I was riding in the back of an Uber, traveling towards the airport for my flight home.  I'd never been to Maryland, so I was looking out the window, enjoying the sights.  The scenery was fascinating to me, and I enjoyed the views even when we weren't in the greatest of neighborhoods.  

We were driving along our route, nothing out of the ordinary, when something caught my eye.  Near the highway, someone had put a small shed-looking structure in their front yard.  It had the words "Prayer Stop" painted on the front, with two lawn chairs sitting in front of it.  I looked again at the two worn chairs, facing each other, sitting in front of what resembled a children's playhouse.

I smiled.  I couldn't help it.  Who would put a Prayer Stop next to a busy highway, in their front yard? I wondered why it was there.  I wondered if anyone had ever stopped at the Prayer Stop.  I wondered what happened when you stopped at the Prayer Stop.  There were two chairs, clearly set aside with purpose, to allow someone to pray with you.

I knew I was already late to the airport, and I figured my Uber driver would think I was completely crazy if I asked him to pull over.  So, as I watched the Prayer Stop fade into the distance, I wondered about the stories it held.  I bet God had used the Prayer Stop, and I would have loved to have been a fly on the wall to see his work.  

I came home, googled The Prayer Stop, and found the history behind this structure:

This tiny prayer stop was allegedly built by a man who's life was ruined by alcohol. Once he hit rock bottom, he felt that God had saved him. Showing how grateful he was, he decided to create a tiny prayer stop on the side of a busy street so any motorist could stop and pray.  "There's no condemnation in the Prayer Stop. I committed most every sin myself before the Lord delivered me, and now I know true joy."

Who would put a Prayer Stop in their front yard?  Someone radically transformed by Christ.  Someone with a grateful heart.  

I wonder if my heart is so obviously grateful.  

Rejoice always, pray continually, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus.  1 Thessalonians 5:16-18

In the craziness, the busyness, of this life, do we live as if we truly know Jesus paid an enormous price so we could be set free?  No matter the depth of our sin, God is always finding ways to pull us back into relationship with Him.  He never gives up on us.  God's very nature is to heal, restore, and forgive, even when it requires the utmost sacrifice. 

The more we truly believe the truths in the Bible, the truths that actually set us free, the more grateful we will be in this world.  Remember, its not the voice you hear that determines the type of life you have, its the voice you believe.  Let us truly believe God's promises to us.  Let us truly understand He is our Savior today, tomorrow, and forevermore.  Let us be continually reminded that His purpose is to show up when we need Him most.

Then, let us be grateful.

I stepped out of the bathroom stall in the women's bathroom of the airport.  She had her stuff sprawled all over the counter.  Her hair straightener was plugged in and various components of her make-up were strewn across the counter.  Her hair was dyed bleach blonde, her face smeared with lipstick that wasn't applied quite right.  She wore a short miniskirt and when she looked at me, the hard life showed in the lines across her face.

I was returning from a week of working offsite.  Tired and hungry, I just wanted to get home, have dinner, and see my kids.  I hesitated to choose which sink to use to wash my hands, since her stuff was everywhere.  I stepped forward and turned on the water to the sink furthest from her. 

She stopped and looked at me.  "Excuse me," she said.  "Do you know how far...."

She trailed off, so I didn't answer her.  She tried again.  "Excuse me.  Do you live here?"

"No, I don't.  I'm sorry." I responded.  I reached around her charging cellphone to grab paper towels.  Our eyes met, and I looked straight into the face of addiction.  I wasn't positive, but it seemed as if her eyes filled with tears for a short second, before shaking her head and turning away.

"Well nevermind, then.  Thanks." she returned to applying her make-up in the mirror.

I opened my mouth to say something to her, but at that moment, my cellphone buzzed in my back pocket.  What time will you be home?.  I stepped out of the bathroom and texted my kids back.  I hurried over to baggage claim, looking for my bag that would surely be rotating on the carousel.  After waiting a while, I retrieved my bag and I began to follow the exit signs to leave the airport.

As I walked away, I looked over at the women's restroom.  I should have asked her if she was okay.  Pulling my roller bag behind me, I walked back to the women's restroom.  I looked around, but she was gone. There was no straightener, no cellphone, and no makeup on the counter.  

A cleaning lady looked up at me as she emptied the trash can. "Looking for something?"

"No," I answered.  "Thank you."

I left the airport, walked to my car and began the long drive home.  I wondered what would have happened if I had just been a little more kind.  Sure, I don't live in the city, but I could have helped her.  I thought about Jesus on the drive home.  I thought about how He was often seen with the most scandalous people, much to the disgust of the Pharisees.  I thought about how He would have treated the woman in the bathroom.  My mind recalled the parable in Luke Chapter 15:

1 Now the tax collectors and sinners were all gathering around to hear Jesus. 2 But the Pharisees and the teachers of the law muttered, “This man welcomes sinners and eats with them.”

3 Then Jesus told them this parable: 4 “Suppose one of you has a hundred sheep and loses one of them. Doesn’t he leave the ninety-nine in the open country and go after the lost sheep until he finds it? 5 And when he finds it, he joyfully puts it on his shoulders 6 and goes home. Then he calls his friends and neighbors together and says, ‘Rejoice with me; I have found my lost sheep.’ 7 I tell you that in the same way there will be more rejoicing in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who do not need to repent

There's no question about how He would have treated the woman I encountered.  I can't help but to want a heart like His.  Jesus' passion is seen in the Bible when the lost are found (and aren't we all lost?) and He never loses sight of his passion.  He gives significance to the lost because of His love for them.  Even when bringing them back requires sacrifice, He is willing to stop at nothing to pursue every last one of his sheep.  If we need any further confirmation about his passion, we can simply read Luke 19:10:

"For the Son of Man came to seek and to save the lost.”

 Jesus didn't miss an opportunity to be kind, especially to the lost.  We should be so intently focused on God and his calling for our life, that when distractions come, we are not moved.  God calls us to kindness, self-control, a spirit of generosity, and a commitment to humble service.  Do we really want to be interrupted in the middle of our crazy schedules and meticulous plans to serve God?  Did I need to return a text instead of showing kindness to someone in front of me?

