Starting With the One in the Mirror

There comes a moment in every life when the mirror becomes more than a reflection—it becomes a reckoning. When you realize that change isn’t waiting for someone else to start it. It’s waiting for you.

“I’m gonna make a change, for once in my life.” Those words hit differently when you’ve lived long enough to see how much the world aches—how many people are hungry not just for food, but for kindness, for dignity, for hope. We look around at broken systems, divided hearts, and hurting souls, and it’s easy to wonder how one person could ever make a difference. But maybe that’s where we’ve gotten it wrong. Change was never meant to start out there. It starts here—in the quiet, personal decision to live differently, love more deeply, and notice the people the world overlooks.

Every great movement begins with one simple act of awareness. One person choosing to see what others ignore. One heart deciding to care when it would be easier not to.

As I turn up the collar on my coat and feel the cold wind brush against my face, I think about how many people face storms far colder than weather—storms of loss, addiction, poverty, isolation. The kind of cold that settles deep inside and makes hope feel out of reach. I think of the kids in the street with not enough to eat, of the weary faces that pass by unseen, and I hear that small, convicting question: Who am I to be blind?

Because when did comfort become permission to stop caring?

It’s too easy to scroll past the pain of others and call it compassion fatigue. Too easy to build our walls higher while telling ourselves we’re too small to make a difference. But the truth is, the moment we stop seeing, we stop changing. And when we stop changing, the world stops healing.

The world doesn’t need another critic. It needs courage. It needs compassion. It needs ordinary people with extraordinary hearts willing to say, “This stops with me.”

Change doesn’t always look dramatic—it looks human. It looks like buying someone a warm meal instead of walking past. It looks like listening without judgment. It looks like giving forgiveness where bitterness once lived. It looks like speaking up when silence feels safer. It looks like turning the mirror toward yourself and saying, I can do better. I will do better.

We all carry the power to heal a little piece of this world. It’s in our hands, our words, our choices. Every smile, every act of kindness, every time we choose grace over anger—it all adds up. Ripples turn into waves when enough people decide to care.

But to care, you have to see.

A willow deeply scarred, a broken heart, a washed-out dream—they’re everywhere. In your neighborhood. In your family. Sometimes, even in the mirror. And the pattern of pain will keep repeating unless someone chooses to break it.

So, I’m choosing.

I’m choosing to start with me.

Because it’s not enough to wish the world were better—I have to be better. Not someday. Not when life feels easier. Now. Right here.

I can’t fix everything. None of us can. But we can each fix something.

We can mend what’s within our reach—the relationship we’ve neglected, the bitterness we’ve held, the apathy that’s crept into our hearts. We can love the person in front of us, even when it’s inconvenient. We can show up with empathy instead of excuses.

The person I see in the mirror is the only one I have the power to change. That realization is both humbling and freeing. Because it means I don’t have to wait for the world to catch up to kindness—I can live it now. I can choose to make my small corner of the world brighter.

And maybe, just maybe, if enough of us start there, the light will spread.

We’ve spent too long pointing fingers at what’s wrong. It’s time to lift our hands toward what’s right. It’s time to forgive, to rebuild, to speak hope into places that have forgotten it exists.

I don’t know what change will look like tomorrow, but I know what it needs to look like today: awareness, compassion, and courage. The courage to look in the mirror and face our own indifference. The courage to see pain and not turn away. The courage to act when it’s easier to stay comfortable.

No one changes the world overnight. But one by one, we can change ourselves. And that is where every miracle begins.

So, I’m starting here—with the one in the mirror. The one who can love a little more, forgive a little faster, give a little freer. The one who can choose to see the need and do something about it.

Because the message couldn’t be any clearer: if we want to make the world a better place, we have to take a long, honest look at ourselves—and then make a change.

And maybe, when enough of us do, we’ll find that the world wasn’t waiting for a hero. It was waiting for a heart willing to begin.

Calling All Angels

There are days when the world feels too heavy—when the headlines blur together, when the noise gets too loud, when you can feel the tremors of fear and division shaking the ground beneath your feet. Days when faith feels like a whisper lost in a storm. Days when you look up and quietly plead, “I need a sign to let me know You’re here.”

I’ve prayed that prayer before. The one that comes not from my lips, but from somewhere deeper—from the part of me that’s tired of pretending to be strong, tired of trying to make sense of everything that doesn’t. It’s the kind of prayer that doesn’t need fancy words. Just a sigh, a whisper, a reaching.

God, I just need to know You haven’t forgotten us.

When everything feels like it’s unraveling—when peace feels far, when hearts break faster than they can heal—I find myself looking to the sky, calling all angels. Not because I think they’ve left us, but because I need to remember that Heaven still bends low enough to hear us.

I think we all feel it sometimes—that weight of wondering where safety went. The world feels unpredictable. Words wound more easily than weapons. It’s hard to find a place that feels steady anymore. The ground shifts beneath us—politics, wars, illness, grief—and we find ourselves gasping for air in a sea that never seems to calm.

But even in that chaos, there’s something sacred in the reaching.

Because when you’re calling all angels, you’re not just begging for rescue—you’re confessing that you still believe rescue is possible. That somewhere deep down, you still believe there’s a light stronger than the dark, a hope deeper than the fear, a love that hasn’t given up.

Maybe that’s what faith really looks like—not the absence of doubt, but the courage to keep reaching for Heaven even when the world is shaking.

I’ve seen signs before—small, quiet miracles that reminded me we are never truly alone. A song that played at the exact right moment. A feather where there shouldn’t have been one. A sunrise that painted the sky with colors so beautiful it felt like a promise.

And maybe that’s the thing: angels don’t always show up in glowing robes and halos. Sometimes they show up in the people who sit beside us when words fail. In the kindness of a stranger who smiles when we least expect it. In the phone call that comes right when you were about to give up.

Maybe the sign we’re asking for isn’t always going to come from the heavens—it’s already here, woven into the love that keeps showing up even in a broken world.

When I feel like we’re drowning in the sea of “too much”—too much loss, too much noise, too much pain—I remind myself that we’re not without hope. Because even when everything feels uncertain, God is still certain. Even when everything feels shaken, His love remains unshaken.

It’s okay to admit that you’re scared. It’s okay to say, “I need a sign.” That doesn’t make your faith weak; it makes it real. The same God who parted seas and calmed storms is the same God who still listens to the quietest cries of His people today.

And maybe when we call all angels, what we’re really asking for is comfort—to feel Heaven close again. To feel something bigger than the fear. To know that love still holds the final word.

So if you’re weary tonight—if the world feels like it’s spinning too fast—look up. Not because you’ll see the answer written in the clouds, but because sometimes, just looking up is enough to remind your heart that hope still exists.

The world may be unsteady, but Heaven is not. God still reigns above the chaos, and His angels are still on assignment—guarding, guiding, carrying prayers we don’t have words for.

You are not forgotten.
You are not unseen.
You are not alone.

So call on the angels.
Call on Heaven.
Call on God Himself.

And when the answer doesn’t come right away, listen for the subtle signs—the soft reminders that love still lives here. The world may shake, but His promises never will.

