Wow is me

There’s something humbling about knee replacement surgery that no one really prepares you for. You go into it thinking, “I’ll be back on my feet in no time,” and then reality gently (or not so gently) reminds you that healing has its own timeline. As I inch closer to 70, I’m learning that my body doesn’t always cooperate the way it used to. Some days it feels like my knee and I are in negotiations… and let’s just say, I’m not always winning.

It’s a strange realization, this awareness that our bodies are, little by little, wearing out. Scripture tells us this earthly tent won’t last forever, and now I’m feeling that truth in very real ways. Getting up takes a little more effort, walking requires a bit more thought, and don’t even get me started on stairs. Whoever invented stairs clearly never had a knee replacement!

But here’s what I’m holding onto: while the body may slow down, the spirit doesn’t have to. So in the meantime, I’m choosing to live the best I can, one day at a time. I’m learning to rest when I need to, laugh when I can, and manage the aches with a little more grace (and maybe a heating pad or two). There’s still so much life to live, even if I move through it a bit slower these days.

And through it all, I’m thankful. Thankful that I can still get up, still move, still embrace each new day God gives me. It may not look like it used to, but it’s still a gift. So I’ll keep going, one careful step at a time, with a grateful heart and maybe a slightly dramatic sigh every now and then. After all, if we can’t laugh a little along the way, we might just cry… and I’d rather save my energy for walking. 

Learning the New

There’s something both exhilarating and unsettling about starting over in a new city. Every street is unfamiliar, every turn requires a second guess, and even the simplest errands can feel like small adventures. Some days it feels exciting, like we’re explorers charting new territory. Other days, if I’m honest, it’s just plain overwhelming.

We haven’t found our rhythm yet, and one of the hardest parts has been not having “our people.” Back home, friendships were woven into our daily lives, easy, comfortable, and deeply rooted. Here, we’re starting from scratch. No familiar faces at the grocery store, no spontaneous coffee dates, no one who just “knows” us yet. That absence can feel heavy.

But in the middle of all this newness, there are small mercies, and I’m learning to notice them. For one, I’m incredibly thankful for GPS. What did we ever do without it? It’s been our constant companion, guiding us through winding roads and unknown neighborhoods, helping us feel just a little less lost. It’s funny how something so simple can bring such comfort.

We’re slowly checking things off our list. Next up: finding new doctors. It’s one of those necessary steps that makes a place start to feel more like home, even if the process itself feels daunting. Piece by piece, we’re building a new life here, even if it doesn’t quite feel like “ours” yet.

This past weekend brought a much-needed dose of familiarity and joy. Having my son visit, along with my youngest daughter and her husband, filled our home with laughter and love. For a little while, everything felt normal again. It reminded me that no matter where we are, home isn’t just a place, it’s the people we hold close.

So here we are, somewhere between lost and found. Learning new roads, hoping for new friendships, and trusting that in time, this unfamiliar place will become something more. Maybe even home.

Survivorship and Suitcases: Stepping Into the Unknown Twice

My sweet oncologist

The month after my oncologist transitioned me into the survivorship program, my husband and I signed papers on a house in a new city. I didn’t expect that leaving the safety of my cancer team and leaving the familiarity of my hometown would stir up the very same question in my heart: Who am I now?

When my oncologist told me I was being moved into the survivorship program, I smiled politely. I knew this was good news. Survivorship is the place every cancer patient hopes to land. It means active treatment is behind you. It means scans are less frequent. It means life is supposed to return to something resembling normal.

But as I walked to my car that day, keys clutched tightly in my hand, I felt something I hadn’t expected.

I felt untethered.

For months, years really, my cancer treatment center had been my anchor. The waiting room chairs, the familiar faces at the front desk, the quiet efficiency of the infusion nurses, and most of all, my oncologist. She knew my case inside and out. She knew my fears before I spoke them. When something felt off in my body, I could call and know someone who understood my history would respond.

Being transitioned into survivorship felt like someone gently, but firmly, removing the training wheels.

“You’re doing great,” they said. “We’ll see you in six months.”

Six months.

In cancer time, that feels like an eternity.

At almost the same moment this shift was happening, my husband and I were in the middle of buying a house in another city. Boxes were appearing in the corners of our home. Paperwork was piling up on the kitchen table. We were researching new grocery stores, new pharmacies, new doctors.

The irony wasn’t lost on me.

In one season, I was leaving behind not just a house, but the place that had carried me through one of the hardest chapters of my life.