This world has so much brokenness.  In particular, the women of this world seem to have so much pain, and so often their cries are not heard by other women of faith.  They walk alone, going through the trails of life without someone walking beside them.  God calls us to notice the people around us, and we are to introduce hope into dark lives. We are to reach out to those around us, and light the way to the only One who can provide healing for life's trauma.

I  have a goal to stop allowing my daily responsibilities to get in the way of pursuing the calling that God puts on my heart.  Distractions should never drown out a calling.  Responsibilities, while important, should not replace Jesus' passion for my life.  

Joy and peace are found in pursuing His will for our lives anyway.  The one who missed out due to distractions in the airport restroom likely wasn't the woman battling addiction, with her makeup strewn all over the counter.  Its very possible the next woman entering the restroom helped her.

No, the person who missed out was the one who was busy answering the text on her phone and hurrying to the baggage claim. 

It was me. 

Like much of the rest of the world, I find myself following the news day after day. I read an article before work. I check the headlines during lunch. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night wondering what's happening in Ukraine, and before I know it, I'm reaching for my phone to check the news once again.

Wars have a way of doing that. They remind us how fragile life really is.

As I watched reports from Ukraine, my heart ached. I found myself praying again and again that God would bring peace and spare as many lives as possible. Every image of families fleeing their homes, every story of loss, every uncertainty about what might happen next seemed to add another layer of heaviness.

Our church spent time praying for Ukraine. We helped provide resources to evacuate several pastors serving there. I was grateful we could do something, yet it still felt so small compared to the overwhelming need.

Perhaps the conflict felt especially personal because my children are from Russia, and I've spent time there myself. Places that once held memories of adoption trips and familiar streets were suddenly filling the evening news. It all felt strangely surreal.

One evening, I finally turned off the television.

I stepped onto the back deck and watched the sun slowly disappear beneath the horizon. The evening was perfectly still. The birds continued singing as though nothing in the world had changed. The air was calm, and the sky was painted with soft shades of orange and pink.

The contrast was impossible to ignore.

I realized again how much I take for granted.

As followers of Christ, it's right that we pray for peace. It's right that we care deeply when people suffer. God is not indifferent to human pain, and neither should we be.  But while we pray, we also remember none of this has taken God by surprise.

Jesus told His disciples,

"You will hear of wars and rumors of wars, but see to it that you are not alarmed. Such things must happen, but the end is still to come. Nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom. There will be famines and earthquakes in various places." — Matthew 24:6–7

Those words aren't meant to make us indifferent. They're meant to steady us.  When the headlines seem overwhelming, Christ remains on His throne.  When nations rage, He is still King.  When tomorrow feels uncertain, He already knows the end from the beginning.

As I watched the courage of the Ukrainian people, I was struck by their determination to stand together through unimaginable hardship. Their resilience became a reminder that fear does not always have the final word.

As Christians, we have an even greater reason to stand firm.  Our confidence isn't found in military strength, political leaders, or tomorrow's headlines. It rests in the One who has already overcome the world.

One day, Christ will return.

He will put an end to war.

He will wipe away every tear.

He will make all things new.

Until that day comes, we continue to pray. We continue to love our neighbors. We continue to help where we can. Even when the world feels uncertain, we refuse to let fear become our foundation.

No matter what is happening across the globe, Christ is still on the throne.

History Has Never Unfolded Outside the Hands of God

When I watch the evening news, it is easy to feel as though the world is spinning out of control. Wars erupt, nations rise against one another, and leaders make decisions that affect millions of lives. We watch the headlines unfold in real time, often with very little understanding of what will happen next. From our limited perspective, the events of the world can seem chaotic and unpredictable.

Perhaps that is because we are only seeing one page of the story, while God sees every page.

From the beginning of Scripture, we discover a God who has never once been surprised by the events of history. Kingdoms have risen and fallen. Empires have come and gone. Wars have been fought, nations have been conquered, and entire generations have lived through circumstances they never could have anticipated. Yet through every victory, defeat, tragedy, and triumph, God has continued accomplishing His purposes.

One of the clearest examples of this is found in the story of Joseph. If we had been watching Joseph’s life as it happened, we might have concluded that everything had gone terribly wrong. He was betrayed by his own brothers and sold into slavery. After faithfully serving in Potiphar’s house, he was falsely accused and thrown into prison. Even after helping someone who could have spoken on his behalf, Joseph was forgotten and left there for years.

Nothing about Joseph’s circumstances suggested that God was working. In fact, it would have been easy to assume that God had abandoned him altogether. Joseph could not see what was happening beyond the walls of the prison. He did not know that a famine was coming, that his family would one day need food, or that God was preparing him to stand in a position of influence before Pharaoh.

God had not abandoned Joseph. He was positioning him.

Every hardship became another step toward the place where God intended to use him. The betrayal, the slavery, the false accusation, and even the years in prison were not powerful enough to prevent God from fulfilling His purpose. What appeared to be a collection of unrelated tragedies was actually part of a much larger story that Joseph could not yet see.

Years later, Joseph stood before the brothers who had betrayed him and said, “You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good to accomplish what is now being done, the saving of many lives” --Genesis 50:20

I love that verse because it does not minimize what Joseph’s brothers did. Their intentions were sinful, and the pain they caused was real. Yet their choices were never powerful enough to overthrow the purposes of God. God took what others intended for destruction and worked through it to preserve an entire family and save countless lives during a famine.

That does not mean God delights in war, suffering, or evil. Scripture reveals a God who is compassionate, just, and deeply aware of human pain. It does mean, however, that evil will never have the final word. Human choices may cause terrible suffering, but they cannot remove God from His throne or bring His plans to an end.

The same God who was at work in Joseph’s prison cell is still at work today. We may not understand what He is doing, and we may not be able to see beyond the events unfolding in front of us. The headlines may appear frightening, and the future may seem uncertain, but none of it has taken God by surprise.

