One afternoon, I was driving down a road I travel often with worship music playing through my speakers. In that moment, I felt the presence of the Holy Spirit in a way I hadn’t experienced in years. It wasn’t loud or dramatic, but it was undeniable. Deep in my heart, I knew the Lord was calling me.

If I’m being honest, I had every excuse ready.

I didn’t have the time. I wasn’t sure I could afford it. I even tried using my fear of spiders as a reason to say no. Every obstacle I could think of became another excuse to stay comfortable.

Yet with every excuse I gave, God quietly answered it.

He wasn’t asking me to have everything planned out. He was simply asking me to trust Him.

The Lord was inviting me to do something I hadn’t done in a long time—to simply be obedient.

At the time, I was already wrestling with other areas of my life, but that’s a story for another day. Eventually, I reached the point where I knew I couldn’t ignore Him anymore.

I told the Lord, “This Sunday, I’ll talk to the missions pastor. If this is really from You, I’ll take the first step.”

Then Sunday morning came.

Suddenly, I didn’t want to go to church.

If you know me, you know that’s unusual. Through every season of my life, church has always been the one place I made sure I showed up. Yet that morning, I found excuse after excuse to stay home.

But just as He had done before, the Lord answered every one of them.

As I sat on the edge of my bed, I felt Him speak clearly to my heart.

“Get up and go.”

It wasn’t a harsh voice. It was the firm, loving voice of a Father reminding His child that obedience wasn’t optional.

So I got up.

As I pulled into the church parking lot, I could already feel the battle in my mind. Every part of me wanted someone else to make the decision for me.

I remember praying, “Lord, if this is truly Your will, let me run into the missions pastor without having to search for him.”

I took a deep breath, opened the church doors…

…and standing directly in front of me was the missions pastor.

I couldn’t help but smile.

Part of me imagines God smiling too.

I introduced myself and explained why I wanted to talk with him. At first, the conversation sounded discouraging. It seemed like the trip was already full and that I had simply waited too long.

Then everything changed.

After speaking with the woman handling the logistics, every obstacle that should have prevented me from going began to disappear. Every closed door unexpectedly opened. One by one, the answer that should have been “no” became “yes.”

We both sat there amazed at what God had done.

Moments like that remind me that our God is able to change circumstances in an instant. Not because He always works suddenly, but because when He decides to open a door, nothing can stand in His way.

I think about Revelation 3:7-8, where we are reminded that what God opens, no one can shut.

Looking back now, I realize the mission trip wasn’t the greatest miracle.

Obedience was.

God wasn’t simply inviting me to travel across the world. He was inviting me back into a deeper walk with Him.

That one small step of faith has changed the direction of my life. Since saying “yes,” I’ve watched Him provide in ways I couldn’t have imagined, open doors I never could have opened myself, and transform areas of my heart I thought would never change.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s this:

Don’t underestimate what God can do with one act of obedience.

Maybe your step won’t be boarding a plane. Maybe it’s making the phone call, serving in your church, forgiving someone, applying for the job, or simply saying “yes” to something God has been placing on your heart for months.

Whatever it is, don’t let fear convince you to stay where God never intended you to remain.

Sometimes the biggest changes in our lives begin with the smallest step of faith.

The Miracles I Almost Missed.
June 29th, 2026

I’ve been thinking a lot about miracles lately.

Not because I’ve suddenly witnessed something extraordinary, but because I realized I almost missed the ordinary.

For a long time, I thought God’s hand would only be obvious in the big moments. The more I walk with Him, the more I’m realizing I was looking in the wrong places.

I would have told you about mountains moving. Impossible situations. Prayers answered in ways that left absolutely no room for explanation except, “That had to be God.”

Truthfully, that’s what I prayed for.

Over and over again I found myself saying, “God, if You’re real, I just need to see a miracle.”

I wasn’t asking because I doubted His existence. I was asking because I desperately wanted to see Him.

Looking back now, I think I made one mistake.

I had already decided what seeing God was supposed to look like.

I wanted fireworks.

I wanted the moment that everyone around me could point to and say, “Wow…only God could have done that.”

And while God absolutely still does those kinds of miracles, I think I was so busy looking for the extraordinary that I completely overlooked the ordinary.

The Lord has been gently working on my heart in this.

I used to get frustrated over the smallest inconveniences. Getting stuck at a red light. Plans changing. A door closing that I was convinced should have opened.

We’ve all heard someone say, “Maybe that red light kept you from an accident.” Whether that’s exactly what happened or not isn’t really the point. The point is this:

How often do I assume something is working against me when God may actually be working for me?

That question has stayed with me.

I started wondering…

How many times have I called something an inconvenience when it was actually God’s provision?

How many times have I mistaken His protection for rejection?

How many answered prayers have I walked right past because they didn’t look the way I imagined they would?

Somewhere along the way I stopped asking God to simply reveal Himself, and I started asking Him to prove Himself on my terms.

I had made “extraordinary” the standard.

So when God faithfully showed up in ordinary ways, I almost missed Him.

Over the last few months, I’ve started looking back.

Not because everything has been perfect.

Not because life has suddenly become easy.

But because I wanted to see if God had really been moving.

And honestly…

His fingerprints are everywhere.

