Thanksgiving created a short workweek, and honestly, I needed it. I’m still shaking off the sickness I brought back from Florida and the exhaustion that has been piling up for weeks. We didn’t have big Thanksgiving plans, mostly because everyone seems to be sick right now, but I didn’t mind the quieter version. I actually welcomed it.

There’s something funny about Thanksgiving. It’s supposed to be about gratitude, but half the time we’re too busy prepping big meals and trying to create the perfect family moment to actually be thankful. And if we’re being honest, a lot of holidays are spent trying to make imperfect families feel perfect for a day.

So when everyone had to bow out this year, I didn’t feel the usual disappointment. I love my people dearly, but the slower pace felt like a gift. It ended up being just me, my mother, and my kids, and I didn’t hate that one bit. It felt manageable. Peaceful. Human.

We even sat down and watched nearly the entire Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, something I genuinely don’t remember doing since childhood, if ever. And in that slow, quiet space, I finally had room to think about what I’m truly thankful for right now.

And can I tell you? God has been so incredibly good to me. When I think about my lowest point, the unraveling, the heartbreak, the way grief and anger twisted themselves into knots I thought I would never untangle, I am overwhelmed by how far He’s brought me. Walking through the tragedy of a divorce nearly broke me. I truly believed I would be swallowed by my own anger and crushed under the weight of what I had lost.

God pulled me out of that pit. A deep, messy, suffocating pit. He put my feet back on solid ground, on real ground, on His Word. He gave me my mind back when it felt scattered into a thousand pieces. He restored my relationships. He steadied me. He has been faithful in ways I could never deserve.

But here’s the thing no one likes to talk about: Even after God pulls you out of a pit, there are days when it’s tempting to climb right back in.

Sometimes something small triggers me, and before I even realize it, I’m right back in those weeks after the separation, angry, raw, hurting all over again. My anger can rise up like it never left. And in those moments, God has to remind me: This ground is too hard-fought.

It’s holy.  It’s sacred.  It’s ground He strengthened me to reach.

When you’ve walked through something like that, when God Himself has hauled you out of darkness and steadied your feet, you don’t throw away that progress. You don’t trade the healing for the illusion of control. God and I have been through too much. He’s brought me too far.

I have my kids. I have my mother. I have a handful of relationships that matter deeply. And if you have that, whatever your “family” looks like, and you have your health? You are rich. Truly rich.  And yet, I still remain most faithful for not being in the pit.

I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve such blessings, but the Lord keeps pouring out His faithfulness anyway. And this year, in the quiet and the slowness, I’ve finally had the space to see it clearly.

The Pit

He knew they were angry, but he hadn’t expected this.

Jeremiah’s feet scraped against the stone floor as the guards shoved him forward, their hands rough and impatient. He could hear the muttering above, the officials, the ones who had grown tired of hearing God’s warnings. They wanted him silenced. Erased. Buried without bloodshed.

A cistern would do the job.

Jeremiah looked over the edge and felt his stomach twist. It was deep, deeper than he expected. A narrow throat of worn stone dropping into darkness. No ladder. No footholds. Only a ring of faint light at the top and the stale breath of earth below.

He didn’t fight them because that would only make it worse.  And besides, he had learned long ago that obedience to God often put him in places that didn’t make sense.  But knowing that didn’t make the fear any less real.

The ropes scraped against his arms as they lowered him. Not gently. Not carefully. Just enough control to avoid killing him outright. Jeremiah’s sandals brushed against the wall, searching for something solid, but the stone was slick. He swung helplessly in the shaft, turning slow circles, the light narrowing above him.

And then he felt it, the mud.  His feet broke the surface with a cold, sucking sound. He sank immediately past his ankles. Then his calves. The ropes slackened until they were useless, dangling beside him. When they finally let go, Jeremiah plunged deeper, swallowed to the knees by the mire.

