Contentment In The Chaos

Okay, so I have a confession. And I don't know how it'll sit with you, but I value honesty and openness and...well, here it is: I have a serious love-hate relationship with the end-of-year holiday season.

And I know, I literally market myself and my writing on the power of perspective. Every week I'm here, talking about choosing gratitude, finding contentment, and learning to slow down in order to appreciate life's unexpected blessings. No degree necessary to share the lessons I've learned, living life in what often feels like the Boarding School of Hard Knocks—so I give glimpses into my process, hoping that what I've learned the hard way might help someone else skip a course in Remedial Struggle.

I offer glimpses into my busy mom schedule. I share stories of faith and motherhood, and through the waves of emotional exhaustion and ADHD overwhelm, I hope my longstanding practice of mindful gratitude helps someone somewhere to make it through with a little more hope.

Honestly, I should probably be one of those annoyingly Hallmark Christmas-lovers. You know the ones. They have their tree up by Halloween, and they don't care about Black Friday sales because they finished their holiday gift shopping in July. They smell like pumpkin spice hot chocolate, and they somehow manage to host every holiday dinner without a hitch.

I am not those people. Not even close. Because the fact is, the holiday season does not slow life down; instead, it takes your regular daily life and cranks it up to Nascar-level insanity, complete with a rotation of parties, events, gatherings, and gift exchanges that almost literally feel like one dizzying left turn after another. Kids' schools take a break, but parents' responsibilities don't. The house, the chores, the doctors, the church stuff, the work things, the hobbies...they all remain the same, but now they're buried under a whirlwind of decorations you're afraid to move because you can't remember where you hid the Christmas presents. It's always a mess, and every year I have to work harder to hold gratitude for what I have—while drowning in days that don't go as planned.

I have to remind myself sometimes that those overwhelmingly crazy days are still beautiful, with their sparkly lights and perfectly imperfect trees. That the gifts are fun and the parties are a chance to catch up with people I missed when life got too busy. That the work of managing busy weeks looks different with a thankful mindset, because the alternative is loneliness.

And this week, as we edge deeper into the 2025 holiday season, I got a timely reminder of why contentment is such a lifeline for me—because true contentment isn't always waiting peacefully in the quiet. Sometimes you have to choose it purposely despite the noise.

Friday morning, I woke with a groan and turned the alarm off, flinching as my phone's virtual assistant began her daily recital of the annoying information that drags me from sleep. The date, time, weather. Calendar events, appointments. News headlines. I stumbled out of bed, woke my youngest daughter for school, and brushed my teeth in dismay.

The week started with hope. I was going to get ahead of schedule, get fully prepared for another house-sitting weekend, and enjoy the chance to relax...but my youngest daughter had three doctor's appointments, we had three separate church group meetings, schoolwork, housework, scheduling conflicts, and the complication of me missing my medications for three days. The ones for hypersomnia.

Thursday's tasks weren't finished, Friday's list was already longer than usual, I had only been asleep for four hours, and there was no possible way to make the day go the way I needed it to.

By 8:30 that morning, I had dropped my daughter off at school and checked exactly zero items off my list. My hands were shaking on the steering wheel. My chest was tight. I was edging toward a full-blown anxiety attack. My gas light came on halfway through Hope Darst's "In The Might Name," and I rolled my eyes as I pulled into the gas station. But I turned the radio up—and by 9, I had my mojo back. I had adjusted my mental plans. My gas tank was full, my belly stopped churning, and I was ready for a morning spent with my sweet spiritual Mama, whose house I'm currently sitting in.

We've found a compromise, she and I. I'd never let her pay me for house-sitting, so in exchange for the arduous tasks of petting her dog, feeding her cat, and sleeping in her unspeakably comfortable bed, she insists that we begin every house-sitting staycation with a grocery shop. We hang out, choose gluten-free goodies, usually get some lunch, and then separate to pack and prep. Except this time, the getaway she's gone for is a family wedding, and she also had a hair appointment. Which took almost four hours, because apparently this time, her hairstylist was that sloth guy from Zootopia.

By the time I dropped her back at her house, picked up my youngest from school, drove home, cleaned the kitchen, and made dinner...I was wiped. I had a kinked neck, stiff hips, and brain fog as thick as molasses. And that to-do list from earlier? Still mocking me with its neat little line of unchecked boxes, each one singing their own version of "No Rest For The Weary" like they were auditioning for The Voice.

But here's the funny thing about intentional gratitude practice: once it becomes a habit, it automates itself.

It doesn't erase exhaustion or fatigue, and it doesn't silence the constant hum in your mind...but it reads the truth of your days and highlights opportunities for joy.

I spent the morning well, talking about nothing and everything with a friend and mentor I love dearly, every moment a precious pebble in my life's stream of memories. Brunch was fabulous, and by the end of the meal I couldn't decide which was more delicious: the gluten free burger chosen from an actual gluten-free menu, or her delight in watching me discover a new place to eat safely. We raced from there to her hair appointment, and four hours later, her slow-motion hairstyle was fabulous.