Maybe the sign you’re waiting for is already around you.
Maybe it’s the quiet in the middle of the storm.
Maybe it’s the strength you didn’t know you had.
Maybe it’s the faith that’s still whispering, “I believe.”

And maybe—just maybe—the angels you’re calling are already near,
holding back the darkness,
reminding Heaven of your name,
and carrying hope right back to your heart.

I Won’t Give Up Yet

There are moments in life when the air itself feels heavy—when your own body becomes a battlefield and your mind a storm that won’t stop raging. Watching Tim walk through the valley of depression, anxiety, and PNES has been like watching someone fight a war the world can’t see. There are no visible wounds, no medals for surviving the day, no parades for courage. And yet, what he faces takes more courage than most of us could ever comprehend.

There have been nights when the shaking begins before the sun goes down, when his heart pounds so hard it feels like it might break right through his chest. I’ve seen the fear in his eyes—the silent question that never really needs to be spoken: Will I ever feel normal again? And in those moments, all I can do is sit beside him, hold his hand, and whisper the same truth over and over—You’re not alone. You’re still here. And we’re still fighting.

Because even in the middle of the shaking, even when the fear feels bigger than his body, there’s a presence that stays.

When everything feels dark and uncertain, God takes him—takes us both—and lays us down in peaceful fields. Not always literal ones, but the kind that live in the soul. The kind that whisper calm when chaos screams. It’s in those quiet spaces—between panic and peace—that we find the reminder that He’s still here.

The world calls it anxiety, depression, trauma. But sometimes, it feels like an enemy living inside—a voice that mocks, a liar that whispers all the wrong things. It tells him he’s broken, that he’s weak, that he’s trapped in a life he can’t fix. It tells me that I can’t help him, that no amount of love or prayer or patience will be enough.

But then God steps in, not with thunder or spectacle, but with stillness. He reminds us both that bravery isn’t always loud. Sometimes, bravery is just not giving up yet.

We’ve walked through the valley of shadows more times than I can count. Nights when seizures hit one after another, when exhaustion hollowed him out, when I sat on the floor next to him praying that his body would just find peace. Nights when faith felt fragile and fear felt enormous. And yet—every time—we made it through. Not because of our strength, but because of His presence.

When you walk through the valley of shadows, you don’t walk it alone. That’s the promise. That’s the truth that’s kept us both upright when everything else wanted to pull us under.

It’s okay to admit it scared us half to death. It’s okay to say it’s still scary. But fear doesn’t get the final word. Because when we remember that God is with us everywhere we go, the darkness starts to lose its power.

Tim’s fears are real. His anxiety isn’t something that can just be prayed away or ignored. It’s a battle that shows up uninvited and unpredictable, some days like a whisper, other days like a storm. Depression has a way of trying to convince him that life is small, that joy is distant, that hope has packed up and gone.

But here’s the truth that we hold to, even when we have to fight to believe it: the things that we’re afraid of are afraid of Him.

That one sentence changes everything.

When fear rises, He stands taller. When anxiety roars, He speaks peace. When darkness closes in, He lights the path—just enough for the next step.

And in those steps, we find life again.

When Tim’s emotions turn against him, when logic and faith both seem far away, I see a strength in him that humbles me. Even when he feels unworthy, even when he’s certain that God has run out of patience, he keeps showing up. He keeps breathing through the shaking. He keeps choosing to try again. That’s faith in its purest form—not the absence of fear, but the decision to keep walking through it.

There have been days when the depression feels like it’s draining every ounce of who he is. I’ve watched him fight through that fog—the kind that dulls color, that quiets laughter, that makes the simplest things feel impossible. We’ve done the appointments, the medication, the counseling, the coping techniques. All of it helps, but none of it fixes everything. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe healing isn’t about being “fixed.” Maybe it’s about learning to live fully even while you’re still healing.

Because even in the middle of all of it—God hasn’t left.

Sometimes it’s hard to see Him in the struggle, but He’s there. In the steady rhythm of Tim’s breathing after a seizure. In the quiet strength that shows up when he thinks he has none left. In the way peace creeps in, unannounced, in the middle of fear.

There are nights when I watch him sleep and whisper prayers over him. Prayers for calm, for courage, for light. And every time I do, I feel the same gentle assurance that’s carried us this far: I’m still here. Keep going.

It’s not easy, loving someone who fights invisible battles. There’s helplessness that comes with it, a kind of ache that sits in your chest because you wish you could carry it for them. But what I’ve learned—what we’ve both learned—is that love doesn’t have to fix everything to be powerful. Sometimes, love just has to stay.

Love sits in the dark and waits for morning. Love keeps holding on when everything else feels uncertain. Love whispers, “You’re safe now.”

And maybe that’s the miracle in all of this—that even when life doesn’t look like what we hoped, love still grows in the cracks. Faith still deepens. Light still gets in.

There’s no timeline for healing. There’s no perfect ending. But there’s progress—tiny, sacred steps forward. There are moments of laughter again, moments of peace that linger longer than they used to. There are glimpses of joy, of normal, of grace.

Tim may not feel brave every day, but bravery doesn’t require feeling—it requires faith. And that’s what he has. Faith enough to get up, to try, to hope. Faith enough to keep walking through the valley knowing he’s not alone.

We’ve seen the worst of days and still found beauty hiding in them. We’ve seen fear shrink when spoken out loud in prayer. We’ve seen the hand of God steady the tremors, calm the panic, breathe peace where there was only chaos.

And even now, on the hard days, we hold tight to that truth—
We won’t give up yet.

Because we’ve seen what happens when you don’t.

We’ve seen healing come in unexpected ways—in laughter shared over coffee, in a calm evening with no episodes, in the way hope always seems to find its way back home.

There’s a different kind of strength that grows in the valley—one that can’t be built on easy ground. It’s the kind of faith that says, Even here, God is good. It’s the kind of peace that knows fear may visit, but it doesn’t get to stay. It’s the kind of love that sees the brokenness and calls it beautiful because it’s still alive, still fighting, still reaching toward light.

So when the anxiety starts to build again, when his heart races and the tremors return, I remind him—and myself—that the same God who brought him through before will do it again. That even in the shaking, there’s purpose. That every breath he takes is a victory, every sunrise a promise, every quiet night a gift.

And when the fear calls his name, we’ll keep answering back with truth: The things that I’m afraid of are afraid of You.

Because the God who calms the storm isn’t just out there somewhere—He’s right here, sitting with us in the mess, holding us in the shaking, reminding us that darkness never wins.

This journey with Tim has changed me. It’s softened me, deepened me, drawn me closer to God in ways I didn’t expect. I’ve learned that faith isn’t built in the moments when everything’s fine—it’s built in the moments when it isn’t. When you choose to believe that even in the hardest season, love still has the final word.

And I’ve watched that love live in Tim—in his resilience, his humor, his quiet determination. Even when he feels weak, I see strength. Even when he feels broken, I see God still working.

We may still be walking through the valley, but we walk it hand in hand, hearts set on hope, eyes on the One who goes before us. Because no matter how long it takes, no matter how hard it gets, we’re not giving up.

