I cut off my hair this week. Not because I wanted a fresh new look or was feeling bold, but because I didn’t have much of a choice.  Over the past few months, I’ve been shedding hair like crazy. And not just a few extra strands in the shower.  I’m talking about losing nearly half of it. It’s one of those side effects that crept in after getting sick. I had Covid back in December, and just like the first time I had it, the aftermath hit my hair hard.

When I sat down in my stylist’s chair, my plan was to keep my length and go a little blonder for summer.  I was ready to lighten things up and get ready for a Florida vacation next month.  But, he put the brakes on that idea real quick.

“Your hair’s too fragile to bleach,” he said. “If it starts falling out more, you’re going to be mad at me.”

"I would never get mad at you for my hair falling out," I protested.

He bent down to show me he was serious, eye to eye.  "When you are staring in the mirror at your bald head, you're gonna be angry.  And it ain't gonna be at me."

He wasn’t wrong.

Then he suggested something I hadn’t planned on: “We're going to have to cut it. It'll grow back, but we need to start fresh with what’s left.”

And he was right about that too.

I’ve been through this before. When you lose half your hair and try to hang onto the long look, it doesn’t exactly turn out glamorous. It ends up looking like a weird poofy helmet on top that thins out into scraggly ends. It’s not the look I'm going for at forty-eight years of age. Or any age, really.

So we cut it. Not as a style choice, but as an act of letting go of damage, of accepting reality, and of  setting expectations.  It’s shorter than I planned, but healthier. And it’s a step forward, because now I am ready for the new growth.

And isn't that just how life works?  So often we have to let go of the past, let go of the damage, in order to set our sights on what's ahead.  My new growth isn't here yet, but I know its coming. 

It reminds me of all I've had to let go of these past few years.  My hair is just another thing, and it is easy to let go of hair.  Letting go of the past is a lot harder.  

Have you ever thought about that? How your past can sneak in, trying to shame you into believing you’re too broken, too damaged, too far gone to move forward? Maybe it’s the echo of someone who hurt you. Maybe it’s the voices of people who never saw your worth, never believed in your potential. And maybe, especially after something like divorce, you’ve carried that weight for so long it started to feel like your identity.

But here’s the truth: it’s not.

You weren’t created to live stuck. You weren’t meant to sit in the ruins of what was. Maybe, like me, you’ve wasted time letting your situation define you. You’ve settled into the pain like it was permanent. But no more.

God isn’t calling you based on your past. He’s calling you into your future. Not because of who you were or what you've endured, but because of who you are becoming.

The past? It no longer has a say when Jesus walks in the room.

Leave The Land

My two brothers and I visited our cousin this weekend and decided to stay at a hotel together. Well, we booked separate rooms because I’d rather camp on gravel during a hailstorm than share a room with my brothers.  So, together is a relative term, I suppose.  I guess it is more accurate to say we stayed in a hotel.

One of my brothers brought his son, my sweet seven-year-old nephew along.  Also in-tow was my nephew's trusty scooter, which he parked in the hotel room at night for safe-keeping.  Fast forward to the middle of the night. My brother, half-asleep and probably thinking he was still at home, got up to use the bathroom and he tripped over the scooter and, in his words, bit it hard.  

The next morning at breakfast, he repeated the story to the two of us siblings, “It was bad. I looked down and was sure my leg was gushing blood.”

These things happen to him all of the time, and he usually finds them funny and as he tells us about his latest adventure gone wrong.  Bicycle injures.  Falling down stairs.  You name it, he's done it.  

Now, this brother is the baby of the family, so naturally, his other two siblings demanded a medical review before offering any sympathy.

“Let’s see the leg,” we said.

He pulled up his pant leg with dramatic flair and revealed a scrape. Not a wound. A scrape.

“We don’t see anything,” we said.

“I know there’s not anything there,” he insisted, “but it was hurting bad. I couldn’t fall back asleep for like, forty-five minutes.”

My brother and I smiled at him, and eventually, he said “I think my pain tolerance is going down.  That shouldn't have hurt so bad.”