We laughed at the way the morning had gone and, mindful of my schedule, she apologized for everything taking longer than we'd planned. She thanked me for driving her to the appointment, for waiting to take her home. And in those moments, as we talked on the way back to her house, a messy morning morphed into exactly what we hadn't known we needed.

The boxes may have gone unchecked, but the day was full. Full of laughter. Full of connection. And in the middle of the chaos, for just a little while, nothing mattered but presence.

Getting ready for bed that night, my body was sore. My mind was tired. But my eyes sparkled in the mirror as I brushed my teeth, filled with echoes of the morning's laughter. Not because everything went smoothly as planned, but because contentment is a choice—and I chose to see what had been done, rather than what hadn’t.

*****

Trusting God with my day isn't always easy, and finding joy in the little things is always more challenging when tasks pile up the way they did this week—but contentment doesn't wait for calm, and gratitude doesn't grow on schedule. We have to seek them out, right there in the chaos, and collect the moments that matter.

And I know that's hard sometimes. We're trained to discount the accomplishments and obsess over the failures. To count those checkboxes, complete those endless chores, and trudge through each day like drones with perma-charged lithium batteries.

But why? To achieve someone else's definition of success? To keep up with people who are so busy racing, they don't even see us beside them? To stay on top?

Do yourself a favor and turn that to-do list over. Take time to breathe. Let your face remember what it feels like to smile. And write yourself a little Ta-Da! list instead. Acknowledge your progress and savor those moments. List the blessings in your life, add some checkboxes, and fill 'em all in. They're your proof that even in chaos, life is a gift.

You don't have to stay on top. You just need to...

We all get busy, and I know how easy it can be to forget to check in, especially with the holiday fanfare, which is why I've built a weekly update you can keep up with. No spam, no pressure, no cost—just a little food for thought, delivered straight to your inbox every Monday.

I'm Thankful for Dirty Dishes.

As much time as I spend writing about faith and gratitude, you'd think contentment would come easily by now. You'd think I'd be so busy finding joy in small things and feeling giddy over simple blessings that I'd never have wonder how to be more thankful ever again.

But here's the deal: I write about it because a grateful mindset doesn't come easily to me. Sometimes, when I find blessings in the ordinary passing of my life, they seem just as ordinary as everything else. So I share these stories, not because I'm especially gifted at being thankful in all things, but because cultivating gratitude feels like training for a marathon—just when you think you've got it, WHAM! Shin splints.

And sure, there are days when I'm overflowing with gratitude. Days when I'm walking with my head in clouds, all but oozing thankfulness. Every time I watch my oldest daughter run across the parking lot of our church, my thankful heart swells with joy...because not so long ago, she couldn't walk at all. Every time I study my youngest daughter's bloodwork, comparing every cell count so carefully, cross-referencing everything against her genetic mutation and the threat it imposes, I'm overwhelmed with thanksgiving...because as her doctor once said, "There's a dark genetic cloud over her head...but it's not raining yet."

Between my childhood, the challenges of my life since then, the ongoing battle of single motherhood, and the constant effort to build something with my writing, it's easy to get discouraged. To feel defeated. To forget about choosing gratitude—and overlook the 'small blessings, big impact" moments.

If you know me, or if you've been following along here, you probably know how much I love seeing God in the ordinary moments. You'll know how much I use those moments as the guideposts of my life. And you won't be surprised by the idea that finding joy in chores is...well, it's not exactly my thing.

So what if I tell you that a few years ago, my gratitude practice was forever changed—when a sink full of dirty dishes washed me?

I mumbled his name, but we both knew it wasn't a prayer. "Jesus," I said, "It's like they're freaking multiplying!" I was standing at the sink for the umpteenth time, my water-logged fingers covered in soap suds. My glasses were smudged, my hair kept falling in my face, and I was sick and tired of washing dishes.

There are only three of us in this house. How could three people dirty so many dishes, over and over again? Why does it feel like I can clean the dishes, turn off the water, wash the stove, wipe the counters, dry the sink, turn around...and there will be more dishes?

The worst part? Dish-washing is easily the chore I hate most. It's an endless cycle of tedious silverware, slippery water glasses, giant coffee mugs, and plates smeared with stuck-on food—or worse, covered in soggy, wet globs of unidentified gross. But with my food allergies, it's the one chore I can't trust anyone else to do.

It's like I'm stuck in my own personal Groundhog Day, with one singular thought circling my mind like a swarm of irritated bees: I. Just. Cleaned. This. Kitchen!

But that day, something changed. Maybe it was the cold floor against my feet that made me thankful for hot water on my hands. Maybe it was a brief flash of remembered delight as a soap bubble popped. Maybe as I washed those dishes that day, they washed something just as dirty out of me. Or maybe Jesus answered the words that weren't prayer.

