When the Soul Feels Stretched Thin

There are days when life feels like too much.
The inbox is full, the to-do list keeps growing, and even the good things — family, work, church, community — can leave us feeling worn-out instead of filled-up.

If your soul feels stretched thin today, you’re not alone. Scripture is full of people who reached their limit and cried out to God. The psalmist prayed, “From the end of the earth I call to you, when my heart is faint; lead me to the rock that is higher than I” (Psalm 61:2). Even Jesus often withdrew to quiet places when the crowds pressed too closely.

A Gentle Reminder

Rest is not laziness.
Saying “enough” is not failure.
And letting God carry what you cannot is an act of deep faith.

A Small Practice for Today

Take two minutes. Set your phone aside. Close your eyes. Breathe in slowly and whisper:
“God, You are here.”
Breathe out slowly and whisper:
“I am held.”

Repeat this three times. Let the words sink down into your body.

Carry This With You

Whatever today holds, remember: your worth is not measured by your productivity, and your belovedness is not shaken by your exhaustion. God meets you exactly where you are — stretched thin, messy, unfinished — and offers you rest.

Maybe you needed to hear this reminder today. Maybe someone you love does too. Share it, send it, or simply carry it with you as a quiet prayer.

Faithful in Little, Faithful in Much: What Jesus and Jeremiah Teach Us About Everyday Faith

Have you ever read a Bible story and thought: Wait, what?

That’s the reaction a lot of people have to Jesus’ parable of the dishonest manager (Luke 16:1–13). On the surface, it sounds like Jesus is praising dishonesty. A manager gets caught cooking the books, and instead of throwing him in prison, his master commends him. But Jesus isn’t holding up corruption as an ideal. He’s showing us something deeper: how we use the resources entrusted to us reveals our character, our priorities, and our faith.

Jeremiah 8:18–9:1 adds another layer. The prophet cries out, “My joy is gone, grief is upon me, my heart is sick … Is there no balm in Gilead?” Jeremiah’s words capture the sorrow of seeing God’s people squander their gifts. He doesn’t just condemn — he weeps. Both Jesus and Jeremiah show us the cost of unfaithfulness and the urgency of living differently.

Faithful in Little, Faithful in Much

“Whoever is faithful in very little is faithful also in much,” Jesus says. Faithfulness isn’t about brilliance or wealth. It’s about being trustworthy, steady, dependable — making small daily choices of honesty, generosity, and integrity even when no one is watching.

In God’s eyes, those small acts are the building blocks of discipleship. They guard our hearts from drifting into the little compromises and idolatries Jeremiah saw breaking his community apart. Faithfulness may not make headlines, but it shapes souls and societies.

Money as a Tool, Not a Master

Luke talks about money more than any other Gospel because money has spiritual weight. It exposes what we worship. Jesus ends the parable with a clear warning: “You cannot serve God and wealth.” The Greek word mammonas means more than money; it means wealth as an idol — something that demands our loyalty.

Wealth whispers: “I’ll keep you secure. I’ll give you status. I’ll make you important.” But those promises are fragile. A market crash, a lost job, a stack of medical bills — and they vanish. Jesus presses us to remember: only God offers a foundation that cannot be shaken.

Money is never neutral. It either bends toward idolatry or toward discipleship. Like Jeremiah’s people, we can treat blessings as disposable, seeking healing in idols that cannot cure. But there’s only one true balm, and it isn’t found in wealth. If our money becomes our idol, it will betray us. If our money becomes a tool for God’s kingdom, it brings life.

Modern Echoes of Faithfulness

This isn’t just theory. Around the world, ordinary people are embodying this kind of faithfulness. I think of Aparecida de Oliveira, an 80-year-old widow in Brazil, who collected spare change in a bag for years to support a church charity. Despite living on a small pension and raising eight children, she sacrificed coins she could have spent on herself. When she finally brought the bag to Mass, a friar described her offering as “filled with miracles.”

It’s a powerful echo of the widow’s mite (Luke 21:1–4). Both women show us that money and status don’t last — but how we use them does. They gave not out of abundance but out of deep faith and trust.

Three Practices for Faithfulness

So what does this look like for us? Here are three practices to try:

• Generosity as Witness. The world says, “Hold on tight. Save for yourself.” Jesus points us toward generosity that testifies to our trust in God. That might look like tithing even when the budget feels tight, or paying for a stranger’s meal, or sponsoring a child’s school supplies. Small acts ripple outward and remind us where our security lies.