Cancer changes the geography of your heart. Certain streets hold memories of radiation appointments. Certain parking spaces feel sacred because you prayed there before walking inside for biopsy results. The walls of my treatment center had witnessed my tears, my flat chest, and my whispered pleas to God in sterile exam rooms.

And now I was being told: You’re okay. You can go.

At the same time, I was packing up my life.

Moving to a new city is unsettling under the best of circumstances. You leave behind your favorite cashier at the grocery store who always asks about your family. You leave the pharmacist who knows your medication history by heart. You leave the shortcuts you’ve memorized and the restaurants where they know your order.

You trade familiarity for uncertainty.

But for a cancer survivor, it’s more layered than that.

In my current city, people know my story. They saw me during treatment. They watched carefully as my body changed. They brought meals. They prayed. They know why I look the way I look.

In this new city, no one will know.

And strangely, that both thrills and terrifies me.

There’s something undeniably appealing about walking into a room where no one knows your medical history. In a new neighborhood, I won’t automatically be “the woman who had breast cancer.” I’ll just be the new neighbor. The lady down the street. The one unpacking boxes.

That anonymity feels like freedom.

But it also feels like hiding.

Because here’s the truth: I am flat-chested. I chose not to reconstruct after my mastectomy. Some days I wear my prostheses. Some days I don’t. In my current town, that choice doesn’t require explanation. People understand.

In a new city, if I choose not to wear them, I may get stares. I may get whispers. Someone may wonder if I’m transgender. And then I’m faced with another decision: Do I share my story all over again?

Do I open the door to the most vulnerable chapter of my life for the sake of clarity?

Or do I wear my prostheses every day, ward off questions, and blend in as “normal”?

It’s a conundrum I didn’t anticipate when we started house hunting.

Because this move isn’t just about real estate.

It’s about identity.

Cancer has already rewritten my reflection in the mirror. It has reshaped my body and, in many ways, my soul. Survivorship is supposed to be the chapter where you reclaim yourself. But what if you’re still figuring out who that self is?

Am I the “before cancer” version of me, trying to reassemble what was lost?

Am I the “cancer warrior,” defined by scars and survival?

Or am I someone entirely new?

Standing at the intersection of survivorship and relocation, I’ve realized something profound: both experiences are invitations.

Being moved into the survivorship program is an invitation to trust my body again. To trust that the treatment did what it was meant to do. To live without the constant hum of weekly appointments.

Moving to a new city is an invitation to step into unfamiliar spaces and discover who I am when no one already knows my backstory.

Both feel risky.

Both feel hopeful.

There’s grief in leaving the safety net of my oncology team. Even if I can still call them, it won’t be the same. The rhythm of regular check-ins is changing. The intensity of oversight is softening. I have to learn to carry more of the responsibility for my health awareness.

And yet, there’s dignity in that, too.

Survivorship says, “You are strong enough to walk forward.”

Likewise, moving says, “You are brave enough to begin again.”

I’ve started to see that the real question isn’t whether I’ll be the new me or the old me with baggage.

The truth is, there is no old me to return to.

Cancer ensured that.

But there also isn’t a completely new me untethered from the past.

The woman packing boxes carries scars, visible and invisible. She carries a fear of recurrence. She carries gratitude for life. She carries wisdom she didn’t ask for but now treasures.

The choice isn’t between baggage and freedom.

The choice is how I carry what I’ve been given.

Maybe some days in the new city I’ll wear my prostheses. Maybe some days I won’t. Maybe I’ll share my story with a neighbor over coffee. Maybe I’ll keep it tucked close to my heart until trust is built.

Maybe survivorship isn’t about pretending cancer never happened.

Maybe it’s about deciding that cancer doesn’t get to script every introduction.

As we prepare to load the moving truck, I find myself whispering prayers like the ones I prayed before scans: Lord, go before us. Steady my heart. Remind me that You are my true safety net.

Because the truth is, my security was never fully in a building with an oncology wing.

It wasn’t in a zip code.

It wasn’t even in the frequency of appointments.

It was in the steady faithfulness of God through every diagnosis, every treatment, every sleepless night.

That same faithfulness will meet me in a new city. It will meet me in survivorship. It will meet me in awkward introductions and in quiet evenings when fear creeps in.

This season feels like standing on a threshold.

Behind me: scans, surgical scars, therapies, familiar streets.

Before me: unpacked boxes, new doctors, unknown neighbors, longer stretches between checkups.

