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jupilu. “girl playing.” Pixabay, 24 Aug. 2021, pixabay.com.

I want to invite you into a conversation about something deeply personal today, and it ties into what we explored together this morning during our 7:30 am live. We discussed the joy of our salvation, and going back to the very beginning, the foundations of our faith and our relationship with Christ.

When you hear the words “the joy of my salvation,” what is your immediate thought?

For some, it’s reading a familiar Bible verse; for others, it’s a song, and for others… well, it begins to get much deeper.

“Create in me a clean heart, O God; and renew a right spirit within me. Cast me not away from thy presence, and take not thy holy spirit from me. Restore unto me the joy of thy salvation; and uphold me with thy free spirit.” — Psalm 51:10-12 (KJV)

I don’t know about you, but as a young Christian, I didn’t enjoy reading the first part of this verse: the raw struggle and pain. I would often quickly move forward to the second part.

Who wants to envision or feel the pain David shares in this verse? He was repenting, begging not to be cast away from God’s presence. Can you imagine what it would be like not to have the Holy Spirit as our comforter?

Thankfully, we know that we can receive pure joy when we accept Christ as our Lord and Savior. We abide in that Joy with Him, and are comforted by the Holy Spirit.

Knowing that should be enough, right?

For many, it is, but for some, like me, despite these truths, we choose to walk away.

The Prodigal Daughter

In my teenage years, I began questioning my faith completely because it had been placed in people who misrepresented God through religion or by abusing their positions of authority (and we are seeing a lot of this right now).

So, for many years, I stepped away from religion, and I stepped away from church, which I thought meant I had to step away from God because they must be the same.

Now, I never stopped knowing there was a God, but I certainly walked away from an intimate relationship with Him.

It was during one particularly chaotic time in my life (which I was managing quite well on my own, Thank You!) that I fell flat on my face, much like David did.

When I look back on what my life had become, in my own strength, it could best be described as living in a three-ring circus without the rings and all the noise.

The Road to Restoration

What happened next was a long season of healing and restoration, returning to the foundations of my faith and who I am in Christ.

This required placing myself back into the shoes of that six-year-old girl who bravely walked down the aisle to the front of the church. Who knew with her whole heart what she was doing and why she was doing it, and afterwards couldn’t wait to tell everyone who she now was in Christ.

He beautifully restored everything I had lost, and then some!

I am so thankful that the rigid, broken, religious environment I once knew is no longer my portion. The God I was once told is ready to, at any moment, send me straight to Hell, is not who I have a relationship with. He also healed my heart and showed me that there are good churches out there that actually practice and embody the relationship we are meant to walk in with our Creator. And above all, my eyes are set on Him, not on fallible people (I am one myself).

Because of the long, winding journey it took for me to get here, I believe God has uniquely positioned me to connect with people who have been through similar situations. I’m talking to the people who are seeking a genuine connection with Christ and His Body, people who are on a deep journey of inner healing, and people who might not yet fully know who they are in Christ because they don’t understand who He truly is or how much He loves them.

An Invitation

It doesn’t matter if you’re 25 or 55; God isn’t afraid of your questions, frustrations, or your humanity.

In fact, he desires the honest, real, and raw conversations that come straight from the heart. The process of healing the heart isn’t always pretty, but the result is undeniably beautiful, and it requires going back to your foundations.

For that reason, our live streams this month are focused on a fruit of the Spirit that was key to my inner healing: Joy.

Together this month, we are discussing what it means to walk in the Joy of the Lord.

Those who join me are choosing to take time (a short seven to eight minutes) to tune out the world and examine this foundational fruit and receive a reminder of things we might have forgotten.

Led by the Holy Spirit, we set our hearts and minds on Him with intention.

Think of this space as a devotional or simply a conversation over coffee with a friend.

Thank you to everyone who has supported me along this journey and to those who walk alongside me now!

I’ll see you tomorrow morning for Day #3! (Live or via Replay)

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Things are moving quickly behind the scenes, but as promised, here is the raw, unpolished draft of Chapter 2.

We are diving deeper into the grand banquet hall where the beautiful illusions of Aetheon are beginning to fracture, and Gilah catches her first glimpse of the reality waiting beyond the Murum.

I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments below!

Diseñador Grafico. “Woman Under Water.” Pixabay, 17 July 2017, pixabay.com.

Chapter 2 - Cracks in the Foundation

The grand banquet hall of the Guild was an assault of light and melody. Hundreds of silver chalices caught the glow of floating oil lamps, casting dancing reflections against the towering vaulted ceilings. Musicians high in the galleries played an upbeat, triumphant processional, their stringed instruments harmonizing with the joyous roar of the crowd.

Gilah sat in her seat of honor in the very front row, her heart swelling as she watched Kaelen stand before the High Imperium. Clad in his pristine ceremonial robe, the stiff collar perfectly concealing the silver-white reminder of his childhood. He looked every bit the Master Weaver he had fought to become.

“By the grace of the Master and the threads of destiny,” the High Imperium’s voice boomed, raising a golden chalice, “we consecrate Kaelen to the High Order of Aetheon. May his hands never falter, and may his loyalty to the Guild remain unbroken.”

A deafening cheer erupted. Kaelen caught Gilah’s eye from the dais, flashing that familiar, brilliant grin. He had made it. They both had.

But as the High Imperium stepped forward to place the ceremonial obsidian medallion around Kaelen’s neck, the atmosphere in the room suddenly shifted.

The joyous roar of the crowd didn’t fade; it warped.

A cold, heavy pressure dropped over Gilah’s chest, making it difficult to catch her breath. The brilliant light of the floating lamps seemed to bleed at the edges, while the vibrant golds and deep reds of the banquet hall drained into a sickly, ash-colored gray. She knew she was in the same room, but something was very different.

Through the physical space of the hall, another reality had imposed itself.

The Murum.