• Integrity in Finances. Corner-cutting is normal in our culture. Jesus calls us to honesty even when no one is looking — as employees, students, business owners. Integrity may not always maximize profit, but it builds trust, strengthens community, and honors God.

• Kingdom Imagination. Jesus invites us to be creative — even shrewd — for the sake of the kingdom. What if we used our homes as places of hospitality? Our professional skills to bless those who can’t pay us back? Our time to mentor a child or encourage a struggling friend? Kingdom imagination asks, “How can what I hold in my hands become a glimpse of God’s justice, mercy, and love?”

Bringing It Home

Both Jeremiah and Jesus challenge us to examine our trust. Do we see our paycheck as ours to spend however we want, or as God’s gift to steward? Do we measure our worth by the size of our account or by our generosity, our care, and our witness?

Money is a tool, not a treasure. A test, not a master. Faithfulness with little leads to trust with much. Every act of mercy and every gift given in love becomes part of God’s healing in the world.

Faithfulness answers Jeremiah’s cry with good news: in Christ, there is balm in Gilead and hope for God’s people. Jesus’ puzzling parable and Jeremiah’s tearful lament meet in a single truth: what we do with what God entrusts us matters. Faithfulness leads to healing and life. Faithlessness leads to grief and ruin.

The good news is that Jesus is faithful even when we are not. He is the balm for our wounds, the treasure worth more than all mammonas, the Master who welcomes us into true riches.

Let’s be faithful in little and faithful in much — living not for wealth, but for God, who is our hope and our healer.

🌿 God Made Sabbath for You

We’re living in a world that celebrates hustle. There’s always another email to answer, another load of laundry to fold, another goal to hit before you can exhale. In that kind of world, “rest” can feel like weakness or laziness. But the very first pages of Scripture tell a different story: after creating the heavens and the earth, God rested. And then God wove rest into our lives too.

The Sabbath isn’t a punishment. It’s not another box to check. It’s a gift — a sacred pause meant for your good. When God says, “Remember the Sabbath and keep it holy,” it’s not a test to see how spiritual you are. It’s an invitation to breathe, to recalibrate, to step back into who you actually are: beloved, whole, and free.

When we practice Sabbath, we resist the lie that our worth is tied to our productivity. We say, “I am not my emails, my output, or my accolades.” We remind ourselves that God’s love is not earned; it’s given. And in that remembering, our souls stretch out a little more freely.

Practicing Sabbath in the Real World

Sabbath can be as simple as putting your phone in another room for a few hours. It can be a family meal, a long walk, or a nap you don’t apologize for. It doesn’t have to look like anyone else’s version of rest. The key is creating space where God can meet you in quiet and joy.

Ask yourself: Where do I feel most at peace? What practices help me breathe again? Start there. Even thirty minutes of intentional Sabbath can transform your week.

A Gentle Invitation

This week, try it. Take a slice of time and let yourself be — no striving, no performing. Let the Sabbath be a soft place to land. It’s not about getting it “right.” It’s about remembering you are already God’s delight.

God made Sabbath for you. 🌿

When Saying “No” Becomes Holy

Sometimes the holiest thing you can do is say no.

No to one more meeting.

No to one more commitment.

No to the little voice whispering that your worth depends on your productivity.

From the very beginning, God built rest into the rhythm of creation. On the seventh day, God stopped — not because everything was finished, but because stopping itself was good. That’s the pattern Jesus picks up in the Gospels when he withdraws from crowds to pray, or lets a storm rock the boat while he takes a nap.

Rest is not an afterthought. It’s part of God’s design. And it’s also an act of resistance. Every time you honor your limits — every time you make space for quiet, play, or prayer — you’re choosing God’s rhythm over the world’s. You’re saying no to the lie that busyness equals value.

But Sabbath isn’t just about stopping; it’s also about reclaiming joy. Bake bread. Watch a sunset. Sing a hymn. Color with your kids. Step into something that makes your soul breathe.

Today, maybe your “no” can become someone else’s “yes.” When you rest, you model for your children, your friends, and your community that God’s kingdom isn’t built on exhaustion but on love, mercy, and presence.

What might change if you treated rest not as a guilty pleasure but as a faithful practice? What if you could believe God delights in your pause as much as in your productivity?

Take a deep breath. Let today’s “no” be your prayer of trust. God is already at work. You are already beloved.

Reflection Prompt:

Where is God inviting you to say “no” so you can say “yes” to rest, presence, and joy?

