Florida looks different in the winter.
Here on the bay, the water barely moves. It stands still like glass, holding the sky in place. At sunrise and sunset, the light spills across the surface and reflects back up again, as if the sun is pausing just to be noticed. It’s quiet. Still. Almost reverent.
Getting here, though, was anything but.
My mom and I traveled together, with my kids arriving a few days later after celebrating Christmas with their dad. But, after arriving at the airport, Mom and I were told our second flight had been canceled. They could rebook us, but we'd be in Dallas for eight hours. Yes, an eight-hour layover.
Normally, that wouldn’t have been ideal, but not disastrous. But airports are hard on my mom, someone who lives with pain. Navigating crowds is exhausting. Sitting in a terminal for eight hours is brutal. We survived it, with some comical moments along the way, but by the time we arrived, we were wrung out and Mom needed some serious recovery.
Two days later, my kids showed up carrying more than suitcases. They also brought the flu. Not the mild kind. The real kind with fevers, chills, and bodies that couldn’t move. Since they arrived, they’ve been holed up in their bedrooms, trying to recover, while my mom and I do our best to stay healthy and keep things running.
So no, this trip hasn’t gone as planned. And then there was the other news. My ex-husband has moved on with another woman. It wasn’t unexpected. It’s within his right. But there’s a finality that comes with hearing it out loud, a door closing in a way your heart still needs time to absorb. I wasn’t prepared for how much that would land, especially here, especially now.
Nothing has gone according to plan. Not the flights. Not the arrival. Not caring for my mom through long hours in an airport. Not sick kids. Not this.
But Jesus knew. He knew before the flights were canceled, before the fevers started, and before the news reached me. And somehow, in the middle of all of it, I’ve found myself alone with Him more than I have been in a long time.
My kids are sick. My mom is recovering. So I’ve spent evenings by campfires alone. I’ve swum in the pool alone. I’ve read books alone. I’ve watched waves roll in and out with no one talking beside me. And God has been very, very present.
I don’t know if this is theologically airtight, but I wonder if maybe some things were allowed to fall apart so He and I could sit together longer. So I could talk through a broken heart without distraction. So I could listen. So I could be quiet enough to hear the question He keeps asking me.
Am I enough for you?
He reminded me I live a deeply blessed life, and our story hasn't been easy. When my divorce began, I had no idea how I would pay the bills or keep my home. At the same time, my son’s cancer returned. My daughter was battling deep depression. My marriage was unraveling. Life wasn’t just difficult, it was burning down around me in every direction.
I took a job with a small business that offered flexibility, simply because I had no other option. That business grew. Against all odds, stability came back into our lives, slowly, then all at once. My kids are better now, my son's health is stable, my daughter is healing. And now, here I am, hearing God ask again:
Am I enough for you, even now?
Because if He is enough, I can walk through this too. This ground I’m standing on wasn’t given easily. It was fought for. Prayed over. Cried into. This is holy ground. Sacred ground.
Now He’s asking me not to look backward. Not to deny my feelings, but to handle them His way. Not to control what I cannot control, but to keep walking in His direction. Divorce is ugly. That's the reality of it. There are things I don’t get to call the shots on, things I can't give my opinion on. No matter how unfair it feels.
But I’ve fought too hard for my peace, too hard for my sanity, too hard to let anxiety and anger reclaim ground they no longer own. So my answer, even through fear, even through grief, is yes.
Yes, God, you are enough. And I will keep walking.
Gratitude as a Weapon
It’s astonishing how quickly we can lose sight of God’s blessings when something painful resurfaces. One piece of news, one memory, one unexpected trigger can pull our focus away from everything God has done and fix it squarely on what hurts or what feels lost. That temptation has been very real for me this week as I’ve found myself pulled back into the pain, frustration, and unresolved grief surrounding my divorce. I thought I was doing much better than this. But, the news I received landed harder than I expected, and I’ve had to give myself permission to acknowledge that honestly. Some things still need to be grieved, and pretending otherwise doesn’t make them disappear.
At the same time, grief does not get free rein. It does not get to transform itself into anger or sink into bitterness. Grief may be part of the healing process, but it does not get to permanently take my joy or dictate my behavior, especially not during a season meant for hope and celebration. Its OK to honor what hurts without allowing it to grow into something that poisons my heart. The danger comes when grief is left unchecked long enough to take root, introducing toxic emotions that lead straight into anxiety, resentment, and misery.
