18 Years with Danny Ellison. We cooked together. I painted and created a mixed media canvas called Gratitude where Love Grows. I also wrote him a poem and read it to him before posting here. Here it is.
❤️Our Engagement Photo❤️
We did not arrive here untouched. Love came with weather. With long nights and quiet apologies, with laughter that surprised us, with tears we never planned to shed.
Gratitude is not found only in the easy years, it lives in the choosing. The choosing to stay curious, to soften instead of harden, to reach across silence and call it sacred ground.
We are grateful for the days that felt ordinary, because they carried us. For the storms that taught us how to listen. For the wounds that asked us to learn tenderness in new languages.
Gratitude looks like hands still learning each other, like eyes that recognize the soul behind the fatigue. It sounds like grace spoken out loud when pride wanted the last word.
We honor the love that grew slowly, the kind that learned patience, the kind that learned how to rest.
Today we pause, not to count what was perfect, but to bless what was faithful.
Thank you for the becoming. For the growing. For the love that stayed.
This is the second part of my thoughts on faith, prayer and healing.
Life is full of uncomfortable moments. Discomfort has a way of making us pull back.
Sometimes we distance ourselves to survive. Sometimes to protect our hearts. Sometimes because the pain of hoping, really hoping, feels heavier than the pain of letting go.
For many of us, the discomfort comes when prayers don’t work the way we believed they would. When we prayed with every ounce of faith we had. When our faith felt desperate and embodied, like the woman who reached through the crowd just to touch the hem of Jesus’ robe, believing that even contact would be enough.
Sometimes when healing doesn’t come, it can shake more than our bodies or minds. It can shake our trust. It can cause us to question the relationships around us. It can quietly turn childlike faith into confusion and frustration.
We may begin to wonder: If I believed like that and it still didn’t happen… what does that mean about God? About me? About the people who prayed with me?
As we grow and mature, we wrestle with life in new ways. Faith can deepen, but it can also become more complex. What once felt simple now asks us to hold tension. To live in the “already and not yet.” To grieve what hasn’t happened while still daring to hope.
What has helped me in my own life is shifting the question.
Instead of only asking When will I be healed?
I’ve learned to ask, What is the meaning of my life just as I am?
I believe I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Not someday, now. Not after healing, today.
I believe God is using me for good, even in my brokenness. Maybe even through it. Maybe that is enough for this season. As I continue to pray for healing in my brain and body, I also pray that my life would increase compassion and grace in this world. That mercy and love would be how I choose to use the life I get to live.
I want to say this clearly:
I love that people pray in faith for my complete healing and for the complete healing of those I am honored to walk with in suffering. I am grateful for it. Their faith does not threaten mine, it strengthens it.
I have had to work hard to choose not to allow the enemy to bring harm to my relationships with people who care for me deeply. I do not want disappointment to steal connection. I do not want unanswered prayers to turn into isolation. I do not want fear to decide who gets to stay. These are people I love and I know they love me as well.
I remember being one who prayed for healing that didn’t happen. There is a disappointment I carry that lives deeper than words because of it. It remembers a hospital room. A brother lying still. Machines breathing when he could not. Prayers whispered and pleaded for him to wake up. He never did.
That loss still feels unfathomable. Grief doesn’t just live in my heart, it settles into my bones. It aches there. It pulses there. Even now after years have passed, it can rip through me without warning, reminding me that love never disappears just because a life ends.
Yet as I have spent years contemplating life and death, healing and sickness, ability and disability, I have learned something tender and difficult: if we are willing to seek long enough, even through squinted eyes blurred by tears, something that resembles beauty can sometimes be found on the other side.
Regarding my brother’s life and in the wake of his death, it was in that searching that I began to see hope take an unexpected shape.
