The Quiet Faithfulness of Creation

The ice storm moved through our part of Louisiana and left everything looking different. The sun finally came out, bright and clear, but the temperatures were still freezing. Light had returned, yet the cold lingered. It was one of those mornings where things looked better, but you still had to move carefully.

That is when I noticed the blackbirds.

They were all over my neighborhood. Moving from yard to yard. Tree to tree. One would land and others would follow. They were attentive to each other, almost coordinated, as if they knew where to go next. What struck me most was what they were not doing. They were not competing. They were not panicking. They were not fighting over space or seed. They simply kept moving together, trusting that provision could still be found.

Watching them made me slow down.

“Ask the animals, and they will teach you, or the birds in the sky, and they will tell you.”

 — Job 12:7

Scripture tells us to pay attention to creation because it teaches us about God. In the Book of Job, God tells Job to look to the animals and the birds because they understand something we often forget. They live with an awareness that provision comes from the hand of God, not from ideal conditions. They do not reason it out. They live it.

The blackbirds did not wait for the ground to thaw before they showed up. They did not interpret the frozen landscape as scarcity or abandonment. They trusted that what they needed could still be found, even after disruption. And they trusted it

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enough to move together.

That is not accidental. That is design.

“Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them.” — Matthew 6:26

Jesus echoes this truth when He speaks about the birds of the air. He reminds us that they do not store away, strive for control, or compete, yet God feeds them. Watching the blackbirds move through my neighborhood felt like seeing that Scripture come to life. They did not interpret the frozen ground as
abandonment. They responded with trust.

The storm had changed what was familiar. Ice exposed weak branches. Some things could not hold the weight and broke away. Yet life continued. Creation adapted without panic. The birds did not question whether God would provide. They simply looked for what sustains them and followed where it could be found.

That challenged me.

I often associate trust with outcomes. When things improve quickly, faith feels easier. When the sun is shining and the temperature rises, confidence comes more naturally. But Scripture reminds me that trust is not rooted in comfort. It is rooted in knowing who provides.

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The blackbirds did not know how long the cold would last. They only knew where to look. They searched for seed because that is what sustains them. They did not worry about tomorrow’s weather or compete for what might run out. They moved together, trusting that daily provision was enough.

That is biblical faith in motion.

“Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed, for His compassions never fail.

They are new every morning; great is Your faithfulness.”

— Lamentations 3:22–23

Scripture tells us that God’s mercies are new every morning. Not every season. Not once everything feels safe again. Every morning. Even after a storm. Even when the ground is still frozen. Creation lives this truth instinctively. It receives what is needed for today without demanding certainty about tomorrow.

Standing there watching the birds, I was reminded that quiet faithfulness matters. Trust does not always look bold or dramatic. Sometimes it looks like showing up the morning after the storm, staying attentive, and continuing to seek what God has already promised to provide.

The sun will eventually warm the ground. The ice will melt. But until then, creation keeps trusting. And Scripture invites us to do the same.

Write a Letter to God

Take a few quiet moments and write a letter to God. Let it be simple and honest. Write about what this season feels like for you. The places where things still feel cold or uncertain, even though the storm has passed. The areas where you have been tempted to compete, rush, or assume scarcity instead of trusting
His provision.

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Tell Him what you are afraid of and what you are hoping for. Write about where you need to learn how to move forward with quiet faith, trusting that He will provide what you need one day at a time. Give Him your real thoughts, not the polished ones. The good, the bad, and the unfinished. He already knows them, and He welcomes all of it.

God, thank You for the lessons You place around me through creation. Help me learn from its quiet faithfulness and daily dependence. When the ground feels frozen and the season feels uncertain, teach me to trust You anyway. Help me seek what sustains me today, move forward without fear, and rest in the knowledge that You are a faithful Provider. Amen.

Abide

A Reflection on John 15:5

There are seasons when I feel the pull to do more. Be more. Try harder. Fix what feels unfinished. I can fill my days with good things and still feel spiritually dry. Somewhere in the middle of all the doing, I realize I am tired in a way that rest alone does not fix. What I need is not a break. What I need is connection.

That is where John 15 meets me every time.

Jesus says, “I am the vine; you are the branches. Whoever abides in Me and I in him, he it is that bears much fruit, for apart from Me you can do nothing.” There is something both comforting and confronting about those words. Comforting because Jesus makes it clear I am not meant to do life on my own. Confronting because it reminds me how easily I drift into independence.

Jesus speaks these words to His disciples on the night before the cross. He knows fear is coming. Confusion is coming. Loss is coming. And instead of giving them a list of instructions, He gives them an image. A vine and branches. He shifts their focus away from performance and back to relationship.

