Recently, I had to dive into old childhood photo albums in search of a photo needed for a project. Nostalgia immediately washed over me as old memories wafted in—some good, some hard. The scent of my parents’ house on the yellowing pages made their long absence feel strangely present. In that moment, I was reminded of just how fleeting life really is. I smiled and ached for the innocence of the little girl reflected in the images. I also marveled at how vexing life’s problems can be for an adult still trying to figure it all out. In that way, some things don’t change.

We’re all searching for meaning, especially amid the hard realities of life.

In a season that has me facing limitations, I realize the freedom found in embracing them. Life, the psalmist says, is fleeting (v. 4)—measured in handbreadths, “my lifetime is as nothing before you. Surely all mankind stands as a mere breath!” (v. 5)

In all my doing, all my trying, I realize nothing is as important as stopping long and hard enough to turn to the Lord. Without that pause, everything else feels like spinning my wheels endlessly—for nothing. Fear begs me to control the things in life I was never meant to control.

Uncertainty is unsettling.

Yet, the only thing certain in life, on this side of heaven, is that it is uncertain. We cannot plant hope, meaning, significance, or identity in all that is unreliable in this life. Success, possessions, and position do not measure meaning or worth. Nothing is more humbling than the refining seasons that reveal our frailty and need for a strength that is not found from within. The fragility of life can be a hopeless walk unless we stop looking inward and turn our eyes upward.

That’s exactly what this psalmist does as he takes his troubles to the Lord in prayer.

“And now, O Lord, for what do I wait? My hope is in you.” (Psalm 39:7).

We find sustenance in life only by planting hope firmly in God. Adversity, trials, and disappointments remind us of a Father who deeply loves us. So much so that He provided a way for our fleeting lives to receive eternal hope and salvation through His son, Jesus Christ, if we turn and admit our need. We are deeply limited, but God is unlimited.

Unlimited in His provision for us.

Unlimited in His steadfast love toward us.

Unlimited in His deep desire to save us.

It’s good to be reminded of our measured days if it pushes us closer to God, who holds our days now and forevermore.

The little girl in me needed this reminder.

Photo courtesy of Pexels.com

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Christmas is less than a week away and many of us are in the thick of Advent celebrations as we eagerly wait. The season of Christmas is nostalgic for many. So much of Christmas is often celebrated surrounded by those we love, with family who are dear to us. Memories are made that can be looked back upon fondly as we gather. Yet for me, this was not always the case. Family can be complicated. Those forged memories are not always relished, but rather framework for hard work, processing, and healing. As I stare at the twinkling lights of our own tree and smile at the eager anticipation of my children as they impatiently wait for Christmas to arrive, I’m reminded there is more to advent hope than eager anticipation. There is also present a keen awareness that not all is right in the here and now. We anticipate because there is longing for something better, something that will right the wrong we know is prevalent in the world around us. Essentially, that longing is for Christ.

When I was twelve, I was just beginning to understand this longing, this deep need for more—for Christ.

Shortly after my sixth-grade year began, as I sat working on math homework in my parent’s living room, there was a knock on our door that forever changed the trajectory of my life. My parents were not believers. Life had dealt them so many blows that it’s hard to say they were really living life at all. Much of my early growing up years were spent in physical and emotional neglect. This had become a glaring red flag to personnel in the grade school I attended. All the turmoil that was brewing inside my home culminated in social services’ need to intervene. As I responded to the knock on our front door, I was greeted by two police officers with a warrant to remove me from my home. I did what came natural and went into a state of panicked flight. For some reason I thought it was reasonable to think a twelve-year old could outrun two fully-grown officers. My escape plan was short-lived. As the police officers escorted me back into the house, I was given five minutes to pack up what I could. In that moment, all I could think to grab was my pink back-pack and math book from the living room floor. As I was escorted out the front door and seated in the back of the patrol car, I didn’t realize that it was the last time I would ever share a roof with my biological parents. In an instant, everything I had ever known, though it had not been easy, was ripped from me. As a little girl I had lost all sense of direction and bearing; I had lost my sense of belonging.

But God.

We were driven across town and escorted into one of the most beautiful homes I had ever stepped foot into—or so it seemed given what I had just been taken from. Introductions were made, directions given, but not much resonated. Trauma had muffled all sense of hearing and understanding. The one thing that did stick out to me was my foster parent’s one rule that I was to attend church with them on Sundays. That first night in a home that was not my own, in a room that was foreign and empty of familiarity, I prayed my first prayer, “Lord, let me go home.” This was the one prayer I knew to pray from a heart choked with grief. It was the prayer I would pray over and over again until God invaded my life. Slowly, as the days dragged into weeks and weeks into months, I learned to become guarded and staunchly independent. At church I heard about a God who loved us and Christ who died for us. There was so much need in my life, but a deeper need was stirring. It was not until I attended an overnight youth event and heard the full Gospel presented through another’s testimony that I knew I couldn’t live my life alone any longer. That evening God invaded my heart and began to change my life—from the inside out. Life circumstances did not change, but everything about my life did. For the first time in a long time, I had hope—hope that could not be snatched from me. Coming to belief in Christ did not deliver me from the foster system. My prayer to “go home” was not answered in the way I thought it would be. I was not adopted physically. Through my growing-up years I circulated through a series of three homes (a small number compared to some in the system) and at eighteen I “aged-out” of the foster system altogether. Many who age-out sadly become statistics of poverty and abuse, but God prevented me from becoming a statistic. All because God invaded my life, I was given the opportunity to serve internationally, go to college, hold-down jobs, get married, adopt my own son, and have my own family. God has been so faithful. All the time God is good, and God is good all the time—even through the hard times.