History has never unfolded outside of the hands of God.

We Know How the Story Ends

As we journey through this world, we will inevitably live through moments that shake us. Every generation has them. I can still remember watching the Twin Towers fall on September 11 and feeling a deep sense of uncertainty about what lay ahead. It seemed as though the world had changed overnight.

Today, many people feel that same uncertainty as they watch the war in Ukraine unfold.

We don't know how this war will end. We don't know what tomorrow's headlines will bring, how other nations will respond, or what the months and years ahead will look like. From our perspective, there are so many unanswered questions.

But there is one ending we do know.

As followers of Christ, our greatest hope has never rested in knowing what tomorrow's headlines will say or anticipating the next move on the world stage. Our hope rests in the ending that God has already revealed.

One day, Christ is going to return.

He is going to make all things new. He will wipe away every tear. Death will finally be defeated. War will come to an end forever, and the brokenness that has marked this world since the fall will be no more.

That doesn't mean we ignore what is happening today. We continue to pray for peace. We grieve with those who grieve. We care deeply about those who are suffering, and we seek to help however God gives us the opportunity.

But today's chapter is not the final chapter.

Knowing how the story ends changes the way we live today. It allows us to face uncertainty without being consumed by fear. It gives us the courage to pray instead of panic, to trust instead of despair, and to fix our eyes on Christ instead of the ever-changing headlines.

The world may not know what tomorrow holds.

But our God does.

And because of that, we can live with hope.

There are seasons in life that require courage simply because they ask us to begin again.  Not necessarily begin something new, simply to begin again.  

I hadn't gone for a run in over two years. At one point in my life, running had been a regular part of who I was. I had even completed a full marathon. It wasn't something I forced myself to do, it was something I genuinely loved. Running gave me space to think, to pray, and to hear from God in a way that seemed different from any other part of my day.

Then everything in my life seemed to fall apart.  Divorce will do that to you.  Heartbreak. Stress. Grief. Exhaustion. One difficult season after another slowly drained the joy out of things that had once brought life to my soul.

The strange thing about sadness is that it doesn't just rob you of happiness. Given enough time, it begins to rob you of your identity. You start believing that the person you used to be is gone forever.

The truth is, I really wasn't that out of shape. My body wasn't what kept me from running.

My mind did.

Somewhere along the way I had convinced myself that running belonged to another chapter of my life. Those were the "good old days," and perhaps they weren't meant to come back. Every time the thought of going for a run crossed my mind, another thought was quick to answer it.

You'll never do that again.  You've already checked that box once in your life.

But there was another voice I kept hearing.

Not an audible voice, but that familiar, gentle prompting from the Holy Spirit that wouldn't leave me alone.

"It's time."

God had been nudging me toward running again for quite a while. The more I ignored Him, the more persistent that quiet invitation became. I couldn't really explain why it mattered so much, except that every time I had faithfully exercised in the past, I found myself drawing closer to Him.  There are conversations I have with God while I'm walking or running that don't seem to happen anywhere else.

Something about being outside, moving one step at a time, strips away the noise. My prayers become more honest. My thoughts become clearer. My heart becomes more attentive to His voice.

I don't pretend to understand why God meets me there, but I do know this: if something consistently draws me closer to Him, it probably doesn't belong in my past.

The problem was that my flesh wasn't nearly as enthusiastic as my spirit.

Have you ever noticed how hard it is to do the very things that you know are good for you? The things that nourish your soul are often the very things your flesh fights the hardest. There were a hundred excuses I could have made, and every one of them sounded reasonable.

But sometimes obedience begins long before the first step.

Sometimes it begins by simply lacing up your shoes.

So that day I stood staring at my sneakers far longer than I should have. Finally, I picked them up, tied the laces, found my headphones, and decided that if I wasn't brave enough to go alone, I knew someone who would be thrilled to join me.

Our Husky, Zeus.

Zeus has never lacked enthusiasm.  Common sense, perhaps. Enthusiasm, never.

The moment he saw the leash, he exploded with excitement, bouncing around the house as though he had just won the lottery. I smiled, clipped the leash onto his collar, stopped worrying about how I looked, stepped onto the front porch, and took a deep breath.

It was a quiet Sunday afternoon. The usually busy highway near our house was almost empty.

Perfect.

What I had forgotten was that Zeus had never actually learned how to run with someone. During those difficult years, he had missed out on that training just as much as I had. Every time I started jogging, he darted toward the ditch, cut across in front of me, or nearly tangled himself around my legs. I couldn't go more than a few seconds without stopping to untangle the leash or keep from tripping over my overly enthusiastic running partner.

Before long, I found myself growing frustrated.  This was nothing like the peaceful run I had imagined.

Then a thought crossed my mind that immediately changed my perspective.  I was expecting Zeus to know how to do something he had never been taught.  Wasn't I doing the exact same thing to myself?

I hadn't run in over two years. Why did I expect everything to feel natural again? Why did I expect myself to pick up exactly where I had left off?

Learning something again takes patience.  Growing takes consistency.  Beginning again requires grace.  Maybe that was part of what God was trying to teach me all along.

So often, when He calls us into something new, or back to something we've neglected, we expect ourselves to be immediately successful. But God isn't asking us to have everything figured out. He's simply asking us to trust Him enough to take the next step.

Perhaps that's what faith looks like more often than we realize.  Not arriving.  Just showing up.  Again and again.  

Whether you turn to the right or to the left, your ears will hear a voice behind you, saying, 'This is the way; walk in it'. -  Isaiah 30:21

Follow The Leader

After several frustrating attempts to settle into a rhythm, I decided to give it one more try. I waited for my running app to signal the next interval, took a deep breath, and eased into a slow jog. For a few brief seconds everything felt promising. Then, just as he had done all afternoon, Zeus lunged toward the ditch with all the enthusiasm of a Husky who had suddenly discovered something infinitely more exciting than staying on the road.  In this case, it was a grasshopper.

