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.

There are few things in this world more healing than sitting beside the sea.

The sun is beginning its slow descent, casting a golden glow across the waves.  The temperature is perfect. I am here, barefoot, watching that sunset stretch its colors across the sky like a watercolor painting in motion. I wish I could stay in this moment forever. Surely heaven will hold many scenes like this, only more vivid, more permanent, more whole.

One of my goals this trip was simple: see dolphins. Real ones. Not from a dock or a distant pier, but up close. So I booked an excursion called “Swim with Wild Dolphins.” And to be honest, I didn’t know what to think. These aren’t trained dolphins performing on cue, they’re wild, and sightings aren’t guaranteed. The best you can usually hope for is a fleeting glimpse as they pass you by.

Our captain was a former sports coach, a man with a whistle, a stern tone and a no-nonsense attitude. He barked out rules like we were in preseason drills, but it became clear he knew what he was doing. He told us that if we followed his instructions, we might get lucky. He added, “If they turn around and interact with you… well, that’s a lucky day.”

And wouldn’t you know it.  Luck showed up for us.

We headed into the Gulf, where the water shimmered in emerald hues and the shoreline was powdered with white sand. Before long, we spotted them. Not one, not two, but dozens of dolphins. While most tours hope for a single leap or two, we experienced something altogether different. The dolphins were playful, really playful. They weren’t just swimming near us; they were interacting.

Initially, I was nervous. Wild animals. Open water. I’m not exactly at ease swimming next to something large, fast, and alive (especially when my brain starts whispering “sharks” every other second). But the second I dipped my face into the water and watched those dolphins circle me, laughing, leaping, spinning, I forgot the fear entirely.

At one point, five of them surrounded us, weaving through us like overgrown toddlers in a game of tag. They slapped their tails, made playful clicks, and nudged each other with what could only be described as dolphin mischief. I laughed, really laughed. The kind that bubbles up from somewhere deep and reminds you what joy feels like.

Even our rule-loving captain was impressed. He said it was one of the most interactive groups he’d ever seen.

Every time I climbed back onto the boat, dripping and exhilarated, I couldn’t help but look back at the water with a full heart. What kind of God cares this much? What kind of Father orchestrates a sea ballet for a mom and her kids on vacation?

The answer, of course, is ours. The kind who delights in delighting us. The kind who knows that sometimes what we need most is not a miracle of provision or protection, but a miracle of joy.

And here’s how I know it was more than coincidence: we went back just a few days later. Same place. Same boat. Same time of day. And this time, not a single dolphin. They were gone, maybe out to sea, maybe hunting, maybe just doing whatever it is dolphins do when they’re not putting on a show. But I wasn’t disappointed. 

God had chosen that day. That moment. He knew how much joy it would bring me, how much sheer delight I would carry from interacting with those incredible creatures. And He knew I needed it.

This isn’t my first time in this part of Florida. I’ve rented the same house before. Same beaches. Same sleepy little town where time slows down and sand clings to your ankles long after you’ve left the shore. And every time I come, I find myself thinking, “It probably won’t be as magical as last time.” But every time, it is. And somehow, it’s even better.

There’s something sacred about the simplicity here. Drinking coffee on the back deck with my mom, watching the birds glide over the water. Sunrises that nudge you awake, and sunsets that seem to tuck you in. It's slow. It's quiet. And slowly but surely, it’s becoming my place. The place I go to breathe again.

I tell people I come here for a break, but the truth is, I come here to be put back together.

Five years ago, my world cracked wide open. A fire. Then my son’s cancer came back. Then divorce, layered over grief, over fear, over exhaustion. When so much hits at once, the mind doesn’t just heal because the calendar says it’s time.

But this place in Florida, it helps. There’s something about the rhythm of the waves and the hush of the wind that makes space for God to speak. And He does.

Now don’t get me wrong, I know you don’t need a beach house to find healing. I know God can meet you in a crowded waiting room or a prison cell. Just ask Paul and he would tell you healing isn’t tied to scenery. It’s tied to the Savior.

But still, God knows me. He knows that here, surrounded by salt air and sunshine, my heart is soft soil. He meets me in the middle of dolphin dives and quiet mornings. And He keeps healing me, layer by layer, moment by moment.

Healing is Layered

Psalm 147:3 “He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.”

I used to think healing meant moving on. Getting over it. Reaching a point where the pain no longer followed me around like a shadow. But I know better now.

Healing, as it turns out, is layered. It doesn’t arrive all at once like a lightning bolt.  It comes slowly, gently, sometimes painfully. It’s one layer at a time. And often, the deeper the wound, the more delicate the healing.

