Feeling Seen In Small Places

Do you ever have stretches of time when no one notices your work? When you're doubting your worth, struggling to feel valued, maybe even longing to be recognized? Times when you're overlooked and discouraged? When you're feeling unseen?

I do. Actually, that's pretty much what last week looked like for me. Early in the week, I sat in on a meeting where the overall topic was about how important it is to use your natural gifts to help grow and nurture the people around you—but many of the people in that meeting have made it clear in no uncertain terms that they are NOT interested in my gifts, and the pain of being dismissed sat with me all week. It weighed me down, made me more aware of little moments that stung, like the times I would quietly fade from a conversation unnoticed because no one was listening anyway. Or the times when I'd barely get three words spoken before someone else stepped in to disagree with what they thought I was going to say.

I don't think of myself as a people pleaser, but I do readily and honestly admit that I need people. That I want to be accepted and approved of, not because I'm clinging to validation, but because I am a human wired for community. Just like anyone. Just like you. But sometimes it feels like the world is looking past me. Or worse, through me, like I have no substance at all. A ghost, walking among the living.

I cheer for other people’s milestones, show up for their big moments, celebrate their wins—but when it’s my turn, the room often seems strangely and suddenly quiet. Which is why by the end of the week, I was wrestling with discouragement in a way that I haven't in a while. When I mentioned writing in a passing conversation and literally saw someone roll their eyes, that was it. Final straw.

And then I went to my church's women's conference, where God showed up as a dark-haired stranger in a blue-and-white dress.

We got there on time, but later than we'd planned. I stepped out of the car emotionally drained, wondering if my writing, my calling, or even my voice really mattered—but I was with my youngest daughter and she was thrilled to be there, so I glued my smile into place, locked the car, and slammed the door on discouragement.

"Hey!" When I looked up, the woman was standing beside her car, her dress bright, her smile open and friendly. "Can you help me out? I just came from work, so...hair up? Or down?"

We joked about how her hair was pretty down, but if she was a hands-up jump-around worshipper, she might want a ponytail. As we talked, we learned she was a guest who didn't usually attend our church. We had a small-world moment when we exchanged names, and ended up realizing she already knew my oldest daughter, who wasn't there that night.

We walked into the building together, making small talk, laughing over little things. I introduced her to our pastor, and we made our way over to a photo wall covered in flowers.

She saw the screen wallpaper on my phone as I opened my camera: a striped black background with a large image of a custom coat-of-arms I call my writing crest. "What's that? The Undaunted thing?"

I shrugged, offering a smile but not really looking up. "It's kind of a logo for my business," I told her. "I'm a women's fiction author."

"I knew I recognized it from somewhere!"

Wait, what? Stunned by the small, random encouragement, I met her eyes. "For real?"

"I do a lot of reading," she said, laughing. "We'll have to sit and talk sometime."

I spent the next half hour silently wondering if I was making too much of her random appearance in the parking lot, or her choosing to ask me about her hair when there were several other equally-qualified women nearby. We were only two among twelve hundred women, and it was probably just a coincidence that her name was Angela—which is Greek for Angel and means "messenger of God."

I don't know if she eventually found the people she was looking for when she arrived, or if she had simply completed the mission of giving me the gift of being noticed, but not long after that moment she disappeared and I didn't see her for the rest of the weekend.

Either way, the conference theme continued the message. Royalty, but not old-school Disney-flavored princesses swept up in the strong arms of princes who save the day. No, instead it was Princess Diaries royalty—the full-flavored kind, where changing circumstances drive a nerdy young girl to discover unknown royalty in herself. The kind where cinematic Mia Thermopolis meets biblical salvation.

Where royalty means chosen by God, not only accepted but adopted, claimed as his own, and bought with brutal sacrifice.

Our pastor's beautiful and sometimes hilarious wife spoke about royalty in God's kingdom as more than just being allowed in the room. "You're princesses," she said, sweeping her hand over the audience. "Daughters of the King. Chosen and not forsaken, adopted into God's family. But I think you've forgotten what your coronation day really meant."

She went on to remind twelve hundred women with varying backgrounds and incomes, races, politics, and fashion styles, that royal adoption is bigger than just being allowed in the house—it's knowing confidently that you are welcome and wanted at the table. She reminded us that identity in Christ is a royal priesthood, encouraged us with the depth of what it means to be "God’s special possession," uplifted us with the promise that God's love never overlooks, and charged us with trusting God’s plan when it feels quiet.

And somewhere on the edge of the spotlight, feeling a little silly in the plastic tiara that had been taped to her seat, was a woman soaking in the message as God whispered, “You are not overlooked. You are chosen and royal. And because you are mine...you are seen.”

*****

The conference is over now, but I'm still thinking about Angela. A stranger who stepped in to weave an unexpected thread through the tapestry of my weekend. They were such small moments, I can't help but think she's already forgotten them—but those moments are lasting reminders of God's presence in his calling on my life, my worth, and my identity in him. Even when my work feels invisible, the people closest to me don't understand, and I wonder if any of it really matters.