I prayed for people who would push me closer to Jesus, and little by little He surrounded me with them.

Not all at once.

One conversation.

One friendship.

One mentor.

One encouragement at exactly the right time.

I prayed for direction because I wanted to know what came next. I wanted the whole blueprint. I wanted God to hand me a five-year plan.

Instead, He gave me one step.

Then another.

At first, I didn’t understand why He wasn’t showing me the whole picture.

Now I wonder if that’s because He was teaching me to trust the Shepherd more than the map.

Even this blog has reminded me of that.

Months ago, I probably would have convinced myself I wasn’t ready. That someone else could do it better. That I needed more experience before I had anything worth saying.

Instead, God simply asked me to be obedient.

Not perfect.

Not polished.

Just willing.

Maybe that’s been the miracle all along.

Not that God suddenly started moving.

But that He’s been moving this entire time…

I still believe God does the impossible.

I still believe He parts seas.

I still believe He performs miracles that leave us in awe.

But lately, I’ve found myself praying something different.

“Lord…help me notice You.”

Help me notice the conversations You ordained.

Help me notice the doors You quietly opened.

Help me notice the prayers You’re already answering.

Help me notice Your hand in the ordinary days.

Because I have a feeling heaven celebrates things we overlook all the time.

The quiet obedience.

The softened heart.

The unexpected peace.

The strength to keep going.

The friend who showed up at just the right time.

The courage to take one more faithful step.

Maybe the miracle I’ve been praying for isn’t only somewhere out in front of me.

Maybe part of the miracle is realizing God has faithfully walked beside me every step that brought me here.

Maybe He never stopped moving.

Maybe I just wasn’t looking in the right places.

Those are the miracles I almost missed.

There’s something I want to leave you with today…

Maybe you’ve been praying for a miracle too.

Maybe you’ve been waiting for God to show up in some huge, unmistakable way.

Don’t stop praying bold prayers. We serve a God who still does the impossible.

But while you’re waiting, don’t miss the miracles happening all around you.

The conversation you didn’t expect.

The prayer that was answered differently than you imagined.

The door that closed.

The one that opened.

The peace that didn’t make sense.

The strength to keep going another day.

Sometimes the greatest miracle isn’t that God suddenly changes our circumstances.

Sometimes the greatest miracle is that He faithfully walks with us through them.

The miracles I almost missed were never absent.

I just needed God to open my eyes to see them.

When Love Gives You a Choice

July 8th, 2026

Recently, I was given the opportunity to make a decision that I knew would alter the course of my life.

When we hear words like that, we usually think about the big moments—a new job, a move across the country, a relationship, or some life-changing opportunity. But this decision looked different.

I’ll be the first to admit that I’ve made the wrong choice more times than I can count. I‘ve chased what I wanted, ignored God’s gentle nudges, and learned some lessons the hard way. But through this decision, I experienced the fullness of God’s love in a way I never had before.

For years, I thought God’s love was most visible in His provision. An answered prayer. A door opening. A blessing arriving at just the right time. But this time, His love looked like something much simpler.

It looked like a choice.

For five days, I felt like I was living in A Christmas Carol. You know the scene where Scrooge is taken back through moments of his life and is finally able to see everything from the outside? That’s the closest comparison I can make.

The Lord allowed me to step outside of something I had been walking through. Instead of seeing it through my emotions, He allowed me to see it through His perspective.

During those five days, something happened that I hadn’t experienced in a long time. My body slipped back into survival mode. The panic returned. The anxiety. The constant feeling of fight or flight.

It was as if my body remembered everything the Lord had already rescued me from.

Not once.

Not twice.

But over and over again.

By the end of those five days, I found myself sitting on the edge of my bed, praying the same prayer I had prayed before:

“Lord, help me.”

What happened next is difficult to put into words.

He didn’t come with disappointment.

He didn’t come with frustration.

He didn’t come to remind me of all the times I had failed Him.

He met me with grace.

He met me with love.

In that quiet moment, I sensed the Lord placing two paths before me.

One path led back to something He had faithfully delivered me from time and time again. It was familiar. It held the desires I once thought I couldn’t live without.

The other path was the life He had prepared for me.

It wasn’t that God was threatening me or trying to punish me. He simply revealed a truth I had never fully understood.

I couldn’t have both.

In that moment, the words of Scripture became more than words on a page. They became an invitation.

“This day I call the heavens and the earth as witnesses against you that I have set before you life and death, blessings and curses. Now choose life, so that you and your children may live.” — Deuteronomy 30:19 (NIV)

The Lord wasn’t forcing my hand. He wasn’t manipulating my decision. He loved me enough to let me choose.

He showed me where each road would lead and allowed me to decide which one I would walk.

For the first time in my life, I truly understood what His love looks like.

Love doesn’t force.

Love invites.

Without hesitation, I chose Him.

I chose to surrender the life I thought I wanted so I could receive the life He had planned all along. I laid down the people, the places, the dreams, and the plans I had been holding so tightly. Not because they were all bad, but because I finally trusted that whatever God asked me to release could never compare to what He was inviting me into.