Not today. Not ever.

Because we’ve learned something sacred here—something we wouldn’t trade for the ease we used to have. We’ve learned that peace isn’t the absence of pain; it’s the presence of God in the middle of it.

We’ve learned that courage isn’t about never being afraid; it’s about standing up, trembling and tearful, and taking one more step anyway.

We’ve learned that healing isn’t a moment—it’s a lifetime of grace upon grace upon grace.

And as long as there’s breath in his lungs and love between us, we’ll keep walking. We’ll keep believing. We’ll keep whispering, Lord, thank You for staying with us through the shadows.

Because even in the darkest valley, we have seen light.

Even when fear tries to take over, love still wins.

Even when the enemy whispers lies, truth still stands tall.

And even when the world calls this broken—
we call it beautiful.

Because in every shaking, every prayer, every quiet victory—God is still here. And we are still standing.

We walked through the valley of shadows. It scared us half to death.
But He’s with us everywhere we go.
And so—we won’t give up yet.

A Table for Two and Grace Enough

Thanksgiving morning is quiet in our house. There’s no rush, no noise, no clatter of dishes or laughter from the other room—just the gentle hum of the oven warming the air, the smell of bread baking filling the kitchen, and the sound of two hearts trying their best to be grateful, even when life looks different than we once imagined.

It used to ache, that silence. Holidays are supposed to be loud, full, bursting with people and tradition. But over time, I’ve come to realize that grace lives here too—in the stillness, in the simplicity, in the quiet moments that most people rush past.

This morning, I looked across the table at Tim, his coffee steaming between his hands, and I felt something that words hardly touch—a deep, quiet gratitude. Not for the way things could be, or used to be, but for this moment. For us. For the love that has endured every storm and still holds steady.

Thanksgiving looks different for everyone. For some, it’s a house full of family. For others—like us—it’s a quiet table for two. But what I’ve learned is that thankfulness doesn’t depend on the crowd around the table; it’s found in the heart that still chooses to see beauty, even in the smallest of things.

I’m thankful this morning for the peace that comes after so many hard years of chaos. For the way we’ve learned to find joy in simplicity. For the laughter that sometimes sneaks in between moments of exhaustion and fear. For the way Tim still smiles, still tries, still reaches for hope, even when the world feels small and heavy.

There are days when his battle with depression, anxiety, and PNES feels endless. The shaking, the exhaustion, the invisible fight that no one else can see—it takes so much strength just to keep showing up. And yet, he does. Every day.

That’s what I’m most thankful for. Not the picture-perfect holiday scenes we once thought we needed, but the quiet courage that fills the room even when it’s just the two of us. The faith that has kept us standing when life tried to knock us down. The grace that reminds me that even in the loneliness, we’re never truly alone.

God has been here through it all—through the fear, the tears, the waiting, the unknowns. He’s been sitting at this table with us, turning our small offerings of gratitude into something holy. And even on the days when joy feels far away, I can still feel His peace. It’s soft. It’s steady. It’s enough.

Holidays used to make me ache for what was missing—the full house, the laughter, the noise. But now, I see what’s present. The stillness. The quiet. The closeness. The love that has grown stronger not in celebration, but in perseverance.

So today, I will be thankful for the quiet. I will be thankful for the peace that sits beside us. I will be thankful for a God who sees us right where we are—two people sitting at a small table, holding on to hope and to each other.

I will thank Him for the unseen blessings:
For mornings when Tim feels well enough to laugh.
For afternoons when the anxiety stays silent.
For nights when the seizures stay away.
For grace that never runs out, even when our strength does.

And I will thank Him for love—real love—the kind that isn’t about perfect moments, but about presence. The kind that sits beside you when life gets hard and says, “I’m not going anywhere.”

Maybe this isn’t the Thanksgiving we pictured years ago, but maybe it’s the one that matters most. Because here, at this little table, I see what gratitude really means. It’s not found in abundance—it’s found in awareness. It’s looking at what we have, instead of what we’ve lost. It’s seeing that God has been faithful through every season, even the lonely ones.

Today, I’ll light a candle on our table. Not for show, not for guests, but as a small reminder that light still exists in the quiet places. I’ll bow my head and whisper, “Thank You, Lord, for this life—exactly as it is.”

Because even though it’s just the two of us, we are surrounded by love that can’t be measured. We are held by grace that can’t be explained. And we are seen by a God who knows the ache of solitude and fills it with His presence.

So if your Thanksgiving looks a little like ours—quiet, simple, maybe even lonely—know this: there’s beauty here. There’s holiness in the hush. There’s peace in the stillness.

You don’t need a crowded table to give thanks. You just need a heart that remembers the One who still provides, still loves, still holds everything together.

So today, I am thankful for this—
For coffee and calm.
For resilience and rest.
For a love that’s weathered storms and still stands strong.
For a Savior who never leaves the table, even when no one else comes.

This Thanksgiving, I’m learning that gratitude isn’t loud—it’s lived. It’s not always found in celebration—it’s found in survival. It’s found in two people still choosing each other, still choosing faith, still choosing to say, “Thank You.”

And that, I think, is the most beautiful kind of Thanksgiving there is.

Happy Thanksgiving—from our quiet table to yours.
May you find peace in your solitude, joy in your small moments, and comfort in knowing that love still lives here—always.

Forty-Three Years Waiting For Emily

I’ve been waiting for you, for such a long time.”

Those words have lived inside me for decades, since 1982, when I first knew you were there. My sweet baby girl, Emily. From the very beginning, you were always on my mind. I dreamed of you as if you were already here. I imagined your fingers curling around mine, the rhythm of your breathing, the sound of your first cry. I would lie awake at night, whispering into the darkness, waiting to hold you tight.

The waiting was sweet, and it was filled with love. But it ended far too soon.

No mother forgets the silence that comes when life should be beginning. That day in the hospital, everything shifted. I saw you, and even though you were still, you were so perfectly formed, so impossibly delicate. “Now that I do, and look at you, my heart is breaking. This can’t be true.” And yet it was. You were gone before I could hold you in the way I longed to, before I could kiss your forehead or hear your voice. Lost you before I found you. Gone before you came. But I loved you just the same.

Grief is not something that expires. It does not fade neatly with the years, as people sometimes think it should. It changes shape, it softens, but it never disappears. Forty-three years later, the ache still finds me. It arrives quietly, in unexpected moments—when I see a mother rocking her baby, when I notice a birthday that should have been yours, when I pass a little girl’s dress in a store and feel tears rise without warning. Missed you before I met you. On earth we never can. But in heaven we’ll meet again.

Through all these years, you have remained close to my soul, close to my heart, right from the start. I have carried you in ways no one could see. You have lived in my prayers, in my quiet thoughts, in the spaces between milestones. You were absent in every family photo, yet you were also always there, because a mother never stops loving her child, no matter how brief their life was.

Sometimes I wonder who you would have been. Would you have had my laugh? Would you love books, or music, or the feel of rain on your skin? Would you have children of your own by now, making me a grandmother? These questions linger, unanswered, but they remind me that your life, however short, mattered.