God whispers encouragement in the smallest of places. Sometimes it's disguised as chance encounters that bolster your faith in hard seasons, sometimes it's tucked into moments that refill your hope when you feel invisible. But if your eyes are open and your heart is hungry, parking lots can hold encouragement for weary hearts, and a simple glimpse at a logo on a phone can turn questioning your calling into a reminder that feeling unseen by people does not negate being chosen by God.

I don't know where you are in your life. I don't know if you're a Christian like me, or just a person trying to give their best to every day, finding purpose in small moments like the ones you spend with your children at bedtime. Maybe you spent a week like mine—wondering how to find hope in discouragement, after a long week of helping other people breathe no matter how suffocated you felt.

What I do know is this: wherever you are, whether you know him or not, God sees you just like God sees me. You are valued. You are chosen.

So whatever your life looks like right now, no matter what seemingly invisible efforts you’re making, keep your eyes (and your heart) open to God's confirmation that no matter how unseen you feel, you are never forgotten. I hope it'll give you the strength you need to always...

You matter. And I know your time is precious. So if you're as sick of chasing updates as I am, let me bring mine straight to you. Sign up here (it's quick, simple, and free) and I'll send a weekly roundup of my blog and social media content right to your email.

Love, Loss, and Leaving A Legacy

The cycle between grief and healing is not a new one for me—and while I can't say I'm an expert at coping with loss, I can absolutely say that the power of legacy proves hope beyond death is possible. Still, I can't say that either, can I? Not without admitting that some days feel heavier than others. And not without admitting that this day is one of them.

It's been nearly two weeks since Charlie Kirk's assassination, and in many ways, his death has reignited a much-needed conversation about the weight of loss, how to balance faith in hard times, and how to find compassion across divides. We've argued as a society over the value of remembering those we've lost, especially when it means honoring a legacy that one person respects...and another does not.

Millions of people around the globe have mourned his death, and today nearly 80,000 of them filled the State Farm Stadium in Glendale, Arizona for his memorial. I watched from home, sometimes in agreement, sometimes not. Because grief is complicated. Like me. Like you. And yes, like Charlie. Either way, today is proof that whether you loved him, hated him, or barely knew his name until it popped up on your newsfeed, the impact of his absence is real.

For me, this has meant a lot of things. I grieve for the broken hearts of the family he left behind. My heart aches for the parents of his assassin, who have thus far done their best to face every parent's worst nightmare with grace. And my spirit is struggling constantly with the deep, almost desperate lamentation of so many of the people around me.

But I think what most people don't understand is that it's not all about Charlie Kirk. He may be the current catalyst, but as I watch friends and neighbors turn their backs on each other in a horrifying show of Two-Faced: True Colors, one thing becomes clear—perhaps the deepest scourge on today's society is that so many have lost the common sense of compassion in grief that unites us.

The funny thing about grief is that it doesn't ask permission. Regardless of beliefs, politics, differences, or personal history, it simply arrives. Sometimes in whispers. Sometimes in waves. Always with a reminder that life is fleeting.

My mother was deathly ill for most of my life, but she took 24 years to die. Every family crisis revolved around carefully considering the fragility of both her body and her mind, and every hospital stay came with undeniable awareness that each one might be the last. Around 2010, those stays began to include somber warnings that piled, one on top of the other, with decreasing hope:

• "Your bones are too fragile."
• "Your kidneys are shutting down again."
• "Your cardiac function is ninety-two percent...eighty-five percent...seventy-eight percent."
• "We need you to know that CPR is no longer a viable option. Your body can't withstand it anymore."

When it's personal, complicated grief is made more so by complicated life. My mother was deeply flawed, and by the time I turned twenty, there was a part of me that hated her. When she died in 2019, thirty-five-year-old me took the last remaining step toward love and forgiveness in grief. 

Grief isn't limited to home and personal connection, though—it finds us through TV, radio, and the scrolling headlines that so often make us pause in disbelief. It may be less personal but it's no less complicated. Still uncertain. Sometimes a rushing wind, other times a crushing weight.

I remember being stunned by the outpouring of grief when Princess Diana died in 1997. She was beautiful, famous, generally accepted as a kind woman of grace and generosity. My mom watched the funeral on TV, and while I understood the loss of life, I couldn't figure out why people would want to watch that. She was a stranger to so many. That same year brought the death of Mother Teresa, who spent her life laying hands on society's untouchables, and it seemed like the whole world cried.

When Michael Jackson died in 2009, the grief that settled in the pit of my stomach brought clarity—and painful confusion. I knew about his past, I pitied his childhood. And I loathed the accusations against him, not because they were voiced but because I couldn't stomach the horrible possibility that they were true. But I loved his music, his charisma, his glamour. And so, at the end of a life so filled with torment, I gave thanks for the end even as I grieved the loss of an icon. Michael Jackson taught me that celebrities are human too, that money really can't buy happiness, and that it's possible for both disgust and admiration to exist at the same time.

2003 brought the death of Fred Rogers, and I wept like a child. With the loss of his calm energy and quiet character, I understood. Because even though I never knew him, my heart felt as if a hole had been ripped in the fabric pocket of the world...and some valuable part of humanity's goodness had fallen out.

