What It Means to Give Light

Uncategorized

There’s a quote from Viktor Frankl that has been sitting with me lately:
“What is to give light must endure burning.”

And maybe it’s because the world feels especially heavy right now—the news, the cruelty, the ways people harm one another—that this line hits so deeply. Because the truth is, being someone who notices, who feels, who cares… it costs something.

To give light is not a gentle calling. It often means allowing ourselves to be present to suffering, to stay open-hearted in a world that keeps offering reasons to shut down. It means being willing to carry grief, anger, helplessness—all without letting them harden us. That’s the burn Frankl speaks of. The ache of choosing to remain human in inhumane times.

But maybe that burning isn’t just the pain of the world pressing in. Maybe it’s also the fire of our own aliveness. The warmth of conscience. The heat of love refusing to look away.

When we feel that burn—when the weight of it all becomes too much—it’s not proof that we’re weak. It’s proof that we’re still lit from within. That some part of us is still determined to be a presence of light, even when shadows seem to stretch endlessly.

So if you’re tired, if your compassion feels like it’s rubbing you raw, know this: you’re not alone. You’re doing sacred work. And your light—flickering, imperfect, brave—is needed. Not because it fixes everything, but because it reminds someone else that hope is still possible. That softness is still alive. That light is still real.

And that matters.

Bold love disarms evil through generosity.

Uncategorized, , , ,

When Love Looks Like Strength — and Feels Like Kindness

We live in a world where loud often wins.
Where whoever shouts the longest or posts the most outrage gets the final word.
Where we confuse sarcasm with strength, and power with harshness.

But lately, I’ve been wondering…
What if true strength doesn’t look like control, but like compassion?

What if the fiercest kind of love is the kind that doesn’t shout to be heard—but speaks life anyway?
What if the most courageous thing we can do in a culture of criticism… is to choose kindness?

Bold love disarms evil through generosity.
Tender love surprises hardness with kindness.

That phrase has stayed with me.

As a counselor—and just as a human trying to love well—I’ve seen how easy it is to react instead of respond. To mirror someone’s bitterness instead of bringing in warmth. To defend instead of delight. To protect yourself instead of pursuing someone else’s good.

But bold, Christlike love doesn’t behave that way.

It doesn’t need to overpower or prove itself.
It is secure enough to be generous—even when misunderstood.
It is holy enough to be kind—even to those who aren’t.

Because real love—gospel love—has both weight and gentleness.
It is both lion and lamb.
Strength and stillness.
Power and peace.

This kind of love doesn’t ignore harm.
But it doesn’t repay it, either.

It confronts evil—not by mimicking it, but by offering a better way.
It doesn’t stoop to the level of the insult.
It raises the conversation entirely.

It’s the kind of love that causes those who expect retaliation to pause in surprise.

And sometimes, that pause… is where redemption begins.

It’s not weak to love gently.
It’s not naive to respond with blessing.
It’s not passive to refuse to participate in the cycle of harm.

It’s brave.

So today, may we love boldly.
May we forgive when it’s hard.
May we speak life into conversations that have gone dry with cynicism.
May we surprise someone with kindness they didn’t expect—and didn’t earn.

Because that’s what Jesus did for us.

And we’re never more like Him than when we love like that.

Beauty and Ashes: A Journey Through Ukraine

Uncategorized, , , ,

A reflection from the front lines of grief, resilience, and hope

After a week of travel, teaching, and countless sacred conversations, I’m sitting in Nashville reflecting on all I’ve seen and felt. My journey to Ukraine this time was unlike any other—a collision of beauty and brokenness, resilience and sorrow, silence and song.

It began on a crisp Friday morning in Nolensville, Tennessee. My senior dog, Maci, seemed to know I was leaving. Her eyes followed every movement as I packed, full of the kind of knowing that only comes with years of companionship. The airport goodbye was tender—quiet, weighty. And from that moment on, I was caught in the current of something much larger than myself.