I watched, my grumbling silenced, as my hands moved. As they picked up a plate and held it under water. Water that was warm and clean and fresh on demand. I stood there on legs that (still mostly) work, and my hands reached for the bottle of soap. Two pumps on the sponge. Soap that kills germs and breaks down filth. Soap that protects my family.

Somehow the world itself seemed to still as I picked up the last plate. The water seemed louder. The silverware, shifting in the miniature tide at the bottom of the sink, seemed brighter. And I washed away food particles made of provision, smudges and smears made of safety—each one a word in the story of a family who has enough.

We don't have much. Our place is small and cluttered. Our battered car runs on prayers and miracles. Our biggest splurge is Chick-fil-a, and the fanciest thing we own is probably those dishes.

But if it rains, we go inside. If we're cold, we grab an extra blanket. We flip a switch and light fills the room; we hit the tap, and water flows.

Those dirty dishes are evidence of a life that's still happening. And while they may sometimes look like a disorganized pile of chaos, those plates and bowls are proof that someone was able to walk to the kitchen. Proof that when someone hungry opened the fridge, they found sustenance.

I turned off the sink when I finished, and wiped the stove like I always do. I wiped the countertops, and I dried the sink. I shined the faucet. I hung the towel...and as I stood looking at vintage china lined up in a Walmart drying rack, I cried for seventeen-year-old me.

It was easier for her to keep her kitchen clean.

Because the fridge was empty.

*****

I've thought about that moment so many times since then—partly because I'm still always at the sink, and partly because that lesson in grateful perspective came so abruptly that it still feels scalded into the tissues of who I am as a person.

It's funny how something so normal can become such a turning point. No fanfare, no lightning bolt of revelation. Just a reminder that everyday gratitude is right there in the mess, if we just pause long enough to notice it.

I wish I could say that I never complain anymore, but I don't always get it right. Some days (alright, fine, most days), I still mutter under my breath when I look at the dishes in the sink. I'm still learning contentment, and I still have to remind myself that gratitude isn't a feeling—it's a focus.

Gratitude changes everything, because it moves us from wanting more to noticing more. It opens eyes weary with exhaustion, and shows us how to honor the blessings we used to pray for. And every time we choose to see blessings over burdens, every time we make mindful thanksgiving an active practice, we make something meaningful of the moment we're in.

And that, my friends, is how we...

Maybe it's the coming winter and an urge to hibernate, but I'm craving less noise and more meaning. I don't want endless newsfeeds and pointless reels; I want deeper conversation and genuine connection. If you're feeling that too, consider this your invitation to a better, more gentle way to keep in touch. With my weekly roundup, you can sip your Monday morning coffee perusing a curated collection of my content, created just for you. The best part? It's simple—and free.

Beautifully Broken

I have spina bifida, so I’ve spent a lot of time straddling the line between disability and self-love. Struggling with self-acceptance, disability acceptance. Sometimes I still hate the long list of things I can't do. The limitations that slow me down. But as I get older, I've come to see living with disability less as a healing journey and more as an exercise in gratitude and growth, because embracing limitations (without accepting shame) makes room for adaptive living—which nurtures a growth mindset that lets you to love who you are.

Learning to love yourself is hard though, isn't it? With or without chronic illness, letting go of self-hatred and loving your past self demands a determination to stop flinching from the memory of old wounds and start turning pain into purpose.

You can't love who you are if you still hate the moments that made you.

The trouble is, we live in a world where people think personal growth means "getting over it" and "letting it go." We think trusting God in hard times should promise an end to those times, that faith and healing must each be a guarantee of the other's existence—but that's not always how it works. Sometimes, thriving with disability means learning to love your story as it is, with grace for what it was and hope for what it can still be.

Sometimes, the most powerful prescription you can fill is a daily dose of self-forgiveness.

You may not have disabilities, invisible illness, or a trauma recovery story, but I'll bet you know what pain is. I'm sure there are things you would change, moments you'd rather erase, mistakes you wish you hadn't made. And in a society so hungry for optimism we often tiptoe over the edge of "toxic positivity," I'm sure you've heard your fair share of advice that tells you how to heal from resentment, how to find gratitude in hard times, and how to choose joy in all things.

I can't tell you how to do any of those things, because I'm still learning too.

What I can tell you is this. When you hold the past with hands of compassion, and you offer understanding to the version of yourself who lived there...when you thank each previous version of you for how they created who you are now...the life you're living won't feel as heavy, and the future you're headed toward won't seem as daunting.

With my background and my childhood, the search for emotional healing isn't new. Making peace with my parents, separating myself from their choices, and digging into the stories that made them who they were...wasn't easy. Compassion for them often unsettled the fragile compassion I held for myself, and even as I learned to appreciate the value of spiritual growth through suffering, I struggled to hold gratitude for the past.