Instinctively, I gave his leash a firm tug to bring him back beside me. Normally he would bounce right back as though nothing had happened, but this time he didn't move at all. He simply collapsed onto the pavement. At first I thought he was being stubborn. I called his name, gave the leash another gentle pull, and realized I was dragging the dead weight of very determined Husky. Zeus had apparently decided the run was over.

I looked down at him, wondering what had gotten into him. Then I glanced over my shoulder.

There, steadily making her way toward us, was a large Rottweiler.

My heart sank.

She was beautiful, but she was also muscular, powerful, and completely loose. Every alarming scenario raced through my mind at once. I instinctively stepped between her and Zeus, hoping my presence alone would somehow convince her to keep walking. Zeus, however, had reached an entirely different conclusion. Whatever courage he had shown while dragging me through ditches had suddenly vanished. He flattened himself against the road in complete submission, refusing to move so much as an inch.

Well, almost complete submission.  For reasons known only to him, he decided that baring his teeth would somehow improve the situation.

To this day I have no idea what was going through his mind. It was the canine equivalent of challenging a heavyweight boxer to a fight after losing the ability to stand up. Had she wanted to, she could have made very short work of my overly confident Husky. Thankfully, she simply continued watching us with quiet curiosity while I repeatedly told Zeus that this was a very bad plan.

Just then, a pickup truck slowed beside us. The driver rolled down his window and asked, "Do you need some help?"

"Yes, please," I answered without hesitation.

"It looks like you're about to have a dog fight."

He climbed out of his truck, calmly encouraged the Rottweiler back across the road, waited until she had wandered a safe distance away, wished us luck, and drove on. I breathed a sigh of relief, convinced the excitement was finally over.

It wasn't.

We had barely resumed our walk when I heard soft footsteps behind us again. I turned to see the same Rottweiler quietly following us down the road. Zeus immediately returned to his previous strategy by laying flat on the pavement, and this time no amount of encouragement could persuade him to stand.

"Come on, buddy," I pleaded, trying unsuccessfully to coax him forward. "We have to go."

He wasn't interested.

With Zeus firmly planted on the road and the Rottweiler continuing her slow approach, I realized I had little choice but to see what she wanted. This time, however, I noticed something I hadn't seen before. Her ears were laid back, her tail was low, and there wasn't a hint of aggression in her posture. If anything, she looked every bit as uncertain about us as we were about her.

Very slowly I extended my hand.

She stepped forward with cautious curiosity, sniffed my fingers for a moment, and then gently rested her head against my hand as though we had known each other for years. I smiled and began rubbing behind her ears, and within seconds the intimidating dog I had been so worried about melted into an affectionate, oversized teddy bear. So much for the fierce Rottweiler. She simply wanted someone to scratch her ears.

After a few moments she wandered over to Zeus and politely sniffed him from head to tail. Satisfied that he posed no threat whatsoever, she turned away without another thought. Zeus, meanwhile, finally seemed to realize that she wasn't interested in eating him after all. His body relaxed, his ears perked up, and for the first time since she had appeared, he cautiously stood to his feet.

Then something happened that I did not expect.

Without any prompting from me, the Rottweiler simply turned around and began walking down the road in front of us as though she had somewhere important to be. I tightened my grip on Zeus's leash and slowly started following behind her, leaving plenty of distance.

The transformation in Zeus was immediate.

The dog who had spent the last mile weaving from one side of the road to the other suddenly walked in a perfectly straight line. He stopped diving into ditches. He stopped cutting across my path. He stopped pulling against the leash altogether. His attention had shifted completely. Every ounce of his focus was fixed on the dog walking ahead of him.

Once we had walked a while and I had quite a bit of distance from her, I decided to try a slow running interval.

The Rottweiler sensed we were speeding up behind her, so she broke into an easy jog.

Zeus matched her pace perfectly.

For the next two miles, my completely untrained Husky became the easiest running partner I had ever had. I settled into the peaceful rhythm I had been hoping for all afternoon, smiling to myself at how wonderfully ridiculous the whole scene was. After all the frustration, all the stopping and starting, and all the worrying about whether I could even enjoy running again, the solution God had provided was something I never would have imagined.

Apparently, all Zeus had needed was someone to follow.

Leading Us Home

The run that I had dreaded for days had become one of the most peaceful runs I could remember.

As we turned left into our driveway, the Rottweiler followed us for a few more steps before cautiously wandering a short distance into the front yard. I knelt down and called to her, hoping she might come a little closer. I wanted to give her a bowl of water and perhaps help her find her family. It seemed like the least I could do after she had unknowingly rescued my afternoon.

She looked at me for a moment, quietly wagged her tail, and then turned around. Without hesitation, she headed back toward the path we had just traveled, disappearing in the same direction she had first come from.

I watched until she was out of sight. I'm sure she was simply heading home.

As for me, I think God was leading me back to mine.

Not back to a house, but back to myself.  Back to the woman He had created me to be before grief, exhaustion, and sadness had convinced me that those days were over.

It struck me later that evening how much Zeus and I had in common.

For the first part of our run, he had been distracted by everything around him. One moment he was chasing a scent in the ditch. The next he was cutting across my path. He was expending an incredible amount of energy but making very little progress. Yet the moment he had something worthwhile to follow, everything changed. His path became straight, his pace became steady, and what had once been chaotic suddenly became peaceful.

Isn't that often true of us?

When our attention is scattered, we spend so much of our lives chasing one thing after another. We pursue success, comfort, security, approval, entertainment, or whatever happens to capture our attention in the moment. We exhaust ourselves running in every direction except the one God is calling us to walk.

Hebrews gives us a similar picture:

"Let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of faith." (Hebrews 12:1–2)

God knows exactly what His children need, and sometimes His provision arrives in ways we never would have imagined. That afternoon, His answer happened to have four legs and a wagging tail.

The irony wasn't lost on me.

I had spent weeks worrying about whether I could run again, while God had already been preparing everything I needed. The obstacle I thought would keep me from moving forward wasn't really the obstacle at all. Before I ever stepped out the front door, He already knew there would be a peaceful road, a quiet Sunday afternoon, an overly enthusiastic Husky, and even a stray dog waiting just around the bend.