A turbulent flight to D.C. almost caused me to miss my connection, but grace intervened and I made it to Krakow. Slavik and his young son greeted me, and we drove the three hours to the Ukrainian border, winding through quiet villages and rolling fields. A stop at McDonald’s for cheeseburgers and coffee felt oddly grounding—one last moment of Western normalcy before stepping across the threshold into war-torn Ukraine.

We crossed the border on foot.

Each step on the cobblestones carried weight—leaving peace behind and walking into grief. The change in atmosphere was immediate, not just politically, but spiritually. In Lviv, I returned to the same hotel I stayed in last time. Familiarity helped, even as the city felt different. The golden domes still caught the light, but the air was heavier. The grief more palpable.

Each morning in Lviv began the same: a beautiful, generous breakfast followed by a moment of collective stillness at 9 a.m.—a city-wide pause to remember the fallen. Forks rested. Conversations ceased. For one minute, all of Ukraine stilled to honor those lost in the Great War.

It became a ritual that shaped the rhythm of my day. A sacred reminder that even amid the ordinary—coffee, eggs, chatter—grief walks with us.

At the seminary, I met 24 students training to become counselors in a country still at war. These were not theoretical learners—they were survivors. One student had a prosthetic leg. Another was a combat medic. A young woman had fled Kherson alone. Another had watched her hometown be destroyed.

They brought their full selves to the classroom—grief and hope, pain and persistence. And together, we created space for deep learning: neurobiology of trauma, treatment planning, post-traumatic growth, and narrative healing.

The classroom became holy ground.

Tears came freely. One student broke down mid-case presentation. Another asked, “How do I keep going?” after months of serving on the front lines. And yet, laughter showed up too—in role-plays, over coffee, and in the quiet joy of shared understanding. Hope insisted on making space.

Outside the classroom, beauty met me again and again.

Late-night walks on cobblestone streets where violinists played in the open air. Dinners at Jewish-Ukrainian fusion restaurants. Candles flickering during quiet conversations. One woman said, “There is more to save in Ukraine than has been destroyed.” I saw that truth lived out in every corner.

My translator had been sent to the front three times. He carried trauma in his body but translated with such care—turning pain into something redemptive. A young assistant in the department became a steady source of joy, always ready with help and encouragement.

Students offered small but deeply meaningful gifts—bananas, coffee, earrings, handwritten notes. One told me, “You are Ukrainian now.” I felt the weight of that blessing.

As the week ended, I was given a rushnyk—a traditional embroidered cloth used in Ukrainian weddings. Couples step onto it as they take their vows. Receiving one felt like a vow had been made between myself and this land, these people, this sacred work.

The journey back across the border was long—five hours in cold rain, every bag searched, every body tired. But still, kindness lingered. Strangers held umbrellas for one another. No words needed—just shared humanity.

In Krakow, I allowed myself one quiet day. I wandered through medieval streets. I watched a parade from a glass-walled café. I listened to the trumpet call from St. Mary’s Basilica—its abrupt ending a centuries-old tradition honoring a fallen hero.

It felt fitting.

Now, back in Nashville, I carry a strange mixture:

  • The deep trauma entrusted to me by students who are still living in the storm.
  • The ache of uncertain news from the front.
  • The warmth of dinner with Macon.
  • The soft glow of patio lights I strung with tired hands when I couldn’t fix anything else.
  • The anticipation of tomorrow’s table, where stories and laughter will meet again.

This work is heavy.
But it is holy.
And it is not finished.

How You Can Pray

  • For my students at UBTS, who are learning to help others while carrying their own unhealed wounds.
  • For those on the front lines and the families waiting for their return.
  • For the children growing up in war—may they one day know safety, peace, and joy.
  • For the church in Ukraine—that leaders would be renewed with strength and hope.
  • For the restoration of Ukraine.
  • And for my own heart—that I may hold these stories with reverence and release them with trust.

To those who prayed, who followed, who lifted me up from afar—thank you.
Your love was felt in every step, in every word.
Your prayers made space for this sacred work.

