Reflections
August, 2026
I believe God often speaks in the quiet moments. This space is where I share the thoughts, questions, and lessons that shape my faith - embracing the messy middle while learning to trust His perfect timing
A Moment of quiet reflection
Holding the Moment
August, 26 2026
I've spent a lot of time preserving things lately.
Tomatoes have covered my kitchen counters. I've frozen some, turned others into soup and sauce, and stood over a pot waiting - rather impatiently, for fresh tomatoes to finally cook down into something resembling marinara.
There's something satisfying about it.
Taking something that grew for months and finding a way to make it last just a little longer.
Maybe that's why I've been thinking about how much of life we try to preserve, too.
This past week has held reminders of just how quickly time moves.
Birthdays come around again.
Old friends gather and somehow decades have passed since we first met.
Pets who once felt like they'd always be there suddenly aren't.
Children become adults.
Summers turn into fall.
And no matter how much we'd sometimes like to slow everything down, life keeps moving forward.
The Things We Can't Put in a Jar
I wish preserving memories were as straightforward as preserving tomatoes.
Follow the instructions.
Seal everything tightly.
Put it somewhere safe.
Come back whenever you're ready.
But life doesn't work that way.
We take pictures and videos. We save birthday cards. We keep things that belonged to people - or animals - we've loved.
But eventually I've realized that what we're really trying to hold onto isn't the thing itself.
It's how we felt when we were there.
The laughter with someone who has known us almost our entire life.
The way your child looked when they were little.
The familiar sound of a dog moving through the house.
A summer evening when everyone happened to be home.
Ordinary moments rarely announce themselves as memories while we're living them.
That's what makes them so easy to miss.
Maybe the Answer Isn't Holding On
I've been thinking lately that perhaps we're not supposed to hold onto every season.
Maybe we're supposed to be present enough to actually experience it while it's here.
There will always be another task waiting.
Another load of laundry.
Another email.
Another project.
Another reason to say, "I'll do that later."
But some things don't wait.
People grow older.
Animals grow older.
Friendships change.
Kids build lives of their own.
And eventually the season we're standing in becomes one we wish we could visit again.
There's a verse in Ecclesiastes that I've always loved:
"He has made everything beautiful in its time."
— Ecclesiastes 3:11
In its time.
Not forever.
Maybe that's part of what makes something beautiful.
So I'm Trying to Notice
I'm trying to get better at noticing what's happening while it's happening.
The tomatoes covering my counter.
The animals waiting for me outside.
A conversation with an old friend.
My family gathered together.
The completely ordinary days that don't seem particularly important.
Because someday, some of those ordinary things will be the things I would give anything to experience one more time.
I'll still preserve the tomatoes.
I'll still take too many pictures.
I'll still save the things that mean something to me.
But I'm learning that perhaps the best way to preserve a life isn't trying desperately to hold onto it.
It's being fully present while you're living it.
This Week's Reflection
What ordinary part of your life today might someday be something you miss?
Notice it.
Enjoy it.
Be there for it.
Some seasons aren't meant to last forever.
They're simply meant to be lived.
A Moment of quiet reflection
August, 15 2026
The Hardest Part of Loving Them
This week, we said goodbye to Charlie.
For nine years, Charlie was simply part of our life. He was our bird-hunting dog, our family dog, our farm dog. He had his own little apartment in the barn that he loved, and somehow he always seemed happy just to be wherever we were.
Charlie was one of those gentle souls. Happy. Loyal. Easy to love.
And this week, we had to let him go.
There is something particularly difficult about losing a pet. They become woven into the ordinary parts of our lives so quietly that sometimes we don't realize just how much space they occupy until they're gone.
It's the routines that suddenly feel different.
The places they used to lie. The sounds you expect to hear. Looking toward the spot where they should be without even thinking about it.
Our animals have been part of so many chapters of our family's life. They've watched our kids grow up. They've been there through celebrations, hard seasons, ordinary Tuesdays and everything in between.
They ask for very little from us, yet somehow give us so much.
And that's the bargain we make when we love animals.
We get the years.
The companionship. The funny stories. The muddy paws. The chores. The vet bills. The occasional frustration. The unconditional greetings. The comfort of having another living thing simply happy that you came home.