“But when the fullness of the time had come, God sent forth his Son, born of woman, born under the law, to redeem those who were under the law, so that we might receive adoption as sons. And because you are sons, God has sent the Spirit of his Son into our hearts, crying, “Abba! Father!” So you are no longer a slave, but a son, and if a son, then an heir through God.” ~ Galatians 4:4-7

Today I look back and remember a twelve-year-old little girl celebrating her first Christmas newly orphaned. I also remember fondly the immense hope I had as one newly adopted into God’s family. As a believer, I am grafted into God’s family—into Gospel Hope. I have been given all the rights of a daughter of the King. Christ came and invaded humanity in the flesh. Christ came, lived, died and rose and for this reason alone I have hope—eternal hope. In the now this gift is embraced and joyously celebrated. Yet we live in the not-yet. We live in a world broken with imperfect families, sin, and pain. Advent Hope is not just a month we celebrate as believers—it’s a life we live eagerly anticipating the promise that Christ will come again—this time as a warring King who will right all that is so horribly wrong with this world. Advent is full of hope—brim-full of waiting. Hard waiting. Yet we who wait do so with HOPE.

Children need reminded of this hope. They need pointed to unshakeable hope only Christ can provide. Christmas is more than gifts, food, and fellowship. Christmas is a reminder that while we celebrate hope, we wait for Christ, who will usher in all that is better, all that is good, all that is eternal. As parents we can model eager hope—a kind of “well” waiting that points to Jesus. How? Here are a few suggestions:

• Celebrate Advent at Christmas reading God’s Word together, lighting the candles, and discussing the hope we have in Christ.

• Serve! Not long ago my two sons had the opportunity to help deliver donations to a local children’s home. My adopted son knows some of my own testimony and commented on how sad it was that these kids had little to call their own. His mind couldn’t imagine how hard that had been for me to grow-up in a similar way. I told him it was hard, yes, but Jesus found me and saved me in the hard things, giving me everything I needed. My son, always keeping me on my toes, thought silently for a few moments, then commented, “Mom, He did, and He gave you a family in us. I want to do that someday.” Parents, point your kiddos to Jesus in every-day moments and conversations.

• Don’t stop anticipating and waiting once Christmas is over. Keep reading God’s Word together, keep discussing, keep praying, keep praising and looking to Jesus together.

• Don’t be afraid to share the hard parts of your life as parents with your children. Let them see how God invades and refines you through difficult seasons and brings you out on the other side.

Advent hope is cause for celebration. Christ came, died, rose again, and is now interceding for us. Christ is coming again! This we wait for with longing hope, deep need, and eager anticipation.

As one of my favorite prayers in the Valley of Vision states:

“Lord, High and Holy, Meek and Lowly,

Thou has brought me to the valley of vision,

Where I live in the depths but see thee in the heights;

Hemmed in by mountains of sin I behold thy glory.

Let me learn by paradox

That the way down is the way up,

That to be low is to be high,

That the broken heart is the healed heart,

That the contrite spirit is the rejoicing spirit,

That the repenting soul is the victorious soul,

That to have nothing is to possess all,

That to bear the cross is to wear the crown,

That to give is to receive,

That the Valley is the place of vision.

Lord, in the daytime stars can be seen from deepest wells,

And the deeper the wells the brighter thy stars shine;

Let me find thy light in my darkness,

Thy joy in my sorrow,

They grace in my sin,

Thy riches in my poverty

Thy glory in my valley.”

Bennett, Arthur. The Valley of Vision : A Collection of Puritan Prayers & Devotions. Edinburgh, Banner Of Truth Trust, 2002.

Hello Everyone!

I’m writing to let you know about a big change! As of December 6^th, 2025, I have moved all my writing from WordPress over to Substack. If you followed the old domain (www.thislovelymess.com) and landed here, that’s good! That domain will not change. But you are probably used to seeing the old WordPress landing page; and it looks quite different here on Substack. Not to worry, you are in the right place!

Aesthetically, thislovelymess looks different, but the content has not changed. I’ve spent a great deal of time thinking over this move, and Substack offers wonderful tools to help bring even more valuable content your way. So much of writing is a journey, and as one who writes, I longed for fewer distractions, more simplicity, and community. Substack offers that. As Substack helps me streamline writing and publishing, I can focus on creating content that, Lord willing, is an encouragement to you.

If you started with me and subscribed at WordPress, thank you! I invite you to stick with me and re-subscribe here on Substack to ensure you continue getting freshly pressed content delivered straight to your inbox.

If you are new here, welcome! Would you consider joining me?