He tried to lift his foot, but it didn’t move.  The mud held him like a fist while the darkness closed around him. The smell was sharp, damp earth, rotting vegetation, old water that had long since dried up, leaving only the residue of decay. The walls sweat with moisture. Every sound echoed strangely, the drip of condensation, the shifting mud, his own breath coming quicker now.

He reached up, fingertips brushing the empty air where the ropes had been. They were already gone.

Above him, their voices grew faint.  “Let him die there, he deserves it.”

Then the grating slam of a stone cover slid back into place.  Jeremiah stood alone, waist-deep in cold muck, with nothing to lean on, nothing to climb, nothing to brace against. His legs trembled with the strain of holding still. Any movement made him sink farther. The mud made a slow, gurgling sound around him, as though the earth itself was swallowing.

Panic came in waves.  He tried to swallow it. He tried to breathe. But the helplessness was overwhelming. He thought of the prophecies he had spoken, words God had set on his tongue like fire, and wondered if this was how they would end, unfulfilled, washed away in a pit where no one could hear him.

Hours passed. Maybe more. His muscles burned. His voice weakened. The world narrowed to breath and darkness and the constant pull of the mire. There was no path out, no strategy, no escape.  Only God.

And then, footsteps.  Soft, careful footsteps. Not the hurried stride of officials or soldiers, but these were different.  Then, a man’s voice, trembling with concern, filtered through the narrow opening above.

“Jeremiah, the king has sent help.”

The man's name was Ebed-Melek.  Jeremiah felt tears sting his eyes. A foreigner. A servant. A man with no political power had risked everything to speak up for him, to plead for mercy, to obey God in a palace full of fear.

Ropes dropped down into the darkness, but along with them came a bundle.

“Put these cloths under your arms,” Ebed-Melek called down. “So the ropes don’t hurt you.”

Jeremiah held the rags in his hands, soft, worn, smelling of age and dust. Such a small thing. Such an unnecessary thing, in the eyes of the world. But it told him everything:

God was not rescuing him carelessly, God was rescuing him tenderly.  Jeremiah wrapped the cloths under his arms. The ropes tightened. Pain shot through his shoulders, but it was a good pain, pain that meant upward movement, pain that meant hope.

The mud released its grip reluctantly, sucking at him as though unwilling to give him back. Inch by inch, he rose. His legs scraped against the walls. His breathing came hard. But he rose.  Through each painful breath, light grew stronger, air grew warmer, and voices grew clearer.  Until finally, his feet hit stone.

Solid ground.

He collapsed to his knees, trembling, filthy, exhausted, but free. Above him, Ebed-Melek’s face appeared, etched with relief.

Jeremiah knew no one climbs out of a pit like that alone. You don’t find solid ground without the hand of God. You don’t get rescued with rags unless the One who rescues you cares about the bruises no one else can see.  And once you’ve felt the weight of the mud, once you’ve known the darkness of the pit, once you’ve been lifted by grace you did not earn, you never forget it.  

You never take that ground for granted.

Thanksgiving In The Quiet Places

I just returned from a six-day vacation at a very large theme park.

You can probably guess which one.  Let’s just say there were fireworks, parades, sugary drinks with glowing ice cubes, and enough themed lands to make your head spin long before the rides did.

And honestly? It was wonderful. Truly wonderful.

There’s something about walking through those gates that makes you feel eight years old again. The music, the colors, the costumes, the little pops of imagination that show up in the most unexpected corners. Everywhere you look, there’s a detail someone cared about. A story someone built. A world someone dreamed.

The technology alone left me shaking my head more than once. Animatronics that blink and breathe like real creatures, rides timed so perfectly you forget gravity is even a thing, lands that look like someone carved a piece of a movie set straight out of the screen and dropped it into Florida soil. I just kept thinking, People made this. Human minds actually dreamed all of this up and then figured it out.

It’s astonishing what we’re capable of sometimes.

But here’s the thing no brochure warns you about:  you can absolutely over–theme-park.