As the news broke of Robin Williams's death in 2014, I wept for the absence of his voice, the end of his laughter, and the inescapable realization that the playfulness of Aladdin's Genie would never feel the same. I still didn't like his stand-up comedy—but his off-screen struggles and his almost universal reputation for kindness taught me that legacy isn’t about headlines or soundbites. It’s about the hearts we touch.

So it seems, whether we loved them or not, whether they changed the world's stage or only changed our hearts, the public figures who shaped our lives leave imprints on all of us. And the grief that touches us when they're gone doesn't need perfection in order to honor impact and presence. Perhaps what's best is that we who remain use the echoes of those gone before us to foster a more peaceful world for those still to come.

Tonight I will pray over the world, just like always. I will pray over my country and my state and my city, like always. I'll pray over my neighborhood and the complicated people who live in it. Like always.

But maybe this time I'll hold a moment of silence, too—not just for one life, but for all the lives that shaped mine, with echoes left like breadcrumbs to truth in my heart. And I'll give thanks for every smile, every act of courage, and every gift of compassion that reverberates long after the gift-giver is gone.

*****

Unfortunately, grief and compassion are rarely easy to balance. Grief doesn’t follow a schedule, check our politics, or examine our faith. And while it's okay to grieve even the complicated losses, it's just as okay if some losses don't sting for you in the same way they do for others. The thing to remember is that we're all human enough to understand pain, and compassion for one person's pain should never be measured against another person's perception of worth.

Because the truth is, perfection is an impossible standard for anyone. For Charlie Kirk, for JFK, for Walt Disney. For you, and for me. But legacy is rarely about perfection. Instead, it's about the moments that shape our hearts. The musicians, the actors, the leaders, the neighbors, the saints—and yes, even the strangers—who leave pieces of themselves behind in all of us.

Today, I hope you'll make space for those who grieve what's lost. I hope you'll find gratitude in the common ground we share. And above all, I hope you'll muster the courage to reach peacefully for people you don't always agree with, because even when you can't change or control what someone else thinks, does, says, or feels, you can control how you react, how you behave, and whether or not you practice whatever you're preaching.

Sometimes that's what it takes—to make the difference, to bridge the gap, and to help the world around you...

There's a special magic in choosing to show up for each other, and every reader who shares their time and emotional energy with me is a precious part of how and why I write the way I do. Now, I'd like to make that as simple as possible for you—with free updates you don't have to search for. Sign up here!

Quiet Grief, Undaunted Faith

This week has wrung me out in ways I'm still not sure how to describe. I share so much of my life and my story online because I want to remind people there's still hope in hard times. Because I want to spread healing for those living with emotional pain. Because grief and perspective don't always sit easily together.

But so often when I'm dealing with heavy emotions or coping with tragedy, I do it alone. I wrestle grief and loss in the quiet of my own space, mourning privately. I don't cry in public, and I don't typically wear my emotions on my sleeve.

If you were to meet me in real life, you'd probably see me as calm. Steady. Getting things done, moving forward. Brushing it off. But under the surface of the woman who still has deadlines to meet, chores to do, and appointments to show up for...I'm feeling it all. The turmoil may not be visible, but it is real.

Between the ongoing crises around the world, school shootings, the heartbreaking news of Iryna Zarutska's murder, the martyrdom of Charlie Kirk, and the 24th anniversary of 9/11, my heart has been impossibly heavy. I'm using every technique I've ever learned on how to cope with grief. I'm struggling to toe the line between responding to tragedy and processing loss in the middle of emotional exhaustion.

Some of the weight was truly personal, private grief, rooted in old wounds. Some was borne of a collective grief, shared with strangers around the world. And some was a secondary grief, the kind that rises in your soul like bubbles on boiling water when someone else’s pain mirrors your own deepest fear.

As the week wore on, I went about my life as usual. I cooked, I cleaned. I showed up where I was needed. I struggled to find writing time. But the space between my ribs got tighter and tighter, the air in my lungs thinned until I almost couldn't feel it passing through, and grief took up more and more space. By Thursday, I couldn’t push it down anymore.

Everything looked normal on the surface. We're housesitting, so on Wednesday I woke up, fed my friend's pets, and drove my youngest daughter to school. I drove back, had a chat with my spiritual mama, made some breakfast. I answered phone calls from doctor's offices. I prepped the 9/11 memorial video I'd been working on.

I'm always proud to spend a little mental time remembering the tragedy of 9/11. Honoring heroes who ran toward fire and smoke, remembering innocent lives that were stolen, holding space for families who will never stop grieving. Admiring the bravery of the men on Flight 93. Before September 11, 2001, I was born in the United States...but by September 12th, I was AMERICAN. That day, and the lasting impact of it, will sit with me forever. That video is my first attempt at book spine poetry...but it's so much more.

When the news broke that Charlie Kirk had been shot, I didn't recognize his name. It wasn't until later that I realized who he was—that I'd seen clips of his videos before. Conversations about his faith and his beliefs. Always passionate, but always steady. That night as I scrolled through social media, numb with shock, I found something deeper than sadness, darker than outrage.

There were people celebrating his death. Mocking. Justifying. I saw a screenshot shared from BlueSky where someone called it "a miracle on 9/11 Eve." And as I prayed over the impossible pain suffocating the family who watched Charlie Kirk die, I marveled at how we all still look like humans...but there are so few of us these days with any humanity left.

