God had promised him came to pass. Every word. The house of Ahab fell. Jezebel's reign ended. Victory came, just as God said it would.

That’s the kind of God we serve. One who doesn’t just whisper encouragement, He keeps His word. Even when we’re faithless, He is faithful. Even when we question, He remains steady. Even when we fall short, He still brings His promises to life.

Elijah’s moment of fear didn’t disqualify him, it just revealed his humanity. And God met him there, not to shame him, but to remind him: You are not done. My promises still stand. Victory is still coming.

The same is true for us.

My son and I spent the afternoon side by side, watching travel videos, our eyes lighting up with every sweeping coastline and cobblestone street. It’s our shared language: dreaming, planning, imagining the next great adventure. My daughter often joins in, bringing her own humor to the moment. She’s whimsical, and she enjoys being surprised through the journey.  But my son and I, we’re the planners. The ones who sketch out routes and savor the anticipation.

These moments are more than just a pastime, they are our special time together.  

When you've battled childhood cancer twice, especially brain cancer, you see life through a different lens. My son lives with the aftermath daily. Some symptoms never leave, never quiet. He wakes up fighting, every single morning. And yet, he does so from a place of thanksgiving. Grateful to be here. Grateful for the days that are easy, and even the ones that aren’t.

His resilience is humbling. His faithfulness puts mine to shame. He is steady when I feel shaken, strong when I feel small. He inspires me more than he’ll ever know.

Would I ever give him up? Not for anything.
Would I ever stand by and let someone hurt him? Not a chance.
Like any other Mom, I would defend him with everything I have. I love him that deeply, that fiercely,  because he and his sister are the greatest treasures God has ever given me.

For God So Loved the World

It was late, so late the city of Jerusalem had gone still. The oil lamps had burned low, the streets emptied of voices. But one man was still awake. Restless. His heart stirred not with politics or policy, but with the quiet ache of a soul in need.

Nicodemus came by night, shrouded in the darkness, perhaps due to fear or perhaps by shame. He was a ruler, a Pharisee, a man with power and influence. He could have come to Jesus with concerns about governance, temple affairs, or the growing unrest among the people. But it wasn’t civic questions that kept him up at night. It was something deeper. It was the unrelenting questions of the soul.

He found Jesus alone, lit only by the flicker of lamplight. No crowd. No audience. Just the silence of the night and the steady gaze of the One who knew him completely.

"Rabbi," he said, “we know that You are a teacher who has come from God. No one could perform the signs You do unless God were with Him.”

Jesus didn’t start with small talk. He went straight to the heart.

“Nicodemus,” He said, “no one can see the kingdom of God unless they are born again.”

Born again? Nicodemus was baffled. How could someone be born a second time? Could a man reenter his mother’s womb? Nicodemus was a scholar, a man of logic and law.  But, He felt uneducated at that very moment.  Jesus was introducing something completely different: a new birth, a complete transformation of spirit, not of flesh.

Nicodemus struggled to comprehend it, just as many of us do. We are born into a fallen world, into corrupted flesh. How could something truly new emerge from what is already broken?  But that is exactly what Jesus was offering, not self-repair, not improvement, but transformation. Something done in us and for us, something we could never do on our own.

Nicodemus couldn't fathom what Jesus was telling him.  God, in Christ, was reconciling the world to Himself. Not condemning it, not rubbing its guilt in its face. But rescuing it, healing it, and saving it.

Then Jesus said what would become the heartbeat of the Gospel:

“For God so loved the world, that He gave His one and only Son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish but have eternal life.”

Did you know this verse was spoken to a teacher of the law?  Not to an unbeliever, not to a criminal, and not to a child.  This verse, often considered the most basic verse of Christianity, was said to a highly educated leader of the church.  Nicodemus had a lot to think about when he left that evening.  

There is no salvation in any other.
There is no name higher, no work more complete.
Christ came, not to condemn the world for its guilt, but to redeem it from it.
Not to heap on shame, but to lift it.
Not to crush the sinner, but to raise the dead.