That's the beautiful thing about following God.  He is never surprised by the road ahead because He has already walked it.  My depression had convinced me that I would never become the person I used to be again.

God had a different plan.

Step by step, mile by mile, He was leading me home.

Our Heavenly Father delights in meeting us in the ordinary moments of life. Sometimes His guidance comes through Scripture. Sometimes through another person. Sometimes through a quiet prompting of the Holy Spirit.

And sometimes...

it comes in the form of an unexpected companion on a country road, reminding us that our Shepherd has never stopped leading us home.

I sat in the airport, leaned back in my chair, and closed my eyes for just a moment. I had just flown home from a week of work in Nashville. When the plane landed and I checked my email, I discovered an urgent deliverable waiting for me. Instead of heading straight home, I opened my laptop at the terminal and got to work. It felt wiser to finish it there than to bring it home with me, especially after being gone all week. My kids would want my attention the minute I walked through the door.

But before I started, I needed a minute to breathe.

It had been a hard week, long nights at the office, early mornings, and the steady hum of pressure that never quite turned off. Fatigue had settled in deeper than I realized.

I finished the assignment, closed my laptop, and finally drove home. I spent a few precious hours with my kids, then fell into bed, completely spent.  Before turning out the light, I stared at the ceiling and prayed a simple, honest prayer:

“God, I don’t feel like I enjoy my life anymore. Please teach me how.”

It surprised me how true that felt. Even beyond the current workload, I wasn’t sure I had ever really learned how to enjoy life. Too often, I've lived bracing for the next responsibility, the next season, the next demand. I drifted to sleep wondering why joy seemed to come so easily to others while my days often felt heavy.

The next morning, a text message arrived from my Bible study group. They were preparing a surprise project for an upcoming retreat.

Can you send a photo from your phone that brings you joy?

Timely. I scrolled through my pictures but didn’t find anything that felt right. It wasn’t the lack of good photos, it was the lack of joy I felt in that moment. Maybe I just needed time off, I thought. A break. A reset. Maybe even a spa day.

Instead, that morning at church, the message centered on one phrase: choose life.

Deuteronomy 30:19–20 says:
“I have set before you life and death, blessings and curses. Now choose life… love the Lord your God, listen to His voice, and hold fast to Him. For the Lord is your life.”

Choosing life, truly living it, came down to three things in this verse in Deuteronomy.

Love the Lord

I love God and I also know love is more than belief; it is action. But as I listened to the sermon about loving the Lord, I found myself quietly wondering, How do I actually do that when I’m already so exhausted? When my mind feels overloaded and my energy is gone, love can feel like one more thing to accomplish.  I need relief, not one more thing to do.

But loving God is not another heavy task. It is a turning of the mind.

Loving Him with my thoughts means intentionally redirecting my attention, even for a few minutes, away from the noise and pressure and back toward His presence. It looks like disengaging from the swirl of responsibilities long enough to practice gratitude. To notice His gifts. To remember His faithfulness. To remind myself that His approval matters more than anyone else’s, including my own harsh self-assessment.

Even five minutes in His Word can change the tone of an entire day.

The most important part of loving God is not emotional intensity, it is mental focus. What we dwell on shapes how we feel. When my thoughts remain fixed on my problems, the weight grows heavier. But when my focus shifts toward His presence, something inside me steadies. Peace begins to rise. Joy becomes possible again. Sometimes even energy returns.

The circumstances may not change, but the center of gravity does.

Instead of looking around at everything that feels overwhelming, I am learning to look up. Our problems in this life are real, and Scripture is honest about that, we are told we will face many trials. But we are also told that God has overcome the world. Remembering that truth reframes the pressure.

Love for God, and receiving His love, doesn’t remove our burdens, but it keeps us from feeling like we are drowning beneath them. It changes our perspective before it changes our situation.

Loving God is deeply life-giving. It strengthens us. It steadies us. It heals worn places in the heart. Joy grows where attention rests on Him.  This kind of love is practiced in the mind. It requires intention. We choose what to think about. We choose what to return to. We choose what to remember.

And in that choosing, life begins to feel lighter again.

Obey His Voice

There is no lasting peace without obedience, but I’ve learned that obedience often looks different than we expect. For a long time, I assumed obeying God meant doing something dramatic; changing careers, moving across the world, or stepping into some large, visible calling. While God certainly does lead people into big acts of faith, most of His work in my life has come through much smaller invitations. Big obedience, it turns out, is usually built on small obedience.  The quiet, daily choices that rarely draw attention but steadily shape the heart.

In my own experience, the most meaningful change has come through simple promptings: take a walk, pause and pray at lunchtime, step away and rest, spend a few minutes in Scripture. These nudges often arrive right in the middle of a busy day, when they feel least convenient. God’s invitations rarely fit neatly into my schedule. They interrupt what I planned and redirect my attention, yet they consistently lead toward greater peace and clarity. What seems small in the moment often produces the greatest long-term change.

One of the smallest, and surprisingly hardest, areas of obedience for me has been consistently spending time in His Word each day. It sounds simple enough, but in the middle of meetings, phone calls, conversations, and working lunches, I convince myself I’m too busy to stop. And yet, it is precisely in the middle of the busy when I need Him most. You wouldn’t think protecting five or ten minutes a day would be difficult, but for a long time, it was a real struggle for me.

I’ve noticed the irony: I can easily name my stress and complain about my workload, yet when God points me toward the very practice that strengthens my faith and steadies my heart, I sometimes resist it. Still, He is patient. He teaches gently and persistently. Over time, as I chose to respond in small ways, those minutes in the Word began to feel less like an obligation and more like a refuge. Now I find myself looking forward to the moments when I can close the door, open my Bible, and reset my thoughts. It took time to build that habit into my daily routine, but it has paid dividends in peace, perspective, and resilience.

Obedience doesn’t always look like changing the world. Sometimes it is simply responding to the small thing God places on your heart today. But when those small acts are practiced faithfully, one after another, they add up to real transformation. What begins quietly often ends up becoming life-changing.

