Trusting God in the Waiting and the Breaking

Today’s readings meet me right where I am. They meet me in the quiet ache of traveling back to Illinois for Thanksgiving and Christmas, knowing that this visit feels different. Heavier. More fragile. I came home carrying joy, memories, and love, but also grief, fear, and the deep sadness of watching people I love change in ways I cannot stop.

In the first reading from Judges, we hear about a woman who is barren and unable to conceive. Her longing is deep and unspoken, and yet God sees her. An angel appears and promises life where there has only been emptiness. What strikes me is not just the miracle of Samson’s birth, but the waiting that comes before it. God’s work begins long before the child is born. It begins in a promise spoken into uncertainty.

That waiting feels very real to me right now. This trip was filled with moments of joy and laughter, but underneath it all was an awareness that time is precious and not guaranteed. I spent intentional, meaningful time with friends and loved ones, knowing in my heart that these moments mattered more than ever. Conversations felt deeper. Hugs lingered longer. There was a quiet understanding that we were holding something sacred simply by being present with one another.

Psalm 71 feels like the prayer of my heart. “In you, O Lord, I take refuge.” These words are not triumphant. They are clinging words. They are spoken by someone who has known both God’s faithfulness and life’s fragility. The psalmist speaks of trusting God from the womb, of leaning on Him through every season of life, even as strength fades.

Throughout this trip, I found myself leaning on God while also leaning on the people who know me best. I shared pieces of my heart that I usually keep tucked away. I spoke honestly about the internal struggles I have been carrying. The exhaustion. The grief. The fear of what lies ahead. The ache of loving deeply while knowing I cannot control outcomes. There is something holy about being seen in your vulnerability, about realizing that God often offers refuge through the listening hearts of others.

In the Gospel, we meet Zechariah and Elizabeth, faithful people who have prayed for years without seeing their prayer fulfilled. When the angel finally speaks, Zechariah cannot believe it. His doubt costs him his voice, and he enters a season of silence.

That silence feels familiar. There are moments in grief and emotional exhaustion when words fail. When prayer becomes quiet. When all we can do is sit with God rather than speak to Him. Zechariah’s silence is not simply about doubt. It becomes a sacred pause, a space where God continues to work even when understanding is limited.

This trip felt like that kind of pause for me. A slowing down. A listening. A gentle reckoning with truths I have been avoiding. Being home stirred memories, both beautiful and painful. It reminded me of who I have been, who I am becoming, and the parts of myself that still need healing. In sharing my heart with trusted friends and family, I realized that silence does not mean absence. God was present in every conversation, every tear, every quiet moment of understanding.

Elizabeth names her pregnancy as the Lord removing her disgrace. Sometimes God removes our burdens in ways we can see and celebrate. Other times, He allows us to carry them while surrounding us with love, support, and grace. Both are acts of mercy.

As I return home to my apartment in Fargo next Friday, I am holding onto this truth. God is at work in the waiting. God is present in the silence. God meets us in honest conversations and in the courage it takes to open our hearts. I may not know what the future holds for the people I love or for the struggles I am facing, but I know who holds us all.

And for now, that is enough.

The Heart of Becoming a Leader

A colleague recently shared a line from Warren Bennis that has stayed with me ever since: “Becoming a leader is synonymous with becoming yourself. It is precisely that simple and it is also that difficult.”

The more I sit with these words, the more I realize how closely they mirror my own faith journey and the communities that have shaped who I am today. Leadership, in the truest sense, has never been about titles, platforms, or recognition. It has been an unfolding of identity, a gradual discovery of who God created me to be, and the courage to live from that place with authenticity.

My earliest sense of leadership came from faith communities that held me gently and challenged me lovingly. Teens Encounter Christ offered me my first glimpse of spiritual leadership. TEC taught me what it meant to serve with joy, to witness with honesty, and to trust that God works powerfully through ordinary people who say yes. It helped me begin to see that my voice mattered and that my story had value.

My years as a Catholic school teacher deepened that understanding. Standing in a classroom full of curious, energetic children taught me how to lead through patience, consistency, and compassion. Teaching was never only about academics. It was about helping children see their own goodness, nurturing their gifts, and guiding them as they formed their identities in faith. In many ways, those ten years were my training ground for understanding how profoundly leadership is tied to becoming more fully myself.