My brother’s life ending gave new life to others through organ donation. I didn’t get to meet all of those who received his gifts, but I did speak with two of them. What a sacred joy it is to know that someone else woke up to breath, to movement, to possibility, because my beloved brother chose to give. As they struggled with survivors guilt, I asked them to know how grateful I am that they survived and carry part of my brother here on this side of heaven.
His life did not end without impact and while that truth does not erase my grief, it allows it to sit beside something else: reverence. Meaning. A quiet kind of gratitude that honors both the loss and the lives that continue because of him
One of my deepest anxieties has been this: What if healing doesn’t happen on this side of heaven? Not just for me, but for those who are praying, hoping, and believing with me.
My prayer is that no one loses their faith if healing doesn’t come in the way or time we long for. I desire that we are able to say to one another, It’s okay if it doesn’t happen today. I will still hope with you. I will still believe with you.
Maybe the holiest question we can ask is this: Will you still love me just as I am?
Because I will. I believe God does too. That love, steadfast, patient and present love is not defeated by waiting.
May we not hide our tears in the rain and instead may we begin to cry together. I lit my candle at church yesterday to Honor the Light of the world and also to remember to be a light to those hurting. This is what came to mind.
Desree Dominique Mendoza
For many, Christmas is wrapped in lights, laughter, and tradition. But for others, this season comes heavy, marked not by joy, but by empty chairs, unanswered questions, and grief that feels louder than carols.
This Christmas, I want to pause and acknowledge the families for whom the holidays are not easy. The ones showing up with brave faces while their hearts ache. The ones learning how to breathe again after devastating loss.
This month, on December 6th, our community lost Desree to domestic violence. She was a BSN nurse, a woman who deeply cared for people, especially those navigating mental illness. She gave of herself professionally and personally, offering compassion and care where it was most needed.
My heart cannot stop thinking about her beautiful children, Christian, Chloe, Charizma, Royal, and Luca, and what this Christmas feels like without their mother.
So today, I’m inviting our community to pray.
Pray not only for support, but for something deeper. Pray that these children would one day be able to transform this pain into purpose, fueled by a passion for good. Pray that the evils of this world would have no stronghold over their hearts or their futures. Also, pray that they are allowed to feel it all.
May they feel the pain, the anger, and the grief, because those emotions are evidence of deep love. Love worth mourning. Love worth honoring. Love that does not disappear with death.
God is our Comforter. My prayer is that these children would experience His comfort through the hands and feet of those who surround them, family, friends, neighbors, and community, serving them in Jesus’ name.
As their family steps up to care for them, may they be blessed, not burdened. May provision meet them. May strength rise where exhaustion lives. May love multiply.
Let them grieve what has been taken, and also experience gratitude for the time they had with Desree. Both can coexist. Grief and gratitude can sit at the same table.
I also want to extend this prayer to those affected by domestic violence, whether you are a victim, an abuser, or someone who has been both.
May this be a moment to begin understanding.
To seek help.
To choose healing.
May you fight through feelings without silencing them.
Push through pain without numbing it.
Face the truth without being consumed by shame.
Healing is possible.
Please pray as well for Desree’s mother Patricia, her father Gabriel, her bonus mom Jennie, and all who love her deeply. Pray for justice, not rooted in blame or regret, but in courage and change. Step by step. System by system. Heart by heart.
In times like this, it’s easy for blame to creep in, or for regret to take over. My prayer is that none of that would touch this family. May condemnation have no place here.
Instead, may they experience all the fruit of the Spirit this Christmas:
Love.
Joy.
Peace.
Patience.
Kindness.
Goodness.
Faithfulness.
Gentleness.
Self-control.
Not because circumstances are easy, but because God is near.
If Christmas feels hard for you this year, you are not alone. If grief feels heavier than celebration, you are seen. If you don’t know how to pray, let this be enough:
God, draw near. Comfort. Protect. Heal. Restore. Let love have the final word.