With love and deep gratitude,
Sandy

Creating Light in the Midst of Weight

Uncategorized,

A reflection on heaviness, hope, and the quiet power of small things

The day began with the kind of sky that takes your breath for just a moment—endlessly blue, impossibly crisp. A perfect 70-degree Friday in Middle Tennessee, the kind that carries spring on its back and lets you believe, even briefly, that winter might finally be loosening its grip.

The breeze was gentle, the sunshine warm and golden. The air had shifted, and with it came a subtle lifting—like the world itself was exhaling. And for a while, I wanted to believe the world was matching the weather.

But it didn’t.

Fridays are usually lighter in my schedule, fewer clients, a slower rhythm. But not today.
Six sessions. Six sacred stories.
Each one heavy.

There are days when I can hold pain with open hands—attuned, present, but not overtaken.
Today wasn’t one of those days.

Some stories sat deep in my bones after the calls ended. I tried to release them, to shake off the residue, but the ache stayed with me, humming just beneath the surface.

I needed motion. I needed life.
So I ran errands—mundane things, just moving through the world like everyone else. I cracked the windows as I drove, let the breeze wrap around my arms, played music that made me feel a little more alive. It wasn’t a cure, but it helped. Sometimes joy isn’t loud—it’s a cracked window and sunlight on your skin. It’s the sacredness of simplicity.

But then came the news.

Political negotiations between the U.S. and Zelensky had gone poorly. And with a trip to Ukraine just a week away, the news landed like a stone in my chest.
Frustration.
Grief.
The slow kind of despair that doesn’t lead to action—just scrolling. Absorbing. Feeling helpless.

I sat with it for a while.
And then, I did what I could.

I went outside and strung lights across the back patio.
Threaded them carefully. Adjusted. Tweaked.
Stood back. Breathed. Reached again.

It was a simple thing.
But when the sun dipped low and those soft lights began to glow, it felt like something sacred.
A small act of intention in a world that often feels too chaotic to hold.
A reminder that even when everything feels dark and uncertain, we can still create beauty. We can still choose light.

Dinner with Macon helped too.
The kind of evening that lets you step out of your own head for a while. Good food. Easy conversation. Laughter. Presence. Nothing profound—just peace. And after a day like this one, that was profound enough.

Later, I began preparing for tomorrow’s dinner party—setting things in order, making space for connection and warmth. The thought of a full table, of laughter and shared stories, feels like something steady to hold onto.

Tonight, I find myself carrying a strange mix of things:

  • The deep trauma my clients entrusted to me.
  • The heaviness of international conflict and a personal stake in what happens next.
  • The contentment of simple rituals—errands, porch lights, a good meal.
  • The anticipation of a shared table tomorrow.

And all of it matters.

The hard things don’t cancel out the good, and the good doesn’t erase the hard. They sit together.
And somehow, both are part of what it means to be human.

Outside my window, the lights on the patio glow gently.
They’re not loud. They’re not spectacular.
But they are steady.

And tonight, that is enough.

If the world feels heavy today, maybe don’t try to fix it all.
Maybe string some lights.
Step outside.
Let someone else make you laugh.
Let the sun warm your skin.
Prepare for a gathering.
Make room for beauty.

Even the smallest lights matter in the dark.

The Weight and Wonder of Being an Online Trauma Therapist

Uncategorized, , , ,

Being an online therapist specializing in trauma is both deeply rewarding and uniquely exhausting. It’s a profession that requires me to hold space for some of the most painful human experiences—grief, betrayal, loss, abuse—while also believing, fiercely, in the capacity for healing.

The Space Between the Screens

There’s something intimate about meeting clients online. They are in their own space—sometimes curled up on a couch, sometimes taking a call from a parked car, sometimes in a quiet corner of an office between meetings. The screen creates a buffer, but not a barrier. In some ways, it allows for a kind of rawness that traditional in-person therapy doesn’t always invite. There’s no office door to step through, no waiting room to navigate. Just me, them, and the work.