As I surrendered, another passage came to my heart:

“Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to him, and he will make your paths straight.” — Proverbs 3:5–6 (NIV)

For so long, I leaned on my own understanding. I believed I knew what was best for my life. But sitting there on the edge of my bed, I realized that God’s plans were never about taking something from me. They were about leading me into something better.

As I sat there, I couldn’t stop thinking about how different my response would have been if the roles were reversed.

If I were in God’s position, I think I would have become impatient.

I would have grown frustrated.

I probably would have walked away.

But He didn’t.

Instead, He took what could have been one of the ugliest moments of my story and transformed it into one of the clearest pictures of His love I have ever experienced.

He reminded me that His love isn’t measured by how tightly He holds onto me, but by how faithfully He pursues me—even when I’ve wandered, even when I’ve questioned, and even when I’ve stood at the crossroads unsure of which way to go.

Sometimes God’s greatest act of love isn’t removing the choice.

Sometimes it’s giving us the freedom to choose Him.

And I am so thankful that, even after every wrong turn I’ve taken, He is still standing there with open arms, inviting me to choose life.

I’ve thought about that moment on the edge of my bed many times since then.

Not because I remember the decision.

But because I remember the heart of the One who gave it to me.

As I’ve reflected on those five days, I keep coming back to one question:

How many times has God lovingly placed a choice before me, and I was too focused on what I wanted to recognize it as love?

Maybe you’ve been there too.

Maybe you’re standing at a crossroads, wrestling with a decision that feels impossible. Maybe one path is familiar, comfortable, and everything you thought you wanted. Maybe the other requires trust before you can see where it leads.

If that’s you, I hope you’ll remember this:

God’s love doesn’t always look like opening a door.

Sometimes it looks like giving you the freedom to choose which one you’ll walk through.

And if He’s asking you to lay something down, maybe it isn’t because He’s trying to take something from you.

Maybe He’s inviting you into something greater.

A God who could have forced my hand…

instead chose to love me enough to let me choose Him.

Maybe that’s what love has looked like all along.

Maybe we’ve just been looking for it in the wrong places.

The Index

One of the things I love most about social media today is the memories it brings up.

In the same breath, it’s also one of the things I hate the most.

Why?

Because every memory is tied to an emotion.

Sometimes it’s joy. Sometimes it’s grief. Sometimes it’s embarrassment, regret, or heartbreak. A picture, a date, or a post can pull you back to a specific place in time before you’ve even had the chance to prepare for it.

For a split second, you’re there again.

You remember the room.

The people.

The conversation.

The feeling.

Recently, one of those memories appeared on my screen.

Honestly, I had completely forgotten it existed. I thought I had deleted everything connected to that season of my life. It was one of the darkest places I’d ever walked through—a place I promised myself I’d never return to.

But something surprised me.

When I looked at the memory, I wasn’t transported back into the pain.

The shame didn’t rush back.

The anxiety wasn’t waiting for me.

The hurt I’d carried for so long never resurfaced.

Instead, all I saw was a chapter that God had used to shape me.

I wasn’t looking at the girl who was broken.

I was looking at the girl God was rebuilding.

Being back in my master’s program has been funny in a lot of ways. It’s reminded me of the days before ChatGPT, before everything was one Google search away, when we actually had to flip through textbooks. (I promise I’m going somewhere with this.)

You remember those?

The table of contents.

The glossary.

The index.

Last week I was working on a research paper, and my professor challenged us to rely on technology as little as possible. That meant finding information the old-fashioned way—in books.

As I sat there flipping pages, slightly overwhelmed, I found myself in the back of the book.

The index.

For anyone who doesn’t know, the index is simply a list of keywords with page numbers directing you to exactly where that topic appears.

And that’s when something clicked.

Our minds have an index too.

A certain road.

A familiar face.

A smell.

A date on the calendar.

A song you haven’t heard in years.

They’re all little entries in the index of our minds, pointing us back to moments we’ve lived.

Sometimes they point to beautiful memories.

Other times…

They point to places we’d rather never visit again.

Not long ago I was driving when a song came on that I hadn’t heard in years.

And just like the index in the back of a book, my mind immediately found the page.

During one of the hardest seasons of my life, that song had become my favorite.

When I came out of that season, I stopped listening to it completely.

The first fifteen seconds were enough to make me cry.

It carried hurt.

Guilt.

Shame.

So I avoided it.

But this time was different.

The song played…

…and nothing happened.

Well, something happened.

I remembered.

But I didn’t relive it.

There was a memory.

There wasn’t pain.

As I kept driving, I felt the Lord gently remind me of all the nights I had begged Him to erase those memories from my mind.

I remember praying,

“Lord, please let me forget.”

I didn’t want to dream about it anymore.

I didn’t want random reminders.

I didn’t want anything connected to that season.

But somewhere along the way, the Lord answered that prayer differently than I expected.

He didn’t erase the memory.

He healed the wound.

And maybe that’s because the memory was never the enemy.

The pain was.

Now when those memories surface, they don’t remind me of everything I lost.

They remind me of everything God restored.

Isn’t that what He does so often?

We ask Him to remove the chapter.

He chooses to redeem it instead.

Because if He erased every difficult memory, we’d lose the testimony attached to it.

We’d forget how faithful He was.

We’d forget what He delivered us from.

We’d forget the ways He carried us when we couldn’t carry ourselves.