Later, my role as a Director of Religious Education and Youth Ministry became another defining chapter. Guiding children, teens, and families in their spiritual lives required a leadership rooted in authenticity and trust. It invited me to become more grounded in my own faith and more attentive to the quiet ways God forms hearts. I learned that leadership is not having all the answers. It is showing up consistently, listening deeply, creating safe spaces, and allowing God to work through each moment of connection.

The Christ Child Society has also shaped the leader I continue to become. For nearly ten years, I have served on the board as the social media and website coordinator. Telling the story of an organization dedicated to children and families in need has shown me that leadership is often quiet and steady. It is the willingness to amplify voices that go unheard and shine light on needs that might otherwise remain unseen. Through this role, I have learned that leadership can be digital, creative, behind the scenes, and still profoundly impactful.

All these experiences influence the storyteller in me. When I write children’s books, I am not simply creating narratives. I am drawing from the decades of ministry, teaching, service, and prayer that formed me. TEC’s joy, the classroom’s daily lessons in patience and wonder, the parish years of guiding families in faith, and the Christ Child Society’s commitment to compassion appear in the themes of every book I write. Hope, gentleness, courage, and faithfulness rise from the places where God taught me who I am meant to be.

Writing for children has become one of the most meaningful expressions of leadership in my life. Children deserve stories that honor their dignity, strengthen their imaginations, and remind them that God loves them with tender closeness. They deserve adults who lead through compassion, integrity, and authenticity. They deserve writers who help them feel seen, safe, and valued.

Warren Bennis was right. Becoming a leader is simple because it begins with becoming yourself. It is difficult because becoming yourself requires grace, honesty, and a willingness to be shaped continually. My faith journey and the communities that have walked with me have been steady guides, teaching me that God works slowly, deeply, and beautifully in those who are open to transformation.

I am still becoming. I am still learning what leadership looks like in this season of my life. But I know this much. When I follow where faith leads, when I serve with love, when I create from a place of authenticity, I move one step closer to the person God calls me to be. And that is the heart of leadership.

When Trust Is All We Have: A Reflection on the Immaculate Conception and Loving Someone Through Confusion

This year’s celebration of the Solemnity of the Immaculate Conception met me in a tender, aching place. As I listened to the homily, my heart kept drifting back to someone I love dearly, a woman whose entire life has been a living witness of faith, devotion, and trust in God. Yet now, in her suffering, confusion has become a daily companion. It is heartbreaking to watch, but it has also illuminated something beautiful about faith that I needed to hear more clearly today.

During the homily, the deacon reflected on the angel Gabriel’s message and Mary’s response: “Behold, I am the handmaid of the Lord. Be it done unto me according to your will” (Luke 1:38). That line has echoed through the centuries not because Mary understood everything God was doing, but because she did not. She could not. Yet she trusted. Mary’s yes was not built on clarity. It was built on surrender.

Her yes was not simple. It was costly. The deacon shared that God does not call us to only be as good as we can. He calls us to holiness, to union with Him, and He gives us grace through the sacraments to sustain us. Mary was conceived without sin so she could freely choose God’s will with her whole being. But that did not exempt her from suffering. Her yes came with uncertainty, misunderstanding from others, and a future she could not predict. Still she trusted. Still she said yes. Her choices did not remove suffering, but they made it bearable because she faced each moment anchored in God.

As I sat in Mass, I could not stop thinking of her, the one I love who now lives in a fog of confusion, who sometimes forgets the simplest things, yet never forgets to cling to God. When she prays, it is with childlike sincerity. When she blesses herself, it is slow and reverent. When she is afraid, she reaches for Jesus the way Mary must have reached for Him countless times. I see Mary in her more now than ever before, not in strength or clarity, but in surrender. Her suffering is real. Her confusion is painful to watch. And yet, beneath it all is a faith so deep that it humbles me. While her mind sometimes struggles, her heart remains pointed toward God with unwavering trust. She teaches me, without words, that holiness is not about the sharpness of our thoughts but the orientation of our hearts.

The Solemnity reminded me that grace is not a concept. It is a lifeline. We are not meant to carry suffering alone, whether it is our own or that of someone we love. Mary was preserved from sin not so her path would be easy, but so she could receive and cooperate with grace perfectly. Watching this woman who loves God with her whole being makes me realize how much we depend on grace when human strength falters. Her confusion does not diminish her faith. If anything, her trust in the middle of it mirrors Mary’s trust in the unknown.