In both directions, there is evidence of grace.

I don’t know exactly who I will be in this new city. I don’t know how often I’ll tell my story or how often I’ll choose silence. I don’t know if I’ll feel untethered or unexpectedly free.

But I do know this:

Survivorship is not the absence of fear. It’s the decision to live anyway.

And moving forward, whether into a new home or a new medical chapter, is an act of courage in itself.

So here I am, keys in one hand and medical discharge papers in the other, stepping into a future that feels both fragile and full of possibility.

Maybe that’s what survivorship really is.

Not a clean slate.

But a brave next step.

If you are still in the thick of treatment, still counting infusions, still waiting on scan results, still gripping the hand of your oncologist a little tighter than you admit, I want you to hear this: the day may come when they move you into survivorship, and it will feel both victorious and unsettling. You may miss the rhythm of appointments that once exhausted you. You may long for the safety net you can’t wait to outgrow right now. That’s normal. Healing is layered. Courage is layered. And you are stronger than you know, even on the days you feel anything but strong.

For now, stay where your feet are. Let the nurses care for you. Let your body rest. Let others carry what feels too heavy. One day you will look back at this chapter, not because it was easy, but because you walked through it. And when that next season comes, whether it’s survivorship, a new home, or simply a new kind of normal, you will not step into it empty-handed. You will carry resilience. You will carry wisdom. You will carry proof that you can do hard things.

And that will be enough.

 

The Last Walk Down the Hall

After more than a decade of appointments, scans and whispered prayers in hospital hallways, I’m preparing for something I once only dreamed about: my final visit to the cancer treatment center. What I didn’t expect was how emotional, complicated and deeply spiritual this goodbye would feel.

Next week, I will walk through those familiar glass doors for what will likely be the very last time. I’ve been walking into that building for 11 years. Eleven years of appointment cards tucked into my purse. Eleven years of blood work, scans and long waits in vinyl chairs under fluorescent lights. Eleven years of holding my breath until someone in scrubs smiled and said the words, “Everything looks good.”

Somehow, a place I never wanted to visit became familiar — almost safe. I know exactly where to park. I know which entrance is quickest. I know how the elevator sounds when it dings on my floor. I even recognize the scent of the hallway, a mixture of antiseptic, coffee and something uniquely “hospital.”

For more than a decade, this place has been my lifeline. It’s where I cried, where I prayed and where I learned to trust God in ways I never had before. So why does walking away feel so complicated?

At my appointment last year, my provider casually mentioned, “Next time we see you, we’ll move you into the survivorship program.”

Survivorship. The word caught me off guard. I remember thinking, “Haven’t I already survived?”

Most patients with breast cancer are considered in remission at five years. My scans have been clear. My blood work has shown no evidence of disease for a long time. Yet here I was, still tethered to oncology, still returning year after year.

Part of me wondered whether they were staying on guard, watching for cancer to sneak back up on me. But if I’m honest, I was the one still on guard. Cancer may leave your body, but it lingers in your mind. For years, every ache made me nervous. Every headache, every sore muscle, every unfamiliar twinge sent my thoughts racing.

Is it back? Lord, please, not again.

It’s a terrible way to live, constantly bracing for bad news. It steals joy from perfectly healthy days. It keeps you from fully resting.

Learning to trust my body again took time. Learning to trust God with my future took even longer. There were nights I lay awake bargaining with Him. Mornings I opened my Bible with trembling hands. Days when the only prayer I could manage was, “Lord, just help me make it through today.” And He did. Over and over again, He did.

Now here I am, finally standing at the edge of what feels like freedom, and instead of pure celebration, I feel something more complicated. Excitement, yes, but also tenderness, hesitation and even a little grief. Because this last visit feels like more than an appointment. It feels like a goodbye to a chapter where God met me in some of the deepest valleys of my life.

When I walk down that long hallway next week, I’ll pass the waiting room filled with people still in the thick of their fight. I’ll see tired eyes, headscarves and worried spouses holding hands. I remember being one of them.

So part of me wonders, how do I walk in as a survivor without seeming insensitive? How do I smile without feeling like I’m celebrating something others are still praying for? I want to hold my head high with an “I beat cancer” smile, but I don’t want my joy to feel like someone else’s heartbreak. That’s the strange thing about survivorship; it comes wrapped in gratitude and sometimes a touch of survivor’s guilt.