The pain has often left me wondering what to do with it, how to carry it without letting it consume me. Sometimes I find myself wondering what to do with this pain that I’m going through. And the answer, I’ve learned, is that you don’t get rid of it. You honor it. You let it shape you. You let it teach you how fragile life is and how fierce love can be. You let it show you how to hold onto others a little tighter, how to cherish what you are given while you have it.

Faith has been my anchor in all of this. It was faith that carried me when grief hollowed me out, faith that reminded me of a promise greater than pain. I believe with all my heart that one day, this separation will end. But I know one day, God will take me away, and I’m coming home to you. That promise has carried me through forty-three years.

Back in 1982, I was waiting to meet you on this earth. Now, I am waiting for the day I will see you in heaven. I believe you will be there, whole and smiling, waiting with outstretched arms. And when that day comes, I will finally hold you, and I will never let go. All the years of sorrow will dissolve into eternity.

Emily, my sweet baby, you have been gone forty-three years, but you are not forgotten. Lost you before I found you. Gone before you came. But I love you just the same. Missed you before I met you. On earth we never can. But in heaven we’ll meet again.

Until then, I will keep remembering, keep loving, and keep waiting. Because love, once given, never dies. It stretches across time, across space, and across eternity.

I’ve been waiting for you, for such a long time. And one day, my waiting will be over.

Jealous of the Angels

Grief has a way of making time feel strange. One moment, you’re standing still in disbelief, and the next, the memories rush in so vividly that you can almost hear their voice, almost feel their hand in yours. The world goes on, but your heart lingers in the spaces they used to fill. And if you’ve ever lost someone you love deeply, you know that no words ever quite fit the shape of that kind of ache.

When I hear the words, “God must need another angel around the throne tonight,” I feel that bittersweet pull between heaven and earth. Because as much as my faith tells me they are safe, whole, and surrounded by perfect peace, my heart still whispers, “But I wish they were here.”

It’s a strange tension—grateful for heaven, but longing for one more day.

I think that’s what grief really is: love with nowhere to go. It doesn’t end when the funeral is over or when the world thinks you should be “doing better.” It lingers in the quiet moments—the songs that suddenly make you cry, the empty chair at the table, the memory that catches you off guard. And in those moments, you realize that love doesn’t disappear when someone’s gone. It just changes form. It lives on inside of you.

And so, we hold on tight.

We hold on to their laughter, their kindness, their quirks, the way they made life brighter just by being in it. We hold on to the lessons they taught us, to the love they gave so freely. And even though it hurts, that love is what keeps them near.

It’s not our place to question why. That’s one of the hardest truths of faith—to trust that even in our deepest sorrow, there’s a purpose we can’t see yet. To believe that God’s ways are higher, even when they don’t make sense. To know that heaven wasn’t meant to steal from us, but to complete what we can’t yet understand.

Still, it’s okay to say it: “I’m just jealous of the angels.” Because it’s honest. It’s human. It’s the heart’s way of saying, “I miss them so much.” And God can handle that honesty. He doesn’t expect us to hide our hurt behind perfect words or tidy faith. He meets us in the brokenness, sits with us in the silence, and gently reminds us that heaven isn’t far—it’s closer than we think.

I believe that when someone we love goes home to God, they don’t leave us behind. They leave reminders everywhere—a sunset that feels like a hug, a song that suddenly brings peace, a whisper in your spirit that says, “I’m still with you.”

And maybe that’s what heaven really looks like from here—not some distant place we can’t reach, but a thin veil where love still flows freely between this life and the next.

If you’re hurting tonight—if you’ve lost someone who took a piece of your heart with them—know this: it’s okay to grieve. It’s okay to cry. It’s okay to be angry and lost and still trust God at the same time. Faith and sorrow can exist together; one doesn’t cancel out the other.

And when the ache feels too heavy to bear, remember this: the same God who welcomed your loved one home is holding you here. The same God who gave them peace will give you comfort. The same love that carried them into eternity is the love that will carry you through the pain.

One day, the distance will close. One day, the questions will fade. One day, we’ll see them again—not as we remember them, but as they were always meant to be: whole, radiant, laughing, free.

Until then, we hold on to what we have—the memories, the love, the faith that tells us goodbye isn’t forever. We learn to live with both the sorrow and the gratitude. We learn to smile through tears, to talk about them in present tense, because love doesn’t die—it just moves into eternity.

And when the nights feel long, when the world feels too quiet, I like to imagine them—our loved ones—gathered around the throne of heaven. No pain, no fear, no suffering. Just joy. Just peace. Just light.

And I whisper, “I’m jealous of the angels.”

Not because I want to leave this life too soon, but because I know they’re getting to see what we’re still waiting for—the face of God, the fullness of love, the beauty beyond all imagining.

Until that day, I’ll keep living in a way that honors them. I’ll love deeply. Forgive quickly. Appreciate the small things. Because that’s how they’d want me to live—fully, bravely, faithfully.

Their love lives on inside of me.
And that, I will hold on to.

Because I Knew You

For Amber

There are people who enter our lives so quietly that we don’t even realize, at first, that everything is about to change. They don’t arrive with fanfare, and they don’t always stay forever, but somehow their presence shifts something deep inside us. Later, when we look back over the landscape of our life—through the valleys, the storms, the victories, and the ordinary days—we see their fingerprints everywhere, woven gently into who we’ve become.

I’ve heard it said that people come into our lives for a reason. That they bring something we must learn, something we didn’t even know we needed. And maybe that’s true. Maybe God orchestrates these seemingly chance encounters, nudging hearts toward one another at just the right moment. Maybe He sees the cracks in our strength long before we do and sends exactly the person who can breathe light into those fractured places.

Or maybe it’s simpler than that. Maybe some souls recognize each other in ways deeper than logic. Maybe some people carry a kind of love, kindness, or wisdom that shifts the direction of our story just by walking beside us for a while.

I don’t know which explanation is right. But I do know this:
I am who I am today because I knew you.

Your presence in my life was like a comet pulled from orbit by the pull of a sun—unexpected, bright, and unforgettable. You didn’t fix all my problems, and you weren’t meant to. But you helped me see myself differently. You showed me strength I didn’t know I had, reminded me of truths I had forgotten, and breathed life into moments when hope felt thin.

Some friendships are gentle, subtle streams—quiet but steady. And then, somewhere along the way, a boulder appears in the middle of the path, and everything shifts. The water changes direction. The landscape changes shape. Nothing is the same afterward.

That’s what knowing you has been like. Not dramatic or overwhelming, but transformative in a way that can be felt in the soul.

I can’t say with certainty whether I’ve been changed for the better, at least not in the simple, tidy sense. Life is complicated, and growth isn’t always pretty. Sometimes the people who impact us most do so by challenging us, stretching us, shining a mirror on the things we kept hidden. But I can say this with confidence—from a place deeper than emotion alone:

Because I knew you, I have been changed for good.

That kind of change doesn’t fade. It stays like a handprint on the heart—imprinted, indelible, part of the very fabric of who we are now. There’s a quiet gratitude in that kind of mark. A knowing that no matter what else comes, no matter how life shifts or winds or surprises us, this connection helped shape the journey.

