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.

Five Minutes of Peace: Practicing Presence in a Restless World

Today, I tried to be more present.

Not in a big, dramatic way—there was no retreat, no journaling marathon, no perfect playlist humming in the background. Just five minutes. Five quiet minutes to sit still. No phone. No noise. No pressure to produce or plan. Just me, my breath, and the subtle sounds of the world moving around me.

It’s wild how hard that was.

My mind tugged at me like a restless child—pulling me back into to-do lists, unread texts, undone laundry, and conversations I needed to finish. But I stayed. I kept breathing. And slowly, the stillness didn’t feel so awkward. It started to feel… sacred.

In those quiet minutes, I remembered something I forget too easily:

God doesn’t need me to be busy to be loved.

I don’t have to earn rest.

I don’t have to perform peace—I just have to practice it.

And that’s what I’ve been thinking about ever since.

Peace isn’t a place we arrive at after we’ve accomplished enough.

It’s a posture.

It’s a habit.

It’s something we practice, five minutes at a time.

And maybe that’s what faith looks like for me right now—not certainty or productivity, but trust. Trust that five minutes of quiet matters. That the Spirit shows up in the stillness. That I don’t need to do more to be enough.

Today, I didn’t figure everything out. But I remembered how to be still. And that feels like enough.

Breathing Room, Part 2: Making Space for Each Other

Sometimes, the hardest part of practicing peace is not the practice itself—but giving ourselves permission to pause.

After writing about taking five minutes to simply breathe and be still, I realized how easy it is to let days slip by without doing it again. And that’s exactly what happened. I hadn’t made space for that kind of quiet since Wednesday.

But this morning—Saturday—something shifted. I was organizing our one-year-old’s room when the house grew unusually still. One of the kids was still sleeping. The others were downstairs with my husband. I stood there, hands full of toys, and noticed something I hadn’t felt in days: silence.

Without even planning it, I sat down right there in the nursery and breathed. No phone. No plans. Just presence.

It didn’t last long. But it didn’t have to. It was enough.

Then I realized—my husband hadn’t had five minutes either. So I asked him if I could take over with the girls so he could have his moment of peace. Five minutes to breathe. To reset. To just be.

Because this practice isn’t just about making space for ourselves—it’s about making space for each other.

We are all holding more than we say. And while we can’t always change each other’s circumstances, we can offer one another a few sacred minutes of margin. A breath. A pause. A small, holy gift of grace.

That’s the heart of this season for me. Learning not just how to sit still, but how to share the stillness.

Because peace is more than a personal practice—it’s something we extend to one another. And maybe offering five minutes to someone else is one of the most faithful things we can do.

Post-Easter Reflections: From Holy Chaos to Holy Rest

Easter always seems to arrive in a whirlwind—and this year was no different. Between the joyful celebration at church, the buzz of family coming together, and the chaos of trying to coordinate it all, I find myself exhaling a little deeper today.

This Easter was extra special for our family. Not just because of the hope we celebrated in the resurrection, but because of the moments that made this season feel full—sometimes a little too full.

Work didn’t slow down, and like many of you, I tried to juggle the to-do lists with the heart work of preparing for Easter. There’s always that mix of sacred reflection and practical prep—getting food together, cleaning, planning, and trying to make it all feel just right.

One of the sweetest surprises this weekend was an unexpected visit from our college-aged daughter. She came home just in time to join in the family festivities, and seeing all of us together felt like a little Easter miracle of its own.

The little ones had their fair share of Easter egg hunts (yes, plural)—we hopped from one to the next, baskets overflowing and smiles growing wider. And let’s not forget the matching dresses for the two youngest girls—because you know we had to get that perfect family photo. Or at least, as close to perfect as we could between giggles and wiggles.

By Monday, I was more than ready for rest. Honestly, I needed it. I wasn’t feeling my best after all the activity, and taking a quiet day to just breathe was exactly what my body and soul needed. The laundry was finally done—well, at least until tomorrow—and I found myself relaxing in bed, catching up on some anime, letting the noise of the weekend fade into something softer, slower.

Easter reminds me that life is both full and fragile. That joy can coexist with exhaustion. That resurrection doesn’t erase the hard—it transforms it, gives it meaning.

So here’s to the holy chaos of family, the sweet surprises, the joy of matching dresses, the laundry that never quite ends, and the grace of Monday rest with a little anime to unwind. Christ is risen, indeed—and we’re all still rising, too.

Sacred Encounters: When Hospitality Becomes Holy

Today, I was reminded of the power of simple moments—how God weaves people into our lives at just the right time. A routine task at church turned into an opportunity to listen, to pray, and to hold space for someone carrying a heavy burden. It made me think about how often we go about our days unaware of the struggles others face, yet God calls us to be present, to listen, and to reflect His love in even the smallest interactions.

I am grateful for the ways God continues to show up, sometimes in unexpected conversations, sometimes in the quiet moments of reflection. I pray that I keep my heart open to these divine appointments, that I never underestimate the impact of a simple prayer or a compassionate ear.

Lord, help me to be present, to listen well, and to reflect Your love to those who need it most. Amen.

“Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by doing that some have entertained angels without knowing it.” – Hebrews 13:2

Reflection:

Sometimes, the most ordinary encounters hold divine significance. We may think we are simply going about our day, solving problems, or completing tasks, but God is always at work, weaving our lives together in ways we may not fully see. The person standing before us may be carrying a silent burden, and in that moment, we have the opportunity to be Christ’s hands and feet—to offer a listening ear, a prayer, or even just a kind word.

God places people in our path for a reason, just as He placed Scott in yours today. What may have seemed like a simple interaction became a holy moment—an opportunity to witness, to care, and to intercede. This verse from Hebrews reminds us that when we extend hospitality, even in small ways, we may be encountering someone sent by God.

May we open our eyes to these moments, recognizing them as sacred invitations to love, serve, and reflect Christ’s presence in the world.