It did not arrive with the sound of tearing fabric, but with the terrifying, suffocating sensation of sinking. Suddenly, the air in her lungs grew heavy, dense, and cold, as if she had been abruptly dropped into the depths of a dark, fathomless ocean. The triumphant music of the strings slowed, stretching out into low, distorted groans that vibrated through her bones.

She tried to gasp, but her throat felt closed. She was underwater, trapped beneath an unseen current, yet her eyes remained wide open.

Through the murky, fluid distortion of this new layer of reality, the banquet hall remained. She could still see the silver chalices and the frozen, celebrating silhouettes of the elite. But the luxury was no longer solid. It was translucent, a ghostly shimmer suspended in the deep. And right beside it, bleeding through the very same space, the past rose to meet her.

The Charcoeur fields were suddenly all around her like shipwrecked ruins on the ocean floor. She could see the Penser children, bent over the stalks, their tiny hands bleeding as they tore at their sharp, splintering bounty. The bitter, alkaline dust of the outer fields swirled through the banquet hall as dark ink released in water, clouding the sweet scent of spiced wine.

Gilah looked down at her own hands. In the physical world, they were resting on fine velvet. In this submersion, they were caked in the dark dirt of Amayi, raw and burning.

She was caught in the terrifying middle. The Guild Hall was real. The fields she had bled to escape were real. Both existed simultaneously, overlapping in a horrifying dance of cause and effect. The gold above was bought by the silver below, two sides of the same coin. She realized, with a sudden pang of dread, that everything she had achieved was built upon a foundation of ghosts.

But as the suffocating weight of both worlds threatened to crush her, the true nature of the Murum revealed itself. It was not just a wall, and it was not just a memory. It was a veil holding back a deeper truth.

Gilah’s eyes were drawn upward, looking past the floating lamps, past the vaulted ceilings of the hall, and past the heavy sky of the burning fields. Far above the murky, suffocating waters of her physical existence, there was a surface.

Up there, past the shimmering, distorted boundary of the water’s edge, a light was shining. It wasn’t the artificial gold of the Guild’s oil lamps, nor was it the brutal, baking heat of the Charcoeur sun. It was a pure, piercing radiance—a light so brilliant it promised to expose every false thread, every hidden scar, and every beautiful illusion of Aetheon.

And then, she heard it.

The sound didn’t travel through the dense, watery air of the room. It echoed directly inside the cavern of her soul. It was a voice—ancient, resonant, and overflowing with a fierce yet tender authority. It didn’t belong to the High Imperium, and it certainly didn’t belong to the cruel Briseurs of her youth. It was a melody that felt older than the foundations of the city itself, perhaps from a deep history, deliberately erased from the lore.

Rise, the voice beckoned. It was a command, a lifeline dropped into the depths. Rise, Weaver.

The voice pulled at her, urging her to break through the surface of the facade, to abandon the comfortable illusions of the hall and the paralyzing trauma of the fields, and to step into a realm she had never known.

Gilah reached upward, her fingers straining toward the brilliant light above the water, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She wanted to break the surface. She wanted to breathe.

“Gilah?”

The spiritual veil snapped shut with the violent force of a breaking wave.

Gilah gasped, drawing a sharp, ragged breath into her lungs as the heavy, watery pressure vanished in an instant. The color rushed back into her vision with blinding intensity. The rich aroma of cinnamon, cloves, and sweet plums flooded her senses once more, choking out the alkaline dust. The strings of the gallery reached their triumphant crescendo, and the applause of the crowd thundered through the room.

She was sitting in her cushioned chair. Her hands were clean, resting against the fine fabric of her robes.

Kaelen was standing right in front of her, having just stepped down from the dais. The heavy black obsidian medallion of the High Order rested against his chest, catching the warm, golden light of the lamps. His face was absolutely radiant, flushed with the hard-won joy of a boy who had survived the lethern and conquered the world.

He reached down, taking her trembling hands in his strong, warm grip.

“We did it, Gilah,” he whispered over the roar of the music, his eyes crinkling with that familiar, protective warmth. “We’re finally safe.”

Gilah looked up at his joyful face, then glanced instinctively toward the ceiling, where the floating lamps bobbed innocently against the gold-studded beams. The light looked beautiful, but to her eyes, it now felt thin. Fragile. Like a painted canvas stretched tight over a gaping void.

The voice was still vibrating in the quietest chambers of her heart, a faint but undeniable echo. Rise.

Her smile felt tight, a fragile mask covering a reality that had just permanently fractured. She looked back at Kaelen, her dear friend and only family.

“Yes,” she murmured, her voice sounding hollow and distant even to her own ears as the grand illusion began to unravel. “Safe.”

Kanenori. “Sea Wave Splash Big.” Pixabay, 19 Aug. 2020, pixabay.com.

I had to step away from my Substack creative lab for a day or two to process everything emotionally and spiritually. There is so much going on so quickly right now that, at times, it can be a lot on my nervous system. I feel the energy, the inspiration, and the drive to work with the Holy Spirit—knowing deep down that there is a “big push” coming.

Though I’m not sure exactly what that means yet, I do know that much like surfing—if you’re going to catch that big wave, you have to be ready. You have to hop onto your board at just the right moment if you’re to ride it all the way to the shore. The most awesome part of all of this is that regardless of what I understand in my own mind, the Holy Spirit knows. He is there to lead and guide me through every single step and inspire each movement along the way.

It has become entirely apparent to me that this new season requires consistently communing with God and spending time with Him daily, while also building relationships with His people—coming together as an actual community.

Because of that, I am making a formal declaration today:

• It is no longer a season of hiding, or being hidden.

• It is no longer a season of isolation and self-focus.

• It is no longer a season of not enough, or feeling lost.

To step into what’s next, we have to trust that though the flesh is weak, He is strong. In fact, He shines brightest through our weakness. Faith in action will not only guide us into this new season, but it will propel us forward exponentially into His goodness.

