I’m beginning to learn to be content.

It hasn’t been easy.
It’s come through tears and wrestling, through sorrow and surrender.
And while I’m far from “there,” I can feel the Spirit slowly shifting something in me.

I still grieve.
I still ache over things lost or never found.
But even in that ache, I’m beginning to sense a quiet settling.
A deepening.
A seed of contentment taking root.

Contentment feels like an endangered virtue these days.
We live in a world that tells us we need more—more success, more security, more affirmation. And if we believe that message, we’ll always feel like something is missing. We’ll live with an undercurrent of deprivation, unable to fully enjoy what we have because we’re fixated on what we don’t.

But true contentment isn’t about what we lack.
It’s about trust.
It’s about anchoring our satisfaction—not in circumstances, but in confidence in God.
It’s a quiet celebration of life that flows from knowing He is enough.

And let me be honest: contentment does not come naturally for me.

Paul says in Philippians that he learned to be content—and I find such comfort in that.
It wasn’t automatic for him either.
He had to grow into it.
So do I.

I’m naturally a doer. I like to act, fix, cross things off a list. But I’m learning that contentment doesn’t come from doing—it comes from becoming. It grows as I develop a new way of seeing, a new way of thinking, a deeper way of trusting.

It’s a slow, sacred work.

Paul said he learned to be content not just in abundance but in scarcity—not just in joy, but in sorrow. His peace wasn’t tethered to the ease of his life. It was grounded in the unshakable presence of Christ.

“Godliness with contentment is great gain…” (1 Timothy 6:6)

This kind of contentment doesn’t ignore pain or pretend everything’s fine.
It holds space for heartache.
It acknowledges the losses, the disappointments, the unanswered questions.
But it also says, even here, I trust You.

And let’s be honest: there are days it’s hard to feel satisfied.

When I’m misunderstood.
When life takes a sharp left turn.
When people I love walk away.
When prayers go unanswered, or grief comes crashing in.

But Paul also said, “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” (Phil. 4:13)
And I’m beginning to understand—he wasn’t talking about superhuman feats.
He was talking about endurance. Joy. Contentment. In all things.

My contentment isn’t found in what I possess or how life unfolds.
It’s rooted in Christ.
And that changes everything.

Because I know what I deserve—and it isn’t grace.
It isn’t belonging.
It certainly isn’t peace.
But that’s exactly what I’ve been given in Jesus.

I deserve to be separated from God, but I’ve been welcomed in as family.
I deserve judgment, but I’ve been handed mercy.
I am one of the richest people on earth—not because of what I have, but because of Who holds me.

Lately, I’m realizing that contentment is closely tied to presence.
Not presence as in company—but being present in this moment.

Discontentment often lives in the “what ifs”—what could’ve been, what should be, what might come. But contentment invites me to find joy in the now. To savor what is.
To not miss the beauty of this moment by mourning the one I imagined instead.

I want to learn to love Christ more than I love control.
More than I love outcomes.
More than I love feeling like I’ve gotten it right.

Less of me.
More of Him.
That’s the path to contentment.
That’s the path to joy.

I have a long way to go.
But I’m learning to run with patience.
To take each step with my eyes fixed on Jesus—the Author and the Finisher of my faith.

As I turn my gaze to Him, the demands of this world begin to quiet.
The disappointments shrink in the light of His grace.
And I find myself more able to trust each day, each situation, as part of His wise and loving plan to grow me up in Him.

I’m still a work in progress.
But thank God—the Author of my story is also the Finisher.
And He’s not finished with me yet.

Justified. Just as if I’d never sinned.

On the way to Sunday School last week, Macon and I were talking about justification by faith. I reminded him of that familiar line so many of us were taught as kids: Justified means “just as if I’d never sinned.”

That phrase has stayed with me all week.
Just as if I’d never sinned.
What a stunning, almost unthinkable truth.

Romans 3:23—one of the very first verses I ever memorized—reminds me that all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God. And that “all”? It includes me. I was born into sin, inheriting that broken nature all the way back from Adam. Every day, I make choices that violate God’s heart. Some of those choices are known only to God and me. Others are painfully visible to those around me. Some sins look “bigger,” others smaller—but all of them fall short.