Is it OK to feel overjoyed when the nurse practitioner says, “You’re doing great. We’re moving you into survivorship now”? After everything I’ve endured, is it OK to celebrate? I think it is — not proudly, not loudly, but gratefully. Because hope walks those hallways, too.

Maybe someone sitting there will look up, see a woman 11 years out, healthy, steady and smiling, and think, “If God did it for her, maybe He’ll do it for me too.” Maybe my quiet joy could be someone else’s encouragement.

From what I understand, a survivorship program isn’t a dismissal or a “get out of jail free” card. It’s simply a transition: fewer oncology visits, more routine care, a long-term wellness plan, a gentle shift from constant monitoring to intentional living. It’s the medical world’s way of saying, “Go live your life.” And maybe it’s God’s way of saying the same thing.

For 11 years, cancer has helped set my calendar. Now it doesn’t get to anymore. There’s something beautifully freeing about that, and something scary, too, like taking the training wheels off after you’ve grown used to their support. But maybe this isn’t an ending at all. Maybe it’s a graduation. I can’t help but smile at the thought that after all this time, there won’t be a trophy waiting for me. No badge. No certificate of accomplishment. Just a simple sentence: “You’re doing great.” And honestly? That’s enough. Because a healthy, ordinary, beautifully boring life is the greatest gift I could receive.

So next week, I’ll walk in quietly. I’ll register. I’ll roll up my sleeve for blood work. I’ll sit in that waiting room with compassion and prayer for those still fighting. And when they tell me it’s time to move forward, I’ll smile. Not because I escaped something others didn’t, but because God carried me through every single step.

As I walk out those doors one last time, I won’t just be leaving a treatment center — I’ll be stepping into a new season of trust. The same God who held me through diagnosis, treatment and fear will walk beside me in freedom, too, and that assurance is the greatest survivorship of all.

The Dangers of Witchcraft

As I continue my studies in the book of first Samuel, I wanted to share some vital information with you. I've tried to compare this chapter with a popular TV series from my generation. I hope it blesses you and reminds you of the danger of dabbling in all forms of witchcraft.

There’s something about the supernatural that has always fascinated people. From ancient times to modern television, the idea of hidden power, secret knowledge, and a little “harmless” magic can feel intriguing, even comforting. But Scripture gives us a very clear warning about where that curiosity can lead.

In 1 Samuel 28 (CEV), we find King Saul at one of the lowest points of his life. God is silent. Samuel is dead. The Philistines are closing in. In desperation, Saul does the very thing he once outlawed, he seeks out a medium.

The Bible tells us Saul asked his servants to find “a woman who talks to spirits” (1 Samuel 28:7, CEV). He goes in disguise, under cover of darkness, knowing full well this is forbidden by God. Saul doesn’t turn to witchcraft because it’s entertaining—he turns to it because he’s afraid and wants answers God hasn’t given him.

And that’s the danger.

Witchcraft often presents itself as a shortcut when faith feels hard. Instead of waiting, trusting, or repenting, Saul looks for control. But what he finds is judgment, not guidance. The encounter leaves him terrified, physically drained, and spiritually undone. By the end of the chapter, Saul is face-down on the floor, empty, hopeless, and condemned. Witchcraft did not bring clarity; it sealed his downfall.

Now contrast that with how witchcraft was presented in American culture just a few decades ago.

From 1964 to 1972, the popular TV series Bewitched brought witches into living rooms across the country. Samantha was charming, kind, and beautiful. Her magic solved household problems with a twitch of her nose. Witchcraft wasn’t dark or dangerous, it was funny, fashionable, and harmless.

And then there was Endora, Samantha’s mother.

Endora was powerful, outspoken, and often meddled in mortal affairs. She wasn’t portrayed as evil, just misunderstood, witty, and superior. What’s fascinating (and sobering) is that the name Endora closely mirrors Endor, the very town where Saul consulted the medium in 1 Samuel 28. Whether intentional or not, the connection is striking: a fictional witch named after a real place of spiritual rebellion.

The show subtly reshaped the narrative. Witches weren’t people God warned against, they were lovable characters you rooted for. Over time, that subtle shift matters. What Scripture treats as spiritually dangerous, entertainment reframes as amusing and safe.

But God’s Word doesn’t change with culture.

The Bible consistently warns that involvement with mediums, spirits, and witchcraft separates us from God, not because He wants to withhold joy, but because He wants to protect us. Saul’s story reminds us that when we seek power apart from God, we don’t find freedom, we find bondage.

What looks harmless on a screen can still be harmful to a soul.