I did not grow up in religious or faith spaces. I did not have the language of Scripture or the comfort of church when I was young so it wasn’t something that molded me, and much of my childhood was shaped by trauma rather than safety. Because of that, I learned early how words, especially words spoken with authority or certainty, can settle deep inside a child. They don’t stay as phrases. They become beliefs. They quietly shape how a child understands love, worth, and belonging.
In my early adult years, as faith became one of the most meaningful parts of my life, and as I began working closely with children in my community, especially children with disabilities, medical complexities, and neurodivergent minds, I began to notice something that troubled me. Even when spoken from a place of care, certain language can unintentionally place a heavy burden on children and their families. When healing is framed as a reward for belief, or struggle is linked to a lack of faith, children can grow into adults who quietly carry the belief that they are not believing enough, praying hard enough, or loved enough by God. This causes fracturing in hearts and minds as well as the church.
For children whose disabilities are visible, this can feel isolating. For children whose disabilities are invisible, those navigating sensory overload, anxiety, trauma responses, or neurodivergence, the weight can also be heavy. When their experiences are misunderstood or minimized, they may learn to hide parts of themselves in order to appear faithful, compliant, or “whole.” Over time, that hiding becomes harmful. It can fracture a child’s sense of self and distort their understanding of God. I do not believe this is the heart of Jesus.
I don’t claim to be a theologian or believe I know everything, but my understanding is again and again, Jesus seems to resist simple explanations for suffering. When asked to assign blame, He chose instead to reveal God’s nearness. Faith, as He lived it, was never a formula for outcomes. Healing was never a measurement of worth. Suffering, mental, physical, emotional, or neurological, was never evidence that someone was less loved by God.
I believe in miracles. I pray boldly for healing, for bodies, minds, and hearts. I believe God can and does restore in ways we cannot always predict or explain. I also believe God is profoundly present in the waiting, in the unanswered prayers, and in the daily faithfulness of families raising children whose paths look different than expected or hoped for.
The children in our community, those with physical disabilities and those with neurodivergent minds, are not problems we should try and solve. They are fearfully and wonderfully made, bearing the image of God in ways that challenge our definitions of strength, productivity, and success. God’s power is not diminished by a diagnosis and it is not proven by dogma. His love is not measured by outcomes we can see. He Loves.
Most of the friends I have met on my journey need compassion not correction. Companionship not analysis. They need language that reminds them they are already held rather than language that makes them feel as though they need to perform faith. When we choose our words with care and humility, we help create a faith that is spacious enough for healing and honest enough for truth. That kind of faith does not harm, it heals.
I am a person who believes in Jesus. I have not been fully healed but I believe God is using me and my life for a great purpose and I am grateful to be who I am. I am here. Neurodivergent and in awe of his Grace and Love. I am not Hopeless. I am Hopeful. I want you to experience His Kindness and Mercy. I can’t promise complete healing but I can promise you will never have to worry about being yourself around me. 🤟🏼
This time of year can bring so many emotions, joy, stress, grief, excitement, and deep exhaustion. If you’re feeling stuck, overwhelmed, or unsure how to make this season meaningful for the kids in your home, please know this: you are not alone.
This season isn’t about perfect traditions or Pinterest-worthy moments. Some of the most meaningful memories are made when we choose presence over perfection.
Sometimes presence looks like.
Taking a deep breath when your 13-year-old’s spicy spirit shows up and choosing connection over correction, remembering that big attitudes often hide big feelings, especially during the holidays.
Staying grounded when the three-nager is screaming, “I UNT TO DO IT BY MYSELF!” while insisting on pouring the milk next to the cookies, because independence matters, even when it’s loud and messy. Yep, even when they spill it. Those skills are part of learning.
Responding with grace when your elementary sweetheart turns the house into a winter wonderland of flour (snow) while everyone sleeps (true story… I’m still finding flour in the couch cushions and the ceiling fan 😅).