And maybe we won’t walk side by side forever. Maybe, as the years unfold in their unpredictable ways, our paths will separate or evolve. Maybe life will take us to different places, physically or emotionally. But the influence of a meaningful friendship doesn’t need proximity to remain powerful.

So let me say this, in the simplest and truest way I know how:

Your courage taught me courage.
Your kindness softened hard edges in me.
Your honesty challenged me to grow.
Your presence reminded me I wasn’t alone.
Your friendship? It rewrote chapters in my story I didn’t realize needed rewriting.

Wherever our stories go from here—however they shift, however they continue—you’re woven into mine. Your impact will not fade. Your voice will echo in the decisions I make, the compassion I offer, the strength I carry into each new dawn. You’ll be with me in the quiet moments, the joyful ones, and even the painful ones, because that’s what true connection does: it lingers.

You’ll be with me like a handprint on my heart—one I never want to erase.

And if, in some corner of your own story, I helped shape even a small piece of who you are… if anything I said or did brought light to your darkness, hope to your struggle, or joy to your journey… then I am honored. Because friendship—real friendship—is a sacred exchange. We learn from each other. We lift each other. We become more because of each other.

So thank you… for being part of my life.
For shifting my orbit.
For touching my heart in ways I’ll carry forever.
For being a friend in the truest, quietest, most transformational sense of the word.

No matter where the story goes from here, I will always look back and say:

Because I knew you, I have been changed for good.

Standing in Faith

There are days when disappointment feels like an uninvited guest who refuses to leave—days when the delay between hope and breakthrough feels endless. We all know that space. The waiting room of faith. The “not yet” moments where prayers hang in the air unanswered, and the temptation to give up whispers just a little louder than hope.

But what I’ve learned—what life keeps teaching me—is that disappointment doesn’t have to define me. Delay doesn’t have to defeat me. I may not be able to escape the setbacks or the waiting, but I can choose not to live there. I don’t have to pitch a tent in frustration or let discouragement be the final word.

Because faith doesn’t deny the waves—it speaks to them.

Faith looks disappointment in the eye and says, “You’re not where my story ends.” It looks at delay and says, “This is not denial—it’s preparation.” It looks at every closed door and every long night and still dares to whisper, “God’s not finished yet.”

And that’s what I’m choosing.

I’m choosing to rise to the moment. To push back against the doubts that try to drag me down. To stand on what I know is true—even when I can’t see it yet.

Because I’ve learned something powerful in the waiting: faith doesn’t need evidence to move. It doesn’t require the storm to stop before it believes in peace. Faith doesn’t wait for the walls to fall—it walks around them anyway, trusting that God will move in His perfect time.

When life feels uncertain—when it seems like the ground beneath me is shifting—I remind myself that faith isn’t about seeing the whole picture. It’s about trusting the Painter.

I don’t need to see it to believe it. I don’t need to have it in my hands to know it’s coming. The One who has carried me through every valley hasn’t brought me this far to leave me standing alone in the middle of one.

So I will stand in faith.
Even when fear tries to convince me otherwise.
Even when the answer hasn’t come.
Even when it feels like everything is still standing still.

Because faith doesn’t live in feelings—it lives in truth.

And the truth is, I’ve seen too much of God’s faithfulness to start doubting Him now. I’ve seen prayers answered in ways I never expected, healing come when hope felt gone, peace flood in when panic tried to take over. I’ve seen light show up in the darkest corners of our lives—not because everything suddenly got easy, but because God showed up inthe hard.

That’s what faith does. It reminds me that even if the storm doesn’t stop, I can still have peace. Even if the mountain doesn’t move, I can still climb. Even if the answer doesn’t come the way I wanted, I can still trust the One who holds the plan.

When I stand in faith, I’m not pretending everything’s fine—I’m declaring that even if it isn’t, God is still good. I’m not walking by sight, because sight can be deceiving. I’m walking by something stronger—something steadier.

I’m walking by faith.

Faith says, “I believe before I see.”
Faith says, “I’ll praise You in the hallway before the door opens.”
Faith says, “Even if it takes longer than I hoped, I’ll still trust You.”

And that’s the kind of faith I want to live by. The kind that doesn’t need constant reassurance, the kind that can weather disappointment, the kind that rises every single time life tries to knock me down.

Because I’ve learned that disappointment is temporary—but God’s faithfulness is not. Delay is frustrating—but it’s never wasted. When I look back, I can see how every pause was a part of His purpose, every delay held a hidden lesson, and every season of waiting was shaping me into someone stronger.

So I will rise.
I will speak to the waves.
I will silence the lies that tell me it’s over.

I will remember that faith is not about ignoring the storm—it’s about trusting that the One who calmed the sea still calms my soul.

There will always be things in life I can’t control. There will always be prayers that take longer than I want. But there will never be a day when faith doesn’t matter—when hope isn’t worth holding onto—when God stops being who He is.

So no, I can’t escape disappointment. I can’t always avoid delay. But I can choose my dwelling place. And I choose faith. I choose to believe that God’s timing is perfect even when I don’t understand it. I choose to walk forward even when I can’t see the path clearly. I choose to live with the kind of hope that defies logic—hope that trusts in miracles I haven’t yet seen.

And maybe that’s what true faith really is—
Not the absence of doubt, but the decision to believe anyway.
Not waiting for perfect conditions, but moving forward in imperfect ones.
Not demanding answers, but resting in the assurance that God is the answer.

So today, I stand. I walk. I live—in faith.

And when the next wave comes, I’ll speak to it again, not with fear, but with confidence:
“I don’t need to see it to believe it. My God is already making a way.”

Because this I know—faith always finds the light, even when the world looks dark.
And as long as I keep walking by faith, I’ll never be walking alone.

A Season for Healing

There are moments in life when you can feel something shifting—something stirring deep in your spirit that whispers, It’s time. Time to heal. Time to release. Time to let go of the old pain you’ve carried like armor and open your hands to what’s next.

This—right now—is that kind of season. A season for healing. A season for change.

Not the kind of change that happens overnight, but the kind that grows quietly, like dawn breaking through the longest night. Healing rarely comes in an instant; it comes through surrender, through trust, through the willingness to let God do what only He can. It’s the moment you stop striving to fix yourself and start believing that He already knows how.

We live in a world that’s hurting. Hearts are heavy, hope feels distant, and it’s easy to think miracles are something that happened long ago. But friend—miracles are not just ancient stories. They are happening still, in places the eye can’t yet see. When Heaven invades, it doesn’t announce itself with thunder. Sometimes, it begins with a whisper: “I’m still here.”

This is the season where Heaven meets earth in the cracks of our brokenness. Where peace starts to seep into the wounds we thought were permanent. Where joy tiptoes back into rooms that have been quiet for too long.

You may not see it yet. You may still feel the ache. You may still be waiting for the breakthrough, wondering if it’s ever going to come. But healing begins before you even realize it—it begins when you start praising God in the middle of the pain. Because praise isn’t just what we give Him when things are good—it’s what anchors us when everything feels like it’s falling apart.