And yet, there’s a heaviness to it. The stories don’t dissipate when the session ends; they linger in the quiet hum of my computer screen, in the way my body holds tension after logging off. Unlike in an office, where I might have a moment to reset before my next client, in the online space, I sometimes find myself staring at my own reflection between sessions, taking deep breaths, shaking off the energy that clings.

The Unseen Challenges

Online therapy comes with its own set of challenges. There’s the heartbreak of frozen screens and lagging audio when a client is sharing something profoundly vulnerable. There’s the frustration of technological glitches when the work demands presence and attunement. And there’s the reality that sometimes, I have to sit with my own helplessness—when a client is in crisis and I’m not physically there to hand them a tissue, offer a grounding touch, or ensure their immediate safety beyond the words I can speak.

There’s also the paradox of being so deeply connected to clients yet physically alone. In a traditional therapy office, colleagues might be down the hall, a quiet reminder that I’m not holding all of this by myself. In online work, the space between sessions can feel isolating, the echoes of difficult stories left bouncing around in my own home.

The Beauty in the Breakthroughs

And yet, there’s profound beauty in this work. I get to witness resilience unfold in real-time. I see people take tentative steps toward healing, set boundaries for the first time, reclaim their voices. I hear the shift in their tone when they start to believe they deserve more. I see the tears of relief when they realize that their pain is not too much, that they are not broken, that healing is possible.

Being an online trauma therapist means trusting in the power of presence, even through a screen. It means learning how to transmit safety and warmth with only my voice, my eyes, and the small ways I adjust my posture. It means bearing witness to both the worst and the best of humanity—the way trauma wounds, but also the way people rise.

Holding the Work and Holding Myself

To do this work well, I have to care for myself with the same compassion I offer my clients. It’s a lesson I’ve learned the hard way. I have to step away from screens, let silence fill the spaces where words once poured out. I have to remind myself that I am not responsible for fixing, only for walking alongside. I have to remember that healing is a process, and that I am simply one stop along the way.

Some days, I carry this work lightly. Other days, I feel its full weight. But always, I hold it with reverence. Because to sit with someone in their pain, to witness their return to themselves—that is sacred work. And I am honored to do it, one session at a time.

When the Air Still Bites: Holding Steady in the In-Between

Uncategorized, , ,

A reflection on presence, patience, and the quiet work of staying grounded

The day began with sunlight—bright and clean—the kind of clear sky that stretches wide over Middle Tennessee and makes the world feel a little more alive. But the air? The air still held a bite. A firm reminder that winter isn’t quite done, no matter how much I want it to be.

I stepped outside with a jacket pulled tight, bracing for the contrast between the sun’s golden light and the chill that clung to everything. The trees, still mostly bare, looked like ink sketches drawn across the sky. The red maples that had bloomed so bravely last week seemed stunned by the sudden cold, their tiny buds curling inward, hesitant.

I get it.
Sometimes, I’m hesitant too.

The work of the day was full.
Nine clients.
Nine stories.
Nine distinct ways trauma shows up and shapes a life.

It’s sacred work—and some days, it feels like standing on the edge of a vast ocean, watching wave after wave of sorrow roll toward me. The temptation is always to brace or retreat, but I’ve learned something better: to stay anchored.

Today, my anchor was simple.
Crocheting.

The quiet loop of yarn in my hands during sessions, the feel of soft fiber slipping over my fingers—it’s more than a habit. It’s a tether. A rhythm that holds me steady so I can keep holding space for others.

By afternoon, I knew I needed a shift.
So I took two sessions outside, wrapped in an afghan, settled on the porch.

Maci curled beside me, her small, warm presence grounding me in the moment. The air was brisk, but the sunlight on my face was soothing. I listened to the wind rustling through the trees and the faint sound of squirrels rustling through the leaves—remnants of autumn still clinging to oak branches, stubborn in their own way.