What stands out to me is that Jesus never tells the branch to work harder. He does not say fruit comes from effort. He says fruit comes from abiding. Remaining. Staying connected. A branch does not strain to produce fruit. It simply stays attached to the source of life. The fruit comes naturally as a result of connection.

That changes how I think about faith.

So often I measure spiritual growth by how much I am doing. How consistent I am. How productive I feel. But Jesus invites me to a slower, deeper question. Am I abiding. Am I staying close. Am I making room to remain in Him instead of rushing ahead on my own strength.

When Jesus says, “Apart from Me you can do nothing,” He is not shaming us. He is freeing us. He is reminding us that life, peace, wisdom, and fruit all flow from Him. Without that connection, I can still be busy. I can still look productive. But I will eventually run dry.

Abiding looks simple, but it is intentional. It is choosing time with God when life feels full.

It is returning to His Word when my thoughts feel scattered. It is prayer that is less about asking and more about staying near. Abiding is not passive. It is a daily decision to remain connected to the One who gives life.

What I am learning is that fruit is not my responsibility. Connection is. When I stay close to Jesus, He produces what is needed in and through me in the right time. Peace. Patience. Wisdom. Love. Endurance. Those things grow best when I stop striving and start remaining.

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John 15 reminds me that faith is not about how much I can accomplish for God. It is about how deeply I stay connected to Him. When I abide, I am not living from my own strength. I am living from His.

And that changes everything.

Invitation to Write a Letter to God

Take a few quiet moments and write a letter to God. Be honest about where you have been striving instead of abiding. Write about where you feel tired, pressured, or disconnected. Then ask Him to show you what staying close looks like in this season. Let the letter be a place of
returning, not performing.

Jesus, thank You for inviting me to abide in You. Help me recognize when I am trying to live from my own strength instead of staying connected to You. Teach me to slow down, remain near, and trust that You will produce fruit in my life as I stay rooted in You. I want my life to flow from relationship, not effort. Amen.

When Anxiety Becomes the Invitation

When Anxiety Becomes the Invitation

A Reflection on Philippians 4:6

Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, 

with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. Philippians 4:6

I am a planner by nature. I like knowing what is coming and having a sense of direction. Planning helps me feel steady and prepared. But I have learned that it is often the unknown that unsettles me the most. When I cannot see what is ahead, fear has a way of sneaking into my thoughts. The enemy uses unanswered questions, half-formed scenarios, and quiet doubts to whisper fear, lies, and failure into my mind. What begins as preparation can quietly turn into anxiety if I am not paying attention.

That is why Philippians 4:6 has become such an anchor for me.

Paul writes, “Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God.” I have read this verse many times, but lately it feels less like instruction and more like a gentle interruption to my thought life. It stops me long enough to notice what is happening in my mind before fear settles in too deeply.

What deepens this verse for me is remembering where Paul is when he writes it. He is imprisoned, writing to encourage believers while living with uncertainty himself. He does not have control over his circumstances or clarity about what comes next. And yet, he speaks about peace as something that is still accessible. Paul is not pretending anxiety does not exist. He is acknowledging it and teaching believers what to do with it in the middle of real pressure. As he writes to the church in the Book of Philippians, Paul shows us that anxiety is not the enemy of faith. It is the moment that calls for faith to be practiced.

As I sit with this verse, I realize Paul is not asking us to eliminate anxious thoughts through willpower. He is inviting us to redirect them. Anxiety does not have to be absent from our lives for us to live faithfully. It becomes the signal. The moment fear rises is the moment we are invited into prayer. Paul shows us that prayer is where the weight is transferred. Anxiety moves from our hearts to God’s hands.   

Paul does not stop at prayer. He continues in Philippians 4:7 and reminds us what happens when we bring everything to God. “And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.” This peace is not logical or circumstantial. It does not come from having answers or certainty. It comes from being held. God’s peace stands guard over our hearts and minds, protecting us when anxiety tries to take over our thoughts. Even when the unknown remains, peace becomes present because Christ is present. 

The phrase “in everything” in verse 6 continues to challenge me. Not just the big decisions. Not just the serious concerns. Everything. The quiet fears I do not say out loud. The unknowns I keep replaying. The places where fear disguises itself as responsibility. Paul invites us to bring it all, not selectively, but fully. Prayer with thanksgiving shifts our focus from what we do not know to who God has already proven Himself to be.                

This verse has helped me recognize something important about myself. When I do not pray, my planning easily turns into control. When I do pray, my planning stays grounded. Prayer helps me recognize when fear, lies, or a sense of failure are trying to take root in my thoughts. And once I recognize it, I know exactly where to go.