Prayer:

God of rest,

help me trust that I don’t have to earn Your love.

Teach me to pause,

to delight,

and to live from Your abundance instead of my exhaustion.

Amen.

Rest as Resistance: Start with 10 Minutes

Today’s culture tells us that the busier we are, the more valuable we must be. Hustle harder. Produce more. Keep going. No wonder so many of us are exhausted — body, mind, and spirit.

But the story of faith tells us something different: rest is holy. From the very beginning, God wove rest into creation itself. On the seventh day, God stopped — not because God was tired, but to delight, to bless, to show us a rhythm we were made to live into.

That rhythm has always been countercultural. The Israelites first received the Sabbath command after being freed from slavery in Egypt. Rest was not just a gift, it was resistance — a reminder that they were no longer defined by endless labor. They were free to pause, to breathe, to be.

And that’s still true for us today. Rest is more than self-care. It’s a faithful act of rebellion against the lie that our worth is measured by productivity. Rest says: I am already enough because I am God’s beloved.

Of course, most of us can’t stop for a whole day every week. We’ve got jobs, families, commitments, and the pressure of all the things that never seem to get done. But Sabbath doesn’t have to start with 24 hours.

✨ Sometimes Sabbath starts with just 10 minutes.

No phone. No work. Just breathe. Notice your life. Let yourself be.

Ten minutes won’t fix all your problems, but it can reorient your heart. It can whisper to your weary soul: You are more than what you do. You are a child of God, already held in love.

So here’s your invitation today: try it. Carve out ten minutes to pause. Close your eyes. Take a walk. Light a candle. Offer a simple prayer. Let it be your act of holy resistance in a culture that doesn’t know how to stop.

And maybe — just maybe — those ten minutes will grow into a rhythm that reshapes not just your schedule, but your soul.

When the Season Turns: Starting Again with God

The turning of the seasons always stirs something in me. Maybe it’s the rhythm of cooler mornings, maybe it’s the pull of school calendars and church kick-offs, but September feels like a second January — a chance to reset, refocus, and remember what matters most.

This week, I’ve been thinking about how much our lives are shaped by starts and stops. New beginnings don’t always wait for the calendar to flip. Sometimes they arrive uninvited, wrapped in joy or in grief. A new job. A child moving to college. A diagnosis. A friendship that changes. Each one asks us: will you trust that God is already here?

The truth is, I don’t always welcome new beginnings. I like the comfort of the familiar, even if it isn’t working for me anymore. But Jesus rarely called anyone to stay where they were. His invitation was simple and risky: Come, follow me. He met people right in the middle of their ordinary lives and asked them to step into something new.

Maybe that’s the challenge — and the hope — of this season. To believe that God isn’t finished with us yet. That every “start again” moment, whether we choose it or not, can be a doorway into grace.

I’ve been learning that beginnings are less about achievement and more about posture. We don’t have to have the perfect plan, the best resources, or flawless consistency. What God seems to ask of us is willingness — the courage to open our hands and hearts to what He is already doing. That kind of beginning feels lighter, gentler, more sustainable.

So I’m holding onto this: beginnings don’t have to be perfect to be holy. Even if we stumble, even if the plan shifts, God walks with us into every new chapter.

As fall begins, I wonder what it might look like for you to start again with God. Maybe it’s as small as a prayer before school drop-off. Maybe it’s choosing rest instead of rushing. Maybe it’s reaching out to someone you’ve been meaning to call. Maybe it’s carving out ten minutes to breathe, read, or simply remember you are loved.

Whatever it is, take courage. The season is turning. God is still at work. And we get to begin again.

What new beginning are you stepping into this season? Where do you sense God asking you to trust Him in the “start again”?

The Small Faithfulness That Matters

This morning, I was struck by how much of life is made up of small choices. What to eat for breakfast. Whether to scroll on my phone or pause for prayer. If I’ll speak with kindness or snap with impatience.

Jesus once said, “Whoever is faithful in a very little is faithful also in much” (Luke 16:10). Those words remind me that the way I handle the small things in my day shapes my heart for the bigger things that come.

It’s easy to imagine that faith is mostly about the big decisions—career changes, moving to new places, choosing a partner, saying yes to a calling. But often, it’s the little decisions that form us. Choosing to listen. Choosing to forgive. Choosing to rest. Choosing to notice the beauty of creation on an ordinary Tuesday morning.