When I first came to this little beach town, I didn’t know how much I still needed to process. I thought I just needed a break. But with every visit, I find myself peeling back another layer of grief, or fear, or weariness I didn’t know I still carried. It’s not always obvious. Sometimes it shows up as restlessness. Sometimes as tears I can’t quite explain. Sometimes as a deep breath that finally feels like it reaches my soul.

Five years ago, so much unraveled at once. At the time, I didn’t know what to do except survive. But surviving isn’t the same as healing. Survival builds walls. Healing gently takes them down, one brick at a time, and lets light in again.

This place, this simple, quiet, salt-air place, has been the backdrop for God’s work in me. Not loud or dramatic. Just slow and sure. A little more peace this year. A little more clarity. A little more freedom from the weight I didn’t realize I was still carrying.

And I’m learning not to rush it.

God doesn’t. He’s not standing over me with a stopwatch. He’s sitting beside me with tenderness and time. He’s not asking me to “be okay.” He’s just asking me to keep coming to Him. To keep letting Him into the places I’ve been afraid to revisit.

Because healing isn’t about forgetting what happened, it’s about allowing Him to redeem it. And that kind of work… well, it takes time. Holy, intentional, beautiful time.

Just like the body doesn’t bounce back after surgery, the soul doesn’t bounce back from trauma. When you’ve been cut deep, you don’t leap to your feet the next morning. You ache. You rest. You wait. The swelling has to go down. The tissue has to knit itself together. Even when the scar forms, it stays tender for a while. And the deeper the wound, the longer the healing takes.

So why do we expect our souls to be any different?

Why do we tell ourselves to move on, hurry up, get over it, as if grief is something we can schedule or rush?

Jesus never rushed the wounded. He didn’t shame the broken for not bouncing back. He knelt beside them. He touched the untouchable. He gave time, dignity, and space for healing.

And He does the same with us.

So if you're not “there” yet (whatever “there” means), if you're still aching, still healing, still rebuilding, know this: you’re not behind. You're in process. You are exactly where you’re supposed to be.

Because real healing takes time.

And you're not doing it alone. 

Redemption, Not Erasure

Healing isn’t about forgetting what happened.
It’s about letting Jesus redeem what happened.

Sometimes we think the goal of healing is amnesia, to erase the pain, rewrite the past, pretend it didn’t happen. But that’s not the way Jesus works. He doesn’t erase our stories. He rewrites them. He takes the ashes and makes beauty, not by pretending the ashes weren’t real, but by creating something more beautiful because they were.

I think about Mary Magdalene.

We don’t know her full story, what led her to the place where seven demons held her in their grip. But we know enough to understand this: she wasn’t just hurting. She was tormented. Her mind, her body, her very being, were hijacked. She had no control. No peace. No escape. She likely said and did things no one would ever want remembered. She knew evil in a way that most of us will never comprehend.

She wasn't just a woman with a troubled past, she was a woman drowning in darkness.

And then, He came.

Jesus didn’t flinch. He didn’t look away. He didn’t require a backstory or an apology. He walked right into her chaos, right into the very place others had abandoned. He spoke, and with the authority of heaven in His voice, the darkness lost its grip. The demons that had ruled her life fled at His word.

And for the first time in who knows how long, she was free.

Can you imagine the silence after? Her mind no longer spinning. Her limbs no longer trembling. Her heart no longer hijacked by a force she couldn’t name. Just stillness. Just breath. Just presence.

Jesus didn’t just cleanse her. He restored her. He gave her back her dignity. Her identity. Her future.

And that’s the part that undoes me: she didn’t just get delivered. She got chosen.

Of all the followers, of all the people Jesus could have revealed Himself to first after rising from the dead, He chose her. Mary. The one who had been the most broken. The one who had known torment. The one who had tasted evil and now stood face-to-face with Glory.

She was the first to hear her name spoken from resurrected lips: “Mary.”

Not Peter.
Not John.
Mary.

“Go and tell them… I’m alive.”

Isn’t that just like God?

The more shattered the past, the more radiant the redemption. The more complete the unraveling, the more extravagant the restoration. Mary Magdalene was living proof that the places evil has touched most deeply are often the very places where God pours out His most lavish grace.

That’s redemption.

Not erasure. Not denial. Redemption. The kind only Jesus can do. The kind that doesn’t require forgetting our worst chapters but allows them to become the setup for our most powerful ones.

I’ll never fully understand why certain things were allowed in my life. I won’t pretend the fire, the diagnosis, or the heartbreak didn’t leave marks. They did. But the longer I walk with Him, the more I see: He’s not trying to delete those chapters. He’s weaving them into a redemptive arc I never could’ve written on my own.