Presence might also look like curling up to read The Jesus Storybook Bible, laughing through a board game, making simple crafts, ordering pizza, or even having a silly food fight just to break the tension (alternative=Pillow or Stuffy Fight). None of it has to be fancy to be faithful or meaningful.
What matters most is that your home is a place of love, safety, grace, and belonging. The messes can be cleaned. The attitudes will pass. But the way you showed up, that’s what sticks.
If you feel stuck, tired, or unsure how to handle the moments in between the magic, please know you don’t have to figure it out alone. We are here for you. I care about you, I see you, and I’m honored to walk alongside you this season. ❤️
You’re doing holy, important work, even on the hard days.
On December 15, 2025 I attended Desree Mendoza’s service.
She was beautiful and she was deeply and unmistakably loved.
The sanctuary was standing room only, family, friends, children, neighbors, and co-workers, all there because her life made a difference. Because she mattered. Because love leaves marks that grief can never erase.
After paying my respects to her, I made a promise to her family: I will fight for change. This is how I fight my battles, with honesty, compassion, prayer, and a commitment to healing and prevention. I am only one person. Helen Keller is quoted saying “I am only one, but still I am one. I cannot do everything, but still I can do something; and because I cannot do everything, I will not refuse to do something that I can do.” My hope is you will join me.
The pain in that room was heavy, but it was also a call to action. We cannot sit in silence about what brought us here.
To anyone who struggle with anger that feels too big or too familiar:
If you are afraid of what you might do, there are places you can reach out right now, and I am begging you to use them. Listen, you are not beyond help, and accountability is not weakness. Compassion and change are possible.
There are crisis resources available 24/7 for anyone in emotional distress:
📌 Call or text 988 to reach the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline, trained professionals are available to support you through intense feelings or hard moments.
📌 The National Domestic Violence Hotline (1-800-799-SAFE) offers confidential support and resources for people impacted by relationship violence.
Right now, we do not have a widely known, dedicated hotline specifically for people who fear they might lose control and harm someone, like 988 is for emotional crises or 911 is for emergencies. I want to open up this conversation:
Would a resource like that help our community?
A place where someone who feels cornered by grief, rage, fear, or shame could call before disaster happens, where they could talk to someone trained in anger, trauma, and accountability? I believe the answer is yes.
I truly believe we also need:
💜Open, honest conversations about anger and violence
💜Community spaces where we can talk about harmful behaviors without shame or avoidance
💜Clear paths to help for people who want to change their patterns
💜Support for families and friends to know what to do when they see warning signs
Domestic violence doesn’t happen in a vacuum, it’s rooted in emotional pain, learned behaviors, and unaddressed hurt. Abuse is a choice and I believe prevention is possible when people are willing to seek help. I also know it’s so difficult to be vulnerable enough to admit there is a problem.
Hear me loud and clear! I don’t want to shame people with abusive behaviors, I want to challenge them to speak up, seek help, and take responsibility. Accountability isn’t weak. It’s heroic. Self-awareness, self-control, and support systems can exist together. They must exist together if we want to stop losing people we love.
Desree’s death was not in vain! We must be willing to face these issues openly, honestly, and with real resources. If we don’t, we risk more community destruction.
Let’s talk about solutions.
Let’s talk about prevention.
Let’s talk about compassion and accountability.
Let’s build the support our community deserves, before it’s too late. To share anonymously click the google form below to give feedback. I want to hear from those who have been abusive and from victims of abuse. I also want to hear from those who have been both, abused and abusive. I know it’s hard to be that vulnerable but it’s worth it!
Motherhood is a full-contact sport. I don’t care what anybody says.
Some moms are out here making laminated snack schedules and matching monogrammed devotionals. Meanwhile, I’m over here whispering, “Lord, multiply my minutes,” while frantically digging through my purse like a raccoon trying to find a permission slip.