“A sign of growing older,” we said.  Then we offered to get him a Life Alert in case he falls in the middle of the night again, along with a helmet and knee pads.

As entertaining as this story is, at least to the two of us who didn’t fall over a scooter, I can’t help but think about how often we all trip over things in our daily lives that shouldn’t hurt as much as they do.

Maybe it’s a passing comment that lands a little too hard. A moment of rejection that feels bigger than it ought to. Someone’s tone, a glance, or a word that wasn’t meant to wound but somehow does.  It’s strange, isn’t it? How something small can strike a nerve so deep, it feels like we should be gushing blood, when in reality it is just a scrape. 

Maybe after all we've been through in life, one of the end results is our tolerance isn’t what it used to be—not for pain, not for criticism, and especially not for scooters in the dark. 

The Unexpected Weight of Little Things

A quick word that stings. A glance that feels like rejection. The silence of being overlooked. These are the scooter-in-the-dark moments of life, the ones that don’t seem worthy of grief, but still manage to steal our peace. We trip, lose our footing, and wonder why it hurt more than it should.

But here’s the truth: God cares about all of it. He doesn’t wait for our hearts to break wide open before He draws near. Even the tiniest moments of pain matter to Him.

Scripture reminds us, “Cast all your anxiety on Him, because He cares for you” (1 Peter 5:7). Not just the big, dramatic heartaches, but the subtle, quiet ones too. The emotional paper cuts we carry around. The things we’re tempted to dismiss because they don’t feel “serious enough.”  But, God reminds us we don’t have to bleed to ask for healing.

Not long after my divorce, I had lunch with some friends at a beautiful golf course. The view was stunning with rolling greens, birds chirping, and perfect weather. We sat at an outdoor table, enjoying good food and friendly conversation and I was having a wonderful time.

Then, in the middle of that tranquil moment, the friend across from me smiled and said, “I’d love to introduce you to a friend of mine. She’s divorced too and I thought maybe you two could hang out.”

It was innocent enough, I suppose. But the words hit a nerve.

Why is it that because I’m divorced, I need to be paired off with someone else who’s also divorced? Like we're part of a sad little club we never asked to join. I wasn’t looking for new friends. I didn’t want to be someone's charity project or the token “divorced lady” in someone’s social circle. And honestly, I hated the label.

A small comment, said with kindness, but it felt like a punch to the gut. Like a tiny scrape that suddenly throbbed as if it were gushing blood. I smiled politely and let the conversation move along, but the joy of that beautiful afternoon had slipped away.  It’s strange how something so little can cast such a long shadow. One sentence, and suddenly I was reminded of all the things I didn’t want to feel.  Lonely, different, labeled, wounded. 

God sees what’s beneath the surface. He knows when something small hits a tender place. And He never shames us for being human, for feeling deeply, or for coming to Him with what others might call “too small.” In fact, those are often the places where His gentleness meets us most sweetly.

So if you’ve tripped over something lately, a sharp word, a disappointment, a moment that hurt more than expected, bring it to Him. No pain is too petty for the Savior who numbers the hairs on your head and bottles your every tear.

Even scraped knees matter to a God who stoops low to bandage hearts.

I have a cousin who’s just two years older than me.  She's a vibrant soul who has faced a long, grueling battle with cancer. This week, she is in her final days. It’s heartbreaking. She’s still so young, not yet even fifty years old, with so much life and love left in her. 

As I sit here, feeling ridiculous over not feeling well on the way to meet up with friends for a concert, I can’t help but think of her. She’s been in a real fight.  Her fight requires courage, pain, and incredible strength. And now, as her journey comes to an end, those who are by her side say her faith remains unwavering. She’s facing goodbye with grace, surrounded by her husband, her sister, her father, and so many others who love her deeply.

How is it possible that after enduring so much pain, after walking through such relentless suffering with an outcome that feels so unjust, her faith isn't broken?  Instead it is strengthened. How is it possible, in these final moments, when her body is failing and her loved ones are bracing for goodbye, those beside her say her spirits are high?