And we did it. We went too hard, too fast, too long.  By day three, we were running on fumes and churros.  By day five, even the cheerful background music sounded like it needed a nap.  And by day six? Well, by day six I officially wore myself and my kids out. And my apologies to bystanders who witnessed me limping toward a bench with the desperation of someone looking for an oasis in the desert.

On that last evening, I had one ride left on my wish list. One big finale. The kind of ride you talk about for months afterward. I was determined, but my body had other opinions. Somewhere between the crowds and the travel and the sheer over-theme-parking of it all, I came down with a head cold that flattened me at the finish line. I wanted to push through. I really did. But I hit a wall made of tissues and exhaustion and the realization that I am, in fact, a human being with limits.

Still, as I bandaged my blistered feet and downed my cold medicine, I had this moment.  This strange little moment in the middle of the neon and the noise.  I looked around at all the people laughing, at the sky-high buildings themed within an inch of their lives, at the engineering marvels disguised as whimsical adventures.  Surprisingly, it wasn't a thought of regret over missing my big ride.  Instead it was:  

I miss God.

Not because He wasn’t there, He was. He always is. But because nothing around me pointed back to Him. Everything was beautiful, but the beauty wasn’t anchored. Everything was joyful, but the joy wasn’t eternal. I found myself longing for something I couldn’t put my finger on. Something familiar. Something holy.

In the middle of the crowds, the sugar, the music, the lights, I missed the One who gave me the ability to feel joy in the first place.  And I started imagining, because my mind does that, what it would be like if all this human creativity, all this imagination, all these talents were used for one purpose: to honor God.

Can you imagine a theme park designed around worship instead of entertainment?  Not cheesy. Not forced. But breathtaking. A place where every color, every sound, every story pointed straight back to the Creator of everything beautiful.

I know it would never happen here. But I wondered, What about heaven?  Will there be places like this, only better?  Places where man’s imagination isn’t limited by physics, budgets, or sin? Where creativity is pure, and joy doesn’t run on a schedule, and every experience teaches you something deeper about God’s heart?

What if there’s a “ride” that lets you experience the parting of the Red Sea, not as a spectacle, but as worship? Not as a thrill, but as awe? What if there’s something even better, something beyond what we can imagine because our imaginations down here only scratch the surface of what they were originally designed for?

I don’t mean to make Bible stories feel casual. That’s not my intent. I just find myself wondering what God-honoring creativity will look like when it’s finally unhindered. When all of humanity’s gifts are restored and perfected and pointed in the right direction.

Because as much fun as the week was, and as many memories as we made, there were moments I felt this ache, this homesickness, for my forever home.  Scripture says God knew us before we were born. Maybe that’s why the longing feels so familiar, because somewhere in the beginning, before our first breath, our souls knew His presence in a way we haven’t fully experienced since.

I know Him now, but heaven will be something else entirely.  A fullness. A wholeness. A joy that doesn't fade with exhaustion or crowds or head colds.  And no theme park on earth, no matter how magical, will ever come close.

A Glimpse of Glory

John sat alone on the rugged coastline of Patmos, the island Rome reserved for men they feared or wanted to erase. Patmos wasn’t a place people visited, it was a place people survived. Its hills were sharp and unforgiving, its stones hot under the sun, its nights cold enough to make old bones ache. The wind came off the Aegean in sudden gusts, sometimes gentle, sometimes cruel, always carrying the scent of salt and isolation.

John’s hands, weathered, scarred, and marked by a lifetime of following Jesus, rested against the rock beside him. He was old now. Much older than he had ever expected to be. His beard had turned white, his back had grown stiff, and he often woke in the night with memories he couldn’t outrun: the face of Jesus on the cross, the empty tomb, the flames of persecution, the cries of believers hunted and killed.

Patmos was quiet, but not peaceful.  It was the quiet of exile, of being pushed out, cut off, unwanted.  And yet John prayed, because prayer wasn’t a duty to him.  It was a breathing memory.  It was the thread that connected him to the One he loved more than life itself.  He prayed to the Jesus he once walked beside in dusty streets, the Jesus whose laughter he had heard, whose miracles he had touched, whose robes he had leaned against during the Last Supper. He prayed to the Jesus who called him “beloved.”