Let’s just say I love Jesus wholeheartedly…but I’ve never really felt like I fit into the traditional “Christian mom” mold. Maybe it’s because I didn’t grow up with the kind of belonging other people take for granted. Maybe it’s because the first half of my life was survival, not soccer practice.
Whatever the reason, motherhood has been a constant mix of trying, failing, getting back up, and laughing at myself so I don’t cry too hard in public.
And THIS week? This week was a Hall of Fame moment.
My girls had a school event where they had to build a whole business from scratch: • Product • Business plan • Branding • Materials • Pricing
Honestly, they put together more detailed presentations than some adults running actual companies.
Personally I’m proud of my girls, THEY did amazing and somehow pulled off a great pop up shop. Focused. Creative. Leaders.
Me? I was multitasking like a well-meaning working woman who is doing her absolute best while also trying to answer emails, cook dinner, and remember if anyone has clean socks for tomorrow.
Then… two things happened.
FIRST: I Forgot to Sign My 10 year old Daughter Up for her big day… the 13 year old was good because she had a plan when sign ups began weeks ago.
Look. In my defense… my 10 year daughter didn’t finalize her business details until the biblical equivalent of Mary’s water breaking.
In a very 10 year old fashion she waited. waited. WAAAAAITED… to figure out the name, theme, or anything remotely classified as a “business plan.”
The forms required all of that.
We didn’t have it and I didn’t think to write TBD like some of the other genius moms!
My husband mentioned to the teacher that she’d be doing it… which somehow translated to everyone thinking it was handled… except nothing was actually handled.
We showed up ready.
Except she had no table. No assigned space. No setup.
Cue the internal collapse.
But thank God for grace-filled teachers who felt the frustration of my lack of having it all together but showed us grace anyway. Because a “natural consequence” that day? That would’ve crushed my girl after all her hard work.
SECOND: (cue the gasp of the proper women) The Sticker Situation (AKA: The SmuTHING Scandal)
Now this is where motherhood reminded me that humility is my spiritual gift.
My daughter needed stickers for her business. So I (loving, supportive, distracted mother) ordered some.
They were neutral colors. Book-themed. Aesthetic. Very “Pinterest Christian mom.” (So i thought)
I read three of them when they arrived. They were wholesome. Encouraging. (Reading and relaxing, finding my kindle, reading keeps me sane) I was proud of myself and my girls for picking (inspiring) book stickers.
Fast forward to the event.
Halfway through, our 21-year-old daughter shows up to support her sister. She spins the prize wheel. She wins a sticker.
She looks at it. Pauses. The she bursts into uncontrollable laughter.
I assume she’s just excited. Nope.
She whispers, “Mom… why is she selling smut stickers at a kids’ business fair?” I blinked so hard my eyelashes almost filed for a restraining order.
She shows me the sticker, sure enough. I, a woman who reads devotionals and self-help books… a woman who has never once wandered into the spice aisle of fiction… had purchased a whole pack of reading stickers with smut stickers sprinked in for my child’s reading themed business project. WARNING (Not all amazon inspirational reading stickers are created equally)!
I didn’t even know “smut stickers” existed until I accidentally hosted an outreach program.
Honestly? My laughter in that moment was pure denial. The kind where you laugh because your brain simply cannot compute what your eyes are seeing.
I stood there thinking, “This is how I go down. This is how my spiritual reputation ends. Not with a bang… but with a sticker.”
The Part Where I Cried in the Car! After the red faced chaos… after the laughter… after the realization that I had scanned Sam’s style by reading 3 instead of proof reading through 1000 stickers…
I went to the car and cried. Not the “call a friend” cry. Not the “thunderstorm movie scene” cry. Just a quiet, overwhelmed, “I really am doing my best and sometimes my best is a whole circus” kind of cry.
It wasn’t about the stickers, or the sign-up, or even the confusion. It was the weight of showing up for my kids in ways I never had growing up. It was the pressure. It was the tenderness. It was wanting so badly to do right by them. It was trying to break cycles while also breaking down a little myself.