People who couldn't bear to hear how bad it was would shrug their shoulders and say things like, "At least you survived," and, "It could have been worse."

I learned to tread carefully in the space between an eternally optimistic mother-in-law who said, "I wish you wouldn't talk about that. It's too hard to listen to," and a trauma-informed specialist who, rendered nearly speechless, leaned back in her chair and whispered, "Wow."

I found strength through faith, searching for God's purpose in pain filled memories—like my life was a photo album that would suddenly make sense if I could find his face in even one picture.

I raised children, protecting them with such ferocity that sometimes they resented me for it. I taught them with mindful intention even as I was learning. I wrote books that used my life, my experiences, and my emotions to fuel characters, driving them through hard stories that offered hope.

Then in 2021, I started leading a student group at my church. In the time since, I've walked a middle school girl through an abusive situation at home. I've held someone's sobbing young daughter as shame over sexual assault shattered everything good she saw in herself. I've encouraged their dreams, uplifted their identities, supported their goals. I've baptized them, cried over them, prayed for them.

And in every picture, in every circumstance where my past made me capable of coaching someone else's present, God was there.

But in the background, I could still see the chains of disability and chronic illness. The events I missed because of heat intolerance. The moments cut short by the impact of nerve damage. The chores I couldn't manage, the meals I missed making because pain laid me out on the living room floor.

In 2023, I took a weekly ministry class for several months. During that time I had a cancer scare, my car broke down constantly, every TV in our house broke, our washer broke, my marriage fell apart, and my oldest daughter briefly lost her ability to walk. But as I took her and her wheelchair to physical therapy three times a week, kept up with my class, maintained my student group, battled the finances of constant car trouble, cook and cleaned (and wrote), and struggled with grief over my marriage, I began to see my physical limitations in a new light—not as disability, but as different ability.

Not as a chain, but as an open door to possibility. Disability might keep me from holding a steady job society approves of, but it doesn't stop me from contributing to the world around me. I just have to do it differently, and when I use the boundaries of my life not as stopping points but as redirection, I can see them pushing me toward deeper strength—the kind that's measured by presence and purpose instead of titles or financial achievements.

My body has broken me and rebuilt me. It's slowed me down, softened me, and taught me grace I might not have learned any other way. But as I learned to see it for the gift that it is, I shifted the limits. Transformed them from closed door to clear calling.

And this moment? Well...it simply wouldn't exist...without all the moments that came before.

*****

I don't always feel grateful for the pain, the limitations, or the days when my body gives up long before my heart and mind. But gratitude isn’t about pretending everything is easy. It’s about recognizing that even hard things become holy ground when we stop asking, "Why me?" and start asking, "What now?"

Maybe the point was never to prove that I could do everything. Maybe it was to learn that I don’t have to. And maybe that’s why I'm grateful for the way God's still using it all—every broken piece, every slow, unsteady step—to shape me into someone who shows up with empathy, perspective, and grace.

Because every limitation has led me somewhere I wouldn’t have gone otherwise—and those experiences gave me what I needed to...

I'm a busy mom. My carefully curated social feeds are filled with ads, and I don't want to miss news from friends and family—but I don't always have time to seek separate pages and profiles. So I found a better way for us to stay connected: a weekly roundup of my content from around the web, straight to your inbox. No algorithms. No manipulation. Just you and me, starting our Mondays together.

Life's a Gift. Open It.

Imagine a chemist in a lab, surrounded by shelves of beakers and jars, each neatly labeled and corked. 

Imagine him gathering supplies. Ominously colored jugs of unseen battles and silent struggles. He turns a handle, initiating a slow drip from a bucket on a high shelf: the pain of feeling alone. He sets the drip to increase as the mixture brews, like intravenous misery, and reaches for a beaker filled with the black sludge of invisible pain and mental health stigma. The tang of bitterness fills the room as the brew begins to boil.

But what if the chemist is life? And what if we are...what if I am...the vile concoction created?

If you've been with me for any length of time, you probably wouldn't be surprised to learn that there's a lot of focus on mental health awareness in my life. I grew up largely invisible in a noisy world, feeling unseen and unheard. Everyone I knew was broken on some level, burdened with the weight of abuse, abandonment, violence. Poverty. Shame.

We didn't talk about emotional wellness. We didn't circle around and lock arms on a communal trauma recovery journey. "Validation" and "emotional healing" were more likely to be terms of ridicule than to be skills gently handed down, and no one much cared what it feels like to live with unseen pain. But I know what it is to give up. I know what it looks like when no one notices your pain, and when choosing life when it feels impossible just starts to seem...not worth it.

I know because my mother showed me when I was fifteen years old, with a mouthful of pills that may just as well have been manufactured by the proverbial chemist.