It’s a season for tuning out the noise of the world, the negativity, the distraction, the avoidance, and the anger. We already know what the fruit of the spirit is; it’s simply time to abide in Him, and therefore abide in that fruit. Every single day is a new opportunity to begin again. Every day is brand new, as is His mercy and grace. It’s time to stop accepting the lies of the enemy that tell us who we are not and what we cannot accomplish.

The lies that we will never be enough, do enough, or have enough—all lies!

2 Timothy 1:7 — “For God has not given us a spirit of fear and timidity, but of power, love, and self-discipline.”

We are turning our eyes with our new prescription lenses and setting our radio dials to the correct frequency, vision, and purpose of what Christ has called us to be and to do as Kings and Queens in His Kingdom, right here on earth.

We are not waiting for the rapture or to die to begin living. He called us to Live while we are here on earth. After all, He created all of this for us! Did He create this profoundly beautiful world for us to not appreciate it or enjoy it? Did He create all of this for us to overlook it and to only long for death and a future in Heaven?

I think not!

John 10:10 — “The thief’s purpose is to steal and kill and destroy. My purpose is to give them a rich and satisfying life.”

When we meet Him someday in Heaven, we want Him to say, “Well done, my good and faithful servant!”

We want Him to say this because we did all we were called to do here on earth, and because we actually enjoyed the works of His hands and the people He placed into our lives to do life with. We are stronger with each other, a united body of Christ—not segmented, segregated, divided, and divisible, but united in purpose.

Substack has been an incredible creative lab for me, but when you create entirely by yourself, you end up being the only voice, the only feedback, and the only relationship you build. That is not how we are meant to grow. To push myself out of my comfort zone and to practice the consistency that is vital for growth—and to build real connection—I am launching a daily rhythm for us.

Hebrews 10:24-25 — “And let us consider how we may spur one another on toward love and good deeds, not giving up meeting together, as some are in the habit of doing, but encouraging one another...”

Starting next Wednesday, July 1st at 7:30 AM EST, I invite you to join me every single morning for a 5-to-7-minute live broadcast right here on Substack called “Tune into Joy.”

Seven days a week, we are going to gather intentionally to adjust our focus before the workday claims our attention. We are going to practice this new way of living, tune out the world’s static, and ride this wave together. We will run this race consistently for 31 days straight, and to celebrate, we’ll do our final broadcast on July 31st live from the beach with the ocean as our backdrop.

It’s time to stop hiding. So, set your alarms for 7:30 AM this Wednesday, July 1st. Let’s grab our boards, head out to the horizon, and tune into the joy that’s already ours.

Hans. “weaving-loom.” Pixabay, 2 Jan. 2013, pixabay.com.

You may have noticed that my essays share themes of restoration, healing, and finding the beauty in each of life’s challenges. Until now, we’ve explored these truths through reflective prose and shared insights.

Sometimes, the deepest spiritual truths require a canvas of story.

For several months now I’ve been fleshing out, and quietly building a world - born out of a desire to share a journey of trauma to triumph, dramatized through fictional work, with characters who are much like any of us.

Today, I am incredibly excited to invite you into that world with the very first chapter of my serialized novel, a rough draft of “The Weaver of Aetheon”.

Thank you for being a part of my inner circle, supporting this creative leap, and for being here at the beginning of this journey. Chapters 1 and 2 will be completely free for everyone to read and share.

Lean in, breathe deep, and welcome to Aetheon…

Chapter 1: The Weight of Silver and Dust

The reverberant chatter and the smooth, rhythmic clicking, clacking, and thumping of the loom kept pace with Gilah’s heart. From across the expansive Guild Hall, the distant, soulful melody of a vielle floated over the crowd, playing a tune that was at once cheerful and haunting. The aromatic incense wafted past her nostrils, a rich blend of sandalwood and heavy resins that always served as a sensory anchor, reminding her of just how far she had come. In this grand hall, where the walls were studded with gold, shimmering gems, and painstakingly beautiful mosaics that intertwined so perfectly with the ornate oil paintings that one could not tell where tile ended and canvas began, she was a Master Weaver. It was a world entirely removed from her childhood as a Penser, trapped in the suffocating, unmoving heat of the outer fields.

Though her hands were permanently scarred and callused from those early years of unyielding labor, her current station was surely evidence of her triumph. Everything here breathed meticulous care. Outside each towering window, the brilliant sun glistened against bouquets of fresh, seasonal flowers—vibrant flora placed daily by the arborers whose botanical skill was unmatched.

Gilah took a deep breath, letting the heavy incense mix with the comforting smells of freshly baked bread, sweet plums, and sharp, aged cheeses wafting in from the adjacent kitchens. It was nearly time for the mid-day meal. The distinct aroma of cinnamon and cloves mingled with the sharp zest of fresh oranges, tickling her nose and making her long for the sweet, spiced drink the Guild served only on special occasions.

Like today.

Today was the celebration of Sacre for her dear friend Kaelen. He sat directly across from her in the studio, intently focused on his own loom, his chiseled features tense with nerves. With his thick, dark hair and sharp jawline, he looked like a character stepped clean out of the old lore—the kind of valiant hero who saves the damsel in distress and rides off into the horizon. Gilah didn’t view herself as a damsel by any means, but she knew many a maiden in the lower quarters whose hearts fluttered whenever Kaelen passed by.

She had known him since they were nine cycles old, working row for row in the dirt. They shared a rare, complex lineage—born of both the native tribe and the northern conquerors. In the eyes of the elite, they carried the invisible, heavy weight of labels like half-breed. They were a people simultaneously pitied for their displacement and deeply feared, lest they one day remember the strength of their blood and rise up to reclaim what had been stolen from them.

Kaelen’s strong shoulders finally eased. He stood, stretching his tall frame before cutting a glance over at Gilah, his eyes crinkling with a familiar warmth.

“Gilah, where have you gone?” he asked softly, noticing the sudden, faraway look in her pale blue eyes.

Even in her high station, she still wore her jet-black hair in the traditional way—piled into a loose bun on her head with long, straight strands framing her high cheekbones. It was the undeniable mark of her heritage, an unyielding link to her people.