As if that wasn't enough, nearly everything on my feed that wasn't Charlie Kirk was Iryna Zarutska.

Iryna was 23 years old, a refugee from Ukraine. She was on her way home from work, here in America where she hoped to build a life in safety from bombs and bullets. She didn't provoke anyone. She wasn't rude. She wasn't hateful. She was just somebody's little girl, minding her own business on the way home. I saw the video. I saw her shock, her fear. Her quiet acceptance of what was happening. I saw her collapse. And I heard the soulless pride of her killer, boasting over what he'd done: "I got that white girl."

My oldest daughter is 21 years old, and she wants to see the world. She wants to fly in planes and ride in trains and look at all the wonder of God's creation. She's wanted to minister to the lost since she was a child. But she's a young white Christian woman in modern America.

The pain that filled my chest until I felt like my heart would burst...the outpouring of grief that filled my eyes and poured down my face...it wasn't abstract. It was close. It was personal in ways that made my hands shake and turned my dreams that night into horror films.

Thursday morning looked just like Wednesday had. I woke up, fed my friend's pets, and drove my youngest daughter to school. I drove back, had a chat with my spiritual mama, made some breakfast. I answered phone calls from doctor's offices.

But because something that looks the same on the outside might still be forever altered below the surface, I thought about the lessons I’ve tried to pass on to my daughters, the many ways I've tried to teach them to survive in this society. To live cautiously (but not fearfully). To be kind across dividing lines. To carry their faith boldly, but to temper that faith with gentle compassion and grace for those who believe differently. I thought about how small those teachings sometimes feel, how meaningless they seem in a world as broken as this one.

And in the quiet of those few stolen moments alone, I curled around myself on the couch, took my glasses off...and sobbed.

*****

By the end of the week, I was facing backlash over my lack of a public statement—but grief is complicated even without complex PTSD, and for many people it's deeper than a public outcry, a candlelight vigil, or a social media post. Sometimes private. Quiet. Marked by the kind of emotional exhaustion that makes the effort of making noise simply too much to bear.

Sometimes it's carried in a scar gouged so deep in the tissues of the soul that it can't be measured and doesn't need to be proven.

This week, as we navigate the next chapter of our lives in a world freshly turned upside down, let's remember that silence doesn’t always mean indifference. Private emotion does not equal absent emotion. And sometimes it's all we can do to sit with the heaviness, allow ourselves to feel it, and still believe with all our hopeful hearts that God is near.

I didn’t rush to post a statement when the news broke, because that's not my way. I didn’t pour my pain over the internet as proof that I cared—because I am a person, not a performance. Instead, I sat in the quiet and let my heart ache. And I prayed for Charlie’s widow, Erika. For his daughter and son, who will never see their daddy on this side of Heaven again. For Iryna’s loved ones, who are so far away in war-torn Ukraine that they won't even have the closure of a funeral.

I prayed for my daughters, who will inherit this world. I prayed for myself, and that I’ll keep holding onto faith even when humanity feels lost. And I prayed for you, that you will stand against rage and bitterness. That you will hold hope and compassion no matter how loud someone else's grief is...or isn't.

Because for some of us, it’s only in the whisper of God's still, small voice, that we find the courage to…

Sometimes the best way to stay grounded is to step away from the noise. That's why I've created a space for us to do that together, with a weekly recap that includes recent blog and social content links as well as occasional giveaways or behind the scenes info. The best part? You can find it right in your inbox.

Just A Wayfaring Sojourner, Blooming On The Go

This week was a deep dive into the contrasts between chaos and consistency. In the past eight nights, I’ve slept in three different beds, cooked and cleaned under three different roofs, scrambled to keep up with life, writing, and motherhood—and did it all strapped to the hilt with duffel bags and backpacks.

I was beginning to feel like a nomad, armed with my semi-minimal packing list, my stash of refillable airless pump bottles for travel, and the veritable pharmacy of over-the-counter medications tidily stored in my perfectly portable pill organizer. Which is handy, because pretty much everything that happened this week was fueled by fever dreams and snot-clotted Kleenex.

My daughters and I are housesitting again, and because our lives are apparently not quite challenging enough, we caught covid. All of us. Because of course we did.

And yet…there’s a quiet sense of magic in all of it. Always being on the go does feel less stable sometimes, but it also creates opportunities for me as a mom, teaching kids about home. I get to show my daughters what it means to build stability in temporary spaces. We might be living out of duffel bags almost as often as we're living in our own space, but we're also blessed to be in a season stuffed with adventure—and the only thing it's cost us is the need to remember that home isn't a place, it's a feeling.

In our usual home routines, my children and I pass each other in the hall like ships in the night. One coming, another going, all at different times. As busy as my family stays, we've had to learn the value of intentional living in chaos, and the detailed planner in me has struggled mightily with embracing imperfection in motherhood. But maybe that's part of why this week, as we fell one by one into a pit of covered coughs and scratchy throats, we chose to treat our symptoms with a surprisingly effective but rarely recognized medication: gratitude.

The week should have been peaceful. A three-day weekend, three solid days at home, and for once, no doctor's appointments on the calendar. Time for rest. Reflection. Self-Care. Moments of connection with my children, quietly divided between deep-cleaning our house and shaving the word count on my current book-in-progress.