So this morning in church, when the news broke that a local pastor had taken his own life, it made me think about why.

Our pastor told us softly, quickly. A hint about health problems, a recent diagnosis, followed by, "He took his life."

He took his life.

Four words that set my mind reeling. Four words that, especially in connection to physical health and emotional illness, opened the spillway of a memory dam I couldn't close.

He took his life.

As the daughter of a person who attempted that very act in my presence, the personal connection is inescapable. And as our pastor went on to pray for a grieving church and a devastated family, I thought of a shattered wife. Thankfully grown but certainly no less heartbroken children. His siblings. His grandbabies.

I know what they'll feel. And my heart aches for them.

We prayed for his friends, his co-workers, his congregation—and I thought about their grief. Their confusion. I know what they'll feel, too. And my heart aches for them.

He was a man of such faith and encouragement. What diagnosis could drive him to such a desperately hopeless act?

I have spina bifida. I've been coping with invisible illness since the day I was born. And I have complex PTSD, so living with anxiety is now just as common to me as any Tuesday morning. Three generations of women in my family have succumbed to the devastation of Alzheimer's disease, and I still remember what it felt like to have my grandmother introduce herself to me on a phone call. As if we were strangers. I'm allergic to wheat and peanuts, and I often joke that if or when I get my own terrifying Alzheimer's diagnosis, I'm leaving the doctor's office and heading straight to Olive Garden.

But it's not funny. It's fear. It's a desperation to never reach a point where I introduce myself to my own children—or grandchildren. It's the echo of a violent childhood that taught me to be as quiet and self-sufficient as possible, to stay out of the way, to never be a burden. It's a recognition of the fact that faith and mental health don't always play well together in a world where there is no way to ask for help when you're struggling...because all too often, the answer is, "Pray harder," instead of, "Wow, that sucks. How can I help you?"

Because all too often, the chorus is singing, "Stand up taller, have no fear," instead of, "I'm so proud of you for trying, even when you're terrified."

On the one hand, I have been berated for thanking God for the miracle of my body—because there are people who assume that if I don't fall to my knees and beg for miracle healing instead, it is evidence of weak faith. On the other, I have been applauded for finding beauty in brokenness—because some people think learning to see life as a gift, even when it's hard, is evidence of resilience through faith. Radical trust in the God who created me without mistakes, perhaps deformed in the eyes of man, but with no less purpose.

I look back on my youth, feeling invisible and unseen, without access to or knowledge of anxiety and depression support...desperately clinging to small blessings in hard times like Hansel and Gretel's trail of breadcrumbs, hoping each one would carry me to the next...completely unaware that those tiny crumbs, in time, became the things that taught me how to find purpose in pain.

And those moments—so many of them colored with the faces of my children, my friends, my loved ones—they're why I'm here.

*****

Another thing our pastor said this morning was, "It can happen to anyone." And he was right. Hopelessness isn't limited to people with terrifying medical reports, people with traumatizing childhoods. It touches us when we've lost yet another friend or relationship, when yet another job doesn't work out, when we're not sure how to pay the five bills on the table...and yet another shows up in the mail. It touches people who don't know or care about God. And yes, it touches people who do.

Holding on when life is hard is...well, hard. Small blessings in hard times can seem so...small. So insignificant. So without power to change anything.

That's why I write what I do, the way I do. It's why my social media is full of inspiring quotes and turn-around perspective stories. And it's why my books are full of people just like us—healing from burnout, searching for hope, learning self-compassion—with each character a portrayal of human need, human suffering, and yes, human healing.

There are give-up moments in almost all of my books, because pretending emotional turmoil doesn't exist is pointless. In the Freedom Series, Christine reaches such a depth of helpless despair that she actually hopes her husband will finally do the unthinkable. When he does, an entirely new existence begins for both of them, and it sets Christine on a journey of growth she could never have imagined. At the Safe House, she learns to walk again, learns to breathe again. In a boxing gym, she learns to love again. But most importantly, with every step she takes and in every place she ends up, I hope she teaches by example what it really means to...

Life is fragile, but we’re stronger when we share it. Every day we wake up is another unopened gift, sometimes heavy, sometimes light, but always worth unwrapping. If my words helped you feel seen today, I'd love to keep sharing moments like this with you—each week, always free, and right there in your inbox.

What Radicalized You?

I saw a TikTok recently with a caption that said, "What radicalized you?" As expected, the video was intended to be polarizing, divisive, and offending to people who didn't agree with the poster—but what struck me most about it was how much it doesn't actually matter. In today's over-politicized, radical-everything society, even the most extreme views are so watered-down they hardly even stand out anymore.

But what about radical hope? Where is the kind of radical love that helps us hold onto hope in hard times? If we're all searching for healing from burnout, who's gonna start the radical rest movement of slow living that'll remind us how important rest and recovery are? When will we jump on the bandwagon for a radical joy that reignites childlike wonder in the tired eyes of the world? And how do we find radical happiness and emotional wellness without drifting into a void of endless navel-gazing that shows us nothing?