Hold fast to Him

Holding fast to God means staying anchored to Him when life feels uncertain and when distractions compete for our attention. Our world offers endless noise, screens, messages, opinions, demands, and constant motion. Much of it pulls at our focus and promises stability, yet none of it provides the steady security that Christ does. His hand is the one I want to cling to, especially in seasons when my own grip feels weak.

I was in a large airport not long ago, riding one of those crowded trams that shuttle passengers between terminals. Most people were standing, since the limited seats were reserved for those with mobility needs. Typically you can hold onto a hanging strap or a vertical post, but that day the tram was packed tight, and I found myself without anything solid to grasp, only a flat stretch of wall beside me. When the tram lurched forward, it accelerated faster than I expected, and I nearly lost my balance. Instinctively, I reached out, but there was nothing secure to hold. Seeing this, a few people shifted and made room so I could grab onto a nearby post.

The difference was immediate. The post did not sway with the crowd. It did not tip when weight leaned against it. It did not adjust itself to accommodate movement. It was fixed, stable, and dependable; exactly what I needed in that moment of motion and imbalance.

Holding fast to God works the same way. Life will surge forward at uncomfortable speeds whether we feel ready or not. Situations change. People shift. Crowds gather and scatter. Emotions rise and fall. But Christ remains steady. He does not move with the pressure. He is not destabilized by chaos. He is not shaken by sudden turns.

We hold fast to Him not because life is calm, but because it isn’t. He is the fixed point in the moving train. The steady support in the jolt. The unchanging anchor in a shifting world. And when we hold fast to what does not move, something inside of us begins to steady as well.

I began to see that what I needed wasn’t a day at the spa, it was a morning anchored in God’s presence. Joy doesn’t grow from escaping our lives; it grows from re-centering them. It grows in gratitude. It grows when our eyes lift from the rush around us and return to the One who never shifts.

So I picked up my phone again and searched for a photo that brought me joy. This time I saw it.  A sunset spilling gold across the sky, quiet and magnificent.

I sent it to my Bible study leader with a simple note:

God’s creativity brings me such joy.

The photo had been there all along.  I simply needed a different perspective.

I finished my green quilt this week.

My quilts always take a long time to make, mostly because the quilter (that would be me) works slowly and tends to linger over every step. I sew in starts and stops, with long pauses between stages. I’ve never been quick with projects. But this quilt felt different from the beginning.

When our house burned in a fire, many of my sewing projects were destroyed. In some ways, that loss may have been a hidden mercy, I had more unfinished projects than I could realistically complete in one lifetime. Still, there was one project I truly mourned losing: my green quilt.

It was my favorite, layered with fabrics in deep greens and cool blues, each fabric chosen carefully. I had never seen another quilt quite like it. I could already picture it finished, folded across a bed or draped over a chair, the colors catching the light. 

A few months ago, I finally gathered the courage to go through some boxes in my storage room. After divorce, old belongings can feel heavy. Photographs and keepsakes have a way of reopening places in the heart you’re not always ready to visit. I usually avoid that room for that very reason. But on this particular day, I felt steady enough to sort through a few containers.

At the bottom of a Rubbermaid bin, there it was.

My green quilt.

I honestly couldn’t believe it. I had been certain it was destroyed in the fire. I called out to my daughter and showed her what I’d found. She remembered how many hours I had poured into it and shared my excitement. It felt like recovering a small, forgotten treasure.

The quilt was only about half finished, but the pattern was tucked in with it. I carried everything upstairs to my sewing room and spread it out. Within days, I was working on it again, eagerly, almost urgently, reconnecting with a part of myself I didn’t realize I had missed.

This weekend, I finally completed it. I still smile when I think about how it sat quietly in storage all that time, waiting to be found.  Moments like that remind me that God is in the business of restoration.

Scripture promises that He repays what has been eaten away by loss, not always by returning the exact same thing, but by working wonders in its place. I have seen that truth unfold again and again in my own life.

I will repay you for the years the locusts have eaten, the great locust and the young locust, the other locusts and the locust swarm, my great army that I sent among you. You will have plenty to eat, until you are full, and you will praise the name of the Lord your God, who has worked wonders for you; never again will my people be shamed. Joel 2:25-26

After the heartbreak of miscarriage and the fear that we might never have children, two beautiful children were waiting in a Russian orphanage, children who would become ours.

After ten years out of touch with my youngest brother, a terrible motorcycle accident, one he recovered from, unexpectedly brought him back into my life. Now he lives less than an hour away, and our relationship has been restored after a decade of absence.

After divorce, my mind felt buried under depression and anxiety. Some days I wondered if I would ever feel steady again. Yet over time, healing came, slowly, faithfully. Two years later, I am able to work again, and I’m in a job better than any I’ve had before.

God does not simply replace what was lost. He restores in ways we would never design ourselves. He brings redemption with imagination.

I don’t know why it mattered to Him that my quilt survived. It’s a small thing in the grand scheme of life. But it mattered to me. And sometimes His love shows up not only in the great miracles, but in the small recoveries too, the quiet surprises, the tucked-away gifts, the reminders that nothing surrendered to Him is ever truly gone.

I am grateful for the ways He surprises me, often quietly, often unexpectedly, with restoration I never saw coming.

Finishing What Was Started

Finishing the quilt reminded me of something else too.  It wasn’t just the fabric that survived a fire. The past two years have felt like their own kind of fire. Walking through divorce, making painful decisions, and enduring the emotional turbulence that followed changed me in ways I didn’t expect. There were parts of myself I was sure had been permanently lost, my sense of steadiness, my confidence, my peace. At times it felt as though the heat of that season had burned straight through everything I depended on.

But looking back now, I can see that what I thought was destroyed was actually being protected. Much like my quilt, tucked quietly away at the bottom of a Rubbermaid bin, something inside me was preserved even when I couldn’t see it. Even when I was certain too much damage had been done. Even when the days felt endless and the pain felt permanent, God was not absent. He was guarding what mattered most.