There’s not a single thing I could do to save myself.
No act of goodness, no measure of self-sacrifice, no string of “right choices” could bridge the gap between my sin and God’s holiness. But I am not without hope. I have been justified freely by His grace (Romans 3:24). And Galatians 2:16 makes it clear: the only way I can be justified is through faith in Jesus—not by works, not by striving, not by pretending.

And still… I struggle.

I know I’ve been justified, but there are days I don’t live like I believe it.
There are moments when I feel the weight of shame creeping back in, whispering reminders of past failures. Sometimes I hold onto guilt that God has already released. Sometimes I hold others to standards I couldn’t keep myself. And that phrase returns: just as if I’d never sinned. Not just for me. For them too.

Why is it so hard to extend to others the same grace we receive?

“She lied once—don’t trust her.”
“He went to jail—watch out.”
“He’s acting like he’s never done anything wrong.”
Well… if he’s repented and placed his trust in Christ, then yes—he is acting like he’s never done anything wrong. Because that’s what justification means.

It means the charges have been dropped.
The guilt is gone.
And we are declared righteous.

When I continue to carry shame over sins I’ve confessed and repented of, I’m essentially saying that God’s word isn’t enough—that Christ’s sacrifice didn’t fully cover me. That’s not humility. That’s disbelief. He said it is finished—and it was.

If I truly believe I’ve died with Christ, then I also believe I live with Him.
If I believe I’m united with Him in His resurrection, then I must also believe that I’ve been set free from the reign of sin and the fear of death.

I don’t have to carry around a scarlet letter.
I don’t have to prove my worth to a world that loves to keep score.
I can walk—freely, boldly—as one who has been made new.

There have been times when I’ve tried to imprison myself in guilt.
There have been times when I’ve tried to keep others there too.
Times when I’ve thought someone should feel guiltier.
Times when I’ve felt too dirty or too unworthy to open my Bible, forgetting that it was always for people like me that Christ came.

If I’m waiting to feel righteous before I act like I’m righteous, I’m missing the whole point.
Which is the greater hypocrisy:
Trying to clean myself up before I come to God—or coming to Him as I am, trusting His Word over my feelings?

So I’ve started asking myself:
What if I actually lived like I was justified?

What if I walked in the kind of boldness that comes from knowing I am clothed in His righteousness?
What would I do differently if I wasn’t afraid of people remembering my worst moments?
Would I speak up more? Step in more?
Would I serve more freely, love more deeply, witness more boldly?

What if I viewed others through that same lens of redemption?
What if, when I saw someone who had sinned—or sinned against me—I looked for the Jesus in them rather than the offense?
What if I saw them not as what they’d done, but as someone Christ died for?
Wouldn’t that change everything?

Wouldn’t that be… just as if they’d never sinned?

Because if grace is real for me, then it must be real for others too.
And if I truly trust His Word, then I must let it reshape the way I live, love, and see the world.

Justified—just as if I’d never sinned.
I am His. He is mine.
And neither of us is ashamed.

“And can it be that I should gain
An interest in the Savior’s blood?
Died He for me, who caused His pain—
For me, who Him to death pursued?
Amazing love! How can it be,
That Thou, my God, shouldst die for me?”

No condemnation now I dread;
Jesus, and all in Him, is mine;
Alive in Him, my living Head,
And clothed in righteousness divine,
Bold I approach the eternal throne,
And claim the crown, through Christ my own.
—Charles Wesley

No truth is more glorious to a prisoner than this:
You are no longer condemned.
You are free.

This is the message Christ brings to the weary, the shackled, the sin-sick:
That His sacrifice is enough. That the chains of condemnation no longer have the final word.

“There is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.” (Romans 8:1)

No condemnation.
That means I will not be separated from God—not now, not ever.
That means I am no longer bound by the tyranny of sin.
That means freedom. Life. Hope.

And yet… I sometimes still live like I’m behind bars.

I know I’ve been set free.
But guilt can be persuasive.
Sometimes it whispers that I haven’t done enough. That I’m still too flawed. That I should have grown out of this struggle by now. That I’m failing Him.

I find myself rehashing the past, agonizing over my imperfections, punishing myself for what’s already been forgiven. And while guilt can be a healthy nudge to course-correct when we’ve sinned—it can also become a weight that crushes joy, silences worship, and keeps us from living in the freedom Christ already purchased.

