Busted in the Backyard

Before I married my first husband, David and I spent a lot of time visiting his cousin Pat and her husband Ron. They were fun people, and their backyard featured what seemed like the greatest luxury imaginable on a sweltering Georgia summer night, an above-ground swimming pool.

One particular evening, after the four of us had spent hours talking and laughing, Pat and Ron announced they were heading to bed. David and I exchanged a glance. The night air was thick with humidity, and the pool water looked inviting beneath the moonlight. Somewhere between youthful courage and questionable judgment, David suggested we go for a late-night swim. Then he added two words that nearly stopped my heart: "skinny dipping."

I had never done such a thing in my life. The very idea made me nervous. But David was persuasive, and eventually I agreed. We waited until we were absolutely certain Pat and Ron were asleep. Like a pair of amateur spies, we tiptoed across the backyard, trying not to make a sound. We slipped into the cool water and congratulated ourselves on our successful mission. There we were, floating beneath the stars, feeling quite clever and certain we'd gotten away with our little adventure.

For about twenty minutes, everything went according to plan.

Then suddenly, without warning, the backyard security light blazed to life.

One second we were hidden in darkness. The next, we were illuminated like the grand opening of a new department store. Every ounce of confidence instantly evaporated. I froze. David froze. We stared toward the house, and there stood Pat, who had apparently heard enough suspicious splashing to investigate.

I have never moved so fast in my entire life.

To this day, I don't remember exactly how I got out of that pool, gathered my dignity, and found my clothes. I only remember being absolutely mortified while Pat laughed so hard she could barely stand up. As for David, he thought the whole thing was hilarious.

Years have passed since that summer night, and thankfully my embarrassment has faded. What remains is a memory that still makes me smile. It's funny how life works. The moments we wish would disappear forever often become the stories we laugh about the longest. And while I wouldn't necessarily recommend skinny dipping in your relatives' swimming pool, I can testify that nothing creates a lasting family story quite like getting caught red-handed, or in our case, caught completely uncovered.  

(Graphic created with AI)

The tattoo that carried me through cancer

Certain images stay with us throughout our lives, quietly shaping the way we see ourselves and the way we endure hardships. For me, that image was the phoenix, a mythical bird said to rise from its own ashes, reborn stronger than before.

I first learned about the legend of the phoenix when I was in elementary school. Even as a child, I was fascinated by the idea of a creature that could survive destruction and emerge renewed. There was something powerful and comforting in the symbolism, although at the time I could not have known how deeply that image would one day matter to me.

As the years passed, life carried me through adulthood with all its joys, responsibilities, disappointments, and uncertainties. Like most people, I experienced moments that tested my strength. Some trials were small and fleeting, while others left lasting scars. Yet somehow, the image of the phoenix always lingered quietly in the back of my mind.

Years later, while trying to decide on a meaningful tattoo design, I remembered that legendary bird from my childhood. I wanted something personal, something symbolic, something that represented resilience and hope. After much thought, I decided to have a phoenix tattooed on my chest just above my left breast.

At the time, I saw it as a reminder that no matter what hardships life brought my way, I would always rise above them. Every time I looked in the mirror and saw that tattoo, I felt encouraged. It became more than artwork on my skin. It became a declaration of strength, perseverance, and survival.

What I did not know then was how profoundly that symbol would one day speak into my life.

In 2014, breast cancer entered my world.

No one is ever truly prepared to hear the word “cancer.” It changes the atmosphere in the room instantly. One moment, life feels predictable, and the next, everything becomes uncertain. Fear arrives quickly, often before you even have time to process what is happening. Questions flood your mind. What happens next? How bad is it? Am I going to survive this?

I remember the emotional whirlwind that followed my diagnosis. There were doctor appointments, tests, scans, consultations, and difficult conversations. There were moments when I felt overwhelmed by fear and exhaustion. Cancer does not just attack the body. It attacks the mind and spirit as well. It can make even the strongest person feel vulnerable.

But during that season of my life, something remarkable happened.