God calls His people to trust Him fully, even in silence, even in fear. When answers don’t come quickly, faith waits. Witchcraft rushes ahead and pays a price.

Heavenly Father,

We come before You acknowledging that our world often makes dangerous things look harmless. Help us to see clearly through the lens of Your truth. Guard our hearts and minds from curiosity that pulls us away from You. When we feel afraid, uncertain, or impatient, teach us to wait on You rather than seek answers in places You have warned us against. Forgive us for the times we’ve entertained what You have clearly spoken against. Draw us closer to You, strengthen our faith, and remind us that true power, peace, and wisdom come from You alone. In Jesus’ name, Amen.

If Only...

40 some odd years ago, I lived in a rural part of Gainesville. That part of the county was farmland and zoned agriculturally. Most of the residents raised chickens for Cagle, a large chicken producing plant. We loved living in the country. It was so peaceful and laid back. 

We hadn't been there long before we got to know our neighbors. On one side was a middle aged couple with 2 children, a girl about 12 and a boy about 4. On the other side was a younger couple with 3 boys 10, 8, and 6. Over the next couple of months, we became friends with these families and were grateful our children had playmates.

Back then, people seemed to be interested in their neighbor's lives. We'd speak when out in our yards, lend garden tools, and do other neighborly things. Whenever someone had a cookout, everyone in close proximity would be invited. It was easier to be friendly with the older couple, but not quite as easy with the younger ones. 

The younger couple was always fighting. We could hear them screaming at each other all hours of the day and night. Occasionally we'd hear glass shatter as a beer bottle went flying out a window and hit the ground outside. John, the father of the three young boys, had a drinking problem and couldn't hold a job. His wife worked at a convenience store and was gone from the time her children were dropped off at school each morning until about dinner time that day. 

As the drinking and the fights escalated, we became very concerned for the children, but back then, people didn't make phone calls to child welfare as easily as they do now.

One day, when all the children were at school, John came strolling over to our house. I was on the front porch in the swing reading a book. I greeted him and realized by the glazed look in his eye he'd been drinking. 

He asked if he could sit down for a few minutes and although hesitant because his wife and my husband were at work, I agreed. We sat for a few minutes talking about the children and about our lives when I felt the tiniest prompting from the Lord saying, "Tell him about Me." 

John kept the conversation going rambling on about projects he had planned for their home and I looked for an opening to share the Lord with him but before I knew it, my neighbor was staggering away. 

The next day the owner of our small corner grocery store shared tragic news. The previous night, John and his wife had a major fight and he'd left inebriated. He took the car and went speeding off eventually coming to the highway overpass where he plunged to his death in the traffic below. 

When I learned of his passing, I was grieved- not only for John's untimely death, but also for the fact that I'd not shared the gospel with him. I cried and cried for days and days asking God to forgive me for my disobedience. 

The "if onlys" haunted me for months. I couldn't help but think if I'd interjected God into our conversation earlier that day, I could have presented the plan of salvation and John might have been saved. 

My point in sharing this very personal story is to encourage you, especially in these days, to heed the Scripture found in 2 Timothy 4 "Preach the Word; be prepared in season and out of season;  correct, rebuke and encourage--with great patience and careful instruction. For the time will come when men will not put up with sound  doctrine."

My prayer has always been that John saw my life example and was able to tell I loved the Lord. Perhaps that's why he approached me that day on the swing. Maybe he "felt" the difference and wanted to know how he could have the same. 

I have no idea whether he is in heaven or hell, but I'm hoping he went to be with the Lord. Maybe someone else had planted a seed in his heart years ago, or even better, maybe he'd been saved as a child. I'll never know until I get to heaven, but I still think about the Holy Spirit's prompting to this day. 

Now I listen even more intently for His voice and when I hear it, I act immediately, no questions asked. I hope you'll do the same. 

Someone once said, "You may be the only Bible someone ever reads." 

They're watching, whether you think they are or not. That's why we have such a great responsibility as believers. 

St. Francis of Assisi said "Preach the gospel at all times and if necessary, use words." 

When the Holy Spirit instructs, use your words, please. I love and care about people. I don't want anyone to perish and spend eternity in hell. You may or may not believe that heaven and hell are literal places, but I can guarantee you they are. If you pick up the Bible and read it from cover to cover, you'll get a much clearer understanding. And if you don't have the desire to read it cover to cover, then I pray that you would at least listen to an audio version of the Bible. You don't have to listen to the whole thing in one sitting, you can listen to a chapter at a time, a book at a time, or whatever you choose. 