There are days when I wish I could take away her suffering, clear the confusion, and restore what has been lost. But, maybe, the holier invitation is something different: to stand beside her the way Mary stands beside us, to say my own small yes when I do not understand, to trust that God is present even when the situation feels fragile and uncertain. Mary shows us that trust is not a feeling. It is a posture of the heart. And my loved one, through her quiet suffering, shows me what that looks like lived out.

Today reminded me that God’s will is not always clear, and His ways are not always easy. But He gives grace enough for the moment. He gave it to Mary. He gives it to her. And He gives it to me as I walk with her through this tender season. Maybe that is the beauty of the Immaculate Conception: not that Mary had all the answers, but that she showed us how to surrender even when we do not understand. Her yes makes my yes possible. Watching someone I love trust God in the midst of confusion teaches me that even in suffering, grace leads us gently forward.

The Holy Spirit Brings the Right People Together for a Mission

Some days carry a quiet holiness, the kind that reminds you God has been arranging the details long before you ever noticed. Today was one of those days. It began with an interview for the Butterfly Girl Podcast and ended with a meaningful act of giving that flowed directly from a project guided by faith and friendship.

This morning, I sat down with illustrator Laila Warner to record an upcoming podcast episode. Later, the two of us delivered a $250 donation to the Mercer County Family Crisis Center in Aledo, Illinois. The donation came entirely from the sales of our book, Miriam’s Heavenly Tea Party. Knowing that every dollar came from this project made the moment feel even more sacred.

When I look back at the journey of this book, I can see so clearly how the Holy Spirit stepped in at the exact moment I needed guidance. My first illustrator unexpectedly backed out, and I remember feeling discouraged and unsure of what to do next. It was then that my friend Mindy gently suggested that I reach out to Laila.

At the time, I had no idea how important that suggestion would become. I contacted Laila, hopeful but uncertain, and from our very first conversation, I felt a sense of peace. She immediately understood the heart of the book and the mission woven through it. It was as if God had been preparing her for this project long before I knew I needed her.

Looking back, I can see the Holy Spirit bringing our paths together through Mindy’s simple nudge. The timing, the connection, the shared purpose, all of it was far too perfect to be coincidence. It was grace.

During our interview, Laila shared how deeply this project touched her. The themes of gentleness, healing, and hope echoed her own faith journey and her desire to create art that reflects God’s tenderness. She wanted every illustration to feel like a safe place for a child, something that quietly reassures them of God’s closeness and love.

For me, writing this book has always been an offering for children who have experienced pain, fear, or loss. It carries a message of comfort and the reminder that God meets us softly in the places where we are hurting. Listening to Laila describe how intentionally she approached each scene made me realize how beautifully her gifts were aligned with the heart of this mission.

We both believe that Miriam’s Heavenly Tea Party is more than a story. It is a ministry shaped through color, creativity, and prayer. It was created for little hearts that deserve to feel safe, cherished, and seen.

Laila also shared how much she connected with Miriam, the main character, and her longing to grow in her faith. As a new convert to the Catholic Church, she felt a personal resonance with Miriam’s desire to draw closer to God. I converted in 1999, so this theme of spiritual growth felt deeply familiar to me as well. Both of us believe strongly in nurturing faith in children while also giving back to the community organizations that walk with young people in difficult circumstances. This shared conviction gave the project even deeper meaning for us.

After the interview, Laila and I traveled to the Mercer County Family Crisis Center to deliver the donation from the book. Carrying that envelope felt like holding a piece of the journey itself. Every dollar came from the hands of readers who purchased Miriam’s Heavenly Tea Party, trusting that their purchase would help support families who are navigating incredibly difficult circumstances.

Standing together with the staff, with our book held between us, I felt a wave of gratitude. This story began as a simple idea, grew through a Spirit-led partnership, and now it is helping families in a very real and practical way. That is the kind of work only God can orchestrate.

As I drove home, I kept thinking about how gently God works in the background of our lives. A setback with my first illustrator created space for a new beginning. A suggestion from Mindy became a Holy Spirit prompt. A collaboration with Laila became a mission. A book created with prayerful intention became support for families who need compassion and care.

Today reminded me that saying yes to God, even when we feel uncertain, allows Him to turn ordinary moments into something beautiful.

I look forward to sharing Laila’s full interview on the Butterfly Girl Podcast. Her heart, her faith, and her artistic spirit shine through every word. And today, I am grateful for her, for Mindy, for the readers who supported this book, and for the families served by the Mercer County Family Crisis Center.