Things changed for Nicodemus.  He approached Jesus cloaked in night, but like many of us, he didn’t stay that way. Though he came in secret, he wouldn’t remain in the shadows forever. At the cross, when others fled, Nicodemus stepped forward, publicly and unashamed, bringing burial spices and honoring the broken body of the Christ he had once met by lamplight.

Nicodemus came by night, like so many of us.  But light found him.

What would we do without John 3:16?  What would we do if God had decided to condemn the world instead of save it?  

I think of my own son.

He, too, knows what it’s like to live with shadows. He has faced more pain in his young life than many ever will. The physical toll, the lingering symptoms, the weight of a fight that never really ends. There are days that begin with struggle and nights that end in exhaustion. And yet, there is radiant, unshakable light in him because he knows Who brought him through.

And I know how fiercely I love him. 
Would I ever give him up? Not for anyone.

And most certainly not for a maybe.
Maybe they’ll believe.
Maybe they’ll choose life.
Maybe they’ll love him back.
Maybe they won’t.

No, I couldn’t do it. Not even close.

But God did.  God gave His Son not for the guaranteed, but for the possible. For the chance, for the hope that someone might say yes. That someone might believe, might be reborn, might step out of the night and into the light.

That’s the kind of love we can’t understand. It stretches further than logic, reaches deeper than grief, and towers higher than human strength.  Jesus didn’t come to condemn the world.  He came to save it.  And in doing so, the Father gave what I know I could never give.

Because God so loved the world.

For Nicodemus.
For me.
For my son.
For the world.

The Story Isn’t Over

Nicodemus came to Jesus under cover of night.  He was careful, cautious, uncertain, and maybe afraid. But that meeting wasn’t the end of his story.  It was the beginning.

What Nicodemus didn’t realize was that Jesus wasn’t just describing some future transformation.  He was explaining exactly what was happening to him in that very moment. The spiritual rebirth Jesus spoke of was already underway. The old questions were cracking open, and belief was beginning to bloom.

Isn’t that how God works? He knows us far better than we know ourselves.  When God reveals something, when truth lights up even one corner of our heart, nothing stays the same.

That night, the light began to rise in Nicodemus.  Even though he didn’t fully understand it yet, that conversation would become the moment everything changed.  Jesus wasn’t offering metaphor, He was offering renewal.

Nicodemus was right in one way: we can’t physically be born again. But God doesn’t need to reconstruct the body to restore the soul.  The past doesn’t get to define the future, not when spiritual rebirth is possible.  In Christ, the old truly does become new.

John 3:16 isn’t just a verse from the past.  It’s a declaration for the present.  God still loves the world, not the sin, but He loves His messy, broken, beautiful creation.  And He still offers us the maybe.

He gave up everything so we could have the freedom to choose.
To choose light.
To choose grace.
To begin again.

Scripture doesn’t tell us what happened immediately after Jesus and Nicodemus' conversation, but we know Nicodemus had to walk home.  So let’s picture it:  

The courtyard is quiet now. The oil lamp flickers low, casting a golden glow on the edges of stone walls. The air holds the hush of something sacred. Nicodemus lingers a moment longer. His heart is full, too full to speak, and his mind is swirling with words he can’t quite put away:

“You must be born again.”
“The wind blows where it pleases.”
“For God so loved the world…”

He draws his cloak tighter around his shoulders and steps out into the cool night. The sounds of the city have long faded. The streets are empty, but his soul is alive with movement.  Jerusalem sleeps, but inside him, something has awakened.

He walks slowly at first. His feet know the path, but his thoughts drift far beyond it. The soft scrape of his sandals against the stone seems louder now in the silence. He passes familiar homes, shuttered and dark, where the smell of evening meals still lingers in the air. Olive trees whisper in the night breeze. A dog barks somewhere in the distance, then fades.