And if you are a casual follower, I invite you to subscribe for free via my new Substack page and join me on this journey.

All my previous posts from the WordPress blog will be imported into the new site, so the archive will remain available to you.

I’m excited and looking forward to this next leg of the writing journey, and I can’t wait to see you on Substack. Thank you so much for your continued support and readership.

With Joy,

Kristy

www.thislovelymess.com

“School is torture,” my teenage son informed me one afternoon.
“I love school,” I replied.
“Really? You enjoyed writing 500-word essays?”

In his mind, that was true torture.

“Those were some of my favorite assignments,” I told him. Then, for greater shock value, I added I used to study the dictionary in my free time. This horrified him, of course. But those who know me know I love writing, and in high school a teacher once told me that hard work and good study habits would make me a better writer. Taking her at her word, I did everything I could to apply myself—and then some. I believed what she said, and I lived accordingly. Why? I wanted my writing to grow, not stagnate.

Later that night, as I tried to shower away the day’s anxiety and weariness, that simple conversation replayed in my mind. A question stirred:
Why don’t I take God at His word with the same seriousness?
Why don’t I treat His Word with the same discipline and devotion I had just encouraged my son to have?

The truth was obvious: my daily living was out of rhythm with what I knew about God. The evidence was undeniable: there was a deep ache of exhaustion in my soul, desperately longing to exhale.

So I asked myself, What does God say about His Word and its connection to my living? Do I live like I believe it makes a difference? I turned to Psalm 119, the longest psalm and the longest chapter in the Bible. It highlights the supreme importance of God’s Word—not only in keeping our lives but in giving life. The psalmist knew how desperately he needed to be governed by and saturated in God’s Word. Life includes hard realities that wreak havoc on our hearts. And while the psalm elevates God’s Word, it also captures the lament of a soul-weary, distressed writer.

Psalm 119:25 cries out:
“My soul clings to the dust; give me life according to your word!”

Again and again, the psalmist brings his struggles to God—desperate for His Word.

I don’t always follow this model of dependence. In difficult times, I try to just “do the next thing.” This next thing usually involves a fair amount of complaining, as well as seeking others’ advice. Even my own limited understanding seems better than God’s. My attempts at control only leave me more out of control as I resist having a humble, surrendered dependence on God. I need to just admit that I need Him—nothing else. I want God to be the one I turn to first, but He often isn’t. It’s not until my striving hits rock bottom that I finally look up.

God shouldn’t be an afterthought; He should be our first thought—always, in all things. The psalmist shows us this with simple, powerful prayers:

“Deal bountifully with your servant, that I may live and keep your word” (17).
“Put false ways far from me and graciously teach me your law!” (29).
“Turn my eyes from looking at worthless things; and give me life in your ways” (37).
“Take not the word of truth utterly out of my mouth, for my hope is in your rules” (43).

Why did the psalmist pray this way?
Because God’s Word was comfort in his affliction, and God’s promises are life-giving (50).

In this season of frantic schedules and constant noise, I’m learning to turn to God first. When I wake in the morning and when I fall asleep at night, I want my thoughts anchored in the truths of His Word. I don’t want to just know them, but live them—because they truly are what matters most. His truth holds my life together and breathes life into me like nothing else can.

Friend, do you believe God’s Word? How could you live according to it today?

I know that doing so is not easy.

Living in step with God’s Word takes discipline, intentionality, prayer, and dependence upon God. Living out His Word is not a “try harder, be better, or do more” list to check off and master. It grows out of a heart fully devoted to God—a heart humbly dependent, fully submitted, and desperate for His Word like one who longs for water in the desert.

God’s Word keeps us from stagnation. It’s how we not only endure but grow and thrive until the day we see Him face-to-face.

God’s Word keeps us.

And as we obey God’s word, living it out, we display it for all the world to see.

Photos courtesy of Pexels.com

“But now thus says the LORD, he who created you, O Jacob, he who formed you, O Israel: “Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by my name, you are mine.”

— Isaiah 43:1

Recently, I was challenged to consider the question, “Who am I?” On the surface, I am many things. I am a wife, daughter, a mother, and photographer. I am a home school mom, a learner, teacher and writer. I have been many things and have done many things—often tying my identity to them all. Identity is like a seasonal hat I wear, but seasons shift—they come and go. Like seasons, all the aforementioned things can be gone tomorrow—in the blink of an eye. When positions and people are no longer part of my “now”, where does that leave my identity? How do I wrestle the question of who I am?

Who we are must be rooted in something deeper than ourselves. Identity must be tethered to an unshifting reality. Ultimately, identity we wrestle finds answers in the one who created us. My identity is more than my name, what I do, or what’s been done to me. Yes, I am Kristy, but I am Kristy, saved by grace. I am Kristy, daughter of the King. I am seen, known, and called by God who loved and redeemed me. I am His. And so are you—if you believe Christ is who He says He is.