God did not intend for the fire to destroy me. He intended to restore me. Healing didn’t arrive all at once, and it didn’t look the way I imagined it would, but it came steadily, faithfully, over time. What once felt impossible slowly became real again...the ability to work, to hope, to plan, to breathe without that constant weight in my chest.

Maybe that’s one reason the quilt felt so important when I found it. It was meant to be finished. It had an intended purpose and a future usefulness. I didn’t want it to remain half-complete and stored away, a project that never reached its design. And in a deeper way, I realized I didn’t want that for my life either.

God does not mean for us to remain suspended forever in our hardest chapters. He does not leave us sitting in heartbreak as though the story ends there. Instead, He gathers the scattered pieces, the joyful fragments, the wounded edges, the unexpected colors, and fits them together with care and intention. Over time, a pattern emerges that we could not see while we were still in the middle of the cutting and stitching. The finished work carries both strength and beauty, precisely because of what it has come through.

We are not meant to remain unfinished. There is purpose in the pattern God is forming, and He is faithful to complete what He begins.

Divorce carries a thousand sharp edges, but one of the deepest cuts for me was fear.

Not long after the separation, fear didn’t just whisper, it moved in. It ran through my mind and my body every single day, relentless and loud. For so long, my confidence had been braided into my marriage, and when it ended, it felt like the strength I leaned on walked out the door with it. Suddenly, things I’d never thought twice about began to loom over me like threats.

Could I really succeed at my job and be a single mom?
Could I keep up with the house?
What was I even supposed to do with the water softener downstairs?
Would the ache in my chest ever stop hurting?

Every morning, I woke up with an anxiety so heavy it felt physical, like a weight pressing into my ribs. The sadness was there, too, a deep, persistent pain that made even ordinary tasks feel impossible. I wasn’t the only one hurting. My kids were hurting right alongside me, and on the nights when the fear felt especially unbearable, the three of us would sleep in the same room. Not because it fixed anything, but because it helped us feel less alone. It kept our minds from drifting too far into the dark corners.

Because when we were alone, fear always made its debut.

My son became convinced someone was going to break into our house at night. One evening, with wide eyes and a trembling voice he tried to hide, he asked if he could sleep with a baseball bat in his room. My daughter’s sadness seemed to grow heavier after sunset. Nighttime was the hardest for her. She dreaded going to bed, afraid of what tomorrow would bring, afraid of what this new life might look like. And heartbreakingly, she carried a lie no child should ever carry, she was certain the divorce was her fault.

When I look back on that season, I’m honestly amazed at the ferocity of fear that swept through our home. It was as if someone unleashed it against the three of us, and it hit like ocean waves crashing into the shore, one after another, pounding, exhausting, relentless. And if I’m being honest, we still have to stay diligent to keep it from pulling us under, especially at night.

It was during that time that I began a study on David in the Old Testament. I’ve always felt a kinship with him, partly because I’ve long believed he was a fellow redhead, but mostly because of the way his emotions sit so honestly on the page. David didn’t polish his prayers. He didn’t tidy up his pain. And when I read his desperation in Psalm 142:6–7, I recognized more than just a personality… I recognized a fellow sufferer.

“Listen to my cry, for I am in desperate need;
rescue me from those who pursue me, for they are too strong for me.
Set me free from my prison, that I may praise your name.
Then the righteous will gather about me because of your goodness to me.”

I understood that kind of desperation. I needed rescuing, too. I didn’t have enemies chasing me with swords, but fear had cornered me all the same. Anxiety felt like a prison cell I couldn’t unlock. Depression wrapped around my ankles like chains. I smiled for my kids and kept moving because I had to, but inside, I felt trapped.

At the time David wrote those words, he was living in a cave, literally hiding while his enemies hunted him. David’s cave was real and dark and dangerous. Mine was invisible, but it was just as suffocating. My sadness and fear had caved in around me in a way I’d never experienced before. His cave became a picture of my own pit.

But here’s what caught me: even in the cave, David still believed God’s promises.  And I needed to learn how to do that, too. I needed to let go and believe God's promises, just like David.  

At the time, I didn’t fully understand what it meant to “let go.” I assumed it meant snapping my fingers and suddenly feeling better. But God didn’t rush me. He showed me slowly, gently, through a process that required bravery I didn’t think I had. He led me, step by step, into the most tender, painful places of my heart, not to harm me, but to heal me.

And along the way, He revealed something surprising: some of my grief didn’t begin with divorce. There were wounds inside me that were older than this story, sadness I’d carried for years, fear that had learned to live in my bones. And He showed me He wasn’t intimidated by any of it. He intended to bring His powerful healing right into the center of my pain.

To begin getting better, He showed me three things I needed to focus on:

First, I could no longer have idols before God, even if that idol was my marriage.
I had to stop looking for a second savior, a substitute to soothe me, validate me, rescue me, or make me feel safe again. I had to believe in my real Savior like I’d never believed Him before.

Second, I had to let my ex go, truly let him go.  I had to stop trying to control the outcome, stop trying to manipulate the story into turning out the way I wanted. I had to accept that I couldn’t force love to return. I could only move forward, one step at a time, with God’s hand in mine.

Third, I had to learn, really learn, how much God loves me.  I don’t know that anyone can fully comprehend it, but I had to try. Because if I didn’t, I would keep searching for love in other places, and that would only deepen the ache.

I had been through so much. I was so broken and so exhausted that obedience wasn’t a “spiritual goal” anymore, it was survival. I couldn’t afford more pain. I was desperate to get better.

And yes, there were times I slipped.  I still do.  There were days I backtracked, days I cried until my throat hurt, days I felt angry and confused and tired of trying. But I kept coming back. I kept telling God, I’ll get up again. I’ll keep moving forward. But I need You, every step of the way.

And He did not leave.

There is light on the other side of this.

I pray, if you’re reading this, that your marriage can be saved. I pray for restoration and healing and softening hearts and miracles that only God can do. But if it can’t be saved, I want you to know something just as clearly:

God loves you tremendously.
He will heal.
He will bind up your wounds.