What kind of God do we serve, who steps into the room at the very moment when we are most undone—when grief is heavy, when hope flickers low—and gently whispers, "You don’t have to carry this anymore. Now, you’ll walk on My strength, not your own."

It’s a sacred exchange: our weakness for His strength, our sorrow for His comfort, our last breath for His eternal embrace.

Sometimes I find myself thinking about my own final days on this earth. I don’t know how or when I’ll leave this temporary home, but one thing I know with certainty: He will be with me. In those last moments, when the world begins to fade and the veil between here and eternity grows thin, He will strengthen me.

I believe that with all my heart. 

I will be about to step into something far more real than anything I've ever known. I’ll be on the threshold of glory, about to see my Savior face to face. Heaven will open wide, and it will be more beautiful, more full of joy and wholeness, than anything I’ve ever dared to dream.  And my cousin will be there, waiting.

You know, we have a Savior who didn’t just talk about life after death, He overcame death itself. Conquered it. Walked right through the grave and came out victorious. And because of that, we can hold on to real hope, even in the midst of deep sorrow.

The Resurrection and the Life: The Story of Lazarus

Jesus said, “I am the resurrection and the life. The one who believes in me will live, even though they die; and whoever lives by believing in me will never die. Do you believe this?”
—John 11:25–26

These words weren’t spoken in a quiet moment of reflection.  They were spoken into the middle of heartbreak. Jesus said them to Martha, whose brother Lazarus had just died. Grief hung heavy in the air. Lazarus had been in the tomb for four days. Hope, from a human standpoint, was gone.

Martha had sent word to Jesus days earlier, begging Him to come, believing He could heal her brother. But Jesus delayed, not out of neglect, but with divine purpose. When He finally arrived in Bethany, Lazarus was already dead, and Martha, full of sorrow and confusion, met Him on the road.

“If you had been here,” she said, “my brother wouldn’t have died.”

Those words held both pain and faith, tightly intertwined. Oh, Martha, Martha, Martha. She’s my soul sister. This wasn’t the first time she’d been exasperated with Jesus.

He was late. Too late, in her eyes, to save Lazarus. Just as He had been, in her mind, too unconcerned to tell Mary to help in the kitchen when the house was full and the to-do list never-ending. Jesus didn’t always move on Martha’s timeline. He didn’t bend to her expectations, no matter how urgent or practical they seemed. 

But here, in the grief-heavy aftermath of her brother’s death, she still came out to meet Him. Still brought her broken heart and confusion to His feet. She believed Jesus could have stopped death, but didn’t yet understand that He had power over it, too.

And this is where Jesus reveals something extraordinary, not just about Lazarus, but about Himself.
“I am the resurrection and the life,” He says.

Not I will be, not I can bring, but I AM. Resurrection is not an event, it’s a person. Jesus Himself is life over death, light in the darkness, hope beyond the grave.

Still, Martha couldn’t have known what was coming. No one there did. Jesus wept with them.  He felt the sting of death, the weight of human sorrow. And then, standing outside the sealed tomb, He called out with a loud voice:

“Lazarus, come forth!”

And Lazarus did. Wrapped in grave clothes, the man who had been dead walked out of the tomb alive. This wasn’t just a miracle, it was a foreshadowing of the ultimate victory that was to come. Jesus didn’t just resuscitate Lazarus. He revealed His authority over death itself.

And just days later, Jesus would prove it again, not by raising another, but by walking out of His own grave.

And isn't that the entire point? That’s the victory. That’s why we needed a Savior.
Because death had always had the final word, until Jesus came and rewrote the ending.

So when He asks, “Do you believe this?”
He’s not just speaking to Martha.
He’s asking us, too.

You’re probably tired of hearing me talk about being sick, but here I am again, still wrestling with this relentless virus. It’s been over a week, and I’m still not myself. My ears are completely plugged, the nausea just won’t let up, and honestly... I’ve been downright grouchy. 

Yesterday.

What a day that turned out to be.