Those memories become reminders—not of who we were—but of who He has always been.

Faithful.

Patient.

Merciful.

Near.

The enemy wants our memories to become prisons.

God wants them to become monuments.

I think that’s why Scripture so often tells God’s people to remember.

After Israel crossed the Jordan River, God told them to gather twelve stones and build a memorial.

He didn’t tell them to erase the river.

He didn’t tell them to forget what they had walked through.

He told them to remember.

Not so they would relive the fear…

But so they would remember His faithfulness.

Every time they saw those stones, they weren’t supposed to think about the obstacle.

They were supposed to think about the God who brought them through it.

Maybe that’s what healing looks like.

The event is still there.

The page number never changed.

But what that page means has.

Maybe there’s a memory you’ve spent years trying to bury.

A road you’ve avoided.

A picture you can’t look at.

A song you’ve skipped every single time it came on.

Maybe your prayer has sounded a lot like mine.

“Lord… please help me forget.”

But what if the better prayer is,

“Lord, heal what I still feel when I remember.”

Because healed memories become testimonies.

They become proof that what once had the power to destroy us no longer has the power to define us.

God never ripped those pages out of my story.

He simply changed the ending.

My mind still has an index.

It can still find those chapters.

It still knows the page numbers.

But when I turn to those pages now, I don’t see defeat.

I see redemption.

I don’t see the girl who thought she’d never make it.

I see a faithful God who never left her.

So if your mind’s index points you back to a painful chapter today, don’t be discouraged.

The page may still exist.

The memory may still be there.

But by the grace of God, the pain doesn’t have to be.

And maybe that’s one of the greatest miracles of healing—

not that God erased your story…

but that He rewrote what it means.

Where You Are Planted

August 10,2026

I think sometimes we can become so focused on where God is taking us that we forget to pay attention to where He has us.

I know I did.

Recently, I found myself in a season of transition. I knew there were things the Lord had placed on my heart. Promises. Dreams. Things I genuinely believed He was leading me toward. And because I was so excited about what was ahead, I started looking at where I was as simply the place I had to get through to get there.

I was ready for the next thing.

Ready for the promise.

Ready for the door to open.

Ready to step into what I felt like God had been preparing me for.

And somewhere along the way, my prayers became so focused on where I was going that I almost stopped asking God what He wanted to do where I already was.

Then, during prayer, the Lord began dealing with my heart about something simple:

Be where you are planted.

Not where you think you should be.

Not where you hope you’ll be six months from now.

Not where you know God is eventually leading you.

Right here.

Because there is a reason you’re here.

And that realization convicted me.

I had become so eager to walk into the promise that I was overlooking the preparation. I was looking ahead so intently that I wasn’t always noticing the little things God was doing around me.

The conversations.

The people.

The opportunities to serve.

The moments where I could show someone the love of Jesus.

The ordinary days that didn’t necessarily feel significant.

I wonder how often we do this.

We ask God for the next season while barely being present in the one He’s already given us.

We pray for the new job while overlooking the people at our current one.

We pray for the relationship, the ministry, the opportunity, the calling, the breakthrough—whatever our “next” may be—while treating today like a waiting room.

But what if today isn’t the waiting room?

What if today is part of the assignment?

There is something beautiful about being planted.

When you plant something in the ground, there is a period of time when it looks like absolutely nothing is happening. There are no flowers. No fruit. Nothing above the surface to prove that growth is taking place.

But underneath the soil, roots are forming.

Strength is developing.

Something is being established that will eventually be necessary to sustain what grows above the surface.

Maybe some seasons with God are like that.

We want the fruit, but He is growing the roots.

We want the promise, but He is preparing us to carry it.

We want to know what’s next, while God is saying, “Look at what I’ve placed in front of you today.”

And preparation isn’t punishment.

Being planted isn’t being forgotten.

Just because God has shown you something about your future doesn’t mean your present has lost its purpose.

In fact, maybe knowing there is more ahead should make us even more intentional with what He’s entrusted to us now.

Because there are people around us right now who need Jesus.

There are opportunities right now to serve.

There are conversations right now where we can bring encouragement, kindness, truth, or simply the presence of someone who loves like Christ.

And if our eyes are constantly fixed on the next season, we might walk right past them.

I don’t want to wish away a season God intentionally placed me in.

I don’t want to become so consumed with the promise that I miss the preparation.

And I definitely don’t want to arrive at whatever God has next only to realize I missed the people He asked me to love along the way.

So lately, my prayer has started to look a little different.

Yes, Lord, I still believe You for what You’ve promised.

Yes, I’m excited about where You’re leading me.

But until You move me, help me be faithful here.

Let me serve here.

Let me love people here.

Let me represent You here.

Let me learn here.

Let me grow roots here.

Because maybe the question isn’t always, “God, when are You taking me there?”

Maybe sometimes the better question is:

“God, why have You planted me here?”

And until He says it’s time to move, I want to be fully present in the soil He’s chosen for me.

There is purpose here, too.

More Than Intentional

August 21, 2026

Something I’ve been shifting my mindset on lately is intentionality.

Intentionality in my faith, fitness, job, health, family, friendships…you name it.

For a long time, I think I lived with this mindset of, “If God wanted to, He would.”