So if you’re in the middle of it right now, if your chest is tight, if bedtime feels hard, if fear is prowling the hallways of your mind, I want you to hear this:

You are not forgotten.
You are not alone.

You are a daughter of the Most High… and He does not forget His daughters.

I’ve known for a while that I needed a break.

But don’t we all? Aren’t most of us sprinting through the workweek, only to spend the weekend catching up on everything we didn’t get to Monday through Friday? In my case, I’d been working weekends too, which, if I’m being honest, had quietly turned into an entire month of weekends.

“Mom,” my daughter said one day, “you need some days off.”

“Mom,” my son added, “I’m going to physically pull you away from that computer on the weekends.”

Naturally, I responded with a generous helping of Mom guilt, reminding them that someone around here has to pay the bills. Sometimes, I explained, weekends aren’t optional.

That night, as I scrolled through my favorite podcasts before falling asleep, I landed on Joyce Meyer’s Talk It Out. The episode was about self-care and the importance of rest. Joyce shared how she once worked herself straight into serious health problems.

What a coincidence.

The very next day, I took a few hours off and went to church. The pastor taught on the true meaning of Sabbath, what it actually means to rest, and why it matters so much to God.

At this point, I started to feel like God was trying to tell me something.  I just couldn’t quite figure out what.

Two days later, I woke up at 3 a.m. with the unmistakable sense that something was very wrong. Let me clarify, seriously wrong. My stomach was in open rebellion, and then it hit me. Earlier that evening, I had eaten a salad that was possibly… definitely… past its expiration date.

I had full-blown, wish-I-was-dead, mama-please-save-me food poisoning.

I retched. I puked. I pulled muscles in my back from repeated hurling. Eventually, I grabbed a pillow and a blanket and decided that if I was going to die, it would be on the bathroom floor, next to the toilet, where I belonged. I imagined them finding me there, shaking their heads sadly, whispering, She never even liked salad.

At one point, I looked up and saw all four of my dogs staring down at me. They didn’t bark. They didn’t move. They just stared, deeply concerned and profoundly confused. I was not supposed to be sleeping on the bathroom floor, and they were unsure how to process this turn of events. (If you’re wondering why I have four dogs, that’s a separate story involving my complete lack of boundaries.)

As I lay there, I noticed a cobweb in the corner of the ceiling and made a mental note to clean it later. Then I wondered if there were more cobwebs I hadn’t noticed. And somewhere between nausea and delirium, a thought crossed my mind.

God, I can’t believe You gave me food poisoning just to force me to rest.

And immediately, gently, clearly, the answer came:

I didn’t give you food poisoning. But I do work all things for your good, and I will work this for your good.

Rest was officially on the agenda.

For the next twenty-four hours, rest wasn’t optional, it was mandatory. I could barely get out of bed. Anyone who texted me received the same response: I’m sick today. Can’t talk. Phone calls were completely off the table.

I drifted in and out of sleep, listening to sermons, podcasts, and a few ’90s music documentaries. My kids popped in now and then to tell me about their day. But mostly, I lay quietly in the dark, praying for healing and promising God I would learn how to slow down.

When I finally recovered, something had shifted.

I felt calmer. More peaceful. I realized that weeks of constant busyness had pushed self-care completely off my radar, and without it, I was running on fumes. I also recognized that my priorities had slipped out of alignment, affecting not just me, but how I was leading my family spiritually.

I would not wish food poisoning on anyone. Ever. Not even a little.

But I am grateful for the reminder, to slow down, to rest, and to take better care of myself.

That said…

It may be a very long time before I eat another salad. 🥗

Christmas last year was the hardest Christmas of my life.

Fresh off a separation from my husband, the season felt forced from the start. I knew things wouldn’t feel the same, but knowing that didn’t stop me from trying. I decorated the house. I baked cookies. I played Christmas music and smiled through the tears, hoping that if I pretended long enough, joy might eventually catch up with me.

It didn’t.

“Fake it until you make it” failed spectacularly. And I certainly didn’t fool my kids.

With Christmas only days away, we made a decision that felt both drastic and necessary, we left. The kids and I packed our bags and escaped to a quiet condo overlooking a peaceful lake. Staying home felt unbearable, like staring straight at everything we had lost.

But pain has a way of traveling with you.

The separation alone would have been enough, but it wasn’t the only weight I was carrying. I was emotionally raw from a job that drained me, from a constant sense that I was failing my children, and from the exhausting effort of trying to keep everyone around me okay.

I think divorce does that to you.

There’s an unspoken pressure to become everything to everyone—to prove you’re still good, still capable, still whole. You want to care for everyone affected by the split. Not just support your children, but somehow heal them. And the harder I tried to do that, the worse I felt.

By the time January 1st arrived, I was empty.

That morning, in a condo far from home, I pulled a blank journal from my suitcase and stepped out onto the balcony while the world was still quiet. I asked God for a word for the new year. I didn’t ask casually. I begged. I was exhausted, overwhelmed, and afraid. Everything in my life felt like it was spinning out of control, and I didn’t know how to stop it.

What follows are the words I wrote down that morning.

I’ve read them hundreds of times since. Every time, they steady me. They gently but firmly bring my focus back to where it belongs. Maybe they’ll speak to you, too.

---

January 1

Everything in life has its place.

You are trying to function in roles and relationships that are out of place.

With work, focus only on the tasks assigned to you. Let the responsibilities meant for others remain with them.

With relationships, you are called to offer guidance and wisdom, not to mend deep wounds or fix what is broken. Only I can do that, God.

You are trying to do everything. You cannot be everything to everyone. I did not design you for this. You must accept your limitations, or you will drown beneath a sea of expectations.

Your immediate family is your priority.

When you accept your limitations and take your rightful place, the other pieces will fall together as they are meant to.

Turn things over. Trust others to do their part. Most importantly, trust Me to do Mine.

Here, you will find freedom.

Welcome to your new chapter. I am excited to show it to you and walk through it with you. This season will bring some of the greatest growth, and the greatest peace, of your life.

Walk with Me.

Love,
God