And then, without warning, the veil lifted.

One heartbeat John was staring at the stubborn blue of the sea.  The next, he was swept into a realm no mortal words could shape.  A voice, not a whisper, not a human call, but a sound like a trumpet, spoke his name. It didn’t echo. It resonated. It filled the space around him like light fills a sunrise.

John turned, and everything changed.

Before him stood One like a Son of Man, familiar, yet beyond recognition. There was no mistaking who He was, but this was no longer the Jesus who walked the earth in humility.  His eyes burned with flame, not anger, but purity so fierce it revealed everything and hid nothing.

His feet glowed like bronze refined in a furnace, as though He had walked through suffering and come out victorious.  His voice thundered like rushing waters, like every ocean wave John had ever heard multiplied into music.  His face shone like the sun in all its strength. Looking at Him felt like looking at glory itself.  John, who had seen miracles, who had seen Jesus raise the dead, who had stood at the foot of the cross, fell at His feet as though dead.

But Jesus, still Jesus, reached out His right hand and touched him.  The same hand that once broke bread, the same hand that lifted Peter from the sea, the same hand that carried the scars of love rested gently on John’s shoulder.

“Do not be afraid.”

Strength filled John’s bones again. Vision returned. And suddenly, majestically, he was taken higher.  He found himself in the throne room of heaven.  A throne not carved by man, not adorned with jewels found in earthly mines, but radiating with glory itself.

Upon it sat the Almighty, beyond form, beyond comparison, His appearance like jasper and carnelian, colors so intense they seemed alive.  Around the throne was a rainbow, not thin or distant, but full and encircling, glowing like emerald light woven into living air.

Lightning flashed, not chaotic, but controlled, declaring God’s power.  Thunder rolled, not frightening, but announcing His majesty. Seven blazing lamps stood before the throne, the fullness of God’s Spirit shining.

And stretching out like a great expanse was something John could only describe as a sea of glass.
Clear. Still. Untouched by wind, storm, or time.  John, the fisherman, the man who once battled waves on the Sea of Galilee, stood before a body of water finally at peace.

Around the throne were living creatures unlike anything earth had ever seen. Covered in eyes, wisdom, perception, unending awareness, they cried day and night, not in monotony but in worship:

Holy, holy, holy
is the Lord God Almighty,
who was, and is, and is to come.

Every time they cried out, twenty-four elders fell to their knees, casting their crowns, surrendering every honor, because in the presence of God, even glory bows.

John saw colors he had no names for.  He heard sounds that weren’t music, but worship made audible.  He felt the atmosphere pulsing with holiness, love, justice, mercy, power, all at once.  He saw a world where God is not distant or questioned, but central. Where light comes not from a sun but from the Lamb. Where nothing decays. Nothing threatens. Nothing dies.

He saw the world we were made for.

And he wrote it down, not to give us a puzzle to solve, but a promise to cling to.  Through John’s eyes, we get to see what he saw:  the home our hearts recognize, the glory we long for, the God who will one day make all things new.

The Journey Home

We awoke early the final morning of our vacation.  It was still dark outside, the kind of dark that feels deep and heavy, indicating morning was still hours away. The room was quiet except for the soft hum of the air conditioner and the rustling of suitcases being zipped shut. Our flight was early, painfully early, and we had squeezed every last drop out of the night before. We’d stayed in the theme park until closing, determined to make the most of our final hours, which meant we’d slept only a few hours at best.

We had enjoyed ourselves. Truly. We’d laughed, we’d ridden rides, we’d eaten more sugar than any human body is designed to process, and we’d made memories I’ll treasure. But we were exhausted, physically, mentally, emotionally, and I was sick. The head cold that had been stalking me finally settled in, heavy and unmistakable. My body felt like it was waving a white flag.