But Nicodemus doesn’t notice much of it, because he is not the same man who walked these streets an hour ago.  There’s something unsteady about his breathing, not out of fear, but from the weight of what’s just been revealed. Something holy presses on his chest, like a truth too big for his body to contain. His hands tremble slightly, not from the cold, but from the realization that the God he has served all his life… just spoke to him face to face.

He didn’t ask for sacrifice.
He didn’t demand performance.
He offered rebirth.

Nicodemus walks a little faster now, as if the rhythm of his steps can keep pace with the change unfolding inside him. His mind protests.  He’s a Pharisee, a scholar, a ruler. He’s not supposed to be easily moved. He’s not supposed to be undone by a carpenter from Nazareth.

But he is.  Because nothing Jesus said was for show. It was for him.  And every word rang true.

The wind lifts the edge of his cloak as he rounds a corner. He looks up at the stars scattered across the sky, wondering how many times he’s seen them, without ever truly seeing. How many prayers he’s recited, how many laws he’s upheld… and yet none of it brought the clarity he feels right now. In the dark. Alone. And somehow, more known than ever before.

He slows near his home. He places a hand on the wooden frame before stepping inside. He knows this night will mark him for the rest of his life. He will never forget the way Jesus looked at him. The way His words cut and healed at once. The way He named a need that Nicodemus hadn’t known how to speak.

This was the beginning.
This was the moment the old started falling away.
This was when light first broke through.

And long before he would stand at the cross, long before he would carry myrrh and aloes to bury the body of the man he once questioned in the shadows, this was the night the light began to rise in him.

The story didn’t end when Nicodemus left the courtyard.
It had only just begun.

I love to travel but five years ago, I stopped.  My life had disintegrated. The divorce left me in a terrible financial position, without even a full-time job. My kids were hurting. My son was in a battle for his life. Travel, once a joy, felt like a distant, unreachable dream.  So I stayed home, and I was glad to do it, because I didn't want to be anywhere else.

But now, now things are different.  My son is healthy. My daughter just graduated from college. (How do the kids keep aging while we somehow stay the same?) The dust has settled. The transition I recognized in my last post is starting to feel real.

Quietly, beautifully, the world has started calling my name again.  It’s not just about seeing new places. It’s about rediscovering myself in the process. Travel has a way of opening doors, external ones - yes, but also the ones that quietly creak open inside your soul. The ones that had been shut out of self-preservation.

I’ve started one of my favorite parts of any adventure, the meticulous planning. I know that might sound tedious to some, but to me, it’s part of the joy. After all these years, I’m planning my first international trip.

I renewed my passport. I’ve been watching YouTube videos like a student cramming for an exam. I’m even picking up the basics of the language, just enough to say hello, thank you, and maybe find a cup of coffee.  The destination? I’ll share that soon. But for now, it feels good just to say: I’m going. Not someday. Not when everything is perfect. But in a few months.

There’s something sacred about reclaiming joy.  Not chasing it, not forcing it, but noticing when it starts to return like sunlight after a long winter. I’m not the same person I was five years ago. I’ve carried sorrow. I’ve navigated survival. But maybe that’s why this joy feels different, hard-won and deeply rooted.

Planning this trip isn’t just about flights and itineraries. It’s about saying yes to life again. It’s about allowing myself to anticipate beauty. To believe that wonder still waits around unexpected corners. To remember that I’m allowed to feel light again.

Reclaiming Joy

Coming back from Florida hasn’t been a soft landing. It wasn’t a gentle glide into routine, instead it was a running leap straight back into the noise of everyday life. Work. Chores. Errands. Emails. Laundry. All of it, slapping me in the face all at once with the smell of dirty socks.

I miss the beach. I miss the waves, the easy rhythm of a town that didn’t know or care what day it was. I miss the friendly people, the kind that smile at you just because they can, not because they're rushing to their next appointment. There are friendly people here too, but something changes when you're on vacation. You're unhurried. You're not counting minutes. You're not buried in deadlines.