You can't know the truth if you don't put God's word into your heart and mind. The only way you can do that is through the Word- The Holy scriptures, God's love letter to us.

Sirens Screamed Out a Warning

This morning started with that unmistakable feeling in the air, the kind that’s thick, humid, and just a little too quiet. The air felt electric, like it was holding its breath. I noticed it right away when I got up, but after breakfast I was still going about my day, not thinking much of it. Then suddenly, the tornado warning sirens started blaring through our neighborhood. Anyone who lives in Georgia knows those sirens mean business, a warning means a tornado has actually been sighted, not just a “maybe.” That sound will get your attention faster than a ringing phone at midnight.

Without hesitation, we grabbed our bike helmets (because apparently that’s who we are now) and huddled into the laundry room. Heavy rain began pounding the house, the wind picked up, and then came the hail, loud, fast, and unmistakable. The whole thing only lasted about fifteen minutes, but those minutes felt much longer when you’re listening to the house creak and wondering what the sky has planned next. When the storm finally passed and the sirens went quiet, we were beyond thankful.

Our quick response today was shaped by experience. In 2021, an EF4 tornado tore through our area, destroying over 1,700 homes. That storm scared us to death in a way you don’t forget. It taught us a hard but valuable lesson: when the warning comes, you don’t debate, you don’t watch out the window, and you definitely don’t finish what you’re doing first. You take cover immediately. Fear has a way of turning into wisdom when you survive it.

What’s strange is how early this kind of weather is showing up. Tornado season used to feel more predictable, but lately it seems like the seasons themselves are confused. Georgia averages around 30 tornadoes a year, which doesn’t sound like much until you realize the Peach State ranks pretty high for unexpected twisters. We may not have the numbers of Oklahoma, but we make up for it with surprise appearances. Today was a reminder that in Georgia, you keep your bike helmet handy, your weather app open, and your sense of humor intact, because sometimes all you can do is take cover, say a prayer, and hope the laundry room holds.

The Challenge of Being Still

 

There’s a large, comfy recliner in my living room that rarely gets used. Not because it isn’t inviting, it is, but because sitting still has never come easily for me. I’m usually busy doing something: tidying the house, moving from one task to the next, staying in motion. But every now and then, I feel myself running out of steam. That’s when I finally give in and sit down.

 

When I sink into that soft leather recliner, put my feet up, and let my body rest, something wonderful happens. I don’t fix anything. I don’t accomplish anything. I simply rest, and in that resting, strength slowly returns.

 

That image helps me understand the Hebrew word Rapha in a deeper way.

 

In Scripture, Rapha means to heal, restore, mend, or make whole. God reveals Himself as Jehovah Rapha, “the Lord who heals you” (Exodus 15:26). What’s striking is that healing in God’s economy often begins not with striving, but with surrender. Much like settling into a recliner, healing requires trust, trusting that we don’t have to hold ourselves up, fix ourselves, or keep pushing through.

 

Stillness, however, has always been a challenge for me.

 

Even as a child, I struggled with being still. During nap time at school, while everyone else lay quietly on their mats, something on me was always wiggling, a toe, a finger, a foot. I tried, but complete stillness felt impossible. That hasn’t changed much with age. So when I read, “Be still and know that I am God” (Psalm 46:10), I can honestly say it’s not the knowing God part I struggle with—it’s the being still part.

 

Yet the word “be still” in this verse comes from the Hebrew word raphah, the same root as Rapha. It carries the meaning of letting go, relaxing your grip, ceasing your striving. God isn’t demanding rigid stillness; He’s inviting us to loosen our clenched fists and rest in who He is.

 

Just like that recliner supports my tired body, God invites us to rest our weary souls in Him.

 

Jesus echoed this same invitation when He said, “Come to Me, all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest” (Matthew 11:28). Notice He doesn’t say, “Fix yourself first” or “Work harder.” He says, come. Sit. Rest. Let Me carry the weight.

 

Healing, Rapha, often happens when we stop running long enough to be held.

 

Isaiah reminds us,

“In repentance and rest is your salvation, in quietness and trust is your strength” (Isaiah 30:15).

 

Strength doesn’t always come from doing more. Sometimes it comes from doing less—and trusting more.

 

When I sit in my recliner and finally stop moving, I’m reminded that God doesn’t need me to keep everything going. He asks me to rest in Him, to let Him heal what I cannot, and to restore what feels worn thin. Even if something is still wiggling, my thoughts, my worries, my plans, He meets me there with grace.