Her strong, feminine frame snapped back to the present. She let out a bright, melodic laugh, a sound so full of genuine life it seemed to instantly dispel the phantom shadows creeping into her mind.

“Oh, Kaelen, I’m right here!” she teased, tilting her chin. “I’m just plotting how to get in front of you in the dining line. I’m absolutely starving!”

Before Kaelen could even blink, Gilah jumped from her weaving seat, dashed through the heavy oak doors, and claimed her spot in the hallway. Dropping his wooden shuttles with a clatter, Kaelen flew after her, skidding into place right behind her, his chest heaving as he laughed.

After the mid-day meal, the air grew heavy. Slipping back into her cushioned chair, Gilah began the familiar, hypnotic click-clack of weaving a ceremonial banner. Perhaps it was the sheer comfort of the seat, or the combination of the rhythmic machinery and her full stomach, but the walls of the Guild Hall suddenly dissolved.

In a heartbeat, she was transported back to the burning expanses of the Charcoeur fields.

The sensory transition was violent. The sweet scent of citrus and cloves was instantly choked out by the phantom smell of the raw Charcoeur plant—a bitter, alkaline, dust-heavy stench that coated the throat and burned the lungs. She could feel the simulated weight of the intense summer sun baking her neck, her back aching from being bent double for hours, her young fingers bleeding as she deftly plucked the sharp, splintering pods. Around her, the air didn’t carry music; it carried the deafening, frantic buzzing of cicadas and the sickening, brittle snap of stalks being broken by exhausted children.

Suddenly, a sharp cry shattered the afternoon heat, rising high above the meadow birds.

“You don’t get a drop of water if you can’t meet your quota, Penser!”

Gilah’s breath caught. Duron, the Lead Briseur, loomed over Kaelen’s small, nine-year-old frame. Duron’s face was as cold and unyielding as iron, his voice a booming thunderclap. In his hand, the lethern flashed through the stifling air. The whip-like tool tore the atmosphere with a sharp, whistling hiss right before the leather met the boy’s thin shirt, sending visible shockwaves through his fragile body. The weapon was rumored to carry the literal sting of lightning, leaving weeping, silver-white scars that marked a soul for life.

From her row, Gilah’s heart fractured. She desperately longed to drop her canvas sack, run across the burning soil, and wrap Kaelen in a protective embrace. She wanted to shield him from the blows, to whisper that he would survive this, and to show him how to angle his wrists to pull the defensive Charcoeur fibers without tearing his skin so he could finally hit his quota and escape the fury of the lethern.

But she knew the law of the fields. If she moved, Duron’s violence would simply multiply. She had to force her eyes down, her knuckles whitening against her wooden cart, waiting agonizingly until the Briseur’s rage finally exhausted itself and his heavy boots moved on to the next unlucky soul.

She waited, her chest tight, until the bell for the brief mid-day rest finally rang. Moving with quiet urgency, she packed her own hard-earned bounty of choice silver Charcoeur strands into her collection cart, dumping them into the central catchall.

Scanning the dust, she spotted him. The new boy was quietly sulking near the wooden bin, his face a mosaic of dark dirt and salty, running tears. His frail frame swayed slightly in the heat, his posture so defeated and hollowed by hunger that she feared he might collapse into the dirt and never rise again.

Slipping past the overseers’ blind spots, Gilah approached him gently, untying a small leather pouch from her waist.

“Hello,” she murmured, her voice a soft contrast to the harsh environment. “I’m Gilah, from the northern village of Amayi. I don’t really need all of my water today, but you look like you could use some.”

The boy looked up, his eyes wide and terrified. Gilah offered the pouch forward. “I’ve never seen you in this sector before. I’ve been out here for about six cycles myself. I’m nine annos—nearly ten. What about you?”

Kaelen didn’t answer with words at first. He grabbed the pouch with trembling hands and thirstily gulped down the water for what felt like an eternity, his throat working desperately. Finally, he stopped, drawing in a ragged, deep breath.

“I’m called Kaelen,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “And I’m also nine annos... but I’ll be ten in one cycle. Today is my first day. I was taken from my moth—”

The words cut off as a fresh wave of grief hit him, and the salty streams parted the caked dirt on his cheeks once more.

Instinctively, Gilah reached out, pulling his shaking shoulders into a fierce, tight hug. Kaelen collapsed entirely into her arms, his forehead sinking against her shoulder. Maintaining her grip, she gently guided him away from the burning rows and over to the meager shade of a great oak tree at the edge of the meadow. As they sat together in the grass, she had no way of knowing that this moment of shared sorrow was the true birth of a lifelong, unbreakable bond.

“Gilah!”

The sharp, echoing sound of her name shattered the memory.

Gilah blinked, the bitter smell of the fields evaporating instantly as the polished wood of her modern loom came back into focus.

Kaelen was standing over her, a playful but urgent grin spreading across his face. As her eyes adjusted to the bright light of the Guild Hall, they automatically tracked downward, catching the faint, silver-white line of an old scar peeking out just above the high, stiff collar of his pristine ceremonial robes.

“You’ve gone to that faraway place again,” Kaelen said, his voice deep and grounding. “And it is nearly time for my Sacre celebration! Come, let us put our hands to rest and head to the banquet hall.”

His smile spread from ear to ear, full of a hard-won joy that the fields had failed to destroy. Reaching down, he took her hand and guided her out of the workshop, leading her toward the grand banquet hall where her chosen seat of honor waited in the very front row. Because in a world of false titles and beautiful illusions, she was the only real family he had left.

I remember being a small child, sitting in amazement as my elementary school teacher shared with us the process of the water cycle. I was in awe and wonderment as she described how a single raindrop went on an adventure—from droplet to puddle, to flowing into a stream, a river, an ocean, and finally evaporating, only to go back up into the clouds and begin again. Oh, how I wished I could be that raindrop, to go on such an adventure.