After I let those tears fall, I took a breath, wiped my face, and whispered:
“Okay, Jesus… I need You to parent WITH me today”, and He did.
Because this is motherhood: Trying. Missing the mark. Laughing through disbelief. Crying from the weight of love. Standing back up because your kids are watching. Finding grace big enough to hold the messy and the holy in the same story.
Even the chapters covered in smut stickers.
P.S. Thank you Abby Ellison for digging through the sticker packs and saving the last half of the children from learning about smut!
When asked later about it, Willow thought smut was another name for a dog (like, it’s a mutt!)🫢😬 does that count as vocabulary lessons? 
I bought this trailer at 15. I was able to move in at 16 after I became an emancipated adult. I still needed help.
Welfare.
I don’t talk about this part of my life very often, but like many Americans, I grew up on welfare. My birth family depended on it, food stamps, government housing, Medicaid, all of it. As a young adult, I remember telling myself that one of my life goals was to never have to live on welfare again if at all possible.
It wasn’t because I thought I was better than anyone. It was because I was tired of being afraid. When you grow up depending on the system, fear becomes part of your daily life. You start to fear being promoted at work and possibly making too much money. You fear losing benefits that help you survive. You fear the rug being pulled out from under you if your income goes up by even a few dollars. You fear government taking it away before you are on your feet again.
After having my children, I didn’t make enough to afford insurance so I had to be on government insurance because I knew if something catastrophic happened I would not be able to take care of it. I appreciated CHIP and wanted to stay on CHIP, because with it, I could actually pay a small co-pay. I guess the small payment I made, felt like a restoration of dignity. It made me feel like I was contributing to my child’s health, like I was moving forward and not expecting everything free. When it came time for me to renew in  Texas, that choice was taken away. I’ll never forget the day I called to ask about being forced to be on Medicaid instead of having the option of Medicaid or CHIP. The woman on the phone, talked down to me. She told me I should just accept Medicaid, food stamps, and go apply for housing based on my income. The crazy part is, I was very proud of my income. I was happy to be able to provide something for my family.
I remember sitting there thinking, You don’t understand. I don’t want to stay stuck. I just need a little help while I’m building my life. I had a garden in my backyard. I was paying for my very own house. I just needed medical coverage for peace of mind.
😬🤯😂 I was so frustrated, I actually wrote a letter to the President of the United States. I never heard back, of course, but I’ll never forget how it felt to write that letter, to say, “I’m trying. Please see me. Please hear my story.”
It’s really hard when you grow up on government assistance to try to get off of it. The system isn’t built to make it easy. Sometimes you make just a little bit more, and suddenly you’re cut off, but it’s not enough to cover a high monthly insurance premium.
So when our family finally reached the point, not too many years ago, where we could buy our own insurance policy, I cried. Not because it was perfect, but because it represented freedom. It represented years of clawing our way out of fear and learning to stand on our own.
See, I’ve been homeless. I’ve lived in cars, tents, hotels, and government housing. I’ve witnessed both sides, the fear of losing help, and the irresponsibility of taking it for granted. I’ve learned this: we absolutely need systems of support but we also need systems that empower.
I’ve met so many families who are terrified of losing their benefits, and I get it. It’s scary when you’ve got kids depending on you. That’s why I decided to speak out, not to shame anyone, but to remind us all that freedom is possible. We can use these programs as stepping stones, not final destinations.
If you’re still reading right now and you’re working hard, showing up, doing the best you can, I see you. From me, there’s no shame in needing help. There’s power in believing that you don’t have to need it forever. Eventually maybe you will pay it forward to help those moving forward and needing help still.
We can build something better together, one small step, one brave choice, one honest day’s work at a time.
Freedom isn’t about pride. It’s about peace. Peace comes when you’re no longer afraid.
❤️
When I talk about finding freedom, I don’t just mean emotionally, I mean financially, too.