And in that stillness, I noticed something: the conversations outside felt different.
Softer.
Less heavy.
Maybe because the sky was above us.
Maybe because the earth was holding us too.

Late in the day, a shift in my timeline threw everything off.

The kind of unexpected change that doesn’t quite feel like a crisis, but still leaves you a little unsteady. A plan I had been preparing for—mentally, emotionally—suddenly delayed. The uncertainty wrapped itself around my chest, tight and unwelcome.

Was I relieved? Frustrated? Tired?
Yes.
All of it.

Macon and I went out for dinner to our usual spot. The sun had dipped, and the air had turned sharper again. Still, it was good to be out. To eat something warm. To let the day settle.

As I sat there, I reminded myself:
This is just another wave. It will come, and it will pass.

Tonight, I feel… not resolved exactly, but steady.

I’m learning that contentment doesn’t always arrive with clarity.
Sometimes it comes in small reassurances:
The warmth of the sun on your face.
The weight of your dog resting beside you.
The simple comfort of doing meaningful work, even when the outcome is uncertain.

Spring is still coming—
Hesitant. Slow.
But coming.

And for tonight, that’s enough

If you’re in a season of waiting…
If you’re walking through cold days while hoping for warmth…
If the work is heavy and the way is uncertain…

Let the small things steady you.

The sun still rises.
The trees still bud.
The next season is making its way toward you, even if it hasn’t quite arrived.

Hold fast.
Breathe deep.
And remember: this wave, too, will pass.

Sunshine, Stillness, and the Subtle Work of Healing

Uncategorized, ,

A reflection on balance, beauty, and the soft approach of spring

This morning began with golden light and an unseasonably warm breeze. By late morning, the thermometer had already climbed to 75°F, and I threw open the windows to welcome in the fresh air. The scent of warming earth drifted through the house—sweet and familiar. Outside, the Middle Tennessee hills gleamed under the sun, and though the trees still stood mostly bare, there were signs of stirring life.

The red maples in my yard—always the eager ones—had burst forth with tiny scarlet blossoms. Those early blooms felt like whispered promises: Spring is coming. Life is returning. A lone honeybee floated past the window, and two lazy flies buzzed on the sill—small scouts of the changing season. Even those tiny moments made me pause. There’s something so sacred about noticing when the earth begins to shift again.

The workday that followed was full.

I sat with client after client, holding stories that carry deep pain and long histories of trauma. As a counselor, it is both an honor and a weight. To hold space for someone’s healing is sacred work—but it is not without cost. By the end of each session, I could feel the emotional heaviness settling into my shoulders.

To stay grounded, I turned to something simple: crochet.

It may sound small, but the rhythm of looping yarn between my fingers, even for a few minutes between sessions, has become a kind of embodied prayer. A steadying practice. Each soft stitch offers a quiet reset, helping me regulate my own nervous system so I can remain fully present for the next person who walks through the door. In a world full of noise and need, this small ritual brings me back to myself.

By early afternoon, both my senior pup Maci and I needed a break.

We took lunch out onto the patio. The sun was gentle and kind, warm on our backs. I sat on the steps with a sandwich and watched Maci trot into the yard, her white-tipped tail wagging softly. She found a patch of sunlight, turned her sweet face toward the breeze, and gave one of those long, contented dog sighs that sounds like home.

That moment—quiet, ordinary, sunlit—anchored me.

There was nothing to fix. Nothing to process. Just sunshine, and the joy of a beloved dog resting in it. It reminded me that wholeness doesn’t always come in grand revelations. Sometimes it comes in sandwiches on the porch and shared silence with someone you love.

As evening falls, I find myself reflecting on the fullness of the day—and the quiet balance that held it all together.

There was emotional labor.
There was care.
There was presence.
And woven throughout… there was beauty.

I am grateful tonight.

For the warm wind that carried spring’s early song.
For the work of healing, even when it’s heavy.
For the rhythm of the hook and yarn that reminded me to breathe.
For Maci’s soft joy and the reminder to savor, not rush.
For the way it all held together.