And sure, that’s true. I mean, He’s God. He quite literally can do whatever He wants.

But lately, the Lord has been showing me that there is a difference between trusting Him and using “trust” as an excuse to sit still.

I know I’m not the first person who has been in a relationship or friendship where it felt like I was doing all the heavy lifting. Being the only one to reach out. The only one making plans. The person everyone called when they needed something, but somehow never heard from otherwise.

It was exhausting.

And through some very gentle conviction, the Lord started showing me that there have been seasons where that’s exactly how I treated my relationship with Him.

I called when I needed something.

I prayed when life got hard.

I wanted direction when I felt lost.

I wanted Him to open the door, answer the prayer, fix the situation, give me peace, show me what was next.

But how often was I intentionally seeking Him?

Not what He could give me.

Not an answer.

Not a sign.

Just Him.

That realization hit a little harder than I expected.

But as I’ve been thinking about intentionality, the Lord has started showing me another side of it too.

One that I think I needed even more.

Before I ever became intentional about Him, He was intentional about me.

Our LifeGroup recently started studying identity and what it actually means for our identity to be found in Christ. And even though “identity in Christ” is something I’ve heard probably a thousand times, I’ve realized I’m not sure I’ve always lived like I actually believed it.

Because if I’m being truthful, I can turn just about anything into something I have to earn.

Be better.

Pray more.

The Company You Keep

August 24, 2026

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the people we surround ourselves with.

The friends we call when something goes wrong. The people we celebrate with when something goes right. The ones we spend our weekends with, text throughout the day, ask for advice, vent to, laugh with, cry with, and simply do life with.

I think sometimes we underestimate just how much those people shape us.

Because whether we realize it or not, the people we spend the most time with are pouring into us.

Their words pour into us.

Their attitudes pour into us.

Their habits pour into us.

Their faith pours into us.

The way they handle disappointment, the way they love, forgive, pray, trust, and walk through hard seasons—it all has an influence.

And eventually, some of what is being poured into us starts spilling back out.

There’s a reason Proverbs 27:17 says, “As iron sharpens iron, so one person sharpens another.”

And when I look at the woman I am becoming today, I can’t tell that story without talking about the women God has placed around me.

Because they have sharpened me.

There was a time when I was in the pit.

And I mean in it.

Rock bottom. Hurt. Confused. Questioning things about myself that I never thought I would question. There were days when I couldn’t see what God was doing. Days when I didn’t feel strong. Days when I needed someone else to believe what I was struggling to believe for myself.

And God gave me women who did.

Women who prayed for me when I didn’t have the words to pray for myself.

Women who reminded me of truth when I was believing lies.

Women who listened to me say the same things over and over again until I was finally ready to hear what they had been telling me all along.

Women who checked on me. Sat with me. Cried with me. Encouraged me. Challenged me. Made me laugh when I desperately needed to laugh. And loved me through some of the lowest moments of my life.

They know who they are.

And if you’re one of those women reading this, I hope you know how grateful I am for you.

There were probably so many things you did without realizing how much they mattered. A prayer. A text at just the right time. An invitation you probably didn’t think twice about sending. Sitting beside me. Listening. Reminding me that I was going to be okay.

At the time, they may have seemed like small things.

Looking back, I can see they weren’t small at all.

God was using them.

God was using you.

Not to fix me. Not to have all the answers. But to continually point me back to Him.

When I couldn’t see Him in what I was walking through, you reminded me He was still there.

When I questioned my worth, you reminded me where my worth came from.

When I forgot who I was, you reminded me:

You are His daughter.

Not because of what someone else thinks about you.

Not because someone chooses you.

Not because of how successful you are, how put together you look, or how well you hold everything together.

You are His because He chose you.

And I think that’s one of the greatest gifts the right people can give us.

They don’t become our source.

They continually point us back to the Source.

Looking back now, I can see so clearly that God knew exactly who I needed around me in that season.

He knew I needed women who would pray.

Women who would speak truth.

Women who would remind me of who I was when I had forgotten.

Women who would love me enough to sit with me in the pit, but also love me enough to remind me that I didn’t belong there.

And I am so incredibly grateful.

Because slowly, what they poured into me started spilling back out.

Their faith challenged mine.

Their prayers taught me to pray bigger.

Their love showed me what healthy love could look like.

Their encouragement helped me find my voice again.

And the way they loved Jesus made me want to know Him more deeply for myself.

That’s the thing about the company you keep.

Eventually, something rubs off.

And that can either be incredibly dangerous or incredibly beautiful.

I’ve experienced both.

But lately, I’ve found myself thinking much more about the beautiful side of it.

What a gift it is to have people around you who genuinely want to see you become everything God has called you to be.

People who challenge you to pray when your first instinct is to panic.

People who remind you of truth when your emotions are loud.

People who celebrate what God is doing in your life without competition.

People who can lovingly tell you when you’re wrong.

People who encourage you to grow instead of making you feel like you need to shrink to remain connected to them.

People whose lives make you want to love Jesus more.

What a gift that is.

But the more grateful I’ve become for the women God has given me, the more I’ve found myself asking another question:

Am I that kind of woman for the people around me?

Because I am someone else’s company, too.