 

Jehovah Rapha is not rushed. He heals in moments of quiet surrender. And sometimes, the holiest thing we can do is sit down, put our feet up, and let God do what only He can do.

 

Heavenly Father,

You are Jehovah Rapha, the Lord who heals and restores. You know how hard it is for me to be still, to stop striving, stop fixing, and stop running ahead of You. Teach me to rest in Your presence. Help me loosen my grip on control and trust You with what is broken, tired, or worn in me. As I come to You, weary and in need, fill me with Your peace and restore my strength. Heal my heart, my mind, and my spirit as I learn to rest in You.

In Jesus’ name, Amen.

 

 

 

Scrolling Through My Life

It’s a gray, foggy day, and boredom sends me scrolling through my phone. What I didn’t expect was to scroll through my life.

More than 37,000 photos live there, tiny frozen moments of joy, pain, laughter, tears, and ordinary days I barely remember living. As I swipe, I see evidence of God’s faithfulness everywhere. Surgeries I survived. Illnesses I endured. Grandchildren taking their first breath. Holidays crowded with people I love. Smiles that came after tears. Strength that showed up when mine was gone.

Most of those moments are recorded. But many are not. Quiet prayers whispered in the dark. Fears I never spoke aloud. Battles fought only in my heart. Victories no one applauded.

That’s when my thoughts turn to God.

Scripture tells us that He keeps records too, not because He might forget, but because nothing about our lives is insignificant to Him.

“All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.” (Psalm 139:16)

I wonder what heaven will be like. Will there be a moment when my life flashes before me, good, bad, and ugly, played back at a speed only eternity allows? Will God sit patiently beside me, not in accusation, but in compassion? Will I finally see how His hand was at work in moments I thought were wasted or broken?

The Bible says that one day “the books were opened” (Revelation 20:12). That can sound frightening, until we remember that for those who belong to Christ, judgment has already been settled at the cross. Any replay I might see won’t be to shame me, but to show me the depth of His mercy. Every failure covered. Every tear counted. Every act of faith, no matter how small, remembered.

Right now, we see only fragments like snapshots instead of the whole story.

“For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face.” (1 Corinthians 13:12)

One day, the scrolling will stop. Time will give way to eternity. And we won’t be looking at a screen anymore, we’ll be looking at Him.

That’s why, even as I look back with gratitude, I also look forward with hope. Scripture calls us to live while “we wait for the blessed hope, the appearing of the glory of our great God and Savior, Jesus Christ” (Titus 2:13). Jesus promised He would come again, not just to review our lives, but to redeem them fully, to make all things new.

There are still many moments left unrecorded. More love to give. More grace to receive. More days written in His book. And when He comes again, the story won’t end, it will finally make sense.

Until then, I’ll keep scrolling with gratitude, living with purpose, and watching the horizon with hope.

Father God,

Thank You for being faithful in every season of my life, for the moments I remember clearly and the ones I’ve forgotten. Thank You that my days are written in Your book, that nothing I’ve lived through has been wasted in Your hands. Help me trust You with my past, walk with You in my present, and look forward with hope to the return of Your Son. As I wait for Jesus to come again, teach me to live faithfully, love deeply, and rest confidently in Your grace.

In Jesus’ name, Amen.

The Anchor of Hope

There is something deeply peaceful about being on the water. Whether it’s the wide openness of the ocean or the gentle expanse of a lake, I’ve always loved the rhythm beneath a boat—the steady rise and fall, the soft lapping of water against the hull. Out there, worries seem quieter. Life slows down. Breathing comes easier.

Yet even in that calm, there’s comfort in knowing one important thing: the boat has an anchor.

An anchor is not flashy. It isn’t admired the way polished rails or a smooth motor might be. Most of the time, it’s hidden beneath the surface, unseen and unnoticed. But when the wind picks up, when the current shifts, or when you need to stay right where you are, the anchor becomes everything. Heavy. Sure. Dependable. It keeps the boat from drifting away.

My brother understood that well. After years of waiting, he finally got his pontoon boat—a dream realized. He loved taking it out on big lakes like Lake Oconee, fishing all day, enjoying the stillness and the space. The size of the boat gave a sense of stability, but even then, the anchor mattered. Without it, the boat would slowly wander, carried by forces he couldn’t control.