In a culture prone to idolize all things, including positions, wealth and people, God would have us turn to Him. God would have us remember we are created in His image (Gen. 1:27), for His glory (Isa. 43:6-7). God would have us know He is the LORD, OUR God, the Holy One of Israel—OUR Savior (Isa. 43:3). God reminds us that we, who believe and call upon Him, are redeemed—ransomed by God at a great cost that mystifies human reasoning. We are redeemed because we are precious in His eyes, honored, and loved (Isa. 43:4).

This God, who is strength, imparts His strength to us—sharing with us like a father to a child. God regards us as honored. He sees us as His own. Not because of what we have done, or who we are, but because of whose we are—God’s. Knowing we belong to God helps permanently end any identity issues we may have. In God we are brought into unending relationship where God loves well, completely and forever. His love is steadfast—standing at the ready for us even while we are still sinners (Rom. 5:8). God calls us His own—we are His priceless treasure.

In life I have known the sting of death, felt rejection’s bitter crush, and ached from the loneliness of feeling uninvited in a crowded room. I have worn many hats, and many feelings. These hard realities surface questions of worth and identity. Feelings tempt me to forget I am more than the hats I wear, or the things I have done. My limited understanding tempts me to disbelieve I am precious in the sight of God. Wrestlings attempt to persuade me to trust in empty things that have no eternal value and there place my sense of worth and identity. God is the answer—the ONLY answer. To know I am God’s, to know how deeply I have been saved, is answer that is more than enough. This—this deep, resolute, unshakable assurance from God, is true rest from the wrestling.

Photo Credits: https://www.pexels.com/

I don’t like to wait. Something about waiting always leaves me unsettled—nervous. Waiting feels like it has a 50/50 chance of producing a positive outcome. Because the end result is unpredictable, I war-game scenarios, all of them typically worst-case. What if the test comes back cancerous? What if things don’t heal the way they are supposed to? What if I lose my spouse and I have to raise these kids on my own? What ifs that never end. And then I google. Am I the only one who drives themself crazy like this?

Anxious waiting is not faith-filled waiting.

Waiting which leaves us undone and void of peace is not the kind of waiting God has in mind when He encourages us to hold tight. Waiting I attempt to wrap in my own understanding leads to internal chaos and fear. Nothing about that feels good. Or safe. Fear is a horrible place to camp. That’s why God urges us to wait for the Lord, to wait on Him.

Watchmen were anxious for morning light. When the city grew silent and the citizens slept soundly, the watchmen watched. They knew the greatest danger lurked in the shadows of the night. Watchmen stood vigilant because impending harm dictated they remained so. Watchmen needed to be ready at all times in order to sound the alarm if needed. The morning’s first rays must have come with great relief. Relief knowing all was well and the greatest danger had passed. With danger at bay, rest could finally come.

We must wait on God more than we wait on outcomes.

Outcomes in life are unpredictable. Good ones are not promised guarantees. Inwardly I cringe to write that, although I know it’s true. God did not promise to shield us from heartache and pain on this side of Heaven. Yet God has promised us Himself. He has promised us His grace is sufficient—more than enough. If that test comes back bad, God will be there. Ifhealing takes longer than expected, God will be there. If you feel alone, know you are not alone. God’s grace is big enough to carry us through both the bad as well as the good in life.

When we wait, our souls need more than anything to be anchored to God through the promises found in His Word. Promises like:

God goes before me.

God is with me.

God will not leave me or forsake me.

Strong reassurance that enables me to exchange feelings of fear and dismay for unshakable peace. Peace that goes beyond my ability to understand it.

Life is full of waiting.

Wouldn’t you rather fill your days with peace than live in constant worry and fear? I know I would. I admit I don’t wait well. Yet I’m so thankful God doesn’t expect perfection from me in this area. God knows faith-filled waiting is hard for us to practice. Yet God knows hope is found only in His steadfast promises. Hope is anchored in Him. Today I need God and the assurance of His word more than anything else. Tomorrow I will need the same.

May we wait not in fear, but in eager hope hung upon the steadfast promises of God

.

“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, and the flame shall not consume you.” Isaiah 43:2 (ESV) Have you ever had one of those weeks that just wouldn’t end? The kind that weighs so heavily it feels like you’re drowning? After a tough week, my heart felt exhausted, and getting out of bed was the last thing I wanted to do. Light creeping through the window urged me to rise, but I pulled the covers tighter, refusing to get up. I felt my furry friend’s paws pounce on me, whiskers brushing my face as soft purrs encouraged me to greet the day. Reluctantly, I let the heaviness in my heart carry my feet to the floor. Grief makes even the smallest steps hard. Although God’s Word promises deliverance, I wrestle with what that looks like when I feel anything but delivered. How can I bear this season? How long will it last? Heartbreak makes me question God’s goodness, challenging my belief in His sovereignty. Like struggling to get out of bed, grief can make trusting God feel impossible—but it’s not. In my wrestling, the narrative of Shadrach, Meschach, and Abednego in Daniel 3 reminds me that a steady walk with God through trials IS possible.  As mighty men tossed the friends into the flames, intense heat instantly consumed the executioners. Yet these three survived—without a burn. I’m amazed. My struggles feel nothing like this. Hardship doesn’t leave me untouched—it beats me down, chews me up, and spits me out. I can almost smell the smoke, a raw reminder of how pain marks me.  Note that Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego didn’t expect God to remove the fire (Daniel 3:17-18). They knew God was able, but they trusted that whatever God chose was best. Their faith didn’t rely on a bodily rescue, but on God alone. In life or death, God would be with them. And He was. Scripture says a fourth figure walked in the flames. Immanuel, “God with us,” physically showed His faithful love in the fire. As the friends stood unharmed in the furnace, God fulfilled a 200-year-old promise: “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, and the flame shall not consume you” (Isaiah 43:2). Friend, steady faith isn’t painless living—it’s the quiet assurance that God sustains us when we’re hurting.  If pain makes you want to give up, keep getting up. Remember—pain’s presence is not God’s absence. Christ promises to be with you always, even to the end of the age (Matthew 28:20). Know that God isn’t a promise-breaker; He’s a promise-keeper. Whether He removes the fire, takes you out, or leaves you in—He’s still God. Still sovereign. Still good. Believe that nothing separates you from His love (Romans 8:31-39).  Even in the weeks that feel never-ending, when every day is a battle just to rise, “God with us” gives just enough grace to keep going, one small step at a time. Photos courtesy of Pexels.com