There are so many creative, honest ways to start building stability again, even if you’re starting small.
I started my first job at 13 years old as a bagger and shopping cart pusher at a local Winn-Dixie. That job didn’t just teach me how to work, it taught me how to show up, budget, and take pride in earning something for myself. I’m not saying kids should break child labor laws, but I do believe it’s important for our youth to learn responsibility early, even if it’s a weekend job, mowing lawns, or helping around the neighborhood. As a teenager, I also worked at Churches Chicken, Eckards, in the photo department, the Burleson Chamber of Commerce, a local dry cleaners, IHOP, and Kmart.  I learned so many skills at these different jobs. I am so grateful they were willing to hire young people. 
I truly believe work builds confidence. Contribution builds character. Those small beginnings can turn into big blessings.
2025 is amazing because there are many ideas for families who want to start building independence together:
For Adults & Parents
Delivery & Gig Work: DoorDash, Uber Eats, Amazon Flex, or Instacart for flexible side income.
Home Services: Cleaning or organizing for Airbnbs, house-sitting, or pet-sitting.
Online Reselling: Use Facebook Marketplace, Poshmark, or eBay to sell gently used items or handmade goods.
Small Business Ventures: Create candles, crafts, jewelry, or baked goods to sell locally at craft fairs or online.
Freelance Skills: Offer virtual assistance, writing, photography, or social media help.
Affiliate Marketing or Product Sales: Partner with brands or small businesses you truly believe in.
Elderly Support: Provide errands, cleaning, or companionship to neighbors who need an extra hand.
Seasonal & Event Jobs: Local fairs, catering, lawn work, or Christmas light installations.
For Teens & Kids
Weekend Yard Work: Mow lawns, rake leaves, or plant flowers for neighbors.
Pet Care: Walk dogs, feed pets, or offer vacation care for families.
Babysitting or Mother’s Helper: Great for older teens learning responsibility.
Tutoring or Homework Help: Especially for kids strong in certain subjects.
Creative Work: Start a small jewelry, bracelet, or art business; sell at local events or online with adult help.
Tech Help: Teens can help older adults with phone setups or digital organization.
Family Garden Projects: Grow and sell produce or flowers at a local market.
Every step counts, even the small ones. When families work together, something shifts. Kids learn ownership. Parents model perseverance. Everyone begins to understand that hard work and faith can rebuild what once felt impossible.
The goal is progress and progress starts with doing something today that your future self will thank you for! 💕 Love, Steph
“Forty wasn’t punishment, it was preparation.” This is what is churning in my mind today! I am just beginning to recognize the importance of my forty years. 😭
If you had told me years ago that I’d be sitting at a Directors’ Retreat for a church I now get to serve, I don’t think I would’ve believed you. Honestly, I still can’t believe I’m here. Home. 🤯
There are moments when I pause, look around, and whisper under my breath, “God, I can’t believe You LET me be here. Transplanted, deeply rooted, reedeemed and ready.”
This morning, while reflecting on yesterday, I felt the Lord tug at my heart and remind me of something both simple and deeply meaningful. I turned 41 this year, and it’s only now that I’m beginning to understand the wait, the weight and the wonder, of forty. We talked about our paths yesterday and it dawned on me, every step where I could not see ahead was preparation for now, such a time as this. Every moment purposeful.
In Scripture, forty represents testing, transformation, and preparation. It rained 40 days and nights before Noah saw the rainbow of new beginnings.
Moses fasted 40 days on Mount Sinai before receiving the Ten Commandments.
The Israelites wandered 40 years in the wilderness, learning to depend on God before entering the Promised Land.
Jesus Himself spent 40 days in the wilderness, facing temptation and teaching us not only how to live, but how to suffer with purpose.
Every time “forty” appears, it marks a season of waiting and refining before a new beginning.