Today was not perfect. But it was meaningful.
And that’s enough.

As I step into tomorrow, I want to carry this rhythm with me—
Gratitude.
Balance.
And hope for what’s still blooming.

Love and Language

Uncategorized

When did we stop believing that words matter?

I found myself asking that question this week.

Scrolling through news articles, skimming human interest stories, glancing at headlines and comments and conversations online—I realized something that quietly unsettled me:
Words that were once considered vulgar, cruel, or even abusive have now been normalized. They’ve taken up permanent residence in our cultural vocabulary.
And it’s not just the words themselves—it’s the attitude behind them.

In our attempt to appear sophisticated or edgy, we’ve reached for the lowest common denominator. In doing so, we’ve lost something vital.
Respect.
Reverence.
And perhaps most heartbreakingly—love.
For our world.
For others.
And for ourselves.

We’ve traded sacredness for sarcasm.
Meaning for mockery.
We’ve become a culture that numbs itself through screens and noise, feeding on a constant diet of distraction—and we wonder why we feel hollow.

We’ve mistaken cynicism for intellect and cruelty for power.
And it’s all left us… feeling anything but powerful.

As a counselor, this hits close.
It’s not just something I see—it’s something I feel.
This disconnection, this cultural erosion, is personal. It shows up in the language we use, in the way we speak to ourselves and others, in the environments we create and call “normal.”

Words carry weight.
And when the words we use are laced with sarcasm, hostility, and disregard, we create spaces where love cannot flourish.

Many of the expressions we casually toss around today would’ve once been labeled abusive, sexually harassing, or discriminatory. They would’ve been considered verbal assault. And yet now, we call it “just being real” or “telling it like it is.”

But love—real love—has never been reckless with words.
And it never will be.

People who truly love us are called to create spaces of safety and honor, not harm and hostility. If our environments are marked by toxic language and degrading tones, they cannot be safe. Not emotionally. Not spiritually. Not relationally.

Yes, I’ve heard the defenses—“I’m just blowing off steam,” “I need to express myself,” “This is how I stand up for myself.” But when our expression becomes oppression, when our catharsis becomes someone else’s pain—something has gone wrong.

This mindset reveals something deeper:
A preoccupation with self.
A desire to be heard over a desire to heal.
A belief that our feelings matter more than someone else’s dignity.

We’ve created a culture that celebrates temper tantrums and rewards entitlement.
We perform for invisible audiences, starring in our own reality shows, demanding love and respect—yet feeling none of it.
We’ve become more concerned with asserting ourselves than becoming ourselves.

Paul warned us of times like these.

“There will be terrible times in the last days. People will be lovers of themselves… abusive, disobedient… ungrateful, unholy… without love… slanderous…” (2 Timothy 3)

And we wonder why we feel unseen, unloved, unsafe.

But there is another way.

The way of love.

Love is patient. Love is kind.
It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud.
It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered.
It keeps no record of wrongs.
Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. (1 Corinthians 13)

Love is bold—but never brutal.
It doesn’t excuse evil; it confronts it with grace and truth.
It is a force strong enough to silence darkness, not through louder shouting—but through stronger empathy.

Bold love disarms evil through generosity.
Tender love surprises hardness with kindness.

Love doesn’t lash out—it lifts up.
It guards its tongue.
It chooses its words like they matter—because they do.

God’s love is both fierce and tender.
Holy and healing.
Strength that disciplines.
Grace that restores.
And if we are to reflect Him, our love must be the same.

So we ask ourselves today:

Am I strong enough to guard my tongue?
Am I tender enough to bless even those who’ve hurt me?
Am I willing to speak life instead of noise?

Because the words we speak—especially in the ordinary, unscripted moments—reveal the kind of love we carry.

What kind of atmosphere am I creating?
What kind of environment am I cultivating in my home, my relationships, my community?

One filled with performance and pretense?
Or one where love is real—felt, seen, and safe?