And that's all without the concept of romanticizing your life, by rolling minimalism and joy into a neat little crystal ball that'll hopefully show you how to navigate your "emotional healing journey" to "everyday peace."

When we put it like that, it almost sounds ridiculous. How could romanticizing the mundane be anything less than ridiculous?

Twenty years ago, that's what I would have thought, too. Back when I'd never heard of trauma recovery and joy seemed as out of reach as a handful of stardust. Back when I might actually have punched anyone who tried to tell me that choosing joy on purpose was possible.

But this weekend I spent an afternoon building with Legos—and I think I ended up with something far better than a new utensil organizer in my kitchen windowsill.

We've lived in our apartment since 2019, and it's a cute little place as long as you don't look too hard at it. If you don't live here, you wouldn't care how little closet space there is. You wouldn't notice that the kitchen's so small you can't even open the fridge all the way without jamming it against the door to the laundry. You might not even realize that the absolute nincompoop who designed my kitchen apparently forgot about drawers.

Every moment spent in my kitchen has been an exercise in problem-solving and mindful creativity. Mostly, we've kept our silverware, jar lids, and other kitchen oddities in a plastic drawer unit on a pantry shelf—and for the most part, that worked fine. Except that it wouldn't fit in the new cabinets I specifically purchased to replace the ugly shelves.

I knew they were smaller; I bought them for the smaller footprint, and I love them for the prettier aesthetic. But balancing home organization and peace in my purchase has taken some unexpected effort, since I needed a new way to store silverware. Again.

Homemaking on a budget rarely has much to do with tracing home decor trends and searching for HomeGoods discounts. Honestly, it's far more often about making do and getting over it. So I thrifted a cute little kitchen crock, threw all the silverware in it, and set it on the windowsill, sandwiched between two others (which are similar but not the same because #cottagechic or whatever) that currently hold various spoons, spatulas, and peelers. Problem solved. Mostly.

I still needed a better way to store steak knives without buying a knife block I didn't need, and I didn't want to just toss them in a jar where careless placement would eventually break off all the tips. So this weekend, I found myself on a last-minute side quest. The mission? Harness my childhood love of Legos, pull out my old stash of upcycled Lego bricks, and spend some time building something new.

The trouble was, either I'm really that weird, or no one else is willing to be that weird on the internet; I searched for ideas using phrases like "adult Lego builds," "Lego home decor," "Lego organization ideas," and even "using Lego for home organization," but I couldn't find anything like what I wanted.

So I said to myself, "Whatever. How hard can it be?" And I sat down for a little trial and error.

By the time the last brick clicked into place on the umpteenth rendition of my idea, I was scrutinizing every version of my creation as seriously as an architect hoping his eighth skyscraper prototype would survive the earthquake test. But it worked.

It was tall enough to hold the knives upright and narrow enough to fit the space, with a custom-built cubby for a set of miniature drawers from the Dollar Tree and a little side pocket for the bottle opener and vegetable peelers.

Sure, it could be silly. It could be childish. It could be a constant reminder of flawed design. Or...

It could be a whimsical reminder that it's not really that hard to find joy in the ordinary. It could be a way for a grown woman to let her inner child seek healing through play. It could be a reminder that sometimes, learning to love life again is as simple as building a new perspective.

Even if you have to do it brick by brick.

*****

I used to think "radical" meant loud or life-changing, that it was a strictly negative thing birthed by today's culture of Us Versus Them. But maybe it can still be simple, and maybe it doesn't always have to be an extremist stance against anything. Maybe it's been hiding all along, in the simple act of daring to smile anyway.

Radical joy doesn't have to ignore what's broken. It's radical because it exists in spite of what's broken. If we step back to enjoy the little things, if we stop apologizing for what makes us happy, contentment shows up—and when we learn to accept the beauty of progress for its own sake, with optimistic hope and romanticized wonder, we stop needing to search for joy.

Because it finds us, all on its own.

If we let it, radical joy can mean fixing what's broken...and realizing that joy doesn't need polish to be perfect.

So tonight, I'll raise my glass to the radical movement of choosing laughter over shame and wonder over worry. Here's to building all the best things in life, brick by brick, and learning with each new effort to...

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I Am A Haunted House

We talk so much about representation in media these days. We want the solidarity and acceptance of what we look like, what we live with, who we are. We make songs, movies, books, and art that become echoes of love lost; we shape them into hauntingly beautiful moments and set them up as monuments to memory that lingers. Because beneath the longing to be special and unique, we crave a sense of similarity that might make us feel less alone.