Faithfulness in the small things often goes unnoticed by the world, but not by God. It’s in these hidden acts—holding the door for a stranger, offering a word of encouragement, pausing long enough to breathe a prayer—that our character is quietly being shaped. When we’re faithful in the small things, we create a rhythm of trust with God. It’s like planting seeds day by day. Over time, those seeds grow into something steady and strong—a life rooted in love and ready for whatever comes next.

Reflection Question:

What’s one “small thing” you can be faithful in today? Maybe it’s offering a prayer before bed, reaching out to someone you love, or choosing silence over hurry.

Prayer:

God of the little and the big, help me not to overlook the small choices that shape my life. Teach me to be faithful in each moment, trusting that You are growing something beautiful in me. Amen.

When the Silence Speaks

I couldn’t sleep last night, so I got up early and went to the gym. The air outside was heavy and still, the kind of quiet that makes you notice your own footsteps. Inside, the hum of treadmills and clink of weights felt like background noise compared to the silence I carried in my chest.

Silence can feel like both a gift and a challenge. Sometimes it presses in, making us restless and uncomfortable. Other times, it feels like a deep breath we didn’t know we needed—a place to settle into God’s presence.

In 1 Kings 19:12, Elijah doesn’t hear God in the wind, or the earthquake, or the fire—but in the “sound of sheer silence.” That story always stops me in my tracks. How many times do I miss God because I’m scanning for the loudest sign, when what I really need is to listen in the quiet?

What if silence isn’t empty at all? What if silence is where God whispers the truest things about who we are?

Today, I invite you to lean into the quiet.

• Pause between reps, or in the car before heading home.

• Sit still for ten seconds with no phone in your hand.

• Listen, not with your ears, but with your heart.

You might discover that silence holds more than you expected—peace, grounding, and the reminder that you are deeply loved.

Prayer:

God of stillness, meet me in the quiet. Teach me not to run from silence, but to welcome it as the space where Your love surrounds me. Amen.

A Prayer for Today

Some days words feel heavy. Some days they don’t come at all. Today, I don’t have much to say—just a prayer to share.

Prayer

God of mercy and light,
be near to us in our scattered thoughts
and restless hearts.

For the weary, bring rest.
For the searching, bring direction.
For the grieving, bring comfort.
For the joyful, bring gratitude.

Remind us that we are never alone,
never unseen,
never unloved.

Even in silence,
you hear us.
Even in stillness,
you hold us.

Amen.

✨ If you’re reading this today, may this prayer be yours. May it find you right where you are.

Rest as Resistance

We live in a world that glorifies hustle. Productivity has become a measure of worth, and exhaustion often feels like a badge of honor. But the Gospel whispers something different: you are loved, not for what you produce, but for who you are — a beloved child of God.

Sabbath rest has always been countercultural. In the Old Testament, God’s people were told to pause their work, even when the world around them kept pushing forward. That rhythm of stopping was more than a day off. It was a declaration: our lives are not defined by endless labor, but by the God who provides.

When Jesus says, “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest” (Matthew 11:28), He isn’t offering a quick nap before we return to the grind. He is inviting us into a whole new way of living — one where peace is not earned, but gifted.

Choosing to rest — to put down the to-do list, to silence the phone, to simply be — is a quiet act of resistance against a culture that tells us we’re only as valuable as our output. Rest is not laziness; it’s an act of trust. Trust that God is still at work, even when we stop.

This week, I wonder what it might look like for you to resist the pressure of busyness. Maybe it’s leaving one chore undone. Maybe it’s sitting outside without an agenda. Maybe it’s practicing Sabbath in small, imperfect steps.

Whatever it looks like, may your rest be holy. May it remind you that your worth is secure in Christ, not in how much you accomplish.

Rest is resistance. Rest is worship. Rest is freedom.

Finding Rest in the Chaos

This morning started before the sun. No sleep, and two giggling girls who seemed to have endless energy.

I sat there, watching them play together—little bursts of love spilling over into hugs, laughter, and those “Mama, watch this!” moments. My body was tired, but my heart was softening.

Matthew 11:28 came to mind:

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.”

Rest doesn’t always look like a quiet cabin in the woods or eight uninterrupted hours of sleep. Sometimes, it’s found in the holy seconds between their squeals and my own deep breaths. It’s the release of saying out loud, “God, here’s how I’m feeling. Here’s what’s weighing on me.” It’s trusting that He hears every word—spoken or unspoken—and carries the weight with us.

Today, I’m choosing to name my burdens, let them roll off my shoulders, and rest in the One who holds me steady, even when life is loud.