The law, in its perfection, reveals just how far I fall short.
It shines a light on my weakness—and in doing so, it brings guilt.
But Jesus didn’t come to leave me in that guilt.
He came to rescue. To redeem. To set me free.

The law convicts.
But grace covers.

Through Christ’s death on the cross, I have been forgiven—fully.
Eternally.
Irrevocably.

If Christ, who knows me completely, no longer condemns me—
Why do I still condemn myself?

All I accomplish by replaying my guilt and shame is chaining myself to a cell He already unlocked.

Years ago, a wise friend—Vicki Dye—shared something with me that I’ve never forgotten. She reminded me of this breathtaking truth: all of my sin was future to the cross.
Every past mistake. Every present struggle. Every future failure.

From the vantage point of Calvary, every sin I would ever commit was known.
And still, Jesus died for me.

If the cross wasn’t sufficient for all my sin—past, present, and future—then I have no hope.
But if it was—and it was—then I can stop trying to earn what’s already been given.
I can stop trying to perfect what He has already declared righteous.
I can live in the freedom of being not guilty because of Jesus.

God has promised me glory in Christ.
Not because I’ve earned it.
But because He has declared it.

And that promise?
I can count on it.
I can rest in it.
I can live free because of it.

Christ has set me free.
Let me not live like I’m still bound.

Created on purpose, for a purpose.

I’ve always been an introvert.
And that has made me different.
Sometimes deeply misunderstood.

The way I speak, the way I show up in the world, the way I process life—it doesn’t always land how I mean it to. Today, I received an email that stirred something in me. It caused me to pause and reflect again on how I relate to others and how others relate to me.

I’ve always been a bit blunt—never mean-spirited, just… direct. And paired with introversion, that straightforwardness has often led to misinterpretation. Still, I believe—deeply—that I was formed this way on purpose. That none of it is an accident.

People don’t grow out of introversion. This quiet, inward-focused wiring doesn’t just appear one day in adulthood—it’s been there since the beginning.
So yes, this introverted adult was once an introverted child.
And what’s true of one is true of both.

There are still a lot of misconceptions about introverts. We’re not anti-social. We’re not friendless. We’re not broken extroverts who just need to “get out more.” We simply experience social life differently.

Getting to know someone new costs us energy. It’s not that we don’t want meaningful relationships—we do. We just don’t need many. One or two close, trusted friends is enough. Still, we’re often judged for not being “more social,” for not casting a wider net.

We need solitude like others need air.
A room with the door closed isn’t a red flag—it’s a refuge.
It’s not withdrawal; it’s restoration.
Time alone helps us recover, reflect, and reconnect with ourselves. It gives us space to breathe, to think, to simply be.

When we do attend gatherings, we’ll likely stick close to the few people we already know and dive into deep conversations. Small talk? Not our favorite. Give us something rich, something real, and we’ll stay all night.

As kids, many of us found joy in solitary or creative play. Books were safe places. Stories made sense. Writing, music, art—these were our languages. Even now, we often prefer quiet forms of expression and observation. Before jumping into a group activity, we hang back—not out of shyness, but so we can get a feel for the space first.

We tend to be quiet, especially in unfamiliar settings.
We don’t crave the spotlight.
We don’t brag, even if we’ve achieved something meaningful.
And sometimes, we hide what we know—because attention can feel heavy, even when it’s kind.

Introverts often have two selves: the private one and the public one.
So if we seem animated at home but reserved in public, it’s not duplicity—it’s safety.

We listen deeply.
We make eye contact when others speak and rarely interrupt.
But when it’s our turn to talk, we may need a moment—because we tend to think before we speak. Sometimes we even rehearse what we want to say in our minds before saying it out loud. This can make us seem slow to respond, but it’s not hesitation—it’s care.

We’d usually rather write than speak.
And when we do speak, we hope it matters.
If we’re passionate about a topic, we’ll talk about it for hours—but we really don’t want to be interrupted mid-thought or mid-task. Focus is sacred.

Socializing, especially in large or unfamiliar groups, can be draining. Even if we enjoy it, we’ll feel it later—emotionally and physically. We may need time to decompress or simply sit in silence for a while. Crowded places, too much noise, too many people… it can feel overwhelming.

We’re territorial.
We like our space.
We can be slow to share feelings, and public mistakes? Mortifying.