Leaving felt like relief and sadness holding hands.  The magic had faded.  The sugar high had long since evaporated.  Reality was waiting at the airport, along with crowds, security lines, luggage, and the nagging worry of wondering whether we’d packed our liquids correctly or were about to donate all our toiletries to TSA.

We stepped out into the humid Florida morning and said goodbye to the palm trees, their silhouettes swaying gently against a sky that was only beginning to lighten. There’s something iconic about those trees, something that whispers vacation and sunshine and escape. But as we slid into our Uber, I felt something else too, a strange emptiness I hadn’t expected.

I have been to countless theme parks in my lifetime.  They feel like an American rite of passage, summer trips, family outings, childhood nostalgia wrapped in churros and fireworks. But I’ve never felt an emptiness in the middle of them like I did on this trip.

But in a way, I’m grateful for it.  I always want to long for my Savior.

As we drove toward the airport, headlights reflecting on wet pavement, I found myself thinking not about the rides we hadn’t gotten to, or the shows we missed, or the souvenirs we didn’t buy, but about home. Not just my own bed, though that sounded heavenly at the moment, but my forever home.

I look forward to the day when I get to explore the wonders of His creation for eternity. I love exploration, and learning, and seeing new things. My heart comes alive when I discover something beautiful or fascinating. And the thought of an eternal life where that never ends, where boredom doesn’t exist, where every moment reveals something new and breathtaking, fills me with such joy.

Not to mention being in the presence of the Savior Himself.  Finally knowing what perfect love actually looks like, and feels like.  How can you not be excited about something like that?

John saw it for himself.

Can you imagine being John, sitting on an island meant for exiles, surrounded by silence and salt spray, and suddenly being transported into a place so beautiful, so overwhelming, so utterly beyond anything the human mind can dream up? Standing in the midst of God’s story, seeing eternity unfold before your very eyes?

And then, being sent back.

I think about the adjustment he must have faced returning to that barren island. One moment surrounded by glory, the next staring again at stone and sea and loneliness. In my heart, I believe Jesus saved this vision for John toward the end of his life. Because can you imagine the longing he would have battled if this had happened when he was young? If he had decades left on earth while holding the memory of heaven so vividly in his mind?

It was mercy.

John loved Jesus so very, very much. And that’s how I want to live my life too.  I am certainly nowhere close to the great Apostle, but I understand that kind of love, at least in small ways. I understand the loyalty that grows when you know you are truly and wholly loved. When grace has changed you. When the Savior has reached into your life and claimed your heart.

And in the end, heaven is going to be the biggest reward of all.

We sat in the bowling alley, taking turns sending bowling balls wobbling down the slick wooden lane. It still amazes me how someone from Ukraine, who has bowled maybe three times in his life, can step up and throw a clean, confident strike like it’s nothing. Meanwhile, my kids and I… well, coordination has never exactly been our family legacy. 

Unfortunately, I have no such excuse, so when the ball leaves my hand and heads straight into the gutter like it’s been personally assigned there, I've got nothing to blame but bad genetics.

We were getting absolutely creamed by the Ukrainian dad. Every time his ball connected just right, pins scattering like startled birds, his kids burst into cheers, loud and high and full of surprise-delight. My son responded by looking down at his rental shoes, turning one foot sideways as if inspecting it for design flaws. “It’s definitely these shoes,” he said with solemn authority. “Something’s off with them.” The Ukrainian dad just grinned at our lengthy excuses.

We were there to celebrate the birthday of one of their boys.
The younger one, big brown eyes, shy smile, bouncing on the balls of his feet, could hardly keep still between turns. When he bowled a spare, the whole group erupted like he’d just clinched the final point of a championship match.

The place smelled like hot pizza, fryer oil, and warm dough, the familiar scent of every bowling alley in America. Trays of cheese pizza arrived first, steaming and stringy. Then baskets of greasy fries, the kind you know you’ll regret later but somehow keep reaching for. Napkins disappeared and the baskets emptied.