And eventually, if we're lucky enough to have them for a long time, we get the heartbreak too.
A Hard Realization
Charlie's passing brought another realization that I wasn't quite prepared for.
Our animals are getting older.
When you have several animals, their ages don't necessarily cross your mind every day. You feed them, care for them and move through the routines of life together.
Then something happens that makes you stop and do the math.
And suddenly you realize that this goodbye may be the beginning of a season that could hold more of them.
I don't like thinking about that.
We have loved these animals for years, and I know there will come a day when we'll have to say goodbye to each of them. That's the part of having animals that never gets easier.
But I also don't want the fear of losing them someday to steal the joy of having them today.
Maybe that's one of the things Charlie's life is reminding me of this week.
Love them while they're here.
Take the picture. Give the extra treat. Scratch behind their ears a little longer. Appreciate the ordinary moments that don't seem important at the time.
Because eventually, those ordinary moments become the ones you miss the most.
The Joy Is Still Worth the Heartbreak
I've caught myself wondering why we continue to bring animals into our lives when we know how the story eventually ends.
But then I think about Charlie.
Nine years of memories.
Nine years of watching that happy golden dog live a life he seemed pretty darn pleased with.
Nine years of him being part of our family.
Would I trade those years to avoid what we're feeling now?
Not for a second.
That's the strange thing about grief. It hurts because something mattered.
And Charlie mattered.
I believe God gives us so many different things in this life to care for and enjoy, and animals are certainly among them. Their lives may be much shorter than ours, but that doesn't make their place in our story insignificant.
Charlie found us in this lifetime.
And I am so grateful he did.
I hope somehow, someday, he finds us again. 🌈
Until then, we'll miss you, Charlie.
And we'll keep loving the animals still here with us a little more intentionally - knowing that every ordinary day we get with them is one worth appreciating.
A Moment of quiet reflection
August 7, 2026
Becoming Before Believing
There are moments in life when we quietly decide that something is meant for "people like them."
The author.
The entrepreneur.
The speaker.
The business owner.
We admire what they've built while convincing ourselves that we could never belong in the same room.
I remember when I decided to write my first book. If I'm honest, I never considered myself a writer. Reading and writing weren't subjects that came naturally to me in school. I certainly didn't see "author" when I looked in the mirror.
But I had a story.
I had an idea.
And more importantly, I had something on my heart that I felt compelled to share.
I wasn't an expert. I didn't have a large platform or years of experience. I simply took the next step.
Looking back, that decision opened doors I never could have imagined.
Over the years there have been many other ideas. Some grew into something beautiful. Others quietly faded. A few are still waiting for the right season.
None of them were wasted.
Every one of them taught me something.
Sometimes I wonder how many opportunities we miss because we disqualify ourselves before anyone else has the chance.
We compare our beginning to someone else's middle.
We assume we aren't qualified enough, experienced enough, talented enough, or successful enough.
But every success story started somewhere.
Amazon began in a garage.
YouTube was once just an idea.
Every business, every book, every ministry, every dream started with someone willing to try before they felt completely ready.
I've come to realize that a growth mindset isn't believing you'll always succeed.
It's believing you'll always learn.
Rejection doesn't define your value.
Failure doesn't determine your future.
Sometimes God simply uses closed doors to redirect us toward something we couldn't yet see.
I think back over my own journey - different careers, businesses, books, this little corner of the internet, and dreams that are still unfolding.
Not everything has turned out the way I imagined.
And honestly, I'm grateful.
Because if every plan had worked exactly the way I wanted, I might have missed the places where God was quietly leading me instead.
One verse I come back to often is:
"Commit to the Lord whatever you do, and He will establish your plans."
Proverbs 16:3
Notice it doesn't say we'll understand every step.
It simply reminds us who to trust with them.
So today, if you're holding back because you don't think you're qualified enough, I'd encourage you to ask a different question.
Not...
"Am I good enough?"
But...
"What if God is asking me to take the first step anyway?"
Some dreams won't become what we imagined.
Others will become something even better.
You'll never know unless you're willing to begin.
So keep reaching.
Keep learning.
Keep trusting.
Because sometimes the biggest thing standing between us and the life God has prepared is the story we've been telling ourselves about why we aren't ready.