When we were younger, my brother and I spent time in a canoe. That boat was far less steady. We felt every ripple, every shift in weight. But even then, if we wanted to remain in one place—to rest, to fish, to simply be—we could lower an anchor. That small act made all the difference. It allowed us to stop drifting and stay grounded, even in a boat that felt vulnerable.

Scripture tells us that our hope in Christ functions the same way.

Hebrews 6:19–20 (AMP) describes hope as “a safe and steadfast anchor of the soul,” a hope that does not slip or break under pressure, but reaches beyond what we can see—into the very presence of God. This hope is not wishful thinking. It is not shallow optimism. It is anchored in Jesus Himself, who has gone before us and secured our place with God.

Life has currents. Some are gentle, others relentless. There are seasons when everything feels calm and predictable, and others when we realize just how easily we could drift—away from peace, away from trust, away from truth. Without an anchor, even the most beautiful boat will wander.

Hope in Christ doesn’t mean we never feel the movement of the water. It doesn’t mean storms won’t come. But it does mean we are not at the mercy of every wave. Our anchor holds. When we need to stay still, it keeps us grounded. When it’s time to move forward, it reminds us where our security truly lies—not in the boat, not in the water, but in what holds us fast beneath the surface.

That is the kind of hope my soul needs: heavy enough to hold, sure enough to trust, and anchored beyond what my eyes can see.

Prayer

Lord,
Thank You for being the anchor of my soul. When life feels unsteady and the currents pull in directions I didn’t expect, remind me that my hope is secure in You. Help me trust what I cannot see and rest in what You have already done. Keep me from drifting away from Your truth, Your peace, and Your presence. May my life reflect a quiet confidence that comes from being firmly anchored in Christ.
Amen.

The Crack in the Crock that Made Me Cry

 

It was such a small thing—or so it seemed.

I had recently bought a beautiful Pioneer Woman crockpot, a cheerful shade of turquoise blue that brought a much-needed pop of color to my gray-and-white kitchen. It felt like a small indulgence, a bit of joy sitting right there on my countertop. I’d only used it a couple of times when I noticed a large crack running along the bottom of the ceramic insert.

At first, I tried to convince myself it was only superficial. Surely it couldn’t be serious. But as I washed the pot, my fingers traced the line again—and again—and I realized the crack was deep. Deep enough to make it unsafe. Deep enough to mean the crockpot was destined for the trash.

I stood there at the sink, holding that broken piece, and felt tears rise unexpectedly in my eyes.

It surprised me. After all, it was just a crockpot. Yes, it had been fairly expensive. Yes, it was brand new. But my reaction felt outsized for the loss. And that’s when I realized: this wasn’t really about the crockpot at all.

That crack had touched something much deeper.

Lately, my life has felt cracked in places too. We’re facing another move—one I hadn’t planned on making at this stage of life. While my heart understands the wisdom of being closer to one of our children as we age, my spirit resists the upheaval. The realtor is coming this week. Conversations about listing the house, timelines, and next steps are looming. And then there’s the packing… again. The letting go. The learning my way around a new city. Making new friends. Finding a new church. Starting over.

It feels like too much.

I don’t like change. I never have. And when change stacks up, one small disappointment—like a cracked crockpot—can be the thing that finally opens the floodgates.

That day at the sink, God gently showed me something important: sometimes our tears aren’t about what’s in our hands, but about what’s in our hearts. The crack didn’t cause the pain—it revealed it.

Scripture reminds us, “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit” (Psalm 34:18). Not just in the big heartbreaks, but in the quiet moments when we feel overwhelmed, fragile, and worn thin.

Maybe the crack was an invitation—to pause, to acknowledge my fear, to admit my resistance, and to bring all of it honestly before God. Maybe it was a reminder that even when life feels fractured, He is still steady. Still present. Still holding me.

I don’t know what lies ahead. I don’t know how I’ll adjust or how long it will take for a new place to feel like home. But I do know this: God meets us in the cracks. He understands our tears—even the ones that surprise us. And He is patient with hearts that are learning, once again, how to trust Him through change.

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Lord,
You see the cracks I try to hide—the weariness, the fear of change, the grief over things I didn’t expect to lose. You know how easily I become overwhelmed, and how small moments can carry great weight. Help me to release my grip on what was and trust You with what is ahead. When change feels too heavy, remind me that You go before me and walk beside me. Give me peace in the uncertainty, courage for the transition, and grace for myself along the way. Thank You for caring even about my tears over broken things. I place my heart, cracked places and all, into Your loving hands.
Amen.

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