And I think sometimes we forget that part.

We spend a lot of time thinking about whether the people around us are good for us.

Are they encouraging me?

Are they supporting me?

Are they pouring into me?

But maybe we should spend just as much time asking what we are pouring back out.

Do my words encourage?

Do I pray for my friends as much as I talk to them about what they’re going through?

Do I celebrate what God is doing in their lives without making it about mine?

Do I tell them the truth when it would be easier to tell them what they want to hear?

Does the way I live make the people around me want to know Jesus more?

Because there may be someone in my life who is in her own pit right now.

Someone questioning her worth.

Someone struggling to see God.

Someone who needs a friend to pray when she can’t find the words.

Someone who simply needs to be reminded of who she is.

And maybe God has placed me beside her for a reason.

I know what it feels like to need those women.

So I want to be one.

I want to be the friend who shows up.

The friend who prays.

The friend who listens.

The friend who celebrates.

The friend who tells the truth in love.

The friend who points you back to Jesus.

The friend who will sit beside you in the pit, but loves you too much to let you make a home there.

And maybe that’s what I’ve learned most about the company we keep.

It matters who you allow to pour into you.

Choose people who make you want to know Jesus more.

Choose people who remind you who you are when you forget.

Choose people who pray for you in the pit and praise God with you when you finally climb out of it.

But don’t spend so much time looking for those people that you forget to become one yourself.

And to the women who have already been those people for me—you know who you are.

Thank you.

For every prayer I knew about and every prayer I didn’t. For every conversation, every hard truth, every laugh, every tear, every invitation, and every simple “I’m here.”

Thank you for reminding me who I was until I started believing it again.

But most of all, thank you for showing me Jesus—not just through the things you said, but through the way you loved me.

I hope I can be that kind of person for someone else.

Because the company you keep matters.

And so does the company you are.

Becoming Available

September 10, 2026

I recently found myself reading the story in John 6 where Jesus feeds the five thousand.

It’s one of those stories I’ve heard so many times that I almost know what’s coming before I even get there.

Five thousand people.
Five loaves.
Two fish.
And somehow, more than enough.

But this time, something about it felt different.

As I was reading, I noticed how quickly the disciples focused on what they didn’t have.

There were too many people.
Not enough money.
Not enough food.
Not enough resources to meet the need in front of them.

And honestly, I understand them.

I think I spend a lot of my life looking at what I don’t have too.

I don’t have enough experience.
I don’t know enough.
I’m not ready enough.
I’m not confident enough.
I don’t have enough to offer for God to really do something with it.

But then there was a boy.

A boy with five loaves and two fish.

It wasn’t enough for the crowd in front of him. Not even close.

But it was what he had.

And he made it available.

I think that’s where I stopped for a little while.

Because I wonder how often I’ve convinced myself that I need to have more before I can be useful to God.

More knowledge.
More confidence.
More time.
More certainty.

Maybe even a better version of myself.

And if I’m being really truthful, sometimes my response to feeling like I don’t have enough has been to simply do more.

Add another thing.

Say yes again.

Keep another iron in the fire.

Stretch myself a little thinner because somewhere along the way, I started believing that being useful meant always having more to give.

But lately, I’ve been wondering if becoming available might actually look a little quieter than that.

Maybe it isn’t about filling my hands with as much as I can carry.

Maybe it’s about looking at what God has already placed in them and being faithful with that.

Doing those things well.

Being present where I already am.

Leaving enough room in my life to actually hear Him when He asks something of me.

There is something about that thought that feels like relief.

I don’t have to exhaust myself trying to bring Jesus enough.

The boy didn’t.

He brought five loaves and two fish.

That was it.

And Jesus wasn’t disappointed by what was missing.

He simply used what was there.

I wonder how many times I’ve looked at what is in my hands and decided for myself that it wasn’t enough.

And yet, Jesus never seemed bothered by the smallness of what was brought to Him.

He took it.

He gave thanks for it.

And He multiplied it.

There’s something really sweet to me about that.

The boy didn’t come carrying enough for five thousand people.

He just came carrying what he had.

And lately, I’ve found myself thinking about what that might look like in my own life.

What would happen if I stopped waiting until I felt like I had something greater to offer?

What if I stopped deciding that certain parts of me were too small, too ordinary, too unfinished to be useful?

What if I just became available?

Not because I know exactly where God is leading me.

Not because I suddenly feel completely equipped.

Not because I have some grand thing to place in His hands.

But simply because what I do have is His to use.

My time.

My words.

My hands.

My yes.

Even the pieces of my life that still feel a little too small to matter.

I don’t know exactly what God wants to do with all of it.

Maybe that’s part of becoming available too.

Not needing to know.

Just trusting the One I’m handing it to.

The boy didn’t perform the miracle.

He simply brought what he had.

Jesus did the multiplying.

And for some reason, I can’t stop thinking about that.

Maybe I don’t need more.

Maybe I don’t need to do more.

Maybe I don’t need to become someone else before God can use me.

Maybe I can simply tend well to what He has already placed in my hands and keep them open enough for Him to do with it what He wants.

Five loaves.

Two fish.

One willing heart.

And somehow, in the hands of Jesus, more than enough.

So lately, my prayer has become a little simpler.