Philippians 4:6 teaches me that anxiety does not disqualify my faith. It invites deeper dependence. When I respond as a biblical thinker, I stop asking how do I make this feeling go away and start remembering who I am. I am a daughter of the King.

Being a daughter of the King does not mean anxiety will never knock on my door. It means I understand my position when it does. I am not powerless, forgotten, or left to manage fear on my own. My identity gives me access. Access to God’s presence. Access to His peace. Access to truth when lies try to take hold of my mind. Anxiety becomes the reminder of whose I am, not a verdict over my faith. As His daughter, I do not have to sit in fear or accept it as permanent. I am invited to bring it to Him, to exchange it for truth, and to rest in the privilege of being cared for by a faithful Father who guards my heart and mind.

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Peace is not found in certainty. It is found in trust. The unknown may still exist, but it no longer has to control my thoughts. Choosing prayer over panic is not a one-time decision. It is a daily practice of noticing, pausing, and handing my thoughts back to God.

Invitation to Write a Letter to God

Writing a letter to God has become one of my daily habits. It keeps me close to Him, but it also helps organize my thoughts before the enemy has a chance to capture them and create chaos. Writing slows me down. It brings what is swirling in my mind into the light and places it in God’s presence instead of letting it stay tangled in my head.

I want to invite you to do the same. Take a few quiet moments and write honestly to God. Give Him your real thoughts, not the polished ones. The good, the bad, and the ugly. The fears you do not say out loud.
The questions you do not yet have answers for. He already knows them, and He wants everything. Writing becomes a way of drawing near, releasing what you are carrying, and reminding your heart who is in control.

God, You know how easily fear can slip into my thoughts, especially when the future feels unclear. Help me recognize anxiety when it appears and remind me to come to You instead of holding it alone. Gently remind me to think biblically, to trust Your truth over my feelings, and to rest in who I am as Your daughter. Guard my heart and mind with Your peace as I place everything in Your hands. Amen.

Turning My Face Toward God

  

So I turned to the Lord God and pleaded with him in prayer and petition, 

in fasting, and in sackcloth and ashes.

I prayed to the Lord my God and confessed:

“Lord, the great and awesome God, who keeps his covenant of love with those 

who love him and keep his commandments, . . .”

I remember a morning when I was a young mom, standing in my kitchen before the sun came up. The house was finally quiet after a long night of feedings and little feet padding across the floor. I was exhausted in a way that went deeper than sleep deprivation. I loved my children with everything in me, yet I felt overwhelmed, unsure, and stretched thin. I stood there with my Bible open, not because I had a plan, but because I knew I needed God to meet me right there.

I did not have big prayers that morning. I did not have clarity or confidence. I just had a tired heart and a deep need for mercy.

What I remember most from that season is how much I thought I was failing. Failing as a mom who should have it together. Failing as a daughter of the King who should feel stronger in her faith than she did. I believed faith was supposed to look steady and confident, not worn down and uncertain. I quietly carried the weight of thinking something must be wrong with me, that I was falling short both spiritually and personally.

Years later, when I found myself in Daniel 9, that memory came rushing back.

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By the time we reach this chapter in the Book of Daniel, Daniel is not young anymore. He has lived most of his life in exile. He has walked faithfully with God for decades, serving under kings who did not honor the Lord. And yet in chapter 9, we find him in the Word, letting Scripture shape his response.

Daniel is reading the prophet Jeremiah and realizes the seventy years of exile are nearly complete. God’s promise is unfolding. What moves me is not just what Daniel knows, but how he responds. Scripture says Daniel turned his face toward the Lord God and sought Him in prayer.

That phrase stops me every time.

Daniel had to be near to God in order to turn toward Him. He did not have to search for God or wonder where He was. When understanding and conviction settled in, all Daniel had to do was turn. His nearness made that possible.

Daniel does not celebrate or rush ahead. He humbles himself. He fasts. He confesses. He prays and says, “we have sinned.” Not they. We. Even though Daniel is known for his faithfulness, he does not distance himself from the brokenness of his people. He stands in it with humility and honesty. This is not shame. This is intercession. His prayer is rooted in who God is. God’s faithfulness. God’s mercy. God’s covenant love. Knowing God’s promises does not replace prayer for Daniel. It deepens it.

And it is here, after sitting with Daniel’s posture, that something finally settles in my own heart.

I was not failing back then. I was growing.

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Like Daniel, I was near enough to God to turn toward Him. I did not have polished prayers or spiritual confidence yet, but I knew where to go. I knew to open His Word. I knew to stay close. Even when I felt unsure, even when I felt inadequate, I was positioning myself in His presence. That mattered more than I understood at the time.