It was a rainy Saturday afternoon and the alley was busy, families and birthday parties and teenagers in hoodies. Bowling balls thudded. Pins crashed. A loudspeaker crackled every so often, though no one could understand what it said. Sports flickered on the TVs overhead, college football on one screen, some bowling championship on another. The sound of conversation, blurred and layered, rose and fell like tidewater.

And somewhere in the middle of that noise and laughter and pizza grease, peace settled quietly in my heart.

For those who have followed my writing, you may remember the second Ukrainian family I walked alongside, the family I helped about a year after the war broke out, was the family who eventually left due to being unable to renew their legal documents.
This is not that family.
This is the first family I helped, the first story God placed in my path and the family who lived with us for four months.

And their story is still unfolding.

They are still here, still navigating court dates and government letters and attorney calls. Still trying to learn English fast enough to keep up. Still figuring out stores and schools and how insurance works. Still hoping for good news. Still praying for the right to stay.

Which made the laughter in that bowling alley feel like holy ground.  Sometimes miracles don’t look like parting seas or sudden deliverance.  Sometimes they look like children laughing over pizza on a rainy Saturday afternoon.  Sometimes they look like a father who can still smile, still hope, still bowl strikes.  Sometimes they look like God stitching stories together one birthday party at a time.

And sitting there, watching those kids laugh,  I knew:

We were in the presence of a miracle.

Joseph’s Dream

Night had fallen over Bethlehem. The narrow streets were quiet now, emptied after the noise and crowds of the census weeks before. A stray dog barked somewhere in the distance, then silence again. Inside a small house, Joseph finally let his shoulders rest. The oil lamp flickered, casting long, trembling shadows on the wall. The baby, their baby, slept in Mary’s arms, his tiny chest rising and falling in a rhythm that calmed them both. For the first time in a while, there was peace.

Joseph’s hands, strong, work-worn, the hands of a man who built things for others, lay open beside him as he drifted toward sleep. The smell of wood still clung faintly to his skin. His last thought before sleep came was simple and content: They are safe. We are safe.

Then the dream came.

At first, there was light.  Not the gentle kind that seeps through cracks at dawn, but fierce and living, so sudden that Joseph shielded his eyes even in sleep. The light moved, and within it a voice spoke, steady and clear.

“Joseph, son of David,” the angel said.
“Get up. Take the child and his mother and flee to Egypt. Stay there until I tell you, for Herod is searching for the child to destroy him.”
(Matthew 2:13)

When he woke, his heart was pounding. The night was utterly still, but the echo of that voice filled the room like thunder. He turned toward Mary, who stirred and blinked awake, instantly alert, because when an angel speaks, you remember it. This was not the first time for either of them. They both knew the sound of heaven’s call, and they both knew that when it came, you didn’t hesitate. 

You obeyed.

“Mary,” he whispered, already reaching for the satchel. “We have to go. Tonight.”

There was no question, no resistance. Only trust.
Mary gathered Jesus close, wrapping Him in cloths. Her hands moved quickly, quietly, practiced by now in the art of faith under pressure. Joseph packed what little they had: tools, bread, a waterskin, a spare cloak. The small house smelled of oil and dust and fear. The lamp guttered low.

Outside, the world was wrapped in darkness. The air was cold, the kind that bites your lungs when you breathe too deeply. Overhead, the stars were sharp and bright, scattered like promise across the sky. They moved quickly through narrow streets, footsteps soft on the packed earth. The only sound was the faint rustle of cloth, the creak of leather straps, the small sighs of a sleeping child.

They passed homes where other families slept, unaware of the danger rising in the heart of a king. Somewhere, soldiers stirred in their barracks. Somewhere, a plan of violence was already being written. And between those two worlds, power and innocence, a young family fled into the night.

The road to Egypt stretched far ahead of them.
More than two hundred miles through desert and wilderness.
Days of walking, sleeping under stars, eating what they could carry, hiding when they must.
No maps, no caravans, no assurance except God’s command: Go.