My sweet mom, who has quietly battled depression for so many years, said something on this trip that I’ll never forget. She looked over the water one morning and said, “This place makes me feel like I want to live again.”

I knew exactly what she meant.

It wasn’t just the beach or the sunshine. It was the freedom to breathe. To be. To feel the lightness of living without the weight of the world pressing down on your shoulders. In that sleepy little town, we weren’t just resting, we were restoring. It gave us both life. She left that place just as full as I did.

Maybe that’s why I’m already planning the next trip. It’ll be a few months from now. I’ll need to save up. I might go alone, but I don't think I'll be getting through that airport without my mother with me. It will be just us, the sound of the waves, and a quiet little dock at the edge of the world.

If there’s one theme God echoed through the sound of those waves to me, it’s this:

It’s time to let go.

Letting go of pain, yes, but also letting go of control.
Letting go of trying to hold everything and everyone in place.

My kids are getting older. They’re needing me less in some ways and differently in others. I feel the ache of that shift more than I expected. My mom is aging too. She’s changing, and so is our relationship. I’ve spent so much time holding tightly to what was. But I know God is whispering now, “It’s okay to let go.”

Let go of the past.
Let go of trying to make things stay the same.
Let go of roles that are no longer yours to carry.

This isn’t a loss, it’s transition. Transitions, though tender, are sacred ground. They are the places where God meets us with fresh grace, with new purpose, and with gentle reminders that He is not only the God of what was, He is the God of what’s next.

The truth is, you can’t move forward while clinging to the past. And God knows that I love to do some clinging like Saran Wrap.

So I’m learning to let go.
Of roles that are changing.
Of expectations that no longer fit.
Of old hurts I’ve carried too long.

Because forward is the only direction He walks.
And I want to go with Him.

Ruth’s Calling

Naomi was from Bethlehem in Judah, a place known as “the house of bread.” But when a severe famine struck the land, the irony was painful. There was no bread. No harvest. No security. So Naomi and her husband, Elimelek, left Bethlehem behind with their two sons and crossed into Moab, a foreign and often hostile land, just to survive.

There, in Moab, Ruth’s story begins.

She was a Moabite woman, and she married one of Naomi’s sons. Likely in her late teens or early twenties, Ruth expected a simple life filled with family, tradition, and the quiet rhythm of routine. But famine had already disrupted one family line, and loss was about to unravel another.

And the losses came, boy did they come, one by one.

We don’t know how or why the three men died.  Scripture doesn’t tell us if they suffered from disease, starvation, or if a tragic accident struck them down together.  Maybe some grief is too heavy for explanation.

What we do know is this:
In a cruel wave of loss, it was all gone.

First Naomi’s husband died.
Then both of her sons, Ruth’s and Orpah’s husbands, died too.

They had been in Moab for about ten years.  Ten years of shared life. Ten years of building a future.
Ten years that Ruth surely imagined would lead to children, stability, and growing old alongside her husband.

And now, all of it was undone.

Then came word from the old country.

“Naomi heard in Moab that the Lord had come to the aid of His people by providing food for them…”
—Ruth 1:6

The famine in Bethlehem had finally lifted. The Lord had visited His people again and He was restoring the land.

So Naomi made the decision to return home. Not because she had hope, but because she had nothing left to lose.  Grief pressed her forward. Hunger pulled her home.  But she had no idea that God wasn’t just restoring crops in Bethlehem, He was restoring her story, too.

In that culture, widows were among the most vulnerable. A young woman with no husband and no sons had little hope for stability or security. The socially acceptable thing for Ruth to do was to return to her father’s house and hope to remarry one day. It would have been logical. Sensible. Safe.

And scripture takes us into a moment where Naomi encourages her to do just that.

The dust was swirling around their sandals as they walked the road to Bethlehem.  The tears carved quiet paths down tired cheeks.  Three widows standing in the middle of a road, with nothing ahead but uncertainty and nothing behind but loss.