Words build worlds.
We can curse or we can bless.

Today, which will it be?

Consumed

Uncategorized

That’s the word that keeps surfacing.
Not in a dramatic way—but in the quiet, creeping way that steals balance while convincing you you’re doing something worthwhile.

I’m someone who sees a task, a need, a gap—and jumps in with both feet. I want to do it well. I want to do it excellently. I crave knowledge. I hunger to do things right and keep reaching for that next level of competence. I’ve always held myself to a high standard. Some might call it perfectionism. Maybe that’s fair. Maybe it’s just how I’m wired. These parts of me aren’t inherently good or bad—they’re simply there. A part of how I was created.

But when I’m not careful, they overtake me.
I get out of alignment.
I start chasing the doing and lose track of the being.

Many of you know that in recent years, I’ve been so deeply focused on work that my health—especially my physical and spiritual well-being—has quietly taken the back seat. I told myself it was for good reasons. And in true task-oriented fashion, I even justified the overwork in very organized, very efficient ways. I did it well.

I mean… when your bosses start telling you to take a vacation and insisting you unplug—maybe that’s a clue. But even in rest, my thoughts would spin back to what needed to get done.

Here’s the thing: I have a God who loves me—so much so that He gave His Son for me. I have a husband who truly cherishes me—who lives out kindness and generosity in ways that bring me to tears. I have a family that loves me, friends who care, a home filled with peace, and a job that fits me like a glove—designed around my strengths and passions. I have more blessings than I can count.

And yet… I still didn’t choose better priorities.
I knew I was off course. I prayed that God would rekindle my hunger for Him. That He would help me put Him first again. That my love for Him would deepen and lead the way.

And in His kindness, He responded.

Sermons. Devotionals. Songs. Conversations. All echoing the same invitation: Set your heart back on Me. Be still. Come close.

And still—I resisted. I told myself, “Tomorrow, I’ll start. Tomorrow, I’ll reorient.”
But my thoughts remained tangled in work.
Hard-headed, I know.

So I fell.
Literally.

A little over four weeks ago, while heading to church, I tripped—one of our sweet little dogs underfoot—and I fell down the stairs. Hard. I broke my pelvis. Just moments after praying that I would glorify God through our orchestra rehearsal… I ended up on the floor, unable to walk.

Since then, life has looked very different.
I’ve been still. I’ve had to be still.
I can’t shower without help. Can’t cook. Can’t fetch a glass of water without asking. And while I’ve been able to continue working remotely, everything else has come to a screeching halt.

And my husband? He’s been… remarkable.
Gentle. Selfless. Steady. Never once complaining.
He’s cared for me in every way, showing love through every meal made, every shower assisted, every ride to the doctor. And while he has quietly delighted in serving me, I’ve sat here—frustrated, ashamed, emotionally exhausted.

Eventually, I did what I always do. I started strategizing how to “do recovery” really well. Researched healing protocols. Started chair boxing for fitness. Counted calories. Began a structured Bible study. I was going to be excellent at healing.

And then, in the middle of one of those Bible lessons, I heard it.

Be still and know that I am God.
Be still and trust that I have you.
Be still and let Me order your days.
Be still.

That voice—tender, firm, unmistakable.
I heard You, Lord.

So I’ve tried. I’ve softened. I’m not clenching my jaw at night. I’m not obsessing over my inbox. I’m noticing beauty again. But—true to form—I was also a little proud of how well I was “being still.”

And today, at a follow-up appointment, the doctor told me I’ve got 2–4 more weeks of recovery. And in that moment, it hit me:

I’m still not ready to do this on my own.
I won’t ever be ready to do this on my own.
Stillness… surrender… trust… these aren’t checklists to master.
They are invitations to dependency.

And that’s when it really clicked: the joy I’ve seen in my husband’s eyes as he’s helped me—that’s a reflection of God’s joy in being near, in helping, in walking with me through weakness and learning. God is not rolling His eyes at my need. He delights in carrying me. He delights in showing His faithfulness.