We had plans. Big ones. I had taken the day off work. The idea was to pick up my daughter the very minute she clocked out, then hit the road for a four-hour drive to meet up with dear friends at a Christian concert. Everything was timed out to the minute. And if you know anything about Type A personalities (ahem), you know how well I handle delays. Spoiler alert: not very well. And being sick on top of it? Let’s just say, patience was in short supply.

My plan was simple: rest as much as possible during the day so I could rally for the evening drive and somehow enjoy myself at the concert. But rest was not in the cards. My phone rang constantly with one urgent thing after another and by mid-morning, I gave up on sleep. Since I was already up and my ears still felt like they were full of cotton, I decided to head to the doctor. That led to a prescription—which, of course, wasn’t ready yet when I showed up at the pharmacy. "Come back in an hour," they said. 

By the time I picked up the prescription and made it home, any hopes of a nap had vanished.  It was a whirlwind of packing and scrambling. We picked up my daughter right on time, then stopped for food. The wait was longer than expected. Tensions were high. I was frustrated, which made the kids frustrated. Then we ran into bad weather on the drive. On and on, one thing after another tried to throw us off course.

When we finally pulled into the concert venue, we were 45 minutes late. Sweaty, stressed, and worn down, we rushed in trying to shake off the chaos of the day. But then, everything changed.

The moment I stepped inside and heard thousands of voices raised in worship, it was like time stood still. We found our friends, took our seats, and in the sweet presence of God, all the stress melted away. My daughter turned to me and said, “All the stress is gone.” And I looked at her and said, “I know... can you believe it?”.  The kids and I gave each other fist bumps for making it through.

Every obstacle, every delay, every single exhausting moment—it was all worth it.  Because worship has a way of making the battle to get there feel like part of the blessing.

Isn’t it something—how there’s always a battle before the breakthrough?

Peace never seems to arrive quietly. It doesn’t just tiptoe into our lives, gentle and effortless. No, more often than not, peace has to be fought for. It’s a choice. A decision. A hundred little moments where we have to cling to it with white-knuckled faith, even when everything around us begs us to let go.

Jesus said, “My peace I leave with you.” A promise. A gift. But how quickly we forget. How easily we toss that gift aside the minute life gets hard. The moment plans fall apart, or sickness lingers, or stress starts climbing in through every open window, we let peace slip right through our fingers. We scramble for control, complain about the chaos, eat a bag of Cheetos (just me?) and forget the very peace that was ours to begin with.

It’s almost like we expect peace to come without resistance, as if we won’t have to choose it over and over again in the middle of the mess.  But maybe that’s the point. Maybe peace that’s fought for is peace that’s felt more deeply. Maybe it’s in the very struggle, the decisions we make to trust God anyway, that we discover a peace not of this world.  A peace that steadies our hearts even when the storm rages on.

And when we finally get to the other side—when the breakthrough comes, when the moment settles and we realize His peace held—we see it for what it truly is.

Not something fragile.

1.  It is possible to have peace in the storm. 

Jesus showed us that. Literally.

He was on a boat with His disciples in the middle of a furious storm.  Waves were crashing, winds were howling, and the boat was being tossed like a toy. The disciples were panicked, convinced they were going to die. And where was Jesus?

Sleeping.

Not pacing. Not instructing. Not worrying. Just... sleeping.

I often think about what it took for Him to be that calm. How physically exhausted must He have been to sleep through a storm like that? But, also, how spiritually anchored was He to rest so completely in the middle of chaos? That kind of rest doesn’t come from sleep alone, but from deep, unwavering trust in the Father.

That moment wasn’t just about the storm on the sea.  It was a picture of the storms we face every day. Fear. Illness. Uncertainty. Delays. Disappointment. And yet Jesus models what it looks like to carry peace inside, even when everything outside is shaking.

When Jesus awoke in that boat, He didn’t match the disciples' panic. He didn’t join their anxiety or scold them for waking Him up. He simply stood, spoke to the storm, and said, “Peace, be still.” And immediately, the wind died down and the sea was calm (Mark 4:39).

Then He turned to His disciples and asked, “Why are you so afraid? Do you still have no faith?” (Mark 4:40).