Maybe today is the day to stop looking in the mirror for permission and start looking to God for courage.
"I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me." — Philippians 4:13
A Moment of quiet reflection
The Stories We Tell Ourselves
I've been thinking a lot lately about how quickly misunderstandings can grow.
Not because either person intended harm.
Not because someone was necessarily right or wrong.
But because we only ever experience a conversation through our own lens.
What feels like enthusiasm to one person may feel overwhelming to another.
What feels like protecting your peace may feel like rejection to the person on the other side.
The truth is, we rarely know the full story.
We don't know what happened before that conversation.
We don't know what someone is carrying.
We don't know what fears, experiences, or responsibilities are influencing their decisions.
And yet, our minds are incredibly skilled at filling in the blanks.
Someone doesn't respond...
"They must be upset with me."
Someone declines an opportunity...
"I must not have been good enough."
Someone ends a conversation abruptly...
"I must have done something wrong."
Sometimes those stories are true.
Many times they aren't.
I've learned that silence often tells us very little. We tend to interpret it through our own fears instead of through facts.
Maybe that's why grace matters so much.
Grace allows us to leave room for the possibility that another person is simply navigating life differently than we are.
It also asks us to extend that same grace to ourselves.
To acknowledge that we won't always communicate perfectly.
That excitement can sometimes outpace patience.
That misunderstandings are part of being human.
Every interaction teaches us something.
Sometimes it teaches us how to communicate more clearly.
Sometimes it reminds us to listen more than we speak.
Sometimes it simply reminds us that not every relationship, opportunity, or conversation is meant to continue.
And that's okay.
The people who are meant to walk alongside us usually won't require us to convince them to stay. They'll meet us with curiosity, honesty, and mutual respect.
Perhaps the greatest lesson isn't learning how to avoid every misunderstanding.
Perhaps it's learning not to let one misunderstanding define who we are.
A Moment of quiet reflection
When the Skies Feel Heavy
As I sit on our back porch this morning, the sky is covered in thick gray clouds. A cool breeze moves through the air, gently swaying the tops of trees and somehow it matches the quiet in my heart.
There are seasons in life when everything feels a little... unsettled.
Not necessarily bad. Just uncertain.
I've always been someone who thinks deeply, sometimes too deeply. I naturally challenge myself to do more, be more, accomplish more. I set high expectations for myself, and somewhere along the way I've convinced myself that falling short somehow means I've failed.
The truth is, that's a heavy way to live.
Success has a funny way of fooling us. We think if we just reach the next goal, earn the next opportunity, or check one more box, we'll finally feel at peace.
But peace doesn't come from achievement.
I've learned that even in seasons of growth, there can still be loneliness. There can be moments when you wonder if people see you differently, if you're somehow behind, or if you're carrying burdens no one else notices.
Yesterday, a song came on that completely caught me off guard.
"I Believe You" by Megan Woods.
Feeling emotional, I realized how tightly I've been holding onto things that were never mine to carry.
The lyrics reminded me that God's timing has never been rushed.
He's never surprised by the detours.
He's never looked at my life and thought, "I didn't see that coming."
Maybe you're in a season where you're wondering why everyone else seems to be moving ahead.
Maybe you're comparing yourself to friends, coworkers, or even the person you thought you'd be by now.
Maybe you're carrying disappointment that no one else can see.
Or maybe you're simply tired.
Wherever you find yourself today, I hope you'll remember this:
God isn't asking us to have every answer.
He's asking us to trust Him.
To keep taking the next faithful step.
To believe that even when we can't see what's ahead, He already can.
🌿
Nothing blooms overnight.
Seeds spend weeks hidden beneath the soil before anyone sees evidence that they're growing.
From the outside, it looks like nothing is happening.
But beneath the surface, roots are forming.
Strength is developing.
Life is quietly preparing for what's next.
Maybe that's where I am.
Maybe that's where you are too.
So today, instead of trying to control every outcome, I'm choosing to rest.
To breathe.
To trust.
To believe that God's plans are always better than the ones I could write for myself.
The skies may be gray some days, but I've lived long enough to know they don't stay that way forever.
Sometimes faith simply looks like believing the sun is still there, even when the clouds are hiding it.