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Summers are for a lot of things: dripping watermelon, sticky fingers, bleached hair, and sun-kissed cheeks. While I don’t love the heat of summer, my boys do. Summer vacation: pool time! What’s not to love? My children know how to soak up summer with joy.Me? I try to survive it. When the calendar flipped to July, I quietly celebrated. We’re one month closer to fall, my favorite season. Winter comes just after, my second favorite season. Still, this summer I’ve tried to return to a simpler rhythm. To live with more intention. To be focused. To seek God in the moments that too easily slip past me—where the memorable hides behind the mundane. A jog triggered a vivid childhood memory from another July. Our small Midwestern town was hosting a long-distance race, and my dad—who loved running and knew I did too—took me shopping for new tennis shoes. After all, everyone runs faster in new shoes. On race day, we set out lawn chairs in the front yard and turned sprinklers on to help cool the runners as they passed. We snacked on sugar-coated orange slices. With sticky hands and bouncing pigtails, I waved furiously as the runners ran by. It was a glimpse of childhood joy I rarely think about. As I jogged around the track, I smiled through tears that brimmed in my eyes. Those hot summer days, shadowing my dad, forged some of my most cherished memories. He’s been gone many years now—and I miss him. This summer’s slower pace allowed for this reflection. So have reading—for the pure joy of it. Writing—just to write. Rediscovering long-dormant joys has been good for the soul. Reflection has been good too. I read recently that life and literature are two of our greatest instructors. I would add that God and His Word are the best of all. But how can we live—really live—if we’re too busy to understand the instruction living life and God offer? Carolyn Weber’s book, Holy Is the Day, explores this idea. She shares Madeleine L’Engle’s words about the “synapses” that fire when we read about lives of deep faith. L’Engle writes: “I read their stories (voices in the Bible such as Ezekiel, or Daniel, or the apostles) with sublime wonder, with rapturous joy, acknowledging that reality cannot be organized by us human creatures. It can only be lived. Indifference goes along with perfectionism and literalism as a great killer of story, and perhaps indifference is nothing more than a buffer against fear.” So what did I fear? Truth and clarity struck: I’ve feared fully living. I didn’t realize how easily I slip into indifference—not from apathy, but from self-protection. A method used to avoid disappointment. It’s so very easy to put fear in the wrong things, isn’t it? This earthly life doesn’t offer a bed of roses or a gentle valley where all hopes come true. It’s full of loss, pain, and grief of every kind. Whatever idea of perfection we hold, it is not on this side of heaven.  But fear in God—a rightly placed fear—makes all the difference. As Weber puts it: “Fear of God replaces fear of human beings, and in that distinction exists a world (restored versus fallen) of difference. Recognizing, praising, and tapping into this immense power shifts our trudging into dancing.” Wouldn’t we all rather dance through life than trudge through it? I know I would. I need daily reminders of what genuine joy and blessing are—and they’re not external. They’re not situational. They are a person: Jesus Christ. Even David needed reminding. He strayed through a dark and twisted path of sin. Then he pleaded with God: “Restore to me the joy of your salvation” (Psalm 51:12, ESV). David didn’t just ask for joy—he asked for a clean heart and the inner willingness to walk in God’s ways. He wasn’t pursuing the idea of joy, but the giver of joy.  David wanted to walk differently.To walk with difference.And he knew the fear of God made all the difference. So this summer, I’m seeking to walk differently.Yes, I’m not a fan of summer heat. Yes, I long for fall.But here, now, Christ lives in me. I pray that reality would sink deep in me. And I pray God would live through me so that others see the difference, and in seeing the difference, God can make all the difference in someone else, too.

The post What Summer Reminds Me About Living appeared first on This Lovely Mess.

“For our sake he made him to be sin who knew no sin, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God.” 2 Corinthians 5:21 (ESV)

Parenting isn’t for the faint of heart, especially after a night of toddler tantrums.