That led me to a very honest question for God: How do you want me to deal with this? How do you interrupt the spiral when your heart feels broken and your emotions feel overwhelming? His answer was simple, direct, and deeply confronting. God reminded me that anger and bitterness cannot coexist in a grateful heart.
Ouch.
He didn’t minimize the pain or rush me past it. He didn’t offer a quick fix. Instead, He pointed me back to gratitude, not as a sentiment, but as a discipline.
Gratitude is often misunderstood. It can feel quiet, passive, even weak, something better suited for an entry-level Sunday school lesson than real spiritual warfare. But gratitude is not passive at all. It is a powerful weapon against some of the most destructive emotions the enemy uses to derail us. Deep-rooted anger, bitterness, resentment, and fear cannot survive in a heart that is intentionally practicing gratitude. When we choose to be grateful, we actively resist the pull toward darkness that those emotions create.
So I put it into practice, even though I didn't feel like it. Every task I did that morning, no matter how ordinary, I paired with gratitude. I thanked God intentionally and repeatedly. I am starting to feel sick. My throat is sore. My family has been battling illness. Plans have unraveled. My heart is still tender over news I did not want to hear. All of it wants to drag me into self-pity and frustration. But I'm fighting it, with every offering of thanks.
Soon, I shifted to writing a list of things I was grateful for, and it grew faster than I expected. By the time I finished, something had shifted. The pain hadn’t vanished, but it had lost its grip. I wasn’t denying what hurt; I was simply refusing to let it define the moment. That’s the power of gratitude. It doesn’t erase grief, but it prevents grief from becoming something corrosive. Bitterness cannot survive in grateful soil. It dies there.
Gratitude is a weapon that can pull us out of a dark pit more quickly than we expect, if we’re willing to pick it up. Even when we don’t feel like it. Even when our circumstances haven’t changed. At the end of the day, following Jesus has never been about doing only what feels natural or easy. Right now, He is calling me to be grateful, and I intend to obey. I don’t want to walk through this season without learning what He’s teaching me. His lessons may not always be comfortable, but they are always for our good. He wastes nothing, and He is faithful to turn even this toward something redemptive.
Loosen Your Grip
This week, as I’ve carried my heartbreak to the Lord, He has gently but persistently reminded me of something simple and profound: Follow Me. That sounds straightforward, but when you sit with it, it raises a much larger question. What does it actually mean to follow God when life hurts and circumstances feel unfair?
One of the most quoted verses in Scripture may help answer that. In Psalm 46:10, God says, “Be still, and know that I am God.” Many of us hear that as an invitation to quiet our surroundings or calm our emotions. But the original Hebrew word behind “be still” (raphah) means something far more active. It means to loosen your grip. To let drop. To cease striving. The image is not of passive silence, but of surrender, like a soldier lowering their weapon because a greater commander has stepped in to take control of the battle.
That context matters. Psalm 46 describes a world in chaos: nations raging, the earth trembling, foundations shaking. It is precisely there, amid instability and fear, that God commands His people to stop fighting for control and recognize that He is sovereign and sufficient. The stillness He calls for isn’t withdrawal; it’s trust. It creates space to truly know Him, not just intellectually, but experientially.
That’s what He’s been asking of me.
Loosening my grip doesn’t mean pretending the pain isn’t real. It means refusing to let my heartbreak dictate my posture toward God. It means following Him not just in principle, but in practice. Right now, following Him looks surprisingly small and specific. It means returning to gratitude when I’d rather sit on the beach and feel sorry for myself. It means paying attention to what He’s asking of me instead of numbing myself with distraction.
Today, for example, He’s calling me to go to church.
I don’t want to. Everyone else is sick. I’d have to go alone. It would be easier to stay home, to justify my absence, to opt out quietly. But I know that’s not what He’s asking. Following God in this season isn’t about grand gestures or dramatic obedience. It’s about the small decisions, the ones no one else sees. Will I do what He says, or won’t I?
Those are the choices in front of me.
I may end up sick in the next few days. I may not feel strong or energetic or emotionally steady. But, the question isn’t whether circumstances will cooperate. The question is whether I will continue to follow Him with a grateful heart, even when letting go feels uncomfortable.
Loosening my grip doesn’t weaken my faith, it strengthens it. Because every time I release control, I’m reminded of who is actually holding everything together. And He has never once asked me to carry what was only ever meant to be His.
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