What’s one thing you need to hand over to Him today?

What a Weekend: From Date Nights to the ER and Everything in Between

This weekend was one for the books—and not just the ones I read aloud to my kids on Sunday night.

It started off beautifully. Two incredible date nights in a row, which almost never happens. We ate good food, enjoyed adult conversation, and soaked in those rare moments where we get to just be “us” instead of parents, chauffeurs, and household managers. By Friday night, I was feeling rested, happy, and ready for the week ahead.

And then—life happened.

In the middle of the night, I woke up to my little one struggling to breathe. That deep, panicked, mom-instinct kind of wake-up where your body is moving before your brain even catches up. We rushed to the ER, where she was given breathing treatments and steroids. She was a champ through it all, but then… she threw up. All over both of us.

I had thought ahead enough to pack a change of clothes for her—gold star for me—but not for myself. Which meant I spent the rest of the ER visit smelling very much like the situation. The nurse staff, unfortunately, never came to change the sheet we were sitting on, so I took the sheet off the bed, wiped it down, and we sat on the bare plastic mattress.

Eventually, we got to go home, where I continued breathing treatments throughout the day to keep her stable. In the middle of all of this, I was trying to prepare my children’s sermon and Bible study for Sunday. I was also supposed to take my five-year-old to a birthday party and later a playdate—but with two sick kids, those plans went right out the window.  On Saturday, during naptime, my husband took our youngest for a run so I could sneak in a quick power nap—a small but much-needed gift after the long night. The whole day felt chaotic, one of those “everything was planned and then nothing happened” kinds of days.

By Sunday evening, the girls would normally be at gymnastics, but after the sleepless night at the ER, I was done. Instead, we stayed home. We painted, played with slime, and cuddled. The girls brought me book after book after book, and we read them all. I broke out my fun voices, my five-year-old read along to her sister, and my one-year-old repeated every word and animal sound she heard. In that moment, the weekend chaos faded, and it was just us—laughing, reading, and being together.

Monday morning came, and I was back in “real life” mode—only now with hot chocolate spilled all over my car on the way to work. It felt like the perfect, slightly absurd ending to a weekend that had already zigzagged between romance, exhaustion, worry, and joy.

Life doesn’t usually unfold the way I plan it. But this weekend reminded me that some of the sweetest moments happen after plans unravel—the cuddles, the giggles, the shared stories, even the hot chocolate disasters.

And so, here I am, tired but grateful, getting ready to preach this Sunday. Because in the middle of the mess, there’s still beauty—and that’s worth talking about.

Life doesn’t usually unfold the way I plan it. But this weekend reminded me that some of the sweetest moments happen after plans unravel—the cuddles, the giggles, the shared stories, even the hot chocolate disasters.

This is what I love about Variable Faith—it’s about finding God’s presence in the shifting, unpredictable, sometimes messy rhythms of life. Faith isn’t lived only in the perfectly planned days, but in the midnight ER runs, the tired Sunday evenings, and the laughter over slime and storybooks. It’s about trusting that God is steady even when nothing else feels steady.

Little Joys, Big Grace

This morning started slow in the best way. EP woke up early, but instead of rushing out of bed, I let myself linger. We curled up and watched Monster High, half-awake and fully content. Sometimes grace looks like rest—like giving yourself permission to stay cozy a little longer.

After our slow start, the day picked up its pace. EP decided she wanted to wear her flowy pink pants. But then, with a spark in her eye, she realized we both had flowy blue pants. She changed and asked me to match her. And how could I say no? We headed out in matching outfits—blue pants, smiles, and all—and it filled my heart when her classmates and teachers lit up seeing us arrive together like a team. It was a small thing, but it felt meaningful. We belonged to each other in that moment, and we showed it.

Sage had her own little milestone—stepping into a new classroom, standing there wide-eyed but calm, taking it all in. I saw her familiar old friends and the spark of new connections beginning to form. Her quiet bravery inspires me.

Work greeted me with a smoothie and some unexpected gifts: a joyful phone call from my mom and a video of my dad crushing a workout at the gym. He’s been prioritizing his health lately—not for vanity, but for longevity. He wants to be around for his grandchildren, and seeing that intention in action is such a blessing.

Maybe the biggest surprise of the day: I woke up with energy I haven’t felt in a long time. I didn’t realize how much I needed a win like that—a physical reminder that I’m not running on empty anymore.