But we’re also deeply observant. We notice the little things—tone, body language, undercurrents others miss. We carry rich inner worlds and are often processing more than we let on. It may take days, even weeks, before we’re ready to talk about something that happened. But when we do, it’s been sifted, reflected upon, and held with intention.

We crave consistency more than change—but when change is necessary, we navigate it best with time and clarity.

Being an introvert hasn’t always been easy.
It’s made me vulnerable to judgment, criticism, and misunderstanding.
It’s left me feeling out of place in spaces that celebrate loudness, quickness, or performance.

But I wouldn’t trade it.
Because I believe I was created with intention—crafted by the same God who knit together extroverts in all their vibrancy. He formed me, too. With quieter colors. With slower rhythms. With deep wells of thought and fierce loyalty that may not be loud, but are profoundly real.

Thank You, Father, for making me who You wanted me to be.
Introversion is not a flaw to fix—
It’s a design to honor.

“Inside myself is a place where I live all alone, and that is where I renew my springs that never dry up.”
— Pearl S. Buck

Healing takes time. And sometimes, it doesn’t look like healing at all—until one day, it does.

At the beginning of the summer, I noticed a small sore on my nose that wouldn’t go away. It wasn’t painful—just there. A quiet, irritating presence. Occasionally, it would bleed. Mostly, it was just a nuisance.

A couple of months ago, I finally mentioned it to my doctor. She sent me to get it biopsied. When the results came back showing it was a small basal cell tumor, I was referred to a specialist.

The specialist was kind and clear. He explained what was going on and told me plainly: it wouldn’t go away on its own. It needed to be removed before it grew into something more serious. So, a few weeks ago, I had it removed.

Afterward, the doctor gave detailed instructions for caring for the wound: apply Vaseline daily, keep it bandaged, and be patient. He gently warned me that it would look worse before it looked better—but that around week three or four, I’d see a noticeable change. The healing would come if I stayed faithful to the care.

So I did just that.
Every day, Vaseline and a fresh bandage.
But day after day, it still looked raw, messy—even worse than before. At one point in the fourth week, I found myself staring at it in frustration, wondering if it was ever going to heal.

And then, this morning, I took off the bandage—and almost couldn’t believe what I saw.
The wound looked almost healed.
It felt like it happened overnight.
But of course, it hadn’t.

Standing there in the mirror—yes, all up in that mirror (a post for another day on vanity, ha!)—I realized what I was looking at wasn’t just my nose. It was a living metaphor of my spiritual journey over the past few years.

There was a season—not so long ago—when I felt torn open by sin.
Some of it mine. Some of it done to me.
Either way, it left its mark.

Sin had crept in and unraveled relationships, distorted my sense of self, and created a distance I didn’t know how to close—between me and others, between me and God, even within my own heart. I became increasingly self-reliant. I didn’t know how to trust, how to need, how to receive care without flinching.

And so I isolated.
I armored up.
I decided it was safer to fend for myself.

But God doesn’t leave us in our self-protection.
He invites us into healing. And sometimes, that healing feels like surgery.

In order to restore what was broken, He had to expose what was festering beneath the surface—sin I’d justified, pain I’d buried, lies I’d believed. He didn’t come to scold or shame. He came to remove what was harming me. He came to heal.

And like that stubborn little tumor, the sin in me wasn’t going away on its own. I couldn’t fix it by trying harder or covering it up. It had to be surrendered. Removed. And then cared for tenderly, day after day.

And in this slow, imperfect, holy process—I wasn’t left to do it alone.

God gave me a husband who, with gentle faithfulness, reminds me every day to tend to what needs tending. He’s not only been my wound care accountability partner (Vaseline and bandages included), but also my encourager, reminding me to stay connected to church, to community, to the heart of God. He sees where I’m tempted to withdraw, and he invites me back to presence.

I have a son who reminds me that laughter is holy, too. Who sends jokes and memes and silly movies that tug me back into joy—and who doesn’t let me get away with shallow faith. He challenges me to really know what I believe, to own my identity in Christ, not the version others may expect me to be.

And then there are the stepkids, family, coworkers, friends—the ones who show up to love, challenge, correct, and pray. God has even given me a little dog who insists I stay tethered to affection and routine, no matter how tempted I am to turn inward.