As a kid, I loved horror movies, hauntings, and scary stories. Maybe the extremity of those things made my life seem more normal somehow—when everyday life looks like a nightmare, Freddy Kreuger is as comforting as he is scary, and if you live in an environment that feels like The Shining's Overlook Hotel, you see just as much home as horror. Even when life got better, I loved stories about abandonment, grief and redemption, complicated family relationships, trauma recovery, and ghosts.

I loved hauntings. They can be sad or scary, sure, but they also hover right on the edge of what makes remembrance beautiful. To be haunted by the past means those moments of connection and emotion were real enough to leave a mark. The ghosts of memory, left behind like the glue that remains long after a stubborn label is removed.

And maybe in our own ways, we're all haunted. Healing from ghosts of the past, hoping forgiveness and grace will soften the moments and memories that echo in the halls of our hearts.

This October, with the focus on domestic violence awareness and the value of healing after childhood trauma, the ghost haunting me most often is my father.

He wasn’t perfect. He was proud. Spiteful. Angry. My earliest memory is one of silent dissociation—myself as a four-year-old girl, dressed in a nightgown, frozen in the living room doorway, big blue eyes slowly absorbing destruction. No sound, no smell. Just the sparkle of shattered glass scattered like diamonds, and the stillness of knife-gouged couch cushions bleeding shredded foam.

Sometimes I think of who he was in his darkest moments and I see something twisted by evil. Gollum, captivated by the Ring. But that’s not all he was—and while I can't ignore the haunting truth of the man he became, there is still a powerful light of legacy and faith that shine through glimpses of the man he wanted to be.

He was always angry before church, red-faced and ranting as he struggled to get everyone in the car on time. I hated the fear that filled me, the cruelly condescending things he would say. But in the sanctuary of the church building itself, he was the best of what he might have been. Smiling and joking with the pastor. Tall and proud as he adjusted his shoulders when we stood between the pews to sing. He wasn't faking one side or the other...he was both extremes.

He was pain and insecurity carefully shielded by pride. Bitterness rotting under the armor of rage. Rejection, wielding good natured-humor like a weapon that might win acceptance. Above all these things, or maybe because of them, he was simply human.

On Sunday mornings I stood proudly at his right hand, wrapped in the rich, deep baritone of his voice, the scratchy sleeve of his suit coat warm against my arm as he balanced the hymnal between us. I read music in the rise and fall of his voice, taking the words as much from his song as from the book we shared.

And I wore my connection to him like a shining badge pinned to the fabric of my heart. He was a fearsome man who feared nothing. A strong man who never backed down, an impenetrable fortress who commanded respect.

The first time I saw him cry was in church. Blanketed by the sheer size of his presence, my own chest vibrating with the strength of his voice, I looked up from the hymnal and found him singing through tears—dark eyelashes and coarse cheeks shining with moisture, chin trembling, voice unwavering.

And if the God they talked about could find and touch a soft spot in my father...if he could rip public grief from the privacy of the strongest Daddy who ever lived...if he could find a hurting place in an untouchable man and make tears bleed from unseen wounds...

Then it was real. It had to be. Because only the supernatural strength of God could move a man like my father to such a state.

This weekend, nearly thirty years later, my oldest daughter and I stood as guests in a little church not our own. The pews were old-fashioned, lined with the hymnals of my childhood. And when the congregation rose to sing, I opened the hymnal, flipped easily to the right page, and tipped the book to share with my daughter.

And for a moment he was there between us. My father. His voice as strong and true as always, his presence as large as life, the echo of his hand holding the pages. Remnants of his existence, present in me as I sang through tears.

It felt like a holy haunting—a reminder that faith and healing walk together, proof that learning to forgive an imperfect parent is worth it, and hope in the promise that grief is not the end of the story.

*****

My father was a hard man, and for a long time, I wrestled with my memory of him. What he lived through, the experiences that made him who he was, the parts of him that hardened me.

As his child, I grieve the father he could have been but chose not to be. As an adult, I understand how pain can twist love into a horrifying caricature. And as a mother now to daughters of my own, I carry both the wound and the warning—with a desperate prayer that my children will inherit more healing than hurt.

My father taught me that love and pain are rarely separate things. But as time and maturity have softened both rage and resentment, I've also come to realize that sometimes the people who hurt us the most become our greatest teachers in healing. Whether he meant to or not, the legacy my father left me is this: it's okay to see a river of pain, call it what it is, and then build a dam.

Maybe that’s what grace really is—the kind of haunting that quietly turns old pain into new peace. The reminder that one person's regret can lead to another's redemption.

And maybe that’s why, as I edit the pages of Still Fighting for Freedom, I find traces of him between the lines, in humor and strength and stubborn resilience. Christine was written largely for my mother, but I think my dad would recognize himself in her too, even if he'd never say it out loud.

I like to think he'd proud, not only of Christine, but of me—even if he'd never say that out loud either. Because hope, like faith or music or memory, never really leaves us. It simply shifts with the passing of time, teaching us lesson by lesson how to...