That phoenix tattoo, the one I had chosen years before, simply because its story inspired me, suddenly took on an entirely new meaning. Every time I looked at it, I was reminded that the phoenix survived the fire. It rises from devastation. It does not stay buried in ashes.

Some people might see a tattoo as merely decorative, but for me, it became deeply personal during my cancer journey. It was no longer just a symbol I admired. It became a visible reminder that I was stronger than my fear. It reminded me daily that hardship does not have to define the outcome of a person’s life.

There were difficult days, of course. Cancer treatment is not glamorous, no matter how positively someone tries to face it. There is physical pain, emotional fatigue, uncertainty, and moments of discouragement that can creep in unexpectedly. There are days when your body no longer feels like your own. There are moments when you look in the mirror and barely recognize the person staring back at you.

Breast cancer can especially affect the way a woman sees herself. It touches something deeply connected to identity, femininity, and confidence. There are emotional wounds that accompany the physical battle, and many women quietly carry those burdens while trying to remain strong for everyone around them.

Yet through all of it, that image of the phoenix remained close to my heart, literally and figuratively.

I began to realize that surviving cancer is not only about enduring treatments or making it through surgery. It is also about learning how to rise emotionally and spiritually through the experience. It is about refusing to surrender your hope. It is about choosing courage even when fear feels overwhelming.

The phoenix reminded me that fire does not always destroy. Sometimes it transforms.

That perspective changed the way I approached my battle with cancer. Instead of seeing myself solely as a victim of circumstances, I began to see myself as someone capable of rising through adversity. The tattoo on my chest became a quiet source of determination during some of the hardest days of my life.

There is something incredibly powerful about symbols. Sometimes a simple image can anchor us when everything else feels unstable. It can become a source of comfort, motivation, and identity. For me, the phoenix represented survival long before cancer entered my life, but afterward, it represented something even greater. It represented victory.

Now, almost twelve years later, I am still here.

Those words carry more weight than many people realize. Cancer has a way of making you appreciate time differently. The ordinary moments become extraordinary. You learn not to take simple blessings for granted. A peaceful morning, laughter with loved ones, a quiet sunset, or even an uneventful day can suddenly feel precious.

Surviving cancer also changes your understanding of strength. Before my diagnosis, I thought strength meant never being afraid. But cancer taught me that real strength often exists alongside fear. Courage is not the absence of fear. It is continuing to move forward despite it.

Looking back now, I realize the most important lesson I learned was not merely how to fight, but how to rise.

Anyone can face hardship because hardship eventually comes to all of us in one form or another. Some battles are physical, some emotional, and some spiritual. What matters most is not the existence of the trial itself, but the way we respond to it. We may not always control what enters our lives, but we do have the power to decide whether we will remain buried beneath the ashes or rise from them.

That is what the phoenix ultimately came to mean to me.

Today, when I see that tattoo, I no longer just think about mythology or artistic symbolism. I think about survival. I think about resilience. I think about every difficult moment I endured, and every prayer whispered during sleepless nights. I think about the grace that carried me through fear and uncertainty. Most of all, I think about the blessing of still being here to tell my story.

Cancer changed my life forever, but it did not destroy me. In many ways, it revealed strengths I never knew I possessed. Like the phoenix I admired as a child, I learned that sometimes life’s fiercest fires do not consume us. Sometimes they teach us how to rise.

Remembering 12 years ago

Looking back to June 22, 2014- 

I've been through a gamut of emotions since receiving my Breast Cancer diagnosis. I've been sad, I've been angry, I've been depressed. I've been confused, I've been bewildered, I've been numb. I'm sure if I Googled "range of emotions related to Breast Cancer diagnosis" I'd receive a long list of psychological reports and studies that have been created but, I don't have to do that. I've lived through them over the past weeks. Yesterday, I dealt with anger and defeat. Today, I am adopting determination! What, you don't think determination is an emotion? Maybe not. Perhaps determination is just anger with a goal in mind, in any event, I'm headed in that direction.