Here I am.

What I have is Yours.

I’m available.

The Training Ground

September 24, 2026

Last night at Life Group, we were talking about spiritual warfare and the armor of God.

It is a passage I have heard so many times that the pieces almost roll off my tongue without much thought.

The belt of truth.

The breastplate of righteousness.

The shoes of peace.

The shield of faith.

The helmet of salvation.

And the sword of the Spirit.

But last night, I stopped at the sword.

Because out of everything listed in the armor of God, the sword is different.

Everything else is armor. It covers. It guards. It protects.

But the sword?

The sword is a weapon.

And Ephesians tells us exactly what that weapon is.

“The sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God.”

The Word of God.

The only offensive weapon listed in the armor.

And the more I sat with that, the more I thought about what it actually means to carry a sword.

A sword is not something you simply put on.

You have to learn how to wield it.

You have to know its weight. You have to strengthen your grip. You have to practice with it until something that once felt awkward in your hands becomes familiar.

You have to train.

And suddenly, I started thinking about the past few months of my own life.

I have had an overwhelming desire to know the Word of God.

Not just to read a verse in the morning and check it off my list.

Not just to read enough to say I had spent time with God that day.

I have wanted to know it.

I have wanted to sit with it. Study it. Write it down. Ask questions about things I don’t understand. Go back over passages again and again. Learn the context. Learn what God is saying. Learn who He is.

There has been a hunger in me for Scripture that I have never experienced quite like this before.

And looking back now, I cannot help but wonder if God was preparing me.

Maybe what I thought was simply hunger was also an invitation to train.

Because God knew what I could not see yet.

He knew there would be moments when fear would become loud.

He knew there would be confusion.

He knew there would be lies I would be tempted to believe.

He knew there would be moments when I would have to decide whether I was going to believe what I felt, what someone else said, what the enemy whispered, or what He had already spoken.

And before I ever knew I would need the sword, God was teaching me how to carry it.

That thought nearly stopped me in my tracks.

Because there have been seasons when I gave God the bare minimum.

I loved Him.

I believed in Him.

But life became loud and chaotic, and sometimes my time with Him became whatever I could squeeze into the spaces left over.

A quick prayer.

A verse.

A few minutes before moving on to everything else demanding my attention.

But somewhere along the way, He started calling me deeper.

Not into perfection.

Into preparation.

He was calling me to know Him beyond the surface.

To know His voice.

To know His character.

To know His promises.

To know His Word well enough that when something contrary to it came into my life, I could recognize it.

And that is when the image of the sword became so powerful to me.

Because a sword is heavy when you first pick it up.

Someone who has never trained with one may technically possess the weapon, but possession and preparation are two very different things.

At first, their grip would be weak.

Their movements would be awkward.

They would tire quickly.

But they would train.

Again and again, they would pick it up.

And eventually, the sword would begin to feel different in their hands.

Not because the sword became lighter.

Because they became stronger.

Maybe that is what happens with the Word.

At first, you may not understand everything you read.

You may not know where to turn when fear comes.

You may know that God has promises for you without knowing what those promises actually are.

You may know that something does not sound like God without yet knowing the truth to put in its place.

So you train.

You read.

You study.

You ask the Spirit for understanding.

You sit with the Word long enough for it to move from something you have read to something you know.

And slowly, your grip becomes stronger.

That is what makes the name of the weapon so beautiful to me.

It is not simply called our sword.

It is the sword of the Spirit.

There is partnership there.

God has given us His Word.

His Spirit helps us understand it, reveals truth through it, brings it back to our remembrance, and teaches us through it.

But we still have to pick it up.

We still have to open the pages.

We still have to seek.

We still have to listen.

We still have to allow the truth He has given us to take root in our hearts.

And then we have to learn to wield it.

Jesus showed us exactly what that looks like.

When the enemy met Him in the wilderness with temptation, Jesus answered:

“It is written.”

The enemy spoke.

Jesus answered with the Word.

Again.

“It is written.”

Again.

“It is written.”

He did not meet lies with feelings.

He met lies with truth.

And I think that is what God has been teaching me.

There are battles I cannot fight with my own understanding.

There are lies I cannot defeat by simply telling myself to stop believing them.

There are moments when my emotions will be loud, circumstances will be confusing, and fear will feel convincing.

I need something stronger than how I feel.

I need truth.

And God has already placed it in my hands.

Maybe that hunger I have felt for His Word was not random.

Maybe God was lovingly preparing me for battles I could not yet see.

Maybe every morning He called me back to the pages was another day of training.

Maybe every passage I wrestled with strengthened my grip.

Maybe every truth I tucked into my heart was another reminder that when the battle came, I would not have to fight it empty handed.

And maybe that is the invitation for all of us.

Don’t wait until the battle begins to learn the weight of your sword.

Pick it up now.

Know His Word.

Know His voice.

Know His character.

Ask the Spirit to teach you.

Let truth take root so deeply in your heart that when the enemy whispers something contrary to what God has spoken, something within you recognizes it immediately.

Not because you suddenly became fearless.

Not because you figured out how to fight everything on your own.

But because you have spent enough time with Truth to recognize a lie.

The sword may feel heavy at first.

Keep picking it up.