That question wasn’t harsh.  It was an invitation. An invitation to trust. To believe that the same Jesus who could sleep in the storm also had the power to calm it.  Peace isn’t the absence of the storm. It’s the presence of Jesus in it.  It’s knowing Who is in the boat with you.  And it’s trusting that He isn’t just able to calm the storm around you, but the storm within you, too.  

I’ve been thinking a lot about that four-hour drive to the concert.  How different could it have been if I had simply chosen peace?

We literally drove through a storm, with sheets of rain pouring down, gray skies pressing low.  But in many ways, the real storm wasn’t outside the car.  It was inside me. The pressure of being on time, the stress of the delays, the lingering frustration from being sick... it all bubbled just under the surface. And instead of letting it go, I let it lead. I let anxiety take the front seat, and peace never even made it into the car.

But what if I had chosen differently?

What if I had trusted God in the middle of the mess? What if I had turned the rain into a reminder that He washes everything clean, including my frayed nerves and heavy thoughts? What if I had leaned into that time with my kids, those uninterrupted hours on the road, and treated it like the gift it was? We could have laughed more, connected more deeply, shared music, memories, or quiet moments. I could have made space in my heart for peace to rise instead of letting anxiety run wild.

I had the opportunity to grow peace within me. To water it, to nurture it, even while the skies outside were dark. But I let the weather dictate my mood. I let the disruptions steal what could have been sacred.

And yet, God is gracious.

Even in my flustered, frustrated state, He met me the moment I stepped into that concert. The storm didn’t win. His peace did. But still, I’m learning—peace is always an option. It doesn’t wait for perfect conditions. It’s available in the delay, in the rain, in the unexpected. It’s a choice, and sometimes a fight, but it’s never out of reach.

Next time, I want to choose differently.  I want to notice the sacred even in the stressful.  Because peace isn’t found when everything finally goes right.  It’s found when I finally surrender to the One who’s already in control.

2.  Sometimes peace requires us to unplug.

 After all the chaos of the day, after the stress and the scrambling, the concert was exactly what my soul needed. Worship was powerful. The fellowship was sweet. God’s presence felt so near. That night, we reserved a nice hotel room.  It was a little splurge, and honestly, a small miracle that it turned out to be so quiet and serene. Outside the window, the countryside stretched out in calm, rolling hills. I went to bed peaceful, thankful, and feeling completely in tune with the Lord.

But then, 3:00 a.m. rolled around.

I woke up like a match had been struck in the dark.  My heart was racing, my mind was spinning, my emotions were tangled up in a ball of frustration, anger, and what I can only describe as anxiety. It came out of nowhere. One minute I was resting, the next I was wide awake, mentally replaying every problem waiting for me at work on Monday. Keep in mind—it was still Saturday night.

I tossed and turned, trying to pray my way back to sleep. “Lord, just give me the solutions. Help me think through everything now so I can rest.” I wanted a download of answers. I wanted peace through clarity.  But what I felt instead was a whisper from the Holy Spirit:

“The solutions will come—but you must unplug.”

Unplug.

At first, I wasn’t sure if I was really hearing from God. Does this align with the way Jesus lived?

And yes—yes, it does.

There are multiple times in the Gospels where Jesus stepped away from the crowds, the demands, even His closest friends, to be alone with the Father. One of the most striking examples is found in Mark 1:35:

“Very early in the morning, while it was still dark, Jesus got up, left the house and went off to a solitary place, where He prayed.”

This wasn’t a one-time moment of quiet. It was a rhythm in Jesus’ life. In the middle of miracles, teachings, and people constantly pulling on Him for healing, guidance, and attention—Jesus unplugged. He intentionally stepped away from the noise to be refreshed by communion with His Father.

If Jesus needed that space, how much more do we?

Peace doesn’t always come from having all the answers. Sometimes it comes from stepping away long enough to hear God’s heartbeat again.  From letting the to-do list go quiet.  From choosing presence over productivity.