Determination runs in my family. My mother always said I was very determined. If there were cookies in the jar and I wanted one, even if I'd been told not to touch them, I would figure out a way to reach that jar and grab a cookie. As a child, if you told me I couldn't do something, I went about proving that I could. As an adult, if I was told I couldn't do something, I took on the challenge and found a way to prove the naysayers wrong. I guess you could say the characteristics of determination have been part of my character from the very beginning. I know my strengths and weaknesses. I know how to set goals and achieve them.

I see determination in my children, too. When Laura, my middle daughter, was a child, she portrayed her determination in what Dr. James Dobson liked to call a "strong willed child." From the time she was an infant, we knew she was different. Some said she had a big temper and used it to get what she wanted, but I knew she was just determined. She knew exactly what she wanted and she was going to find a way to get it. We used to laugh when she'd kick and scream and cry in frustration at not being able to do what she wanted to do. But her determination has taken her through challenges in life and she's turned out just fine.

This morning, I watched my granddaughter, Heather, as she tried to get the child lock off of my kitchen cabinet door. She shook it and pulled on it, trying her best to figure out a way to make it let go. I could see the determination in her face as her little lip was pulled back and held tight by tiny baby teeth.  Laura looked down at her and said "she's determined to get that thing off!" I smiled knowing that determination indeed has passed from one generation to another. Determination isn't a bad character trait to have, is it?

Like a horse with blinders on, determination has caused me to see the finish line. I see myself headed toward the gate. Today, I'm going to "pick myself up, dust myself off, and start all over again!" I am determined to get through this Cancer journey and do it well.

My life has suddenly gone from black and white to hi-res color. Instead of focusing on the entire journey ahead, I've decided to live in the moment. A dear friend told me recently that wherever I am, that's where I'll be. She said I need to take a look at my feet and realize that at that very moment in time, I am in that place and nothing but that time and place matter. I have never thought of living life that way before. I've always been a long range planner, a goal setter, a mover and a shaker. Can I learn to live in the moment? I think I can.

As I look down at my feet right now, I see that I am in my office. My feet are firmly planted in the lush carpet of my home. Underneath the carpet is a solid foundation of cement, the slab of my home. Underneath the slab is the beautiful grass covered earth that God created and underneath all of that, is the solid rock of Jesus Christ. He is the only foundation that is unmoveable and unshakeable. No amount of determination can ever change the fact that He holds me firmly in the palm of His mighty hands.

The dog days are over! It's time to move full steam ahead. Determination is going to carry me forward, over, around, under, and through the next stage of my journey. Cancer you may think you've won. You may think you're going to run rampant through my body but I say no! I am going to fight you with everything that is within me. You have no idea what kind of fight I'm going to give you! Radiation, bring it on. Hormone therapy...got that. And if, and when, I'm told I have to have Chemo, well...I'll push through it too.

We are a family of fighters. We are determined. We find a way. I'm not going down without a fight and I'm not going to allow myself to feel defeated again.

"I press on toward the goal to win the [supreme and heavenly] prize to which God in Christ Jesus is calling us upward." Philippians 3:14

"But the firm foundation of (laid by) God stands, sure and unshaken, bearing this seal (inscription): The Lord knows those who are His, and, Let everyone who names [himself by] the name of the Lord give up all iniquity and stand aloof from it." 2 Timothy 2:19

"Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be terrified; do not be discouraged, for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go." Joshua 1:9-10

Epilogue

Looking back now, I smile when I read these words. At the time, I had no idea what the journey ahead would require of me. There would be surgeries, treatments, exhaustion, tears, and victories I couldn't yet imagine. There would be days when determination carried me and days when only God's strength was enough.

But the woman who wrote these words on June 22, 2014, was right about one thing—she wasn't going down without a fight.

Cancer didn't have the final word.

God did.

Today, I live with gratitude that only a survivor can fully understand. Every ordinary morning, every family gathering, every devotional I write, every photograph I take, and every grandchild's laugh reminds me that life is a gift. The determination that carried me through treatment has become something even stronger: quiet confidence in the faithfulness of God.