This kind of faith is more than a feeling. It’s an anchor. It holds you steady when the waves rise and the storm rages. It reminds you that God’s promises don’t expire with your circumstances. They’re as real in the valley as they are on the mountaintop.

And when it’s the darkest—when you feel like you’ve run out of strength, when you can’t see the next step, when every prayer feels like it’s hitting the ceiling—remember this: darkness is not the absence of God; it’s the canvas He uses to reveal His light.

When it’s darkest, His light reaches the farthest.

He’s there, even in what feels like silence. Working in the unseen. Healing what’s broken in ways you might not notice until you look back and realize how far you’ve come.

Sometimes, the miracle isn’t in the moment everything changes—it’s in the strength you find while waiting. It’s in the courage to get up again. It’s in the breath you take when anxiety tries to steal it. It’s in the quiet peace that wraps around you for no reason other than God showing you He’s still in control.

That’s what Heaven invading looks like—it’s not always grand or dramatic. Sometimes it’s simply grace entering the room. It’s a heart that dares to believe again. It’s forgiveness that finally feels possible. It’s love that softens what pain had hardened.

If you’re in a place where healing feels distant, hold on. You’re standing in sacred ground even if it doesn’t look like it. The same God who created galaxies with a word can restore what life has broken. He can mend what years of pain have torn. He can breathe life into the very thing you thought was gone for good.

Change is coming. Healing is happening. It’s already begun.

So lift your eyes.
Lift your voice.
Lift your praise.

Not because everything is perfect, but because God still is.

This is not the end of your story—it’s a new chapter. The season where the ashes start to reveal beauty. The season where tears become seeds of joy. The season where your pain becomes a testimony of His power.

So when the night feels long, keep praising. When the waiting feels endless, keep believing. When you feel unworthy, remember—you are exactly where grace loves to show up.

Because this is not just a season to survive—it’s a season to be revived.

Heaven is invading the weary places of your life. The places you thought were beyond reach are being touched by His hand even now. Healing is coming—not just for your body, but for your mind, your heart, your soul.

It’s your season to rise.
Your season to see.
Your season to believe again.

And when the light finally breaks through—and it will—you’ll realize that every dark night, every tear, every unanswered prayer led you right here. To healing. To change. To the miracle you never stopped hoping for.

It’s a season for healing.
It’s a season for change.
And God—faithful, good, and unshakable—is making a way.

You Are the Reason

If love could build bridges across pain, I’d have built one long enough to carry us both out of the storm. There are days I still wish I could. If I could climb every mountain and swim every ocean to make this easier for you, Tim, I would—without hesitation. Not because I think I could fix what’s broken, but because I’d give anything for you to feel the peace you deserve.

There’s a helplessness that comes with watching someone you love face something you can’t take away. PNES has taught me that—the way it steals moments, hijacks peace, interrupts the simple flow of a day. The seizures come without warning, uninvited, leaving your body trembling and your spirit weary. And though I’ve learned what to do, though I know how to stay calm on the outside, there’s a part of me that breaks inside every single time. Because if I could take it from you, even for a day, I would.

You are the reason I keep showing up with hope in my hands, even when it feels fragile. The reason I still pray with faith that healing, in whatever form it comes, will find you. You are the reason I can see beauty even in this—because love, when it’s real, doesn’t just stand in the sunshine; it stands in the storm and refuses to leave.

If I could turn back the clock, I’d go to the day before this began and build a fortress of light around you. I’d make sure every shadow was chased away before it could touch you. I’d spend every hour keeping you safe, guarding your peace like something sacred, because that’s what it is.

But I can’t go back. None of us can. So instead, I love you in the now—in this imperfect, unpredictable, often difficult present. I hold your hand when the tremors come. I whisper words of calm when your body betrays your strength. I remind you that even when you can’t see it, you’re still strong, still brave, still here.

You are not your seizures. You are not your anxiety or your depression. You are the man who keeps getting up, who keeps trying, who still laughs when laughter feels impossible. You are the man who apologizes after a hard night even though you don’t need to. You are the one who fights invisible battles with visible courage, and I need you to see that.

Because you are the reason love feels holy.

The truth is, this journey has changed both of us. It’s stripped away the illusion of control, the idea that love is about fixing things. I used to think that if I just tried hard enough, prayed long enough, believed big enough, I could make it all go away. But love doesn’t always heal by erasing—it heals by enduring. By standing beside. By holding on through the shaking.

You’ve taught me that love is not found in the grand gestures, but in the quiet faithfulness of ordinary days. The mornings when I watch you breathe peacefully and thank God for calm. The nights when we hold each other through exhaustion and say nothing at all, because sometimes words aren’t needed.

And though I can’t stop the seizures or chase away the fear completely, I can promise this: you will never walk through it alone.

If I could, I’d carry you over every mountain of fear and through every ocean of uncertainty. But since I can’t, I’ll walk beside you instead. I’ll steady you when you shake. I’ll remind you that even on the hardest days, light still wins.

And the truth is, Tim, you are the reason I still believe in light. You’re the reason I know that love can survive the darkest nights. Because every time you rise again—every time you breathe, every time you smile through the pain—you prove that the dark doesn’t get the final word.

Love does.

If I could make you see what I see when I look at you, you’d never question your strength again. You’d see the courage it takes to wake up each morning knowing that another wave might come—and doing it anyway. You’d see the grace that fills the space between your pain and your perseverance. You’d see the quiet hero that lives inside you, even on the days you feel broken.

And maybe that’s what I want you to know most of all: you are not broken beyond repair. You are being remade—piece by piece—by a love that doesn’t quit, by a God who never lets go, by a story that still has purpose even when it hurts.

So no, I can’t fix what this illness has taken. But I can love you through it. I can stand beside you in the valley and remind you that light still finds its way in. I can choose you—over and over, every day—because you are worth every mountain, every ocean, every prayer whispered through tears.

You are the reason I still believe in miracles. Not because one moment will change everything, but because you keep showing me how to find the miraculous in the middle of the mess.

I don’t need to climb mountains or cross oceans to prove my love—you’ve already seen it in the quiet, ordinary ways. In the way I still reach for your hand. In the way I still whisper “we’ll get through this” after every storm. In the way I still believe in you, even when you forget how to believe in yourself.

Because love doesn’t stop when life gets hard. It grows deeper roots. It learns to bend without breaking. It learns to hold fast when everything else feels uncertain.

And though I can’t go back and make sure the light defeated the dark, I can stand here with you now—holding the light high, refusing to let the darkness win.

You are the reason I keep going.
You are the reason I pray harder.
You are the reason I still believe that hope—real, stubborn, defiant hope—is worth holding on to.

And maybe that’s the greatest gift of all.

Because even in this storm, even in the shaking and the fear, we are still here. Still together. Still choosing love.

And in that—there is light enough.

If I Could Wake Up With Amnesia

There are days when I wish I could just wake up with a clean slate—no stress, no worries, no endless to-do lists waiting to be tackled before the coffee even brews. Just a single morning free from the weight of everything that’s ever gone wrong, every responsibility, every ache that lingers in the heart. Wouldn’t it be something to open your eyes and—for just one day—forget what life demands of you?