My youngest had a sore throat Sunday night. Scratchy voice Monday morning. Constant sneezing, complete with enough slime to put an army of snails out of business.

The thing is, caring for kids during illness requires mindful parenting under stress. It's a delicate balance between unlimited cuddles for the patient and unforgiving annihilation of every germ on the premises—so while the youngest slept, the oldest and I cleaned like maniacs. By Tuesday morning my voice was going out, the post-nasal party was on, and a distinct sense of broiled eyeballs clued me in to a low grade fever. So the oldest went to work. And I took the youngest to the walk-in.

Covid. Both of us.

I gave up on the cleaning, did my best to keep up with the writing. By Wednesday morning my little one was a little better, which worked out because she needed to be self-sufficient while I slept, sweat-soaked and miserable, under a mountain of blankets. She woke me up once, late in the afternoon, with the quiet reminder she utters so often these days: "You need to eat, Mom." And I wasn't hungry, but in that moment, cheese cubes and sliced hot dogs tasted exactly like sixteen-year-old love. "Soft foods for your throat," she said, "but some protein too."

Thursday it hit the oldest. A little congestion. Super sore throat. It would have been fine, except that Thursday was packing day, the house we were scheduled to sit in was already empty, and it was far too late to back out even if we wanted to (which is fine, since we didn't). Geriatric dog bladders don't wait. Fortunately, our packing skills are top-notch, our teamwork is iron-clad, and where one is weak another is strong. Around noon, we piled into the house panting and exhausted, tossed our bags into our rooms, and spent the rest of the week dazed but content to be together.

No plans. No work. No school. No church. No social outings. Just the three of us, sprawled at intervals on the couch, sipping herbal teas we couldn't smell, slowly building miniature cumulus clouds of crumpled Kleenex.

We took turns keeping each other fed and watered. We shared a bag of gummy sharks and (finally) watched Moana 2. And right there in the middle of our half-rooted, half-rootless adventure, I faintly heard the heartbeat of home: small rituals, intentional gestures, and a quiet sense of pride in the young women my daughters have become.

And in the hearing of that soft but unmistakable pulse, I stopped feeling uprooted, like a vagabond always on the go. I stopped feeling like an itinerant wanderer, a leaf floating from place to place, adrift on life's current. And I became a wayfarer, traveling from place to place purely for the joy of doing it. A sojourner who briefly stops here or there to rest and refuel, moving often but not at all rootless.

Because we've got our own home to go to, but home isn't about walls or ownership or who's name is on the mailbox. Home is the place where love grows, blooming like flowers in the mundane moments and selfless sacrifices we make individually for the good of the whole. That's the home we carry with us—not in backpacks or duffel bags, but in moments and gestures. We pour it into hot cups of tea like medicine and drizzle it like perfume into a hot bath. Sometimes, if we're twenty-one and still learning to balance the transition from child to adult, we might secretly smooth it over a sick mother's sleeping forehead as we gently brush stray hairs away.

*****

If love begins at home and home is love in action, maybe that's why it's so easy for us to miss those things even when they're right in front of us. Because the fact is, love doesn’t always look like big accomplishments and mountaintop moments. More often, it looks like snotty noses and a constant stream of fingerprint-smudged water glasses. It looks like a reminder to eat when you’d rather crawl back under the covers. It looks like productivity, sacrificed on the altar of mindful presence.

Home isn’t lost just because you’re sleeping under a different roof. Home is carried in the rhythm of small things and everyday mercies. It's in every conscious choice to put love first—even when you’re tired, cranky, and pretty sure you might literally cough up a lung.

I may be a sojourner for now, traveling from house to house and writing wherever the bags land, but I’m also more deeply rooted than ever—in the love I share with my daughters, in the little ways we care for each other, and in the God who never lets us out of sight no matter where we go.

And if you’ve ever felt a little untethered, or found yourself building pockets of stability even in places that weren’t really yours, I hope you know this: you are not rootless. You are not alone. And in the end, it’s the love we carry from pocket to pocket that teaches us how to…

I know how easy it can be to forget to check in, even if you really wanted to—and the next thing you know, someone you once felt close to is a stranger again. That's why I've set up a weekly update you can find right in your inbox, with no spam, no pressure, and best of all, no cost!

Cabins, Break-Ins, and Bears, Oh My

As a single mom juggling life with disability, my budget is so chronically limited that something as simple as going out to dinner often requires advance planning—but I grew up desperately poor, so I've gotten pretty good at appreciating small blessings. I don't mind simple living.

But there's still a part of me that loves fancy things and longs for an adventurous life. So when my youngest daughter and I were invited to join part of my Bible study group on a one-night, all-expenses-paid, spur-of-the moment adventure, I couldn't say no. (This post is not sponsored, I just have cool friends.)

The plan? Meet up on Saturday morning, carpool from Knoxville to the Great Smokies flea market, and then properly indoctrinate the one member of our group who had never been to Buc-ee's. The rest of the weekend was to be spent making memories in a gorgeous vacation cabin, accented by stunning woodwork, an eight-person hot tub, a fully equipped kitchen, private bathrooms for every bedroom—and an unbeatable Smoky Mountain panorama that stole my breath and brought tears to my eyes. "Sensational View," indeed.