You can be unplugged physically, and still be completely plugged in mentally.  My body was in the right place. But my mind? My heart? They were tangled in the “what ifs,” the Monday meetings, the deadlines, the weight of everything I couldn’t control. And in that moment, fear began to rise—not because of where I was, but because of where I had let my thoughts go. I was meditating on my problems instead of on the God who promised to carry me through them.

I realized then—being in the right place physically is one thing.
But being in the right place spiritually?
That’s a whole different battle.

That requires trust. That requires faith. It demands a surrender so deep that you stop clinging to the illusion of control and start leaning fully into the hands of your Father. We plan, we strive, we overthink, but in the end, every detail of our lives rests in the hands of the One who never sleeps or panics or forgets.

That night, lying in a dark hotel room with a countryside view and a tangled mind, I realized I didn’t need a spreadsheet of solutions. I needed stillness. I needed to let go of the weight I was carrying and trust that God would give me what I needed when I needed it.

Unplugging, real unplugging, isn’t about booking a spa day or finding a quiet place to sit under a tree—though those can help. It’s about refreshing our faith. It’s about reminding our souls that no weapon formed against us will prosper (Isaiah 54:17), and that the battle we're losing sleep over? It already belongs to the Lord (2 Chronicles 20:15).

When we unplug spiritually, we shift our focus.
From the storm to the Savior.
From the problem to the Provider.
From our limited strength to His limitless power.

God loves us tremendously. Not for what we produce or accomplish, but simply because we are His. Every single day is an invitation to notice that love, to see the fingerprints of His care if we’ll just look in the right place.

So the next time anxiety comes knocking at 3:00 a.m., or fear tries to invade a peaceful moment, pause and ask yourself:
Am I really unplugged? Or am I just physically present, while mentally and spiritually plugged into fear?

Because peace isn't found in our circumstances.
It's found in our connection to the One who never changes.

3: God is bigger than our worries.

Worry is such a sneaky thing. It creeps in quietly, often disguised as responsibility or preparedness, but before we know it, it’s running the show.  It runs around, controlling our thoughts, stealing our peace, and casting shadows over our days. But Jesus didn’t leave us without direction. He addressed worry head-on.

In John 14:1, Jesus tells His disciples:

“Do not let your hearts be troubled. Trust in God; trust also in Me.”

That wasn’t just a suggestion.  It was a loving command, and Jesus wouldn’t command us to do something that was impossible. He knew the weight this world would place on us. He knew the temptation we’d face to carry burdens that don’t belong to us. But He also knew the power of trust. Real, deep, childlike trust in a Father who never fails.

Worry often makes us live as if we’re orphans, as if we’re navigating this world alone, with no one looking out for us. But that couldn’t be further from the truth. We are not fatherless. We are not abandoned. We are children of a good, attentive, all-knowing God who takes care of us day in and day out.

He knows the number of hairs on your head.
He sees your needs before you even speak them.
And He’s already working behind the scenes in ways you can’t yet see.

Isaiah 54:17 reminds us that “no weapon formed against you shall prosper.” Not the weapon of fear. Not the weapon of anxiety. Not even the weapon of your worst-case scenario thoughts. God is already protecting you in ways you can’t measure.

The truth is, knowing we have that kind of Father, one who walks with us through the darkest valleys, one who never leaves our side, changes everything. It allows us to live a life of confidence and security, not because life is perfect, but because our Father is present.

Did you know that the Bible tells us “Do not fear” 365 times? One time for every single day of the year. God isn’t oblivious to our struggles. He knows how easily we are swept away by the chaos, negativity, and fear this world throws at us. And yet He continues to invite us back into peace.

It is possible to live free from fear.
It is possible to unplug your mind from that exhausting loop of “what ifs.”
And it is possible to live as someone who truly believes they are loved, protected, and cared for, every single day.

Because you are.

You have a heavenly Father who has never stopped watching over you, even for a second. And when that truth becomes real in your heart—not just something you say, but something you believe—it changes the way you live. It changes the way you think. It changes the way you breathe through the hard moments.

Worry may come knocking, but you don’t have to let it stay.
You can trust. You can rest.
And that kind of faith? It’s life-changing.