I think about that sometimes. How peaceful it might feel to wake up with amnesia and see the world as if for the first time. No baggage. No pain. No fear of what’s next. Just a quiet moment of wonder, the way a child sees the world before it’s taught to worry.

But then, I think—if I really could forget it all, even for a day, I’d lose more than just the stress. I’d lose the lessons. The gratitude. The proof that I’ve made it through every hard thing I never thought I could.

Stress is heavy, yes. Life can be loud and relentless, full of pressure and uncertainty. But when I look back on all the times I’ve thought, I can’t do this anymore, and realize—I did—it changes things. Because those days carved something into me that peace alone never could: resilience. Strength. Perspective.

Still, I get it. Some mornings, all you want is a break from your own story. A pause button for your brain. A little mercy from the chaos. And maybe, in its own way, that longing is holy too. Maybe it’s the soul’s way of saying, I need rest. I need to breathe again.

What I’ve learned is that peace doesn’t always come from forgetting—it comes from remembering the right things. Remembering that even when the world spins too fast, I don’t have to keep up with it. Remembering that I can slow down, breathe deep, and let grace fill the space that stress has taken over.

If I could wake up with amnesia, maybe I’d forget what worry feels like—but I’d also forget how it feels to overcome it. I’d forget the joy that comes after endurance, the sweetness of laughter that only means something because I’ve known tears. I’d forget how it feels when Tim smiles on a hard day, or when we find peace after a storm. I’d forget that miracles often hide inside the moments we wish away.

So maybe I don’t want amnesia. Maybe I just want perspective.

Maybe what I really need isn’t to forget life’s stress, but to remember that it’s not the whole story. That behind the stress is purpose. Behind the exhaustion is meaning. Behind the worry is a God who still holds every piece of this unpredictable life in His hands.

There’s beauty even in the tension. Because the same heart that aches under stress also beats for love, for hope, for connection. The same mind that spins with worry can also dream, imagine, create, and believe again. The same person who wishes for escape can also whisper a quiet, defiant, “Thank You, Lord, for getting me through another day.”

Maybe that’s what grace looks like in the real world—not a life without stress, but a life where peace keeps showing up in spite of it.

So, no—I don’t need to wake up with amnesia. I just need to wake up with perspective. I need to remind myself that life is hard, yes—but it’s also breathtaking. That stress may fill my mind, but gratitude can fill my heart. That even when the world feels heavy, there’s still beauty hiding in the cracks of ordinary days.

If I could start fresh, I’d choose to remember differently. I’d hold on to the good—the love, the laughter, the grace that threads through the chaos. I’d let go of the weight that isn’t mine to carry. I’d stop fighting the storms and start learning how to dance in the rain.

Maybe that’s what freedom really is—not forgetting the pain, but refusing to let it define the day.

So today, I’ll make peace with what is. I’ll make my tea, breathe deep, and whisper to myself, You’ve made it through worse. You’ll make it through this too.

Because the truth is, I don’t need amnesia to find peace.
I just need to remember who I am, whose I am,
and how far I’ve already come.

And that, right there, is enough.

Every Hour, I Need You

There’s a kind of quiet that only comes when you’ve reached the end of yourself—the kind that humbles you, softens you, and reminds you that you were never meant to carry it all alone. I’ve known that quiet. I’ve sat in it more than once, hands open, heart trembling, whispering, “Lord, I need You.”

There’s no pretense in that prayer, no fancy words or practiced phrases. It’s the raw honesty of a soul that knows it cannot stand on its own. It’s a confession wrapped in surrender, a truth spoken from the deepest part of who we are: Without You, I fall apart.

I’ve lived long enough to know that life has a way of humbling you—of breaking your plans, your pride, and sometimes even your heart. It strips away the illusion of control until all that’s left is need. And strangely enough, that’s where grace meets us best—in the space between our striving and our surrender.

“Lord, I come, I confess.”

How many times have those words echoed through my prayers? Not because I’m faithless, but because I’m human. Because no matter how many years I’ve walked with Him, I still find myself needing Him in every moment. Every hour. Every breath.

When the weight of Tim’s illness feels too heavy to carry, I bow my head and whisper those words. When fear tries to tighten its grip, when exhaustion threatens to take the joy out of a day, I return to the same truth that’s carried me through so much: He is my rest. He is my guide. He is my defense.

There’s something beautifully freeing about admitting how much we need God. The world tells us to be strong, to hold it together, to fix it, manage it, push through it. But there’s a strength that comes not from doing, but from bowing. Not from striving, but from trusting.

When I bow before Him, I find rest. When I stop pretending I can do it all, I make space for the One who can.

He’s the one that guides my heart when I can’t see the road ahead. He’s the voice that whispers peace into chaos, that stills the storm when all I can see are the waves. He’s my one defense when the lies of doubt and fear try to speak louder than faith. He’s my righteousness when I fall short—again and again—and yet am met with mercy instead of condemnation.

“Every hour, I need You.”

That’s not a weakness—it’s the most powerful truth I know. Because in every hour, there’s something that tries to pull me away from Him: distractions, worries, weariness. But every hour also brings a new chance to remember—He is near.

There are moments I’ve felt completely undone—those nights when the tears don’t stop, when the ache feels too deep for words. But even then, I’ve felt His presence, quiet and constant, holding me together when everything else falls apart.

It’s in the smallest of things, too—the morning light through the window, the sound of laughter, the steady rhythm of breath. Little reminders that grace isn’t just found in the grand or miraculous; it’s found in the ordinary, in the hours we’re simply trying to make it through.

And maybe that’s why this prayer is one I return to over and over. It’s not a one-time confession—it’s a way of living. A way of walking through life with open hands instead of clenched fists.

Because I’ve learned that dependence isn’t defeat. It’s the truest form of worship.

We were never meant to be self-sufficient. We were meant to walk closely with the One who knows us best. The One who catches us when we stumble. The One who already knows our flaws and still chooses to call us beloved.

So when I whisper, “Lord, I need You,” it’s not a cry of despair—it’s a declaration of trust. It’s saying, “I can’t, but You can.” It’s saying, “I won’t run ahead of You; I’ll stay right here in Your presence.” It’s saying, “I believe Your grace is still enough for me, even here.”

Every hour, every season, every circumstance—He is what holds me together.

And even now, as I look back on the years—through the storms we’ve faced, the prayers we’ve prayed, the tears we’ve shed—I can see His fingerprints on every single one of them. In every valley, He was my strength. In every victory, He was my joy. In every silence, He was still working.

So I bow again today, not because I’m defeated, but because I’m grateful. I confess not my failure, but my faith. Because the same God who guided me through the hardest nights is the same God who will lead me through whatever lies ahead.

Lord, I come. I confess. Without You, I fall apart.
You are my rest. You are my strength. You are my song.

And as long as there’s breath in my lungs, I will keep saying it—
Lord, I need You. Oh, I need You. Every hour, I need You.