It reminds me of Jesus’ words in John 4:10, when He answered the woman at the well, “If you knew the gift of God and who it is that asks you for a drink, you would have asked him and he would have given you living water.”

What I didn’t realize then was that we are—and will always be—on a journey of continual processing, purification, and serving by giving life to those around us. We are just like that water drop, which is eventually pulled back into the clouds, only to traverse down the mountain to be further filtered and refined.

What my teacher didn’t share, was that there are times when the droplet falls (like I did) and lands in stagnant bodies of water. We can choose to stall and share our space with those who choose comfort over growth, toxicity over healthy movement. We can become “smelly” and unhealthy for those around us—contaminated by external forces and polluted in our process. Though this water will eventually evaporate and go through the cycle again, the life it produces in the meantime is limited, often corrupted, and isolated from the greater flow.

It brings to mind the warning in 1 Corinthians 15:33, “Do not be misled: ‘Bad company corrupts good character,’” as well as the wisdom of Proverbs 13:20, which reminds us that if you want to grow in wisdom, spend time with the wise. Walk with the wicked and you’ll eventually become just like them.

In a healthy water cycle, a droplet slowly sinks into the soil to give life to the plants around it, gradually entering the watershed before flowing into rivers and streams. This process starts slowly and is hidden beneath the surface, but it is essential for removing contaminants before the water enters the flow where the pace quickens.

During this journey through rivers and streams, unseen microorganisms, fungi, and bacteria consume dissolved pollutants and extract excess nutrients, preventing toxic algae blooms. When the water slows down, suspended solids, heavy metals, and debris fall into the riverbed—naturally removing them from the flow.

Along the way, water seeps into surrounding banks, filtering as it moves through sand, gravel, and soil. As it is churned over rocks and plummets down drops, it absorbs oxygen from the air, encouraging aerobic bacteria to thrive and further break down chemical pollutants. Finally, the sun penetrates the water, using UV radiation to render waterborne microorganisms inactive or eliminate them entirely.

Today, I am reminded that it is in these unseen moments, in the seemingly small details, that our lives are refined, our character is developed, and our direction is chosen. We can choose to let go of old habits, release contaminants, and simply flow. This quiet choice and hidden development will lead us to move with our Creator on a journey of purification, becoming part of His body of life-giving water.

There will be times under the surface when we are pounded against the rocks, and the people around us remain completely unaware of the sifting. There will be times when the reward does not seem worth the effort. But oh, the reward when we consistently push through the process and wait on the Lord!

As Paul encourages us in Galatians 6:9, “Let us not grow weary or become discouraged in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap, if we do not give in.” We hold onto the timeless promise of Isaiah 40:31, that they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary, and they shall walk, and not faint.

How amazing it is that we have such a choice. What what was once a stagnant pond can start over and become something entirely different.

Someone who, as part of the body of Christ, flows with living waters, fulfilling what Jesus invited us into in John 7:37-38: “…Let anyone who is thirsty come to me and drink. Whoever believes in me, as Scripture has said, rivers of living water will flow from within them.”

Let us take time today to flow with our Creator, meditate on how each seemingly invisible contribution to our process make all the difference - give thanks for the growth you have, and have yet to see. Speak life to someone today.

Photo by: Succo. Pixabay, October, 2016

Have you ever found yourself angry about something, and you don’t know why?

Some things are obvious, Someone:

• Stole from you.

• Lied to you.

• Disrespected you (or those you love).

• Broke your heart.

As a Momma Bear of five I get it, and for a very long time, “mess with my family, and I might get very passionate about my response” could have been my motto.

As someone who came from a long line of fighters – I can still feel my “passionate response” rising up at times (though I do believe there is a time for “holy anger,” and that is not what I’m referring to now).

Years of therapy, inner healing, and the goodness of God has brought me far from that traumatic past that produced an angry, emotional, stereotypical teenager of the 90’s, and years later, the woman who thought every battle was hers to fight.

Having great mentors, and later becoming a coach myself, has allowed me to walk through that slow and difficult space of struggling to find the why behind bad habits, and driving emotions – to creating better habits, founded on better emotions and truth, allowing breakthrough in passion and purpose.

All this while realizing we should show ourselves some grace, after all we are human beings – imperfect, fallible, and yet uniquely and wonderfully made.

(There is truly no one out there just like you… or the person next to you)!

What I’m realizing in my more mature years (as I’m sure many of you are) is that more often than not, when we respond to someone with immediate, passionate, angry defense (walls up) – it has nothing to do with them, and everything to do with us.

They’ve hit an exposed area, a place festering for potentially years, under the surface, causing an infection only noticed when revealed. What they said might be awful, even evil in nature…

but our response, or lack thereof matters.

What causes some to brush offense away with ease, and others to stew on it for days?

I wish I could say that I’ve attained perfect peace 24/7 on my own, but that simply will never be true – I am only promised perfect peace when my imagination is consumed with Him.

Isaiah 26:3 Perfect, absolute peace surrounds those whose imaginations are consumed with you; they confidently trust in you. (TPT)

What separates those who react, from those who respond – could it be tied to imagination?

What are we thinking (dwelling or existing on) daily? Our thoughts become our words, our self-talk, and even what we speak over those around us.

Oddly enough, at times like this I’m often reminded of that old saying “We are what we eat”. What are we consuming?

Are we on social media, or mainstream media so much that the only narrative playing in our minds is that of division and fear? Do we then find our entire week being ruined by a nasty comment on our feed, or an inconsiderate action?

Or, do we recognize that what we said or did, (if it was kind, loving, and true), and at times even who we are - has struck a chord, or exposed a wound?

This morning, while having coffee with Jesus, there was a knowing that sometimes we are simply on the right track - exposing a lie of the enemy, and he’s spitting mad.

And you know what? I couldn’t be happier about that.

What we also must recognize, is that the focus of our frustration is also a fallible human being and deserving of grace. They are also oftentimes someone who at some point in their life was deeply wounded, and likely infected with anger.