He never left me. Not once.

The Gift of an Unhurried Season

"They will still bear fruit in old age, they will stay fresh and green." — Psalm 92:14 (NIV)

When I was younger, I never imagined this season of life.

Back then, my days were full. There were children to raise, jobs to work, meals to cook, appointments to keep, and endless responsibilities demanding my attention. I often longed for a slower pace, certain that one day I would appreciate having fewer obligations.

Then that day arrived.

Now, retired and nearing seventy, I sometimes look around and wonder, Is this all there is? The housework gets done. A book is read. Perhaps a trip is planned now and then. Family and dear friends live miles away. The calendar that once overflowed with commitments now contains wide stretches of quiet.

To be honest, this season can feel strange.

What am I supposed to do now?

But perhaps I'm asking the wrong question.

Maybe this season isn't about doing more. Maybe it's about being more aware of God's presence in the ordinary moments. Perhaps this quieter chapter is not an indication that my usefulness has ended, but an invitation to rest in ways I never allowed myself to before.

God never intended our value to be measured by busyness. The psalmist reminds us that we can still bear fruit in old age. Fruit doesn't always look like activity. Sometimes it looks like wisdom shared over coffee, prayers whispered for those we love, encouragement offered through a handwritten note, hospitality extended to a lonely neighbor, or simply cultivating gratitude in the everyday rhythms of life.

I wonder if this season is, in part, God's gracious reward after years of faithful labor. Not retirement from purpose, but retirement from striving. A chance to breathe deeply. To notice the lightning bugs at dusk. To linger over morning devotions. To watch the changing seasons and recognize that God is present in every one of them.

The truth is, I may not run at the pace I once did, but I can still walk closely with the Lord.

And perhaps that has been His invitation all along.

If you find yourself in a quieter season, don't mistake stillness for insignificance. God wastes nothing—not even the slower chapters. There is beauty to be found here, purpose yet to be discovered, and fruit still to bear.

The God who guided us through the busy years will also teach us how to live faithfully in the unhurried ones.

Heavenly Father, thank You for being present in every season of life. When I struggle to understand this quieter chapter, remind me that my worth has never depended on how busy I am. Teach me to embrace the gifts You have placed before me today—the gift of rest, the gift of reflection, and the gift of time spent in Your presence. Show me the ways I can continue to bear fruit and encourage others, even if it looks different than it once did. Help me to trust that You still have purpose for my days and joy waiting to be discovered in the ordinary moments. May I walk into this season with gratitude, hope, and confidence that You are not finished writing my story. In Jesus' name, Amen.

It's been a while

My goodness! I didn't realize it been so long since I had written a blog post. But life has a way of happening and moving recently is my valid excuse. Hopefully, things are starting to slow down a little and I can start posting more. 

I can't even begin to tell you all the things that we've been doing but I'll try to focus on the most recent trip. This one wasn't a long way away, but it was still fun. 

We went to a local peach orchard and enjoyed watching the sorting and washing process. It's amazing that they can make machines to do just about anything these days. After we visited the market part of the farm, we drove to the orchard and of course I took a good bit of pictures. 

Peaches always remind me of my daddy. He loved peaches and especially loved peach ice cream. I remember as a child, we would take turns with our neighbors making homemade ice cream. They had an old wooden crank machine. Our little arms would get so tired turning and turning that crank, but we love the end result. 

I can still visualize the salt and ice packed around the edges of the center container of the ice cream machine. Watching that ice slowly melt as the salt press down on it was amazing. 

What was even more fun was when we all got to sit down and chairs and enjoy the fruit of our labor. That peach ice cream was delicious! 

I can almost hear the laughter from my brother and sister and our neighbors - Charles Jesse, Lee and Ray. Those summer nights were so special. 

I love how smelling or tasting something can instantly transport me back to the past. I hope I never forget any of those sweet memories, especially the nights when we turned peach ice cream.