Naomi stopped walking.

She turned to the two young women beside her, daughters by marriage, bound now by shared grief. She looked at their faces, still soft with youth, still full of potential. And maybe in that moment, she realized what she could not bear: dragging them into a future she no longer believed in.

Her voice cracked as she spoke, equal parts love and lament.

“Go back,” she said. “Turn around. Go home to your mothers. May the Lord show you the same kindness you’ve shown to me. May He grant each of you rest... in the home of another husband.”

Then she wept.  Not just for what she had lost, but for them. For what they still might find if they let her go.  Naomi saw nothing ahead for herself but bitterness. But she refused to let her emptiness steal their hope.  Her story, she believed, was over. But theirs didn’t have to end with hers.

Orpah listened, heart torn. She cried. She clung.  Finally, she kissed Naomi goodbye and turned back, back to the world she knew, the language she spoke, the life that had once been hers.  Who can blame her?  I probably would have done the same.

But Ruth didn’t move.  She stayed rooted in the dust and heartbreak of that moment, looking at Naomi with love.  Naomi tried again to urge her away, but Ruth’s spirit had already crossed a line.  She was not going back. 

Out of the stillness, Ruth spoke words that would change not only Naomi’s story, but her own, and eventually, the world’s:

“Don’t urge me to leave you or to turn back from you.
Where you go I will go, and where you stay I will stay.
Your people will be my people and your God my God.
Where you die I will die, and there I will be buried.
May the Lord deal with me, be it ever so severely, if even death separates you and me.”
—Ruth 1:16–17

This wasn’t just poetic. It was a holy vow.

Ruth didn’t just cling to Naomi, she clung to God.  She surrendered certainty for obedience.  She let go of comfort for the sake of calling.  She released the life she thought she’d have in order to walk into the one God had chosen for her.

And here’s the beautiful thing:
Ruth couldn’t have known at the time that her decision to stay would change history.

I’m sure in that moment, she simply knew she was being called to stay with Naomi. To walk with her. To trust God.  But she couldn’t have imagined why.

She didn’t know she would one day glean in Boaz’s field.
She didn’t know she would marry him, bear a son, or become the great-grandmother of King David.
She didn’t know her name would be etched into the lineage of the Messiah.

She only knew that God was asking her to go, and she went.  Ruth’s story is proof that God doesn’t just meet us in our surrender, He blesses it.  He weaves our letting go into legacies we can’t begin to imagine.

Maybe that’s what He’s doing with me, too.

The Transformation

The old roles, the shifting relationships, the future I thought I’d have isn’t being taken from me.

It's being transformed.

Maybe the letting go is how God makes room for something eternal.

But in time, every one of those hopes was fulfilled, just not in the way she expected.

By following God’s call, Ruth stepped into a story she never could have written on her own. In Bethlehem, she met Boaz, a man of integrity and compassion, a kinsman-redeemer who not only provided for her but loved her. There’s no trace of conflict or regret in their union. Everything about their story points to quiet joy, mutual honor, and God’s blessing.

Together, they built a life.
Together, they had a child.
Together, they restored not just their future, but Naomi’s as well.

And through that child (Obed) Ruth became the great-grandmother of King David. Her obedience didn’t just rebuild her life, it helped shape the very lineage of Jesus Christ.

That’s what God does.  He takes the ashes of our plans and turns them into foundations for things we can’t even see yet.  Ruth’s story didn’t end with her husband’s death. 

It was resurrected.

Transition is so often God’s tool for growth.  It shakes us, stretches us, and sometimes breaks us, but only so He can remake us.

Life is always changing. That part isn’t optional. But how we walk through that change, that’s where trust lives. That’s where faith blooms. That’s where God meets us and whispers, “I’m doing something new.”

“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

And so I’m learning, day by day, to open my hands.
To let go of what was.
To trust God with what is.
And to believe, like Ruth, that even the changes I didn’t choose might be the very soil where legacy is planted.