(Please hear my heart when I say this, and know that I do not condone abuse of any kind. We are meant to do life with people, we are meant to love as Christ loved, but that does not mean we enter into, or stay in close relationships with people who abuse us).

Today, I am specifically referring to people we have not allowed into our inner circle of trust – random people on social media, people at work, people who we might run into at the grocery store. People God loves deeply, those who are difficult, those who try our patience, and those He calls us to also love.

These same people can be gift-givers, who at times expose things we have yet to uncover about ourselves, things that lead to healing and peace – should we choose to allow it.

Today, I choose peace and I pray you will too.

-With Love

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We pictured furniture placement, morning coffee on the patio, a new rhythm in a new state. And then we walked away. The details didn’t sit right, and wisdom whispered what excitement didn’t want to hear.

So here we are —searching in a large state, driving and looking at homes for hours each day with hope, wondering when “home” will finally settle into place.

I asked for Him to open doors that only He could open and close doors we should not walk through, and He has been faithful.

It’s a strange feeling, living between decisions.
Between where you were and where you’re going.
Between certainty and calling.

This morning, I read Isaiah 43:2:

“When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you; when you walk through fire, you shall not be burned…”

Not if you pass through.
When.

There are waters in every life. Right now, mine look like uncertainty about where we’ll live, restarting freelance work after a pause, and that quiet fear that asks, “What if this doesn’t work?”

Maybe yours look different—health, finances, relationships, a decision you can’t quite make. But we all know what it feels like to be waist-deep in something we didn’t plan.

The promise in this verse is not avoidance.
It is presence.

God doesn’t promise dry ground. He promises to walk with us through rising water. And that changes everything.

Because the waters I’m walking through right now are real.

There’s also the financial question. I’ve set a goal—$5,000 in three months, working about 24 hours a week freelancing around everything else we have going on. I have skills, even a degree and certifications, but starting again always comes with doubt. Will clients come? Will I find the right niche? Will I stay consistent?

There’s the life-decision piece. Looking at houses online, wondering which coast is right, trying to make wise choices without perfect information. Waiting when I’d rather move forward.

And there’s the emotional weight. Decision fatigue. That restless feeling that progress is slower than it should be.

If you’re honest, you know this feeling too.

We want certainty before we act.
God asks us to act in faith instead.

The verse in Isaiah doesn’t say the rivers will be shallow. It says they won’t overwhelm you.
He doesn’t say there will be no fire. He says you won’t be consumed.

That means the hard season might stay hard—but it won’t destroy what God is building in you.

When I look back, that’s always been true in my life. The moments I thought would sink me became turning points. The uncomfortable seasons pushed me toward skills I didn’t know I had, courage I didn’t think I possessed, faith I didn’t know I needed.

So what does this promise look like in real life, today?

It looks like showing up anyway.

It looks like writing on Substack every day, even when the words feel simple. It looks like sending one freelance pitch even when I’m unsure. It looks like researching one more home listing without spiraling into worry.

Faith, for me right now, is consistency.
Not grand gestures. Small steps.

Because obedience in small things builds a life you can stand on.

I’m learning that the waters often rise right before clarity comes. There’s a stretching that happens in the face of uncertainty. We become more honest about what we want, more intentional about how we work, more dependent on God than on our own plans.

Walking away from those homes felt like a loss in the moment. But it was also wisdom. And wisdom is rarely comfortable.

If I truly believe God is with me in this season, then I can act differently.

I can stop waiting for perfect conditions.
I can trust small beginnings.
I can build a business with integrity instead of fear.
I can write honestly instead of trying to sound impressive.
I can keep looking for a home without panicking that we’ll never find one.

Because presence is enough.

That sounds simple. But simple is powerful.

Here are three practices I’m leaning on right now, and maybe they’ll help you too.

First, name your fear. Write it down. Say it out loud in prayer. Fear shrinks when it’s brought into the light.

Second, take one faithful action every day. Send the email. Write the paragraph. Make the call. Progress doesn’t come from waiting—it comes from small, faithful steps.

Third, remember past moments when God showed up. Write them down. Read them when you forget. We all do.

The waters feel deepest when we think we’re alone.
We’re not.

If you’re walking through uncertainty today, you are not abandoned, not forgotten, not unsupported. You are being led through something—not into nothing.

I don’t know where our next home will be. I don’t know which freelance client will come first. I don’t know exactly how this season will unfold.

But I know this: the waters are not my end.
They are my crossing.
And yours are too.

So today, take one step.
Send one pitch.
Write one paragraph.
Pray one honest prayer.
Look at one more house listing.

The waters may rise. The rivers may feel strong. But they will not overwhelm you.

Because you are not walking alone.

You don’t realize how heavy something is until you set it down.

You might be standing there right now, hands full of things you learned to carry because no one else would—old disappointments, quiet griefs, a carefulness that once kept you safe. You didn’t pick them up because you wanted them. You picked them up because, for a long time, you had to.

In this place, you’re not in a hurry, not performing, just tired in that deep, honest way that comes from holding too much for too long.

There is a promise that has met me here more than once:

“…to give them a beautiful bouquet in the place of ashes,
the oil of bliss instead of tears,
and the mantle of joyous praise instead of the spirit of heaviness.”
— Isaiah 61:3 (TPT)

There’s a moment—small but unmistakable—when something shifts. It’s not fireworks. It’s a loosening. A softening in your shoulders. A realization that you don’t have to explain everything you’ve lived through to be allowed to receive something better. You can simply be there, open-handed.

That’s where the exchange begins.

You don’t trade pain for perfection. You trade it for presence. For the quiet sense that you are being met right where you are, without needing to prove or protect. What you’ve been gripping starts to slip away—not because it didn’t matter, but because it no longer gets to decide who you are.

And in the space it leaves behind, something else arrives.

Maybe it looks like peace that surprises you in the middle of an ordinary morning. Maybe it feels like a gentle confidence you didn’t have to earn. Maybe it’s the first time you notice that your breath comes easier, that your heart doesn’t brace itself the way it used to.