And maybe, just maybe, He’ll let me tell someone else He’s alive because of it.

We’re heading out for a Florida vacation today.  "We" includes myself, my kids, my mom, and my nephew (who’s along for the ride, whether he volunteered or not). In just a few hours, our apartment will be buzzing with last-minute packing, flying flip-flops, and someone inevitably yelling, “Where’s the sunscreen?” as we unplug from real life for a little while. Adventures await us, including swimming with dolphins, but I’m even more curious about the unexpected ones God might have in store.

You’d think, as a Type A person, I’d be packed and ready a week ago. Nope. Never am. I have this bizarre habit of packing the morning of a trip. Without fail, I forget something. Once, I flew to Canada for a business presentation and only realized, too late, that I hadn’t packed any professional pants. I was presenting in the morning and stuck in jeans at night, panic-shopping for overpriced slacks like a woman on a mission. I found some. I paid triple what they were worth. I've never been so happy to hand over my credit card.

Meanwhile, my son has been packing for two weeks. As a brain cancer survivor, his memory isn’t always reliable, and he carries that awareness with such quiet determination. We’ve packed and repacked his bag, checking everything twice. It’s a slow, careful ritual that shows how far he’s come, and how fiercely he wants to be prepared. You’d think that would inspire me to pack my own bag early. But no, some habits are just weirdly persistent.

I suppose that’s the thing about vacations. You can forget a charger, a swimsuit, even pants, and still find your way to peace. And that’s exactly what I’m looking forward to: real peace. I’ve rented a house right on the beach, and I fully intend to sit on the back deck, let the sound of the waves do their thing, and just be. I’ll probably write a lot, because when I have downtime that’s what I do. Writing isn’t just something I enjoy; it’s how I process life. I don’t write for the sake of words.  I write to capture a moment, to mark a memory, to hold onto a feeling before it slips away.

Maybe that’s why I connect so deeply with the writers of the Bible, especially the ones who penned the Gospels. If I had walked with Jesus, I would’ve been scribbling down every detail I could, trying to preserve the awe, the wonder, the ordinary moments when heaven touched earth. I often wish they’d included more. What did Jesus’ voice sound like? What expression crossed His face when He healed someone? How did the disciples feel—really feel—in those quiet, in-between moments?

Sometimes I imagine those scenes myself, filling in the gaps with wonder. And even though I wish for more details, I also wonder how they did it.  How did they capture the Spirit of God, the unexplainable, the miraculous, with mere words? Maybe they didn’t have the right words either. Maybe they just wrote what they could, trusting that the Spirit would fill in the rest.

That’s what I’ll be doing this week: writing, wondering, worshiping. And probably forgetting a toothbrush. But I think I’ll be okay.

The Storyteller in the Shadows

Luke wasn’t one of the original twelve. He didn’t sit at the Last Supper, feel the sea spray on the Galilean shore, or hear Jesus’ voice rise above the crowds. He was a Gentile, a physician, and likely came to faith after the resurrection. And yet, God wrote him into the story.

Not as a preacher. Not as a miracle-worker.
But as a storyteller.

Luke opens his Gospel with intention and humility:

“Many have undertaken to draw up an account of the things that have been fulfilled among us... With this in mind, since I myself have carefully investigated everything from the beginning, I too decided to write an orderly account for you... so that you may know the certainty of the things you have been taught.”
— Luke 1:1–4

Luke wasn’t satisfied with secondhand summaries. He didn’t scribble haphazardly. He investigated. He interviewed. He traced the thread of the Messiah from birth to resurrection with precision, because truth demands accuracy, and because he knew this wasn’t just a story.

It was the story.

He walked dusty roads to find those who had walked with Jesus. He sat with Mary, maybe. With Peter. With Mark. He asked, “What was it like?” and listened with reverence. He captured the wonder of those who had touched the hem of Jesus’ robe so that people like us, centuries and miles away, could still be changed by it.

And then came Rome.

The second imprisonment. Not house arrest, but a dungeon. Cold. Cramped. Unforgiving. Somewhere beneath the city’s polished stone and political frenzy, Paul sat awaiting execution. The floor was damp. The air sour. Hope seemed a stranger in the dark corners of that cell.

But Luke was there.

Not as a prisoner, but as a companion. As the friend who stayed when others scattered. As the last one standing beside the man whose faith had flipped the world on its head.

The lamplight is fading.

It’s low now, just a soft orange glow dancing against the damp stone walls. The flame flickers every time the wind sneaks in through the cracks above. Shadows stretch and shiver across the floor. Cold creeps along the ground like fog.