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Finding Grace in the Sound of Laughter

In general, I'm a woman made of contrasts. Lighthearted faith mixed with intense thoughts and emotions. Laughter and healing wounds, all swirled together like marbled ice cream. It can be hard to find laughter and love in a culture where every joke is offensive and so much of our society profits from keeping us divided. It's hard to share encouragement and inspiration, Christian or otherwise, when your soul is aching. With everything going on in the world today, it's easy to get bogged down by the onslaught and forget to harvest the joy in ordinary moments.

I get it. I've done it. But while it's important to acknowledge our feelings, even when they're hard to handle, it's just as important to hold onto gratitude and joy—especially if you struggle to find light in the darkness.

The last several months have been filled with emotional intensity on every front, and lately, every word I wrote felt like excavating a boulder superglued to the bottom of a molasses pit. I don't think I realized how much I'd been missing laughter and grace in the last few weeks, but rediscovering laughter this week reminded me of two solid truths I'd lost sight of: "a cheerful heart is good medicine," and "a crushed spirit dries up the bones." (Proverbs 17:22)

Simple sentiments, perhaps, but valuable all the same. Fear, anger, depression, and worry hurt us, like the slow death of a thousand cuts. Small moments of happiness and the beauty of laughter heal us, like a high dose of antibiotics waging war against infection.

Maybe that's why this week felt like a much-needed break—because I found emotional renewal in what I'm choosing to call "laughter therapy."

Finding peace in small things isn't always easy for me, but as I battle small space living and struggle to declutter and organize my tiny home, each new home improvement project is a spark that lights hope in my heart. The latest effort? Pantry organization.

It's a small, almost meaningless effort to create calm in the chaos of my life...but when the doorbell rang in the middle of my weekly Bible study video chat, I didn't even try to hide my excitement. My friends oohed and aahed appropriately over the coming improvements, laughing at my obvious glee—and once the chat ended, I spent the rest of the week as happy as Harry Potter's Voldemort with a new wand, arranging horcruxes by type and toxicity.

It's proof that small things have big impact, because that joy bubbled over. All week long, seemingly small things sparked flames of laughter in my house. Misspoken words. Endless rounds of Mancala. Long-forgotten inside jokes newly remembered. Twice, my oldest daughter and I got to giggling so hard she had to jump up and race her bladder to the bathroom, and as we bonded over silly things, so much of the tension that often hangs between us like fog was suddenly...gone.

But I think Thursday morning won the week. In her trademark weekday rush, my youngest made a breakfast sandwich to eat on the way to school, and plopped it on a plastic Pyrex lid to avoid leaving a plate in the car. Halfway through the drive, she finished her sandwich, took a drink from her water bottle, and reached for the button to roll down her window.

It was one of those moments where someone's about to do something, and you already know what they're doing, why they're doing it, and how it'll all go wrong.

She was planning to roll down the window, hold the lid out, and shake off the crumbs. She was trying to be careful. Trying to protect her wheat-allergic mama.

And I tried to warn her. I did.

I opened my mouth right as she slipped her hand out the window, her little fingers grasping the edge of the lid. The wind did the rest, and by the time she realized her hand was completely empty, I was watching the lid bounce on the road in my rearview mirror.

She looked at me, blue eyes wide with surprise and remorse. "I didn't know that would happen! The wind took it—I didn't mean to do that!"

But she found me laughing around the minor irritation of a lost dish. We laughed at what the person driving behind us must have thought, how silly that lid looked rolling away down the street, and the stunned expression on my daughter's face as it happened.

Later, we looked for Pyrex replacement lids on Amazon and grouched about the prices—but then we found them in pink, and we laughed about that, too. My daughter said maybe losing the lid was worth it after all.

And maybe she was right. Because lids (and Mancala marbles) are replaceable. But the gift of laughter and joy in motherhood? Well, that's priceless.

*****

It’s been a while since my home echoed with this much laughter, and while it doesn’t make life’s challenges disappear, finding joy again certainly softens otherwise sharp edges. Every shared moment of mother-daughter laughter reminded me to look at joy as worship and laughter as grace—and this week, we found both, hiding in the rhythms of our everyday life.

And maybe grace doesn’t always arrive in grand gestures. Maybe it doesn't need divine revelations. Maybe sometimes, it shows up in the simplicity of shared laughter.

Either way, a lighter week meant great things for the editing process. STILL FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM is flowing much more smoothly toward the finish line this week, and we're just over 21 weeks away from release day! I'm so excited to be nearing the end of The Freedom Series, and I can't wait to share this second part with the world. Christine's story is powerful, not because it ignores bad things or covers trauma with false happiness, but because it looks deep into the reality of what goes on behind closed doors and still offers hope.

Like this week's laughter, Christine is a reminder to look life's challenges right in the eye, laugh even if it's through tears, and always, always...

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