The Waiting Was Hard… but Holy. My “forty” didn’t look like a desert, but it felt like one. It has been years of heartbreak, rebuilding, surviving, failing, growing, and trusting that somehow the pain isn’t pointless.
I have suffered in very human ways, through loss, disappointment, betrayal, and exhaustion. Jesus taught me that suffering isn’t wasted when it’s surrendered. He didn’t just show us how to live well; He showed us how to suffer well, with grace, with faith, and with hope anchored in something eternal.
Just as Deuteronomy 8:2 says: “Remember how the Lord your God led you all the way in the wilderness these forty years, to humble and test you in order to know what was in your heart.”
God wasn’t punishing me. He was preparing me. He was building endurance, compassion, and faith that could stand the storms of life and still say, “It is well with my soul.”
The Promise after forty is here! As I sit here surrounded by leaders who love Jesus and serve with such passion, I’m overwhelmed by gratitude. It’s not lost on me that EVERY hardship, EVERY delay, EVERY tear, it all prepared me for this moment.
The number forty means transition, and I can feel that in my spirit. God transitioned me from striving to surrender, from surviving to serving, from wondering “Why me?” to whispering “Thank You.”
The suffering I once thought would destroy me has become the soil where gratitude grows.
To Anyone Still in Their “Forty”, Maybe you’re waiting, for breakthrough, direction, healing, or hope. Maybe it’s been a long wilderness, and you’re wondering if you missed your moment.
Friend, don’t rush the waiting. Don’t despise the desert. Because even there, Jesus is teaching you how to live and how to endure. The same God who led His people through the wilderness will lead you into your promise.
Forty isn’t the end, it’s the beginning of something new.
When I think about this new chapter, working for the church, sitting in rooms where vision is cast and lives are changed, I’m reminded that God’s timing is perfect, even when it feels painfully slow.
What felt like delay was divine development. Now, standing on the other side of forty, I can finally say, The waiting was worth it. The suffering had purpose. The forty prepared me for the promise. Thank you to everyone who met me in the last fourty years and whispered, keep going. I am grateful.
Jeannette thank you for the random Wednesday call in May, an invitation to read a job description. Thank you Beltway Park Church for an invitation home, to serve with you. I am truly humbled and ready to take one step at a time.
Lord, thank you for all of the moments you waited for me to call on you. Psalm 40:1-3. Trust refined.
Yesterday I think I understood what Mary must’ve felt when she realized she lost 10-year-old Jesus… because yesterday I lost 10-year-old Willow Grace at The Well (Church).
We were at an event, and I was working my table for Foster325, thinking Willow was just hanging out near the start and finish line, cheering people on. After I hadn’t seen her in a while. I started asking friends, “Hey, has anyone seen Willow?” One of the kids said, “Mrs. Ellison, she’s RUNNING!”
I laughed, “No, she went to WATCH. We didn’t sign up to run! She already rode her bike three miles today on the bike trail! She wouldn’t have?!” They were adamant. “No, she’s in the race, I passed her and she was booking it!” 😳
Sure enough… after searching and searching, I look up and see my daughter, chip timer on, running a 5K like she’d been training for it her whole life. (In loose purple crocks AND she wasn’t last🫣)😅 Oblivious to my worries and so proud, and thirsty!
Apparently she decided cheering wasn’t enough, so she marched over to the table and assertively said her name and signed herself up while hastily making her last name a little extra 😉, grabbed a bib, and ran an entire 5K while I was busy thinking she was sitting with friends somewhere near the finish-line eating her snacks.
I went from panic ➡️ disbelief ➡️ hysterical laughter ➡️ mom guilt ➡️ pure pride.
What ten-year-old does that?! Mine, apparently. 🩷
Independent. Tenacious. Fearless. Mary had Jesus in the temple… I had Willow at the Well 5K. Glow Run for Jesus or like Jesus? 😂🫣💕🤪😳😭🎉!
Anyone interested in more info about foster care?😬
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