And tonight, I’m looking forward to a much-needed date night with my husband. We’ve been like passing ships lately—his work event, my church meetings—but tonight we drop anchor. We reconnect.

Today didn’t require perfection. It offered presence. And that’s more than enough.

Early Mornings, Sweet Moments, and a Long Day Ahead

This morning, I did something I don’t always manage: I got up before the kids.

I stumbled into the bathroom, still shaking off sleep, when I noticed a soft glow under the hallway door—Emma Pearl’s bedroom light had turned on. I peeked in and found her already awake. I stepped inside, said good morning, and we started the day together in that quiet, gentle way that feels like a gift. Just the two of us, before the noise and rush.

Last night she helped me sort laundry, and for a moment that chore became something sweet. She stood next to me, carefully dividing the piles like she’d been waiting for this task all her life. The way she checked to make sure she was doing it right—the little glances up for approval—felt tender and holy in its own way. I forget sometimes how much these little hands want to help, want to be part of the rhythm of home.

Now I’m sipping my protein smoothie, trying to wake up the rest of the way, and bracing for the long day ahead. Work doesn’t wrap at 5 today—it rolls into conference calls tonight. There are emails to send, people to follow up with, ideas to wrangle and hold. The hours ahead feel full—and a little overwhelming.

But I’m starting from a place of connection and calm, which feels like a small miracle. I’m learning to take these moments where I can find them. A little quiet before the day. A little help from small hands. A smoothie that fuels more than my body—it reminds me I’m choosing care over chaos, grounding over spiraling.

“In returning and rest you shall be saved; in quietness and trust shall be your strength.” – Isaiah 30:15

I’m holding onto that today. Not because the schedule is light, but because the strength I need doesn’t come from doing—it comes from resting in God’s presence. Even five quiet minutes with a child beside you. Even a still breath before the rush. That’s where grace begins.

Today might be long, but it’s already been good. And sometimes, that’s more than enough.

Today’s Faith Is Still Faith

Some days, faith looks like scripture and stillness.

Other days, it looks like reheated coffee and showing up anyway.

Today is the kind of day where I don’t have a lightning bolt revelation or a perfectly packaged prayer. But I do have breath. I have a messy desk, a heart that’s trying, and a God who doesn’t mind either.

Maybe you know that kind of day too.

Maybe you’re reading this while scrolling through distractions, wondering if you’re falling behind spiritually because your prayers feel like leftovers or your mind keeps wandering mid-“Our Father.”

If that’s you, let me say something clearly: your presence matters more than your polish.

I believe in a God who doesn’t wait for the perfect version of you to show up. I believe in a God who welcomes wandering minds, tired spirits, and honest prayers that start with “I don’t even know what to say right now.”

So today’s faith? It’s faith.

Even if it’s tired.

Even if it’s questioning.

Even if it’s just showing up with a whisper instead of a shout.

You’re still here.

God still hears.

Grace still holds.

So take one breath.

Say one honest thing.

And let that be enough.

Want more like this?

Follow along @VariableFaith or subscribe to receive weekly reflections in your inbox. You don’t have to figure it all out to belong here.

When Almost Is Enough

How My “Almost Prayers” Are Going

When I started writing the Almost Prayers series, I didn’t really expect them to hit this deeply. I thought I’d be offering a few raw edges of honesty — for the people like me, who sometimes can’t find the right words, or don’t feel quite “holy” enough to string them together properly.

But what I didn’t expect was how much I needed them.

I didn’t realize how often I’d be writing them for myself.

I thought I was creating content — something helpful, a little funny, something that might land well on Instagram. Instead, I found myself sitting with my cherry coke in one hand and my own tired soul in the other, whispering, “God, I don’t even know where to begin.”

Some of the prayers start as jokes. Or sighs. Or texts I never send.

Some start in the middle of real conversations — with friends, with God, with myself.

Some feel too soft. Some feel too angry. Some feel too honest.

But maybe that’s the point.

These aren’t polished prayers. They don’t always start with “Dear God,” and they rarely end with “Amen.” But they’re real. They’re reaching. They’re mine.

And apparently… they’re yours, too.

When I started sharing them, messages came in:

“Me too.”

“Thank you for saying what I couldn’t.”

“I needed this today.”

“Is this one about me? Because same.”

It turns out that almost-prayers are still prayers.

The ones interrupted by dishes, or grief, or a toddler meltdown.

The ones muttered in traffic.

The ones we think but never say out loud.

God hears those, too.

I still don’t feel especially spiritual most days. But I do feel more honest. And maybe that’s the holiest part — not the eloquence, but the showing up.