There was, however, one major hiccup: my sixteen-year-old, whose instinctive quest to collect stuff still overshadows her recognition of intangible blessings.

As a mom, I've worked hard to teach my daughters the value of contentment. To teach them that living with less doesn't have to mean living less. To show them how simple blessings and meaningful moments can be an endless source of joy that money can't buy. And when I catch them finding joy in little things, I think I've succeeded.

But teaching kids gratitude is rarely a smooth process, and despite my best efforts to instill a gratitude mindset, my little one is still prone to infections of what I like to call, "the gimmes."

So on Friday evening, I wrapped a dose of parenting wisdom in paper made of metaphors—and framed our series of stops as no-spend window shopping. "You know," I said, to my daughter, "it's like when you go to a museum and look at all the things, right? But the point is to take it in rather than take it home?"

The drive was long and full of excited chatter, the car was stuffed to the brim with backpacks, and the A/C was functioning because my friend's car is way better than mine. The company was fabulous, the radio was on. And most importantly, my daughter had the incentive of a Buc-ee's Dr. Pepper to help her remember the importance of our flea market budget.

By the time we made it through the flea market, my daughter and I had examined purses, perfumes, jewelry, and countless trinkets. She dragged me away from the swords; I dragged her away from the Pokemon cards. We had a fascinating chat with a flea market missionary who was so excited to meet a teenager with a heart for Jesus that he gave her a bag full of books and posters for free. And yes, my daughter did suffer a minor flare-up of "the gimmes."

But in the end, the thing she most wanted was a pair of keychains she'd seen near the entrance to the building. One for herself, with a dangling capybara dressed like a cheeseburger, and the other featuring a little Stitch figurine dressed as a basketball player—a gift for her sister, who couldn't make the trip.

We bought them both, and she got her Dr. Pepper, too.

By the time we finished the flea market, the pit stop at Buc-ee's, and several exploratory stops along the scenic loop of the Great Smoky Arts & Crafts Community, we were all tired, hungry, and ready to settle in for the night.

And as we rounded the final curves on the road to our mountain getaway, my daughter turned to me and quietly said, "You know, Mom, I had the best day."

I glanced at her bag of collected treasures, arching a teasing eyebrow. "Oh yeah? Even though we didn't get to buy everything?"

Hours later, I sat alone on the second-floor balcony as the sun fell behind the mountains. A yellow butterfly floated dizzily through the trees, crickets sang with joyful abandon, and on the deck below, I could hear my daughter laughing with my friends—our family, the people who have taken us into their hearts and made us their own.

Shadows deepened with night as the golden hour passed, the lights of Gatlinburg lit the valley below like fallen stars.

And in the sacred quiet of those few moments, stolen from the space between chicken tacos, gluten free brownies, a visiting trio of bears, and hot-tub girl-talk, I wept tears of awestruck gratitude.

Not because my belly was full of tacos. Not because my lungs were full of crisp, clean mountain air. Not because my ears were filled with nature's song and my eyes alight with the majesty of a God-painted sunset. But because I'm blessed to know people with hearts as bright and beautiful as a mountain sunrise. And because for the first time in months, my spirit was full.

The heartbreaking peace of those solitary moments cost me nothing more than a couple of keychains, and yet they are perfectly precious, valuable moments I'll treasure forever.

Because now, back at home in my cluttered little living room, my ears still carry the echo of my daughter's answer to my question.

"Yeah. We have more than enough stuff anyway."

*****

It’s moments like those that remind me the best things in life don't come with price tags. They’re the gifts you can’t buy—the sweetness of a thoughtful friend surprising you with gluten-free pancakes for breakfast, the laughter you can't hold back when a bear sneaks into your car, the peace of contented solitude. Connection. Wisdom. And love.

I can’t give my daughters a life of luxury or shower them with fancy things. But I can give them strength and perspective. I can teach them how to find joy in little things, live with gratitude, and search for blessings right there in the midst of a completely ordinary life. Wisdom may not cost much, but I know I've earned it...and it’s the one inheritance I can truly promise to leave them when the time comes.

And as I slide back into the chaos of normal life with my heart full of new memories, my soul gratefully encouraged, and a fast-approaching deadline on STILL FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM, I wish you the same sense of awe-struck gratitude that's helping me to...

There's a special magic in choosing to show up for each other, and every reader who shares their time and emotional energy with me is a precious part of how and why I write the way I do. Now, I'd like to make that as simple as possible for you—with free updates you don't have to search for. Sign up here!

My Life Is A Teacup Ride

Have you ever been on a spinning teacup ride? You sit down, buckle in, and at first it's fun—you laugh, you spin, you wave at people watching from the sidelines. You and the other people in your cup take turns trying to make everything go faster. But then suddenly, it's faster. And then it's faster still, and before long it's too fast. It's chaos and overwhelm. There's no "stop" button, and by the end of the ride you're halfway in your own seat and halfway in the next, gripping the wheel with one hand and your churning belly with the other. You might even shake your head as the ride's slowing down, and wonder why you got on in the first place.