You’re still walking through things. You still have questions. But you’re not empty anymore.

Some endings don’t need to be solved. They only need to be noticed. When you let what hurt you finally fall from your hands, you make room for what’s been waiting all along—steady, generous, and quietly bright.

If you’re standing in this place today, tired and honest, know this: you don’t have to carry everything back with you. You can leave what no longer belongs.

There is more than enough here.

When I look back, and speak of what tried to break me, I am naming a long season of mistreatment and neglect—a stretch of time marked by being handled without care, seen without tenderness, and left without the love every human quietly needs. It was not one moment, but a pattern. A wearing down. An erosion. And yet, even there, something remained. A thin, steady glow that never fully went out.

That season created armor, built to protect myself—armor forged from self-reliance. When trust no longer felt safe, independence became my refuge. I learned to carry everything alone, to anticipate disappointment, to rely exclusively on myself because relying on others had proven costly. But even as that armor cracked, a small light kept finding its way through. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just present. Waiting.

Suffering reshaped the way I see people. Where I once saw certainty, I now see humanity. Where I once expected consistency, I now recognize complexity. I learned that most people are carrying unseen fractures, responding to life from places they may not fully understand themselves. That awareness softened me. It is easier to offer grace when you realize how many are walking in dim places, still searching for a little warmth, a little clarity.

Along the way, I learned the difference between imitation and substance. Between affection that demands something in return and love that simply stays. I learned what must be released, what must be protected, and what deserves careful stewardship. Boundaries became less about defense and more about discernment—like lanterns placed along the edge of a path, not to keep others out, but to keep what matters safe.

No longer yours is not a declaration of anger. It is a quiet release. It is the moment when the past loosens its grip, when old harm no longer claims authority over the present. Some things were forgiven. Some things were laid down. Some connections were gently, firmly set outside the inner circle—not as punishment, but as wisdom. And in the space they left behind, more light was able to stay.

What remains is a different posture. A steadiness. A heightened awareness that can feel the tone of a room, the weight of a moment. There is confidence now, but it is unassuming—rooted not in self-assurance, but in humility. From this place comes an unexpected tenderness toward those who stand at the edges—the overlooked, the misunderstood, the ones love seems to pass by. I recognize them. I remember the dark. And I know what it means when even a small light refuses to leave.

If you are still walking through your own unmaking, my hope is not that these words tell you what you should do. I hope they offer something quieter instead: a sense of belonging. A reminder that you are not isolated in your experience. That even in the longest night, something gentle can remain—soft, steady, and waiting.

Sometimes the darkness does not lift all at once.
Sometimes the night lingers.

But the light remains. It is always there.

If you’ve found your way here, there’s a good chance you’re feeling a little behind—or at least out of sync.

You might not be sure what the next step is, only that what you’ve been doing no longer fits. You’ve tried to do all the “right” things, yet something still feels unsettled.

This space was created for moments like that.

Often, what we’re really looking for isn’t just clarity or direction—but healing. Inner steadiness. Wisdom. And permission to be where we actually are, not where we think we should be by now.

Not long ago, I was you.
Overwhelmed. Doing everything I thought I was supposed to do.

Living a life that looked fine on the outside, but felt unfulfilled on the inside—because it wasn’t fully mine.

I’ve learned much of what I share here the hard way, and I don’t write from a place of having it all figured out. I write as someone walking forward, paying attention, and choosing a different way.

I see this space as a place to walk alongside you—not ahead of you. A place for honest conversation. For acceptance. For encouragement. For reminding you of who you are right now, and gently cheering you on as you become who you’re growing into.

This is not a space for quick fixes or bypassing self-reflection. It’s not for perfection, performance, or pretending. It’s for those willing to see themselves with compassion, take small steps toward growth, and practice loving who they are in the process.

Here, you’ll find honest reflections, truth-telling, and love-based guidance rooted in wisdom. You’ll encounter questions meant to prompt gentle change, reminders of your worth, stories of encouragement, moments of laughter and tears, Scripture woven naturally into reflection, and quiet pauses that invite rest.

When you’re here, there’s no need to rush.
No need to explain yourself.
No need to be anyone other than who you are right now.

It’s okay if what you’re feeling is a mix—joy and sadness, peace and frustration, hope and weariness. All of it belongs.

If I could say one thing to you, sitting across the table, it would be this:
You are loved, created with purpose, and you are not behind. You simply need a place where you can be your truest self—without judgment.

You’re welcome to read slowly here.
You’re welcome to linger.
You’re welcome exactly as you are.

I’m noticing that much of the urgency I’ve felt is self-imposed—and when I choose to react instead of act with wisdom, the outcome is rarely fulfilling or intentional.

Urgency has a way of disguising itself as responsibility. It convinces us that quick decisions are faithful, that movement is progress, and that slowing down is risky. Especially in seasons of transition, urgency can feel like the only way forward.

But wisdom does not rush clarity.
It creates space for obedience.

What I’m unlearning is the belief that movement must happen immediately—by any means necessary.

For a long time, urgency showed up as doing more: enrolling in another program, chasing another certification or degree, studying longer, gathering more information. On the surface, it looked responsible. It looked like preparation.

But beneath it all, something else was happening. I was doing more while producing less—less clarity, less impact, and less meaningful service to the people I’m actually called to serve.

Progress doesn’t always look like chaos. Sometimes it looks like constant improvement that produces fruit slowly—often the kind that is rare, quiet, and meant to last.

Wisdom often asks for: fewer moves, clearer intention, and action shaped by truth rather than pressure.

Doing less—but doing it on purpose.

When action is rooted in wisdom instead of urgency, it carries direction and care. It serves real people, not imagined expectations. And it creates space for work that actually endures.

What this looks like in my own days is simpler than I expected.

My time is now framed by structure that isn’t unforgiving, but it does ask something of me. Not urgency—but faithfulness.

I’m finishing what is in front of me instead of constantly reaching for what’s next. Choosing actions that work together toward the same goal rather than scattering my attention across a multitude of directions.