Luke hunches close beside the little light, the hem of his cloak bunched around him to fight the chill. A worn scroll is unrolled across his lap, already filled with delicate lines of script. His hands are stained with ink. One smudge runs up his wrist. His knuckles ache. 

His fingers tremble, not from fear, but from the weight of urgency pressing down on his chest. He dips the quill again. The oil in the lamp is running low.  Time is short. The words must live on.

Across from him, Paul rests against the curved wall of the prison, shoulders slumped, his breath measured. The chains around his ankles lie quiet. His body knows what's ahead. The skin at his temples is dark, his beard grayer than ever. Scars cross his back like a map of suffering. But his eyes? His eyes still burn. Still alive. Still fixed on glory.

His voice is low. Gravelly. But each word is carved from granite.

“Tell them…”
A pause. 

“I have fought the good fight.”

Luke leans forward, quill poised, heart cracking with every syllable.

“I have finished the race.”

He writes the words slowly, reverently. His eyes sting, not just from the smoke, but from the knowing.

“I have kept the faith.”

This isn’t just history.
This is legacy.
This is the gospel of suffering well.

Luke, who had spent so many years gathering stories, now realizes he’s writing the final chapter of his dearest friend’s life. And he will not get it wrong.

He writes, not for glory, but for truth.
Not for applause, but for eternity.
Because someone must remember the miracles.

What an absolute honor as a writer, as a believer, and as a friend.  Just imagining the moment when Paul utters those words to Luke brings a tear to my eyes.  Can you imagine more heroic words?  They are perfection, and no doubt formed by the Holy Spirit.

Now Luke, the one who had always been the observer, has become part of the story himself. The man who once wrote in third person—“they went, they did, they saw”—now writes from within.
“We stayed. We watched. We believed.”

The end was near. Paul knew. Luke knew. Everyone knew.  Nero’s Rome was no place for mercy and there would be no dramatic escape. No surprise pardon. Only the sword.

But Luke stayed.

He watched Paul say his final goodbyes. He prayed with him. Maybe he held his hand. Maybe he followed the guards with tear-blurred eyes as they led the great apostle away. And then, he kept writing because the story wasn’t over. The Gospel doesn’t end in shadows. It ends in light.

Though tradition is unclear, many believe Luke died at 84 years of age in Greece. Some say peacefully. Others say martyred, hanged from an olive tree. Either way, there’s no flashy ending to his life. Just a quiet faithfulness. Just a scroll filled with words that would echo into eternity.

He gave his life, not to be seen, but so Jesus could be seen.

Luke was never the center of the scene. But he was the recorder. The witness.
The pen in God’s hand.

And so are we.

We may not have been there when Jesus broke the bread or calmed the sea.
But we are part of the story.
When we tell others what He’s done in our lives… when we write, speak, love, forgive, 
we become like Luke.

Faithful witnesses. Sacred scribes. Bearers of a Gospel that still changes the world.  You don’t have to have walked with Jesus to walk for Him.

You just have to stay.
To listen.
And to write it down, if you choose.

The Writer at the Water’s Edge

So this week, I’ll sit by the ocean and write.

The waves will roll in, the dolphins may swim by (hopefully!), and the sun will warm the pages of my notebook. But in the back of my mind, I’ll be thinking about a different writer...one in a prison cell, ink-stained and battle-worn, giving the world one last gift.

And I’ll remember: there’s power in the quiet.
There’s purpose in the writing.
And there’s a place in the story for people like me.

Every story of Christ, every miracle, every moment of His presence in our lives, deserves reflection. Even the small ones. Especially the small ones. You don’t have to be a writer to honor them. Mary didn’t write them down, she pondered them in her heart. We’re called to do the same. To hold space for what God has done and sit with the sacred and let it shape us.

Your story, your memories, your witness, it all matters.
It matters to your family, to your friends, to someone scrolling through the dark needing a reminder that God is still good.

And it matters to heaven.

Luke wasn’t a central figure in the Bible. He wasn’t in the spotlight. But his faithfulness brought the Gospel to billions. Billions. He wasn’t the one performing the miracles, he was the one making sure we didn’t forget them. And because he did, we remember and believe.

The storytellers matter.

The ones who carry the light, not just with sermons and stages, but with journals and whispered prayers. The ones who repeat His love and His miracles, even when it feels like no one’s listening. It matters more than we know. Not just in this life, but in eternity.

So whether you're writing it down, sharing it over coffee, or simply holding it quietly in your heart:

Don’t forget the stories.
Don’t stop telling them.
They’re how the world remembers.