In the aftermath, as you walk away, finding balance with careful steps and slow deep breaths, you might swear you'll never do that to yourself again.

And if you're an overthinker like me, just barely on the other side of a week that felt very much like a teacup spinning out of control, you might realize in the quiet that follows...you've learned a valuable lesson.

Last week's ride began with a minor car accident early Monday morning, which quite literally spun the day out of balance. In the stillness of a deserted parking lot, as traffic continued largely uninterrupted on the nearby road, I stood with a stranger, exchanging insurance information—and grace. There was compassion, kindness, and even a little laughter. But by the time I fell into bed on Friday evening, I had also dragged myself through the busyness of three Bible study groups, three doctor's appointments, and another week of driving both my oldest and my youngest daughters back and forth to work or school. In separate directions. At separate times.

Exhaustion and stress were wearing me down, despite the fact that the week fairly overflowed with beautiful moments: no injuries or significant damage in the accident, a 24-hour computer crash was solved, I made a beautiful mini-loaf of gluten free sourdough bread, my youngest daughter received good news at both of her doctor's appointments, and I had a beautiful revelation while studying the book of John.

Parts of the ride were beautiful and fun...I found peace in an unexpected conversation with an old friend, connection in a shared moment of respect with my doctor. But my teacup was still spinning too fast. What about all the things that weren't happening? What about dishes and laundry and grocery shopping and everything else I simply wasn't home long enough to complete? What about writing?

Inner peace felt like a distant memory as my mind's eye returned over and over again to an imaginary wall of clocks all neatly labeled with expectations and responsibilities—and all of them shades of angry red, each one counting down to abject failure. Clock hands, all spinning like teacups.

The thing about clocks (and teacups) is that they know nothing of humanity. They understand by their own design the boundaries of space and time, but they can't measure rest or resilience, and I doubt anyone has ever truly found emotional health in either a clock or a teacup—with or without the spinning.

Friday morning, my doctor commented on my blood pressure, which has been normal for ages but was suddenly high again. Internally, I added another worry to my mental checklist; externally, my doctor and I discussed the changes in my life since I saw her last year. The new diagnoses for my younger daughter. The carefully juggled transitioning boundaries as my oldest daughter moved back home. The challenge of learning to slow down in spirit even as my body is constantly urged to greater speed in the dizzying teacup that is my life. The lessons learned. The perspective shifts.

She laughed at my calendar, shaking her head a bit. "I don't know how you do it all," she said.

"I look for humor in hard times," I answered wryly. "Some days, it's laugh or cry."

"And you laugh."

And in those moments I felt seen. Not just in my weight and blood pressure and blood work, but in who I am and why. In a reminder that people matter more than programs, prescriptions, and platitudes. In the simplicity of shared recognition that sometimes, handling stress while living in the storm means finding wholeness in the chaos, rather than frantically seeking an exit.

Sometimes the best self-care is holding onto calm and staying grounded right there in the mess, trusting that this too shall pass.

*****

The teacups don't have a "stop" button, and unfortunately, they don't have a "slow down" button either. Sometimes the ride keeps spinning no matter how much we want off or how dizzy we get.

But the beauty of internal wholeness is a grounding acceptance of the fact that stillness doesn't require removal. Often, the stillness on this teacup ride of life is found in the stolen glimpses we catch as the world spins on around us. Grace that softens mistakes, laughter that shatters tension. Kindness and compassion that make a person safe to be who they are, flaws and all.

Sometimes the storm is inescapable, like the way I must straighten my shoulders and navigate my youngest daughter's health no matter how tired or sad or scared I am...because I am the only one here to do it. Sometimes you're stuck in it because the struggle is worth it, like the way I sigh wearily and grab my keys for the umpteenth time to drive my oldest daughter to work...because I want to see her succeed, I want her to know that it's okay to need help, and I want her to trust that I'm here for her just as much as I have always been.

Sometimes stillness meets us right there in the chaos, in the meeting of eyes filled with understanding or a voice laced with patience. And right now, I'm living for those moments. Because no matter how fast this teacup spins, I'm still as determined as ever to...

There's a special magic in choosing to show up for each other, and every reader who shares their time and emotional energy with me is a precious part of how and why I write the way I do. Now, I'd like to make that as simple as possible for you—with free updates you don't have to search for. Sign up here!

Ditching the Doormat

I’ve always been better at yes than no. Yes to helping, yes to serving, yes to juggling a dozen things at once because surely, somehow, I’ll make it work. Overperformance and people-pleasing, touched with a little part-time perfectionism, have been lifelong coping skills. They protected me when survival meant usefulness and worth was tied to self-sacrifice. They kept me safe when acceptance required carefully creeping through a childhood that felt like a minefield.

As I began to lay those things aside, I nursed the wounds of losing people I loved. People who watched me learning to set boundaries, cheered me on as I grew...and then left me behind when I stopped suffocating myself to keep them breathing. I told myself it was good, even if it hurt. That those people showed me the difference between who valued me and who valued what I could give. That saying "no" as self-care was part of learning how to balance servanthood vs servitude.

And honestly, I thought I had done pretty well...but the last few weeks have taught me that there's still work to do. Still balance to be found between serving and self-care.