Recently, my husband and I painfully had to take away some of our son’s favorite items—gifts we had once given him—because he broke them in anger. As I surveyed the mess, the damage cut deeper than the shattered toys. I felt a profound ache, realizing this must be just a glimpse of what God feels when we rebel against Him.

Sin Is Damaging

In that moment, I saw more than broken pieces of plastic—I saw the brokenness we all carry. As parents, we long to give our children good things, just as God wants good for us. But much like my son’s tantrum, our sin damages God’s intended best. It robs us of the beauty and joy God desires for us. I rarely stop to consider how God’s heart must grieve when He disciplines us.

Yet as I corrected my child, I felt a tinge of that heart-stopping, throbbing grief. Why can’t my son just choose what’s right? The answer, already known, sat heavy on my heart—because sin breaks us. Sin doesn’t just affect what we do—it’s who we are without Christ.

On Our Own, We Are Hopeless Sinners

Parenting has a way of uncovering our brokenness, doesn’t it?

When my children act out, it often reveals my neediness, my struggle with anger, control, and impatience. My son’s outbursts reveal the hard truth that sin is present and thriving. Children sin instinctively—and so do we. Like strong-willed toddlers, we resist God. We want our own way. We damage what is good. And in our rebellion, we push against a relationship with the very One who offers us life. Without Christ, we can’t change this. No strategy, resolution, or effort is enough—we need a Savior.

No One Does Good

Scripture doesn’t soften the truth. Psalm 14:3 says, “There is none who does good, not even one.” Our loving Heavenly Father, who desires a relationship with us, looks down and sees His children in rebellion—bent on pursuing independence rather than intimacy with Him.

Friend, apart from Christ, no one is righteous. This has been true since the day we were born. It’s embedded in our DNA. So, what do we do? Admit what we can’t do. We pray—and pray continuously! We seek God’s instruction, mercy, and strength instead of relying on our own understanding. Even our best intentions and instincts are flawed at best.

We Need Christ

God meets our desperate need with His Son.  Jesus, who knew no sin, was regarded as sin so that we can have living hope on this side of Heaven. Sin shows us our deep need for a Savior, and that Savior, Jesus Christ, went to the cross so that we can live—and flourish—in a restored relationship with God. What wonderful, life-changing hope 2 Corinthians 5:21 offers: “For our sake he made him to be sin who knew no sin, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God.” (ESV)

Christ’s work on the cross is the great exchange that allows God to see and declare us righteous.  Just as worldly authorities treated Christ as a sinner, though guiltless, God now treats us as righteous, though guilty.

This is righteousness—God’s great mercy that heals our brokenness and brings us back to Him.

Remember

This isn’t our work—it’s God’s.

Parenting, much like our walk with Him, is full of hard moments that expose our limits. But even in the mess, God’s grace holds firm. Through Christ, He sees us not as failures, but as beloved children clothed in the righteousness of Jesus. So when parenting feels impossible—when the tantrums, the messes, and the heartache pile up—look to Christ. He is your strength. He is your hope. And He is the one who creates beauty from broken things.

 In His Word

Read Romans 3:21-26 (ESV). What stands out? How does knowing Christ died for your sins help you show mercy to your children when they sin?

In Your Life

Is there a mess sin has made in your life? Pray about it, grieve over it, and ask God to help you release it so you can embrace the good things God wants for you.