In sermons and conversations, in unexpected moments, God keeps sending reminders of His grace. He keeps gently whispering, You’re mine. I’m not finished. Stay with Me.

And slowly, day after day, healing has taken root.
Even when I couldn’t feel it.
Even when all I saw was the wound.

This morning, as I looked in the mirror, I didn’t just see a healing nose.
I saw a woman who is still in process.
Still tender in places. Still scarred.
But also being restored—daily—by the One who knows how to bring life out of brokenness.

“I am in His hand,” He reminds me.
“And no one—no one—can take me from Him.”

That’s what I see now.
Not just a body healing—but a heart being mended, piece by piece, by a faithful God who finishes what He starts.

What a beautiful, relentless, redeeming God I serve.

The quiet destruction of careless words.

It starts so subtly.

A whisper when a colleague is let go.
A glance exchanged when a young woman mentions her weight.
The subtle shift when people begin choosing sides in a friend’s divorce.

Gossip rarely announces itself.
It weaves its way in through sighs, silence, and sideways glances.
And before long, it has reshaped how we see others—often without our full awareness.

It’s not easy to resist.
Let’s be honest—people love a good story, especially one with a hint of drama. Our culture feeds this appetite. Just glance at the magazine covers in any checkout aisle or scroll through social media. There’s an insatiable curiosity about other people’s lives, and gossip promises to satisfy it. But at what cost?

The truth is—gossip is never just “talk.”
It wastes time. It fractures trust. It sows division. It fuels anxiety. It can unravel friendships, reputations, families.

So why do we do it?

Sometimes, it’s about trying to make sense of something that feels unclear. We don’t know the full story—so we speculate. We talk. We fill in the blanks with fragments of truth and assumptions dressed up as fact. A rumor is born, and as it travels, it gathers speed and detail—often shaped by personal agendas and unconscious biases.

Other times, it’s about power.
Being “in the know” gives us a momentary sense of significance. For those who feel unheard or unseen, sharing a juicy tidbit can feel like holding influence. But it’s a counterfeit version of connection—and it comes at the expense of someone else’s dignity.

Then there’s the deeply personal kind of gossip—the kind that disguises itself as concern but is really judgment wrapped in curiosity. These stories spread fastest. They damage deepest.

And once a rumor takes root, it can become a lens through which everything is interpreted.

“She drinks too much,” someone says.
And suddenly, when she’s tired or distracted or off her game—it must be the drinking. No one pauses to consider she might be hurting. Or grieving. Or just having a human moment.

Everything she says or does becomes evidence that the story is true.
Truth is no longer the goal—confirmation is.
And somewhere along the way, we start to believe our own distortions.

Gossip doesn’t just harm the one being talked about.
It changes us—those of us doing the talking, and those of us quietly listening.

Charles Stanley put it plainly:

“God hates gossip. He wants our speech to be pleasing to Him… Gossip achieves no good in anyone’s life, which is why the Lord warns against it. Instead, our words should build up, comfort, and encourage others.”

Scripture doesn’t minimize the impact of our words.
Colossians 3:8 calls us to put away “anger, wrath, malice, slander, and obscene talk.”
Romans 1 includes gossip in a sobering list of sins that reflect hearts turned away from God.

Why? Because gossip is not harmless.
It can cost someone their job, their reputation, their peace of mind.
It can cost us our witness, our credibility, our connection with God.
Malice and intimacy with the Lord cannot share the same space.

So if we’re going to be people of grace—if we’re going to reflect the heart of Jesus—our words have to matter. Our speech should be a sanctuary, not a weapon.

Let’s be known for the way we protect, not expose.
For the way we pause before speaking.
For the way we speak life.

And when we fail—and we all do—may we be quick to repent.
Quick to repair.
Quick to restore.

Because what we say has power.
Let’s choose to use it well.

Isn’t it funny that Sunday always starts out feeling so rushed but then, by the end of the day, it slows down and feels calm? At least it’s that way for me. Now that it’s calmed down, I thought I would start the week by listing some things for which I’m thankful.

I’m thankful for our church and especially our small groups – both the Bible Study Fellowship group and the orchestra group, who have encouraged our spiritual growth in endless ways. Could I imagine life without the saving grace of my faith? Not a chance.