Because now, it's bigger than finding peace in boundaries. It's about resting in the space between exhaustion and obedience, realizing when helping hurts.

I still say yes when I don’t have time or energy. When it costs me money or meals. When it means living on less sleep than an African bush elephant—with the weight of one strapped to my shoulders. 

I show up because I enjoy being helpful. I'm in umpty-billion groups because I value the invitation to participate. But now I wonder if there's still an echo of the old belief that taught me love had to be earned. And I wonder if that echo has been drawing me slowly away from a purpose that makes my soul sing, only to pacify people who don't (or don't want to) understand it.

This year began with incredible hope. The promise of restoration. And I'm still trusting in that promise...but after the last few months of chaos, I feel more devoured than restored. So I wasn't that surprised when this week, through a string of moments far too ironic to ignore, God reminded me that saying yes isn’t always the right move. Sometimes it’s obedience—but sometimes it's distraction. Often, it's hidden under the veil of good things, like mold that goes unnoticed until it makes you sick. Someone once told me, "If the enemy can’t take you out, he’ll wear you out." And they were right.

So maybe my word for the year ahead is one I’ve never thought of as “spiritual” before. Maybe my word is a very quiet, very simple, perhaps sometimes frightening...No.

Monday, I suited up and spent the morning cleaning house for a friend—alone. My own house sat neglected, waiting patiently for "later" while I gathered supplies, reorganized writing time, and lent energy borrowed from empty reserves. I was thrilled to be able to help someone with something they truly could not do on their own. I was honored to be the kind of person someone else could see as a blessing.

But I was also silently seething.

The anger I drowned in worship music and Fabuloso had nothing to do with the person whose home I scrubbed; it was about being the only one who made time, out of so many. In the Christian church we talk about being “the hands and feet of Jesus,” but that day I wept in frustration because sometimes when the work gets dirty, Jesus looks like a quadruple amputee.

And it's me who shows up when no one else will. The divorced, single mom who gets the chronic side-eye for writing women’s fiction instead of devotionals. The one who doesn’t fit, has never fit, may never fit...but shows up anyway.

By evening, running on heat exhaustion, caffeine withdrawal, and a handful of gluten free crackers smeared with cream cheese, I was studying my schedule for the rest of week and crying out to God. "Why is it always me?"

And in his quiet way, he arched timeless eyebrows and raised an age-old shoulder. "You do this to yourself," he said. "You never say no. But you'll learn."

Every year he gives me a word. I guess next year, it's No.

Later that night, God gave me a verse—and the next day he gave me another. And they're not about judgment or selfishness or abandoning the people I care for; they're about discernment and stewardship. They're a reminder to protect my calling.

Wednesday, the message got louder. During church, I saw how easily even good things can pull us from right things. How easily a calling can be swept under and drowned in a sea of “yes.” If my pastor had played every sport, coached every team, and organized every tournament, he might never have had time to pastor those who count on him. Sure, he might still have taught and coached with mindful intention. He might not have been taken out.

But he would have been worn out. Like me.

Thursday morning’s Bible reading hit me like a ton of bricks. Micah, chapter seven. Discouragement tempered by hope, lamentation wrapped in restoration. I was still carrying those moments on Friday morning, turning them over like pebbles in my hands as I discussed boundaries and stewardship with my surrogate spiritual "Mama" in the bright lights of the local Dollar Tree.

And there it was, sitting right beside the checkout line: a literal NO button. The box promised this button would cycle through half a dozen ways to say no—and my little "Mama" and I broke into giggles as she plucked the button from my hands and tossed it in the cart.

If God had been standing there with us, between cheap pregnancy tests and cute back-to-school notebooks, I think he would have been laughing too. "Mama" might have bought it, but that button felt like a gift from my Father.

I've pressed it dozens of times throughout the weekend, just for the joy of it, unable to hold back the smile it brings. And for the first time in a long time, "no" doesn't feel like failure. It feels like freedom.

*****

I never meant to trade peace in the name of service, and I never intended to let exhaustion become a qualifier for obedience. Either way, it hasn’t been fair—to me, to my kids, to the people I serve, or to you, the reader for whom I am called to write.

Because the truth is, while overperformance and people-pleasing in various areas of my life are habits I picked up to survive, they no longer serve me like they used to. They're not protecting me anymore. Still, I think the hard part is yet to come—choosing differently will probably cause tension. It may bring a wave of rejection or loss.

But I'm ready now. Because servanthood and servitude are not the same thing, and my no doesn’t diminish my faith or hurt my calling. Actually, it makes me more available to the call I've always been meant to follow. And it's okay if the people around me don't get it, because they didn't hear it.

So maybe in 2026, my word is no. No to emotional exhaustion. No to constant overwhelm and distraction. No to playing the rope in a tug-of-war between the Word I count on and World I live in. But maybe even the no is a yes in some ways. Because I'll still be serving where and when I can. But I'll do it when it serves in a way that works, saying yes to stronger boundaries, greater discernment, and truer freedom.

And maybe that's the next step in learning to...

Sometimes the best way to stay grounded is to step away from the noise. That's why I've created a space for us to do that together, with a free weekly recap that includes recent blog and social content links as well as occasional giveaways or behind the scenes info. The best part? You can find it right in your inbox.