Photos courtsey of Pexels.com

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“Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not lean on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make straight your paths.”— Proverbs 3:5-6 (ESV) Recently, I sat in one of my favorite bookstores, coffee in hand, lost in thought. Bookstores bring me so much joy . They give me a space to think and breathe, even if it’s just for a couple of hours each week. As I looked around, my eyes landed on a wall with bold, painted words: Wa•ter•mark Mo•ment. Beneath it, I found a definition: A moment that leaves a permanent mark; it changes or influences you forever in some way. Immediately, I began reflecting on my life, wondering which moments I would call my own ‘watermark moments.’ There have been so many defining moments. I entered foster care at eleven. I graduated, got engaged and then un-engaged. I eventually married a wonderful man. I lost my parents and grandparents. I grieved through infertility. I adopted my son and then gave birth to my own. Each of these life events changed and shaped me in profound ways. Yet, none of them altered my life more than the moment Christ invaded it. He turned it inside out and upside down in all the best ways imaginable. When I entered foster care, I was lost and had nothing to call my own. I had no home, no family, and nothing familiar. The upheaval stirred a deep, throbbing ache inside me. I felt the weight of my brokenness and understood my great need like never before. Though foster care was unbelievably hard, it was the kind of hard that pointed me to Christ. In Christ, I didn’t just have to survive anymore. I didn’t have to spend my days spinning my wheels, trying to prove my worth. I didn’t have to go to bed at night or wake up each morning wondering if I belonged. What Christ offered me is forever and eternal. Christ’s worthiness loves me despite my unworthiness and claims me as His own. In Christ, I am no longer orphaned or alone. I am redeemed and loved beyond what I can understand. Early on, in my new faith, I was encouraged to choose a life verse—something to mark that watermark moment that forever changed me. I landed on Proverbs 3:5-6: “Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not lean on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge Him, and He will make straight your paths.” Does walking with Christ remove life’s hardships? No. But it does mean God will guide me through them, standing by me in my pain. And that straight path? It’s not a road lined with rose-covered gardens or smooth, unburdened valleys. That straight path is the hope that one day, when life on this side of heaven ends, God will ‘receive me to glory’ (Psalm 73:24). That’s why, at nearly forty-five, I keep pressing on, even when so many around me have sadly fallen away. Christ is not just an intellectual exercise. He’s not a moral high ground that fools me into thinking I’m a good person. He’s not a religion or political construct. No, Christ is my Savior, who unequivocally changed me. Christ alone died for me—yes, for me, a lost and hopeless sinner without Him. It’s so easy for us to forget that simple, yet uncomfortable reality of who we are without Christ.  I know firsthand the immense pressures this world places on us. Trials caused by others’ sin can make us want to give up our faith. The book of Hebrews even warns against ‘falling’ or ‘drifting’ away from the truth of the Gospel. In truth, we can’t keep ourselves—especially during life’s storms. Perseverance requires us to grow, mature, and stay anchored in Christ. Perseverance is a mark of true belief. Though life’s trials and the actions of others tempt us to quit, they also offer us opportunities to strengthen our faith and glorify God. Christ is the watermark moment in my life—my eternal joy. I deeply desire to be firmly anchored in the hope Christ has filled my life with. If God gives me the years, I want to be the kind of old woman who has remained steady, with my eyes fixed on my Savior. I want to pass from this life, hearing the words, ‘Well done, my good and faithful servant’ (Matthew 25:21, ESV). I can think of no greater joy.  Today, this is my prayer: That someday, I can still say that I trusted the Lord with all my heart. That I can honestly say I didn’t lean on my own understanding (at least not for long—because I know I am imperfect!). And that the end of my life will bear witness to God’s guiding hand upon it, showing the eager anticipation of the eternal glory that is to come. 

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The author reflects on the struggle to understand suffering and grief, using Job's story to illustrate how pain can both challenge faith and deepen one's relationship with God, revealing His presence.

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In life's challenging seasons, pain is a transformative process that fosters faith. Change, while uncomfortable, is ultimately God's work, leading to growth and a deeper relationship with Him.

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“Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” — Matthew 11:28 (ESV) Driving down the road, I inhale, taking a deep breath, then exhale. My nerves scream, feeling frayed and on fire from battling constant obstacles. Most mornings are the same: get up, get dressed, fight with the children to get dressed, wrestle said children into the car, and go. Every. Single. Morning. Why can’t everyone just do as they’re told? Life would be so much simpler without constant obstacles to hurdle. Yet days are full of obstacles, aren’t they? Obstacles that frustrate and come in forms we can’t control: strong-willed little people, ailing parents, work responsibilities, and daily tasks that need tending. Then there are the ones we can control—tasks we say yes to without letting go of others. Before we know it, our schedule is so full we can’t hear ourselves think. Daily life, at times, feels like a heavy blanket of unescapable burdens.  Is life always supposed to feel this way? Is rest even possible? I continue to drive but I just want to escape. I long for quiet spaces that are disconnected from the mess of life. Everything in me screams, ‘Just STOP.’ If only things were that easy. I know life doesn’t stop. But what if, in the midst of life, I learn to slow down—to pause? In learning to linger I might discover I’m not alone, that there is help when I feel weary and spent.  Jesus invites me to come close. He whispers to this tired heart, “Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light” (Matthew 11:28-30). Learn from me. I will give you rest. Take my yoke. Christ’s words interrupt my scattered living and frazzled heart to remind me that I’m not in control—He is. Rest isn’t something I can wrangle or take for myself. Rest is given as I turn towards Christ to receive it. Rest comes when I place myself away from myself and hold fast to Christ.  Rest is restoration that is received as I follow Christ’s example. Christ gives rest, and He IS rest. Christ restores my soul as I learn to trust Him through every curve-ball life throws. Rest is possible, but only if I turn to Christ. A simple truth but an often forgotten one as I run deceived, thinking the world’s problems are somehow mine alone to solve. How many burdens do I carry around daily that Christ never intended for me to pick up in the first place?  If Christ is the solution, why do I wrestle trusting? Why do I continue battling all the obstacles? A lot of the chaos that drives me crazy is really just my own need to feel in control—to be safely in the driver’s seat. I spend many hours, days, and nights fighting for control. I want peace and security, and I really don’t like struggling. But I’ve found that true peace comes when I release my tight-clenched fists and hand the struggle over to God. He’s the one who anchors me as I face my limitations, admit what I can’t control, and remember He’s in control—ALWAYS. I’m learning.  Little by little rest comes. Not by doing more, but by doing just ONE thing—letting go. I know it’s scary to let go. But how great would it be if we listened to Christ’s gentle call to come, letting go of those heavy blankets of frustration for the rest He provides? Friend, in Christ rest is possible. There is hope for our weary hearts.  Photos courtesy of pexels.com