So if your prayers feel more like fragments than poetry —

if your quiet time is mostly just quiet

and your Bible has more crumbs than notes in the margins —

you’re in good company.

This is a season of almosts. And grace meets us right there.

Thank you for reading, praying, liking, sharing, whispering.

Thank you for being the kind of people who believe that half-formed words are still sacred ground.

Let’s keep going. One almost-prayer at a time.

—

When Everything’s Ready but You Still Worry

Verse: “My sheep listen to my voice; I know them, and they follow me.” — John 10:27

The sermon was written.

Scriptures studied.

Commentaries read.

Every paragraph poured over and prayed through.

And still—I was nervous.

Not the kind of nervous that comes from lack of preparation, but the quiet tension that settles in your chest when you carry something meaningful and hope it will land softly in the hearts that need it.

I knew this sermon held weight.

It was about listening to the Shepherd’s voice. About being known by God. About Tabitha, a quiet disciple whose love and labor were so deeply embedded in her community that her resurrection felt like the mending of something broken.

And yet, even with every note in place, there was that question in the back of my mind:

What if it doesn’t connect?

What if the words feel too big?

Or not enough?

It’s a strange vulnerability—to prepare a sacred offering and still feel unsure.

But here’s what I learned (again): God works in the spaces we worry about.

The service came and went, and not in the dramatic, everything-went-wrong way my nerves had braced for. It flowed. The Spirit moved. Children’s voices filled the sanctuary. People nodded, not just with politeness but with recognition.

It was fine.

More than fine—it was full.

And in the quiet afterward, I asked myself why the lead-up had to feel so heavy. Why does doing something you care about—especially in faith—sometimes feel more like anxiety than joy?

The answer, I think, is in the nature of love.

We worry because we care.

We stress because we long to be faithful stewards of something sacred.

And maybe that’s not something to push away but something to hold gently.

But the other part of the answer is trust.

Preparation is good.

But at some point, you have to step aside and let God do what God does.

I think about Tabitha—how her faithful, often invisible work became a testimony of resurrection. I think about Jesus in Solomon’s Portico, declaring with boldness, “I and the Father are one.” That kind of clarity doesn’t come from performance. It comes from presence.

So the next time I feel that tension—that tightening in my chest before I speak, write, or serve—I want to remember this:

I am not the Shepherd.

I’m a sheep who hears His voice and follows.

And that is enough.

Why Is Getting Ready So Hard?

Verse: “Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you.” — 1 Peter 5:7

The service was ready.

The bulletin printed. Slides double-checked. Volunteers confirmed. Sermon notes in hand.

Everything was in place.

And yet—I was still holding my breath.

I’d told myself it would be fine (because it usually is). I’d prayed. I’d prepared. I’d gone over every detail. But even as the music started and people took their seats, I kept waiting for something to fall apart.

Nothing did.

In fact, it went beautifully.

The children read with confidence.

The mic worked.

People laughed in the right places.

The Spirit showed up in the unexpected ones.

Afterward, there was relief—but also a question that lingered quietly in my heart:

Why does the before feel so hard, even when the after is peaceful?

Maybe it’s because when we care deeply—about worship, about people, about how God moves in our midst—we carry the weight of wanting it to go well. Not for perfection’s sake, but because we long for it to matter.

And maybe that’s what stress sometimes is: the tension between our desire to do something meaningful and our fear that we’ll fall short.

It’s vulnerable to lead anything that holds spiritual weight.

It’s vulnerable to believe that what we offer—our voices, our time, our gifts—might actually be used by God to speak to someone else.

But the truth I keep learning (and re-learning) is this:

God never asked for flawless.

God asked for faithful.

The pressure I feel often comes from me, not from God.

And while preparation is holy, so is the moment I choose to let go of control and trust that God can carry what I’ve offered—even if I feel a little shaky as I hand it over.

This week, I’m trying to rest in that truth.

That yes, preparation matters.

But so does presence.

So does trust.

So does letting myself breathe.

Because maybe the real work of worship isn’t in making sure nothing goes wrong—

It’s in believing that God is in it, even if something does.

And most of the time?

It’s more than fine.

It’s grace.

When Busy Becomes Too Much

This week got away from me.

Between conferences, back-to-back doctor’s appointments, and an overwhelming to-do list, I barely saw my kids. I didn’t respond to texts. I didn’t make time for friends. I didn’t pause long enough to even notice how stressed I was—until my body reminded me.