Your grip is getting stronger.

You are learning how to carry what God has already placed in your hands.

And maybe, without even realizing it,

you are training for the battle before you ever see it coming.

The Oil

September 29, 2026

You don’t know the cost of the oil.

Those words have been sitting with me lately.

I keep coming back to them, and I think I am starting to understand why.

There are parts of our walk with Jesus that other people will never fully understand because they weren’t there for what it cost to get here.

They weren’t there for the prayers.

The wrestling.

The surrender.

The things we had to lay down.

The things we picked back up and had to lay down again.

They weren’t there when Jesus met us in places we don’t talk about anymore.

They just see the oil.

But they don’t always know what it cost.

Lately, I have been sitting in John, and I can’t stop thinking about the women Jesus meets there.

Especially the woman caught in adultery.

She is brought to Jesus in probably one of the most humiliating ways imaginable. Her sin is exposed. Everyone around her knows what she has done, and they are ready to condemn her for it.

Then there is Jesus.

Eventually, everyone else walks away.

And she is left standing there with Him.

The only One without sin.

The only One who actually could condemn her.

And He doesn’t.

“Neither do I condemn you.”

I think we like to stop there.

I know I have.

Because what a beautiful picture of grace.

But Jesus keeps speaking.

“Go, and from now on sin no more.”

I’ve been thinking about that part a lot.

Because the grace of Jesus doesn’t just cover us.

It calls us to walk differently.

Not because we have to earn what He just gave us.

Not because His love suddenly becomes dependent on how perfectly we behave.

But because how could we encounter a love like that and willingly keep walking toward the very things He came to free us from?

She walked into that moment carrying the weight of what she had done.

She walked away without condemnation.

But she also walked away with a new direction.

And I think there is something there that I desperately needed to understand.

Grace isn’t Jesus looking at the things destroying us and saying they don’t matter.

Grace is Jesus looking at us in the middle of them and saying,

I don’t condemn you.

Now come out of this.

There are things I have asked God to forgive me for while still keeping the door cracked open behind me.

Things I’ve surrendered and then reached back for.

Things I’ve known He was asking me to leave that I tried to justify carrying just a little longer.

I think, for a long time, I understood grace as something that made me feel better about where I had been.

Now I am starting to understand it as something that changes where I am willing to go.

And maybe that’s where the oil comes in.

Because when you really begin to understand the grace you have been given, surrender starts to look different.

Obedience starts to look different.

Worship starts to look different.

There is a line that has been living in my head:

“My whole life for Your glory, my whole world for You only, everything for the honor of Your name.”

My whole life.

Not just the easy parts.

Not just Sunday morning.

Not just the things I don’t mind giving up.

Everything.

I think that is what I want my response to grace to be.

Not perfection.

Not performance.

A life pointed differently because I met Jesus.

A life that says, If You called me out of it, I don’t want to keep running back to it.

A life that says, If it pulls me away from You, I don’t need it.

A life that says, You gave me grace I could never earn, so I want everything I have to bring You glory.

My whole life for Your glory.

There is another woman in John I keep thinking about too.

She came to a well carrying a water jar.

Jesus knew her story too.

He knew exactly where she had been and exactly what she had been looking to other people to satisfy.

And after encountering Him, she left her jar sitting there.

I love that little detail.

She came needing to fill something.

Then she met Jesus and left it behind.

Maybe there are some things you can only leave once you have found something better.

Maybe that’s what Jesus has been teaching me.

I don’t have to spend my life white-knuckling surrender, staring backward at everything I gave up for Him.

I get to look at Him and realize I found something better.

Someone better.

The jar can stay at the well.

The old life can stay behind me.

The things He has called me out of don’t have to keep receiving pieces of me just because they once did.

I can walk differently now.

Not because I suddenly have it all together.

I don’t.

But because I have encountered Jesus.

And I don’t want that encounter to leave me unchanged.

Maybe that’s what people don’t see when they see the oil being poured out.

They see what was given.

Jesus knows why.

He knows what it took to put it down.

He knows what it took to walk away.

He knows how many times I almost went back.

He knows every quiet yes that nobody else heard.

And maybe that’s why the oil is precious.

Not because surrender makes me worthy of Him.

But because He was worthy of it before I ever poured a single drop.

So this is where I find myself lately.

Wanting less of the life that keeps pulling me backward.

Wanting more of the One who keeps calling me forward.

Wanting my life to say thank You in ways my words never could.

My whole life for His glory.

My whole world for Him only.

Not because grace demanded that I pay it back.

But because grace changed me.

And when I think about the woman standing before Jesus in John, I wonder what those first few steps away from Him felt like.

She had been brought there expecting condemnation.

Instead, she walked away carrying grace.

And a new direction.

I think I’m learning to do the same.

To receive the grace.

To leave what He told me to leave.

And to keep walking.

Because maybe the greatest response I can give to the grace that saved my life

is to let it change the way I live it.

One Small Step for Man, One Giant Leap for God’s Plan

The Miracles I Almost Missed.June 29th, 2026

When Love Gives You a Choice

The Index

Where You Are Planted

More Than Intentional

The Company You Keep

Becoming Available

The Training Ground

The Oil

The Miracles I Almost Missed.
June 29th, 2026