Growth often looks like weakness while you are in it. Relationship is formed in the quiet showing up, not in perfection. Daniel’s life reminds me that faith is built over time, through proximity to God, through returning to Him again and again. When the moment came for Daniel to turn his face toward God, he could do so easily because he had spent a lifetime staying near.

Looking back now, I can see that those early mornings in my kitchen were not evidence of failure. They were evidence of relationship forming. I was learning how to stay close to God, and that closeness shaped everything that came after.

Daniel 9 reminds me that spiritual maturity does not mean we never struggle or doubt. It means we live near enough to God that when life feels heavy, when understanding grows, or when conviction comes, we know exactly which direction to turn.

Sometimes the most faithful thing we can do is stay near and trust that God is growing us, even when it feels like we are falling short.

Write a Letter to God

Take a few quiet moments and write a letter to God. Do not worry about getting the words right. Write honestly.

You might begin with:

• God, here is where I feel like I am failing
• God, here is where I am tired and unsure
• God, help me see where You are growing me, even if I cannot see it yet

Write what needs to be cleansed in your heart. Write what is heavy. Write what feels unfinished. Write where you are learning to stay near and turn toward Him. Write your thankfulness

God, thank You that growth does not require perfection. Thank You that You meet us in the quiet, in the weariness, and in the questions. Please give me for the times we have been fearful and with lack of trust in your plan and promises. Teach us to stay near to You, to turn our face toward You when life feels heavy, and to trust that You are at work even when we feel unsure. Help us see our lives not through the lens of failure, but through the lens of relationship and growth. We want to know You more, walk with You closely, and trust You deeply. Amen.

Truth in the Beams

“Unless the Lord builds the house, the builders labor in vain.” Psalm 127:1

The restored space, ready for a new season of family and memories.

When we decided to restore our bathroom, we knew it would be messy.

Walls would come down. Floors would be pulled up. Old things would be exposed. The space would be unusable for a while. Everything would feel inconvenient before it felt beautiful again.

What we didn’t expect was how meaningful the in-between would become.

 The in-between. Loud, dusty, inconvenient, and necessary.

For twenty-three years, this bathroom held the everyday rhythms of our family. Little boys. Baseball uniforms. Muddy shoes. Toothpaste on the mirror. Late nights and early mornings. It was never fancy, but it was faithful.

Now those boys are grown.

Life looks different. Quieter in some ways, fuller in others. Grandkids, guests, and a growing family now move through our home, and it felt like the right time to restore this space. Not to erase what it had held, but to prepare it for what it will hold next.

As the walls were opened and the framing was exposed, we did something simple and intentional. We wrote Scripture on the beams. Verses. Names. Dates. Not for display. Not for anyone else to see. But as a way of placing God’s truth into the structure of our home before the walls were closed.

A blessing of wisdom and understanding placed into the structure of our home.

Words of forgiveness and renewal written into the foundation.

Then the drywall went up. The tile was laid. The fixtures were installed. The dust settled. The mess disappeared. The beauty returned.

The mess is gone, but the foundation remains.

But the truth remains.

Hidden, yet foundational.

No one who walks into that bathroom will ever see those verses. But they are there, just like God’s Word is meant to be in our lives. Not always visible. Not always noticed. But steady, shaping, and holding everything together.

That reminder brings me back to this truth.

Unless the Lord builds the house, the builders labor in vain.

We can restore walls and floors and fixtures. We can design spaces and make them functional and beautiful again. But only God can build what truly lasts.

Our verses are in our hearts and minds just like they are in the beams. Not for display, but for foundation. Hidden in a way that shapes how we live, what we build, and what we pass on.

So we trust God with both the restoring and the building of our lives, our family, and our future, while He also gently restores our past.

“I will restore to you the years that the locust has eaten.” Joel 2:25

And that feels like exactly the right foundation.

Not just for a room.

But for a family.

A Letter to God

Before you close this page, I want to invite you into something I practice often.

I like to write letters to God. Writing slows me down and helps me name what is really in my heart. It creates space to notice what I am carrying, what I am hoping for, and where I am trusting God to work.

Take a quiet moment and write your own letter to God. It does not need to be long or polished. It only needs to be honest.

You might begin with:

Dear God,

What part of my life feels like it is being restored right now?

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What feels unfinished or still in process?

Where do I need to trust You to build what I cannot build on my own?

What truth from Your Word do I need to hold onto in this season?

Let this be a simple, sacred pause between you and God.

God, thank You for being the One who builds what truly lasts. Thank You for restoring what has been worn down, healing what has been broken, and renewing what has grown tired. I trust You with the restoring and the building of my life, my family, and my future. Help me stay anchored in Your truth and rooted on the foundation only You can provide. Amen.