That Ragged Old Flag

There’s something sacred about small-town America—the kind of place where the courthouse still sits in the center square, where the flag still waves high over old brick buildings, and where stories aren’t told in books but on front porches and park benches. It’s there that you meet people like the old man sitting on that bench—people who remember not just the years gone by, but the soul of what this country has endured.

He sits quietly, maybe with a bit of dust on his hat, his eyes carrying the weight of time and the pride of survival. You might think the courthouse behind him is run down, the flag above it too worn to matter anymore. But to him—and to those who understand—the wrinkles in that flag aren’t flaws. They’re history. They’re testimony. They’re the heartbeat of a nation that’s weathered everything from revolution to redemption.

He tells his story in the same way America tells hers—honestly, without pretense. That flag hanging a little crooked? It’s seen it all. It has holes and burns and faded stripes, not because it’s neglected, but because it’s been places most of us can only imagine. It’s crossed icy rivers with Washington. It’s been marked by cannon fire while Francis Scott Key wrote the words that would one day define a country’s spirit. It’s stood in the smoke of New Orleans and waved beside heroes at the Alamo. It’s been slashed and torn at Chancellorsville and Shiloh Hill—places where brothers fought brothers, and yet, somehow, that flag refused to fall.

It’s flown in victory and in grief, over fields where blood soaked the earth, over seas where young men gave everything, and over cities rebuilt after tragedy. It’s been battered by war, shadowed by scandal, trampled by anger, and burned in protest—but it has never stopped waving.

That’s the thing about that “ragged old flag.” It’s not perfect, but it’s ours. It’s carried our triumphs and our failures, our hope and our heartbreak. Every rip in its fabric is a reminder that freedom isn’t tidy—it’s tested. Every faded color tells the story of sacrifice. Every frayed edge whispers the names of those who stood for something greater than themselves.

The old man on that bench doesn’t see a tattered piece of cloth. He sees courage. He sees resilience. He sees a promise that was worth fighting for and still is. He sees the soldiers who marched under it, the families who prayed beneath it, the children who pledged allegiance to it before they even understood what that word meant.

He’s seen it all—this country at its best and its worst. He’s seen pride swell and tempers flare. He’s watched people forget that the freedom they enjoy came at the highest cost. And still, he folds that flag with reverence every night, raises it again every morning, because no matter how divided or weary the land may be, that flag is a symbol of what unites us: the belief that we can rise, rebuild, and remain free.

There’s a kind of poetry in that—the idea that something so battered could still be so beautiful. That something so tested could still stand tall. Because the flag isn’t just cloth and color; it’s the story of a people who have stumbled and stood again. It’s the reminder that we’ve been through the fire before, and we can take a whole lot more.

The old man’s pride isn’t naïve—it’s earned. It comes from knowing that the flag he salutes each morning isn’t flawless, but faithful. It’s endured storms and wars, corruption and chaos, yet it still waves. And maybe that’s what we all need to remember right now: that even when we’re bruised and divided, the spirit of this country still holds. The threads may stretch, but they don’t break. The colors may fade, but they never die.

So, when you walk through a town square and see an old flag swaying in the wind, take a moment. Look closer. Those frays, those stains, those worn edges—they’re proof that freedom has a story, and it’s still being written.

And somewhere, on a quiet park bench, an old man will smile, tip his hat, and say it proudly, “She’s been through the fire before—and I believe she can take a whole lot more.”

Because no matter how ragged it gets, that old flag still stands. And so do we.

Safe In His Arms

There are days when worry sneaks in like a shadow—quiet, creeping, familiar. It starts small, a single thought, a “what if” that begins to unravel everything steady in your heart. Before long, the questions multiply: What if it doesn’t work out? What if the healing doesn’t come? What if I’m not strong enough for what’s ahead? But somewhere in the middle of the noise, there’s a softer voice—the one that’s been there all along. It whispers, Why should you worry? Why should you fear? Why should you run when Jesus is here? And when that truth settles, the chaos begins to still.

Because the truth is, I am safe. Not just emotionally or spiritually safe in theory—but truly, tangibly, eternally safe. Safe in His arms, the arms that never let go. Safe in His heart, the heart that beats with endless compassion. Safe in His presence, where even the worst storm can’t pull me under. Nothing can take me away from His love. Not the things I’ve done, not the mistakes I’ve made, not the circumstances I can’t control. Not sickness, not loss, not fear, not failure. His love is the constant that doesn’t shift with the wind or fade with time.

And yet, being human means forgetting that sometimes. It means letting worry creep back in, as if the same God who created the stars and calmed the sea could somehow forget how to hold my heart. But He doesn’t forget. He never will. When I take a moment to really think about it—to slow down and remember who He is—it becomes almost impossible to stay afraid. God is on the throne. Not was, not will be—is. Right now. In this very moment, He reigns. Over everything I can see and everything I can’t. Over the uncertainty that fills my mind. Over the pain that sometimes clouds my vision. Over the world that feels too heavy to carry. He reigns forevermore.

That means every fear I have has already been answered by His power. Every worry that tries to steal my peace is already under His authority. Every battle I face has already been seen, known, and overcome by His victory. I don’t have to fight for control when I belong to the One who already holds it all. And when I think about it like that—when I really let it sink in—I realize how good He’s been. God is always good. Not just when life is easy, not just when prayers are answered the way I want them to be, but always. Even in the waiting, even in the confusion, even in the heartbreak—He is still good. It’s not just what He does. It’s who He is.

He loves like a Father should. The kind of love that protects, not smothers. That corrects, not condemns. That holds, not out of obligation, but out of deep, abiding care. He loves with patience when I’m stubborn, with mercy when I fail, with grace when I come undone. And when I remember that, everything changes. Why should I worry when the hands that built the universe are the same hands that hold me? Why should I fear when the One who conquered death walks beside me? Why should I run when He’s never once turned away?

There’s a peace that comes when you stop fighting to control every outcome and simply rest in His love. It doesn’t mean life gets easier—it means you start seeing it differently. You start trusting that even in the unknown, you’re still known. Even in the darkness, you’re still seen. Even in the struggle, you’re still safe. Safe in His arms. Safe in His heart. And when that truth takes root, fear loses its voice. Worry loses its power. Anxiety loses its hold. Because the presence of Jesus doesn’t just calm storms—it changes the atmosphere inside you. It reminds you that even if the waves keep rising, you won’t sink. Even if the night feels long, the dawn is coming. Even if the road is hard, you’re not walking it alone.

He’s here. And because He’s here, you can breathe again. You can rest. You can stop running from fear and start running toward grace. So the next time worry knocks, I’ll remind myself of this: God is still on the throne. He hasn’t forgotten how to reign, and He hasn’t stopped loving me. I’ll remember that His goodness isn’t fragile—it’s fierce and unshakable. I’ll remember that His heart is big enough to hold every broken piece of mine. And when I remember all that, I can finally smile. I can finally exhale. Because I’m safe—completely, perfectly, unchangeably safe—in the arms of the One who has never failed me.

Why should I worry? Why should I fear? Jesus is here. And that’s more than enough.