It’s funny how we normalize this kind of week. We say, “It’s just busy right now” like it’s a passing weather system. But when we stay in that pace too long, it stops being a season and starts becoming a habit.

And the hard truth? I missed a lot. I missed real moments with people I love. I missed quiet. I missed prayer. I missed the chance to just sit in God’s presence without rushing past it.

I don’t write this from the other side with a five-step solution. I write it from the middle—with tired eyes and a still-full calendar. But here’s what I’m trying to hold onto:

That God isn’t measuring my worth by my productivity.

That I don’t have to earn peace—it’s already offered.

That even in the chaos, I can choose a moment of stillness.

Maybe this week, that’s enough.

Maybe tomorrow, I’ll try again—with softer expectations and a slower pace.

And maybe that’s what grace really looks like.

The Weight of Being Heard

There’s something sacred about being heard.

Not nodded at. Not politely listened to. But really, truly heard.

This week, someone sat with my story—no fixing, no dismissing, no trying to make it prettier than it was. They just let me be honest. And something in me let go.

I didn’t even realize how much I’d been carrying until that moment. The frustration of repeating myself. The ache of feeling unseen. The pressure to downplay pain just to keep things moving.

But being heard felt like oxygen.

It didn’t fix everything. But it made the burden lighter. It reminded me that I matter—not because I’m strong, or useful, or holding it all together—but because I am a person with a voice and a heart that needs tending, too.

I think God listens like that. Not rushing us. Not correcting us mid-sentence. Just holding space until the edges soften and the tears come, and healing begins.

If you’ve ever felt invisible or overlooked, I see you.

If you’re still waiting for someone to really listen, don’t give up.

Your voice is worthy. Your story matters.

And when someone finally listens—it doesn’t just feel good.

It feels holy.

Writing Prayers Reminded Me I Need to Pray

Lately, I’ve been writing a lot of prayers and reflections—offering words of hope, peace, and grounding for others. I love this part of my work. There’s something sacred about holding space for someone else’s questions, needs, or longings. But today, while writing one more prayer to share, I felt a quiet tug.

When was the last time I truly prayed for myself?

I don’t mean the quick breath-prayers I whisper in the car or the sleepy, end-of-day sighs that count as “amen.” I mean the kind of prayer that takes time. That listens. That lingers. That opens me up, even a little.

The truth is—I’ve needed it. I’ve wanted it.

And I haven’t been as faithful to my own prayer life as I’d like to be.

Somehow, I started pouring so much out that I forgot to refill.

I started creating prayers more than praying them.

And that realization wasn’t shameful. It was… kind.

Like God saying, “Hey, I miss you. Let’s talk.”

So today, I took a few minutes to do just that. To pray—not for content, not for others (though there’s always space for that), but just to be with God. With no agenda. With no perfect words.

And it felt like home.

If you’ve been offering everything to everyone else, but haven’t made space for your own soul to rest—you’re not alone. Start small. Start quiet. But start.

Because sometimes, writing a prayer for others is just God’s way of nudging us back to prayer for ourselves.

When the Plan Falters

Today didn’t go the way I hoped.

I had a plan—a good one. Organized, thoughtful, detailed. But somewhere along the way, it hit a wall. A setback at work left me standing there, staring at what felt like a crumbling structure of all my effort, feeling that sinking weight in my chest. You know that feeling? When your stomach knots and your mind runs ahead, fast-forwarding to worst-case scenarios.

I’m nervous. Really nervous.

I’m supposed to find the right people, the right volunteers, to help bring this plan to life. But today, I’m not sure I can. What if no one steps up? What if I can’t hold this together? What if I fail—and not just quietly fail—but let down people I care about, people counting on me?

And then, in the middle of all that noise in my head, I remembered something a friend once told me.

“God will provide.”

Not in a cliché, pat-on-the-back kind of way, but in a desperate, has-to-be-true kind of way. God has to provide—because I can’t do this on my own. I’m tapped out, worn thin, and holding on tight to something that I’m not even sure how to carry anymore.

And maybe, that’s the point.

Maybe I’m not supposed to carry this alone.

Maybe the fear of failure is exactly where grace meets me.

So here I am—still nervous, still unsure—but choosing to believe that God knows what I need, even if I don’t. Choosing to breathe, to pray, to hope that what feels like a failure in the making is really just a place where God is about to show up.

Because if I’m going to get through this, it won’t be because I’m strong. It’ll be because He is.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough for today.