I’m thankful to live in this country. Yes, we have problems, big ones. But because we have a legacy of liberty and freedom unprecedented in the annals of history, we’ll keep fighting to keep that freedom. I’m thankful for the soldiers as well as ordinary Americans who are fighting too.

I’m thankful for the abundance of resources in this country. Flick a switch, lights come on. Push a handle, I get clean potable water. How cool is that? Along the same lines, I’m thankful for modern conveniences. Computers, cars, electricity, telephones, the Internet … remember what life was like without these things?

I’m thankful for technology. Each year I feel like I am clinging to the technological frontier with my fingernails, and if I’m honest, I’ll admit that I’m actually just falling further behind. But what technology now makes possible is still remarkable: Our ability to do our work, maintain friendships, learn at a distance, share music and literature, and do a thousand other activities is being transformed on a daily basis. This process is not without its obvious downsides, but increasing mastery of science and technology is both a source of great human empowerment and pleasure; it is also the best hope we have of surmounting the challenges that are rushing at us in the decades ahead.

I’m thankful I’m feeling better. I’m thankful for a week’s worth of dinners in the freezer, clean laundry, and a clean house with which to start my week. I’m thankful for coffee, PJs, and fuzzy socks.

There is nearly always something I for which I can be thankful. The offering of thanksgiving is indeed a sweet incense going up to God throughout a busy day. I pray I will seek diligently for something to be glad and thankful about. I want to acquire in time the habit of being constantly grateful to God for all His blessings. I so desire that each new day shows me some new cause for joy and gratitude will spring to my mind and I will thank God sincerely. It is my prayer to develop a truly thankful spirit.

“A thankful and a contented spirit is a continual feast. We ought to be contented, and we shall be contented, if we are in the habit of seeing God in everything, and living upon Him day by day. Oh, for a spirit of true thankfulness!” Aston Oxenden.

For years I have been listing things that make me smile or for which I’m grateful. It’s one way in which I stay focused on the positive and on the things that matter. Tonight, I’ve decided to list a few things for which I’m grateful that maybe I shouldn’t be (I think my internal sense of humor gets the best of me sometimes…) :

1. I am thankful sweetener packets can be used as makeshift floss — in a pinch.

2. I’m thankful for celebrities such as Christie Brinkley, Helen Hunt, and Paula Abdul who make being in my fifties seem not so old.

3. I’m thankful my stepdaughter is finally at an age where she will watch my shows with me, instead of wanting me to watch her shows with her. I’m pretty sure Disney XD was causing my brain to atrophy.

4. I am thankful for Netflix, which allows me to watch shows that started six seasons ago and end in a month. (I will be more thankful when there is a Netflix Anonymous.)

5. I am thankful I don’t look anything like the portraits kid clients have drawn of me – seriously…

Don’t get me wrong, I’m thankful for more traditional stuff, but it’s super cathartic to mention the stuff that most people think but never say. Try it, I promise not to judge. What is the most nontraditional/superficial thing you’re thankful for?

Learning to Let Go of Perfect
A reflection on grace, balance, and being accepted just as I am

The weather today was fabulous—one of those first spring-like days that makes you believe winter might finally be letting go. I’m so ready for warmer days, for sunshine and soft breezes, for porch sitting and long walks with Maci.

But more than that, I’m learning to be ready for something else: balance.

I’ve been trying to listen to the wisdom of the people who care about me—my husband, my boss, my doctor. They’ve all gently encouraged me to find more equilibrium between work, home, and rest. And lately, I’ve been trying to take their advice seriously.

Because of that, I’m starting to feel better.
It’s a quiet shift, but it matters.

This morning, I woke up and didn’t feel like I needed to stumble straight to the recliner just to recover from the week. I had energy. I had margin. I had space.

Even though today felt easy and low-key, I was still able to accomplish quite a few things. The difference, I think, is this: I’m not operating from a place of exhaustion. And I’m slowly learning to put less pressure on myself to be perfect.

This week, one of our interns said something that went straight to my heart.
She said, “Anything worth doing is worth doing imperfectly.”

At first, I’ll admit—I bristled.

Wait, what?
My inner perfectionist immediately stood at attention.
Shouldn’t we strive to do everything with excellence? Shouldn’t we aim to get it all right?

But as I listened to this wise and thoughtful new counselor, I realized she wasn’t advocating for carelessness. She was inviting us into grace.

And more than that—she was right.
I needed to live what I teach.