By day, the sun would burn against their backs.
By night, the air would turn bitter and cold.
They would pass through Judea, skirt the edges of Sinai, and cross into the land that had once held their ancestors in bondage, now the land that would hold them in safety. Egypt, of all places. The same soil that had once meant slavery would now mean shelter.

Isn’t that just like God?
To redeem even geography.

Days blurred into one another, sand, sun, stars.
At last, after miles of barren wilderness and long silences broken only by the cry of the child, they saw the faint outline of palm trees and stone rising in the distance. Egypt.

The air felt different there, warmer, heavier, scented faintly with spices and dust. The language sounded like music they didn’t know the tune to. The roads were wider, lined with painted markets, unfamiliar gods carved into stone. Everything about it whispered, You are not home.

I imagine Joseph leading the donkey through a narrow street, the child cradled in Mary’s arms, both of them too tired to speak. The color of the buildings was strange, sunbaked clay the shade of cinnamon. The garments people wore were bright and flowing, patterned in ways Mary had never seen. The merchants shouted words she couldn’t understand, their voices rising and falling in rhythm with the clang of bronze.

Everywhere they looked, the world was new, and they were foreigners in it.

Perhaps they found shelter near a small Jewish settlement, others who had fled or migrated years before. Maybe it was there that Joseph began to work again, repairing tools, building furniture, shaping wood into things that would help others feel at home. Work had always been his way of worship. And Mary, with the child growing and laughing now, must have looked out at that strange skyline and wondered when, or if, they’d ever go back.

Home wasn’t Bethlehem anymore.
Home was wherever God’s presence rested.

Imagine the ache that never fully left, the longing for their own language, their own hills, the smell of bread baking in Bethlehem. But with every sunrise, I think they began to realize: God was here, too. The same God who spoke in dreams now spoke through daily provision, a roof, a meal, a kind face in a market.

And maybe that’s what faith becomes when the journey stretches longer than expected: learning to trust that God’s presence is not tied to place, but to promise.

The Cost of Beginning Again 

We said our goodbyes there in the parking lot, rain misting through the air, headlights flickering against the wet pavement. The pizza was gone, the fries had vanished, and the sound of bowling balls crashing into pins had faded behind us. Everyone seemed content, a little tired, smiling in that warm way people do after a simple, good day.

We hugged quickly, laughed about who would need ice packs tomorrow for sore arms, and promised to see each other again soon. They drove one direction, we drove the other—two families who, on paper, share almost nothing in common, yet were brought together by a Savior who knew what we all needed.

As the windshield wipers swept back and forth, I couldn’t help but think of how easily we might have missed each other. Different countries, different languages, different stories, but God had a plan that crossed every one of those lines. He has a way of threading lives together like that, weaving something far larger and more beautiful than we could ever plan for ourselves.

Joseph and Mary probably didn’t understand their own path either. The road to Egypt must have felt endless at times, dust in their sandals, fear in their hearts, and questions they didn’t know how to voice. But step by step, God led them. Every moment of exhaustion, every unfamiliar mile, every turn they couldn’t see ahead, He guided them exactly where they needed to be.

And that’s the same truth that threads through the lives of this Ukrainian family. It’s the truth that runs through mine, too. We make plans, but God directs our steps. Sometimes those steps lead through places that feel foreign or uncomfortable, seasons that stretch our patience or test our faith, but they always lead somewhere purposeful.

We don’t always get to see where the story is going, but we’re never walking it alone.

The God who guided a carpenter and his young wife through the desert, the God who carried a modern family across an ocean, is the same God guiding you and me through every uncertain season. He knows where we’re headed. He knows what we need.

And sometimes, if we pause long enough to notice, we find that the miracles aren’t always in the dramatic rescues or the parted seas. Sometimes they’re in the small, quiet things:
A shared meal.
A child’s laughter.
The sound of rain in a parking lot after goodbye.

All the ordinary moments that prove God is still guiding, still providing, still redeeming geography, one story, one step, one faithful “yes” at a time.