And I? I will always need Him.
To help me still my soul.
To reset my priorities.
To remind me who I am and whose I am.

Because, truly, He is the only One who can.

So I’ll say it again…

Please, Lord. Help me be still.
Help me know You more each day.
Let You be what consumes me.

“Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed,
for His compassions never fail.
They are new every morning; great is Your faithfulness.
I say to myself, ‘The Lord is my portion; therefore I will wait for Him.’
The Lord is good to those whose hope is in Him, to the one who seeks Him;
it is good to wait quietly for the salvation of the Lord.”
—Lamentations 3:22–26

To Know Him More

Uncategorized

I have a new car.

Not just any car, but a Mustang convertible.
I’ve wanted one since I was ten years old, and—after more than a biblical generation (yes, over 40 years!)—I finally have one.

The weather hasn’t exactly been convertible-friendly lately, but yesterday I took it out for a drive to Nashville, and today I wandered from one used furniture store to another, hunting for office furniture. Long drives. Good miles. Open sky.

And friends… it drives like nothing I’ve ever owned.

My Saturn Vue—a trusty mid-size SUV—has been faithful and dependable. I bought it after a serious car accident years ago, and it’s done everything I’ve asked of it. I know that car like the back of my hand—when a tire is low, when to tap the brakes, how far I can push the gas light. It’s never flashy, but it has always shown up and done what I needed it to do. A reliable workhorse.

But the Mustang? Oh, it’s something else entirely.
I sit lower. The hood stretches out in front of me. It hugs the road with ease, like it’s on rails. It corners with sharpness. It feels like it’s gliding. Like a thoroughbred trained to run. There’s power in it. Precision. And joy. I didn’t buy this car for utility—I bought it for pleasure. A little reminder to myself that joy is part of balance, too.

And as I often do, I started thinking while driving.

Both vehicles serve a purpose. They were made with different strengths and intentions, but both are exactly what they were created to be. The Saturn has protected me, and now it will be passed on to my stepdaughter—safe and steady. The Mustang, meanwhile, is my reminder that life is to be savored too. I’ll take it from facility to facility, bearing the weight of serious work while feeling the wind and letting a little light in.

But the question that stuck with me was this:
Am I living out the purpose for which I was created as faithfully as these vehicles are?

What was I made for?
What am I moving toward?

If I believe my ultimate purpose is to know, serve, and glorify God—then my life decisions, daily choices, and internal compass must be pointed toward that goal.

Paul knew his purpose with clarity. He wrote:

“I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. Finally, there is laid up for me the crown of righteousness…” (2 Timothy 4:7-8)

His entire life was built around one mission: knowing and serving Christ.
He didn’t just drift into purpose—he pursued it.
And Barnabas, in Acts 11:23, reminded the early church to “remain true to the Lord with purpose of heart.”

That phrase gets me. Purpose of heart.
A heart determined. Anchored. Focused on what matters most.

It doesn’t matter if I’m a metaphorical sports car or a dependable SUV.
What matters is this: Am I living out the purpose for which I was called—and for which Christ paid the highest price?

Am I responding to His voice the way my vehicle responds to the road—sensitive, willing, responsive to every nudge?

Paul wrote:

“[For my determined purpose is] that I may know Him… that I may progressively become more deeply and intimately acquainted with Him.” (Philippians 3:10, AMP)

That’s the kind of life I want.
Not one just filled with accomplishments or checklists or good intentions—but one that’s pointed straight toward knowing Him. Not just knowing about Him, but knowing Him—deeply, personally, and daily.

Because if I don’t know where I’m going, how will I ever know if I’ve arrived?

So today, I’m asking Him again:
Lord, make Your purpose my purpose.
Help me live the life You dreamed for me.
Help me know You more and more every day.

Whether I’m driving a Saturn or a Mustang, leading in serious spaces or soaking up moments of joy—may it all be part of knowing Him, loving Him, and following where He leads.