How much pressure have I been placing on myself to be perfect?
To get everything exactly right—to have the right words, the right timing, the right outcome?
And what has that pressure cost me?

The truth is, I’m not perfect. I never will be.
Nothing I do—no matter how sincere, how diligent, or how well-intentioned—will ever be flawless.

And that’s exactly why Christ came.

I couldn’t make myself perfect.
I couldn’t earn my way to righteousness.
So Jesus came to do for me what I could never do for myself.

The only good thing I can claim is His righteousness.
The only glory I carry is bound up in the cross.

So why—why—am I wasting precious energy trying to be something I was never created to be?

I am accepted.
Not because I get it all right.
Not because I’ve figured out balance or boundaries or rhythms perfectly.
But because I come to Him just as I am.

“I come broken to be mended.
I come wounded to be healed.
I come desperate to be rescued.
I come empty to be filled.
I come guilty to be pardoned
by the blood of Christ the Lamb…
and I’m welcomed with open arms—
praise God, just as I am.”

That truth changes everything.
It quiets the striving.
It softens the shame.
It lets me rest.

So today, I’m choosing to embrace what is good enough instead of chasing what is impossible.
I’m choosing to live in the reality of grace, not the illusion of perfection.
And I’m remembering that even imperfect efforts—when offered in love—are worthy.

Maybe you need that reminder too.

Friend, if you’re tired, if you’re bracing under the weight of getting it all right—
You can let go.

You are deeply loved.
Welcomed with open arms.
And accepted… just as you are.

Lately, with life being as full and fast-paced as ever, my crock pot has been earning its keep. Between work demands, limited mobility, and the general chaos of our schedule, I’ve been trying out all kinds of slow cooker recipes—some more successful than others. 😜

Yesterday, I was finally able to move around the house a bit without crutches (hallelujah!), and I decided to make a warm meal. Nothing fancy—just something comforting. I picked a recipe that involved broccoli. Seemed like a good idea at the time.

Well… let me tell you, as that casserole simmered away, the smell of broccoli slowly took over the entire house. And not in a good way. 🤦‍♀️
Even though the dish turned out pretty tasty and everyone ate it without complaint, the smell lingered. And lingered. And lingered. Even the next morning, it was still hanging in the air like an uninvited guest who overstayed their welcome.

But then today happened.

Today, I brought home a bread machine I bought from my sweet friend Judi (thanks, Judi!), and of course I had to try it out immediately. I loaded it up with the ingredients, hit start, and waited. And soon… the smell of fresh, homemade bread started wafting through the house. It overtook the broccoli smell like a warm hug that finally kicked out the awkward guest.

It was magical.
It smelled like home. Like comfort. Like love.
It reminded me of health and life and family. It brought back memories of simpler days when the smell of baking bread felt like security and warmth. Something about it just felt right.

And as I stood there, breathing it in, this verse came to mind:

“For we are to God the fragrance of Christ among those who are being saved and among those who are perishing.
To the one we are an aroma of death leading to death, and to the other an aroma of life leading to life.
And who is sufficient for these things?”
— 2 Corinthians 2:15–16

We are the fragrance of Christ.

Not the smell of overcooked broccoli lingering in the air.
Not the sour scent of sin and shame.
But the warm, life-giving, soul-soothing aroma of grace.

As believers, we carry the fragrance of His love, His presence, His sacrifice.
We are the smell of hope to those who are being saved. A breath of fresh air in a world that so often reeks of despair.
Not because of anything we’ve done—but because of who He is and what He’s done in us.

Sometimes, I need to remind myself of that.

I need to see myself the way God sees me—covered in Christ’s righteousness, washed in His grace, welcomed with joy. A delight. A sweet aroma rising to heaven.

I am not the stench of my past.
I am the fragrance of redemption.

So as I go about my day—whether I’m cooking, counseling, writing, or resting—I want to carry that fragrance with me. I want the love of Jesus to linger in every space I enter. I want others to sense His peace, His joy, His goodness, even in the small moments.

Because sometimes, the way we show Christ is less about what we say…
And more about the fragrance we leave behind.

A gentle reminder for today:

The sweet-smelling fragrance in our lives
is the aroma of our Lord Jesus Christ.

Let it rise. Let it fill the space.
And let it remind you (and others) that you are deeply loved.