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“As for me, I am poor and needy, but the Lord takes thought for me. You are my help and my deliverer; do not delay, O my God! Psalm 40:17 (ESV) Some days it’s difficult to get out of bed.  As a mom, yesterday’s battles weigh heavy, and today’s demands feel overwhelming. Deep down I know I am not ready for more; I’m not OK. I feel my weakness with every step, and before I know it, another day starts running on empty.  Can any of the moms out there relate? Not even coffee helps.  Even though I’m aware of my need, I fail to own it. Instead, I ignore the internal alarm sounding and busy myself with my little people’s needs. I stubbornly insist on doing things my way, digging in when things are not working. If I try harder, be better, do better, then things will be better. Sadly, they rarely are. My weary heart is left wanting, and those circumstances I want changed somehow snowball out-of-control. When I let this independent line of thinking trickle into parenting, I become snappy and frustrated, my messy emotions leaving everyone tiptoeing on eggshells.  This is not the kind of mom I want to be. David was aware of his weakness, but unlike me, he knew when to put himself in time-out. He knew when things were beyond his ability, and instead of attempting to work things out in his own strength, he admitted he had none.  He stopped.  He paused.  He prayed.  You see, the key to help was not in trying harder, being better, or doing better. In human strength, this is impossible. The key was in waiting patiently for the Lord.  David states, “I waited patiently for the Lord; he inclined to me and heard my cry.” (Psalm 40:1) From the depth of a heartbroken plea for help, God lifted David out of the pit. Physically, David’s circumstance were unchanged, but what did change was David’s perception of them. God set David on secure footing and placed a new song of praise in his mouth, one that would not have been possible without God. The idea of secure footing in this passage is that David’s very own steps were being established by God. David personally came to know that in his greatest weakness, God was deliverance. “As for me, I am poor and needy, but the Lord takes thought for me. You are my help and my deliverer; do not delay, O my God! (Psalm 40:17) To be thought of and considered by God is strong encouragement for each new day.  When I feel like I am not enough, God is.  When I am too tired to think, God sees this and knows. When I run out of time and answers, God gives rest and wisdom.  For me, the difficult things that weigh heavy are opportunities to discover the humility needed to reach out to God. God is God and I am not. My strength is undependable, but God’s is incomparable. As I approach God, reeking of fumes, I can admit not being OK. It’s OK to not be OK. What a comfort it is to know that God delights to save those who are poor and needy. Humility helps me see my need for a Savior.  So, with every new day that greets me, I can get up knowing God’s strength supports me. Those just-out-of-bed shaky steps are steadied steps in the hands of God. I don’t need to be OK. God is enough. 

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“Jesus wept.” — John 11:35 “Heaven knows we never need to be ashamed of our tears, for they are rain upon the blinding dust of earth, overlying our hard hearts.” – Great Expectations, Charles Dickens Goodbyes are not easy. In grief, I snuck away to the grocery store alone and wept all the way home. Thoughts of my fur baby weighed heavy on my heart. Our beloved cat, who had been with us for 18 years, was signaling it was time to say goodbye.  On one hand I felt silly. “This is just a pet, an animal we’re talking about. It’s not like someone died.” Yet Bandit’s presence was significant. His stamp on my heart warranted tears. Bandit had navigated life’s transitions with my husband and me since the early days of our marriage. Sickness, infertility, adoption, new homes, births and deaths; Bandit had been there for it all. Our four-legged ball of fur had brought so much comfort and happiness over the years. Letting go meant saying farewell to a simple source of joy in my life.  “When we love deeply, we mourn deeply; extraordinary grief is an expression of extraordinary love. Grief and love mirror each other; one is not possible without the other.” —Joanne Cacciatore Even Jesus wept.  Two powerful words that embrace my heart with comfort when I grieve. God with skin on wept for his beloved friend Lazarus who died. Jesus understood painful goodbyes. He also points the way to unshakable hope. Christ’s own death and resurrection demonstrate death does not have the final say.  On this side of heaven, not all is right in the world. Evidence of brokenness abounds. Pain is present everywhere. Even the whole of creation groans and waits eagerly for the day God will right all wrong (Rom. 8:19-22). Rest assured that day will come. Everything upside down in this world will be righted because God expressed extraordinary love on our behalf through the sacrifice of His son.  On days my heart feels heavy and choked, knowing God will one day wipe all tears brings tremendous comfort. I take solace knowing God sees me. God knows my tears, and God has acted. God’s love toward me is steadfast, even when I feel unheard. Martha and Mary’s pleas for help must have seemed ignored as their brother lay dying, yet Christ knew the bigger picture. Christ knew death would not have the final say.  Bandit of course was not Lazarus. While my boys pray God will give our fur friend a place in Heaven, I know this isn’t the case. Animals are not created in God’s image like people are. Yet God did place Bandit in our lives to be cared for, loved, and nurtured. Rather than feeling silly over shedding tears for a beloved pet, I pray for a soft heart. I pray my boys would continue to have soft hearts, able to express deep love and mourn deeply; even for simple things in life like the pleasure of a pet. I pray for a deeper understanding of who God is when my heart hurts. I pray I would never refuse to embrace the need for tears. Even Jesus wept.  Tears are good. Tears are cleansing. Tears keep my heart tender and help me look to Christ. 

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