This kind of faithfulness doesn’t look impressive.
It looks steady.

It asks me to start with what I have, where I am, and to trust that obedience—taken consistently—serves far better than frantic motion ever could.

Intention doesn’t shrink impact.
It deepens it.

If any part of this feels familiar, know that you’re not alone. Many of us are standing in seasons that don’t require faster answers—but clearer obedience.

It’s easy to believe that movement is the same as progress, or that urgency is a sign we’re doing something right. But wisdom often invites a different beginning—one that honors where you are, instead of rushing you past it.

I’ve been sitting with this shift for a while now, letting it reshape how I live, work, and serve. Out of that practice, I’ve been quietly building something designed to support this steadier, more intentional way of moving through transition. I’ll share more soon.

For now, consider this your permission to pause.
To take one faithful step instead of ten frantic ones.
To trust that clarity comes through obedience, not pressure.

Not every beginning requires urgency.
Some simply need thoughtful attention.

“Fog doesn’t ask for confidence—it asks for presence.”

Movement was slow when the fog was this thick.

The locals called it “thick as pea soup”—the kind of fog that delayed schools. Growing up in the valley in Southern California, we were used to it. We eagerly watched the 5 a.m. news to see if we’d be fortunate enough for a fog delay, while our parents complained about how treacherous their commute to work would be.

On days like this, everyone moved differently. Slower. More carefully. With intention.

I was reminded of that childhood place as I navigated this new chapter of my life—a season where I couldn’t see more than a foot in front of me. A season where I had no idea what lay a week, let alone a month, ahead. This was where my plans had fallen apart, leaving trust as the only thing left to guide me.

I trusted that the ground beneath me was firm. I trusted that even if I couldn’t see the path, it existed—and that I would move through it. I also knew that, much like turning your brights on in thick fog, my instinct to overextend only made things worse.

So I followed the light I was given. Step by step. Close enough to see what was next—and no further.

What I didn’t realize then was that fog doesn’t ask for confidence—it asks for presence.

Trust, in this season, hasn’t looked like certainty. It’s looked like staying close enough to notice what’s under my feet. It’s meant releasing the need to know how everything will turn out, and instead paying attention to what’s being asked of me today.

I used to believe trust arrived after clarity—after a plan formed, after options appeared, after I could explain where I was headed. But transition dismantles that order. Here, trust comes first. Understanding follows later, if at all.

There were moments when doing nothing felt irresponsible. When not pushing ahead felt like falling behind. But fog has a way of teaching restraint. It punishes urgency. It rewards patience.

So I stopped reaching for answers that weren’t meant to be visible yet. I stopped trying to light the whole road. Instead, I learned to ask quieter questions: What is mine to carry today? What can I tend without forcing? What step is close enough to take honestly?

Trust, I’m learning, isn’t passive. It’s an active choice to remain where you are long enough to be changed by it.

Transition isn’t a problem to solve. It isn’t a gap to close or a mistake to correct. It’s a place to stand—often longer than we’d like—while something essential rearranges itself beneath the surface.

The fog doesn’t ask me to move faster or see farther. It asks me to stay. To notice. To take the next honest step without demanding the whole map.

And for now, that is enough. To be here. To be present. To keep walking, one visible step at a time.

Written in a season where clarity was limited, but trust was not.

I believe clarity is not something we force.
It is something we receive when we stop running from ourselves.

This space exists to slow things down.

Not because the world isn’t urgent—but because urgency has become a weapon.
Used to manipulate.
Used to dominate.
Used to keep people anxious, compliant, and disconnected from what they already know to be true.

I am not interested in adding to that noise.

I am interested in presence.

In language that settles instead of inflames.
In truth that does not need to shout.
In words that restore coherence rather than demand allegiance.

I believe we are living in an age of mental chaos -
where coercion is often mistaken for leadership,
where manipulation dresses itself up as marketing,
where speed is confused with authority,
and where worth is quietly assigned based on visibility, productivity, or status.

I reject that economy.

This work is an act of resistance—not against people, but against forces that thrive on fear, strife, hierarchy, and confusion.

I believe we are more than consumers of information.
We are bearers of meaning.
And meaning cannot be rushed.

I believe presence is power.
That showing up quietly, consistently, and truthfully carries a sound that cannot be duplicated.
That even small offerings—a paragraph, a note, a sentence spoken with care—can reorient a life.

I believe words matter.
Not because they perform, but because they form.
They shape inner worlds.
They either tighten the chest or invite breath.

I choose the latter.

My work is shaped by faith, prayer, and discernment—not as doctrine to impose, but as formation that teaches restraint, listening, and reverence for truth.
While my faith forms me, this space is offered with openness and respect for where each person is.

You will not find formulas here.
You will not be rushed toward outcomes.
You will not be asked to perform certainty you do not yet have.

What you will find is room.

Room to think clearly.
Room to tell the truth without fear.
Room to remember who you are beneath the noise.

This is not a platform for branding.
It is a practice of attention.

This is not a funnel.
It is an invitation.

This is not about being louder.
It is about being truer.

If you are weary of chaos,
allergic to manipulation,
and hungry for clarity that does not require you to become someone else—

You are welcome here.

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What Endures is a space for reflection, becoming, and the quiet truths that remain when the noise falls away.

I created this as a place where you can be free to slow down and listen for the deeper truths - beneath urgency, beneath expectation, and beneath the voices that tell you who you’re supposed to be.

Not to step away from life, but to engage it more honestly.

Here you’ll find essays, reflections, and conversations shaped around a single question: what endures when everything else falls silent?

Some pieces will be personal. Others will explore themes of identity, discernment, faith lived without spectacle, and the steady work of becoming who you already are. Over time, this space will also connect to a podcast and longer-form storytelling released under the same name.

There’s no rush here. No performance. No pressure to have it all figured out.

Just an invitation to return—to truth, to presence, to what remains.

If this resonates, you’re welcome to stay.

More soon.