Lesson From a Robotic Vacuum

This past Mother’s Day, my daughter gave me one of those little robotic vacuum cleaners. You know the kind, small, round, and determined. At first, I found myself watching it like a child watches a remote-controlled car. It bumped into furniture, turned around, adjusted its course, and kept going. But before long, I noticed something else, it was actually doing a pretty good job cleaning my floors.

As I sat there watching that little machine quietly do its work, I couldn’t help but think about the Holy Spirit.

Much like that robotic vacuum, the Holy Spirit has a way of moving through the hidden spaces of our lives. He goes places we often overlook—those dusty corners of old wounds, hidden attitudes, secret pride, unforgiveness, fear, and habits we’ve learned to live with. We may think everything looks clean on the surface, but God sees what settles in the corners.

King David understood this when he prayed:

“Search me, O God, and know my heart: try me, and know my thoughts.”
— The Bible Psalm 139:23

The Holy Spirit doesn’t clean with condemnation, He cleans with conviction, love, and purpose. Sometimes He bumps into areas of our lives we’d rather keep untouched. Sometimes He circles back to something we thought had already been dealt with. But He never does it to shame us. He does it to make us holy.

Jesus said:

“But the Comforter, which is the Holy Ghost… he shall teach you all things.”
— The Bible John 14:26

Just like my little robotic vacuum keeps moving until the dirt is gone, the Holy Spirit continues His work in us until we begin to reflect Christ more clearly. He’s not interested in surface cleaning, He’s after transformation.

Paul reminded believers of this truth:

“Being confident of this very thing, that he which hath begun a good work in you will perform it until the day of Jesus Christ.”
— The Bible Philippians 1:6

So now, every time I hear that little vacuum humming across my floors, I smile. Because I’m reminded that while my vacuum is cleaning my house, the Holy Spirit is still cleaning me.

And honestly? I’m grateful He never stops!

The Power of Forgiveness : Unlocking the Key to Freedom for the Forgiver and the Forgivee

Forgiveness isn’t always easy, is it?

 

Sometimes the hurt runs deep. Sometimes the words spoken or the actions taken leave wounds that don’t heal overnight. And if we’re honest, there are moments when holding on to that hurt feels almost justified.

 

But here’s the truth we gently learn, often the hard way:

forgiveness is not about saying what happened was okay, it’s about setting your heart free.

 

When we choose to forgive, we’re not excusing the offense. We’re releasing its hold on us. We’re choosing not to let yesterday’s pain dictate today’s peace.

 

Unforgiveness is heavy. It lingers in our thoughts, weighs on our spirit, and quietly builds walls around our hearts. But forgiveness, real, intentional forgiveness, is like unlocking a door we didn’t realize we were standing behind.

 

And the beautiful part?

 

That freedom doesn’t just touch us, it reaches the one we forgive, too.

 

Forgiveness opens the door for healing on both sides. It creates space for

 grace, for restoration, and for God to move in ways we could never orchestrate on our own.

 

Now, that doesn’t mean everything is instantly repaired. It doesn’t mean trust is automatically restored. But it does mean the chains are broken.

 

It means you can breathe again.

 

It means your heart is no longer carrying something God never intended for you to hold onto.

 

If there’s someone you’ve been struggling to forgive, take that first step today. You don’t have to feel it fully yet. Just choose it. Place it in God’s hands and trust Him with the outcome.

 

Because forgiveness isn’t weakness, it’s freedom.

 

“Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you.”

Ephesians 4:32 (NLT)

 

Heavenly Father,

Thank You for the gift of forgiveness. You have forgiven me more than I could ever deserve, and yet I struggle at times to extend that same grace to others. Help me to release every hurt, every offense, and every burden into Your hands.

 

Give me the strength to forgive, even when it’s hard. Heal the places in my heart that still ache, and replace bitterness with peace. Teach me to trust You with what I cannot fix.

 

I lift up those who have hurt me, and I ask that You work in their lives as only You can. Bring restoration where it is possible, and peace where it is needed.

 

Thank You for the freedom that forgiveness brings.

In Jesus’ name, Amen.

Woe 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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