A Spirit-guided connection.
A shared mission.
And a donation overflowing with love.

**The interview between myself and Laila will drop on December 14, 2025 on Spotify. Subscribe to the Butterfly Girl Podcast to stay up-to-date on all episodes.

When Gratitude and Grief Meet at the Table

This Thanksgiving carried a mix of emotions I didn’t entirely expect. There were moments of warmth and connection, moments that brought peace, and moments that stirred up a heaviness I didn’t see coming. Looking back, the holiday became less about the day itself and more about what it revealed within my own heart.

The week began gently. I spent time with people whose calm presence reminded me how healing simple kindness can be. A thoughtful conversation, a caring gesture, even a moment of intentional attention created space where I felt myself begin to breathe again. I didn’t realize how much tension I had been carrying until someone offered me the chance to let it go. It felt like God’s comfort arriving in small, human ways.

I also had the chance to reconnect with friends who have known me through many seasons of life. Sharing a meal, laughing together, and catching up reminded me of how grounding true friendship can be. Those hours felt steadying, like stepping on soft ground after walking through uneven places for too long.

Thanksgiving Day itself began simply. Preparing the meal, moving through familiar steps in the kitchen, and participating in the rhythm of the holiday brought a sense of calm. But the afternoon carried a different emotional weight. I spent time with loved ones who are facing significant health challenges, and seeing those changes stirred a grief that caught me off guard. Watching someone you care about struggle or decline can leave the heart aching in ways words cannot fully express. It reminded me how fragile life is and how quickly things can shift.

The emotions of the day stayed with me as I drove home, and the tears came freely. Sometimes crying is the only way the heart knows how to release what it cannot hold any longer. I let the feelings rise and fall, allowing myself to sit with them instead of pushing them away.

Later, I faced a painful moment within my own family. Harsh words were spoken toward me, unexpectedly and without cause. The tone alone was enough to shake me. It left me feeling small, unwelcome, and emotionally drained. Sometimes hurt arrives not because of misunderstanding but because someone projects their own frustrations outward, and you happen to be standing in the path. I found myself withdrawing, trying to sort through the heaviness without letting it settle permanently in my spirit.

Through all of this — the tenderness, the sadness, and the discomfort — I still sensed God’s quiet presence. Healing rarely follows a neat or predictable path. Sometimes it shows up in moments of connection. Sometimes it shows up in tears shed in private. Sometimes it shows up in recognizing when a situation is too heavy and choosing to protect your own heart.

Maybe that is what this Thanksgiving taught me: that gratitude does not require everything to be perfect. It can exist right beside sorrow. And healing can begin in the honest places where we admit that both are true at the same time. God does not ask us to hide our mixed emotions. He simply asks us to bring them to Him.

If your Thanksgiving held both joy and ache, please know you’re not alone. Many of us carry emotions that don’t fit neatly into the holiday narrative. It is okay to feel grateful and still feel the sting of what is painful. God meets us in all of it—in the softness, in the confusion, in the ache, and in the quiet moments when we are trying to find our footing again.

This year reminded me that healing often begins when we stop pretending and allow our hearts to be honest. And gratitude grows not from perfection, but from noticing small glimmers of grace in the midst of everything else.

Wherever this holiday found you, may you also find hope. God is working gently, faithfully, and lovingly in ways that may be unfolding even now.

Where a Family’s Welcome Reveals the Gospel

“So he came down at once and welcomed him gladly.” — Luke 19:6

There is something deeply sacred about being welcomed — truly welcomed — into someone’s home. In Luke 19:6, we see that kind of wholehearted openness. Zacchaeus didn’t hesitate. He didn’t second-guess himself. He simply received Jesus with joy. And in that moment, hospitality became holy.

I didn’t think about that verse until after I left, when I was reflecting on the night and how deeply welcomed I felt in Jenn and Frank’s home. I walked in as someone who was expected, almost like entering the home of family. Their kids came running toward me with bright eyes and wide smiles, arms outstretched, wrapping me in hugs before I could even sit down. That kind of welcome warms the heart faster than any words can.

Dinner was simple, but full of the kind of joy that lingers long after the meal ends. There was loving correction. The kind of gentle reminders that help kids grow. There was teaching and reinforcing of manners, offered with patience and kindness. There were silly kid jokes and the swooping of finger airplanes flying through the air, adding playfulness to the evening. The ordinary rhythms of family life felt touched by something gentle and beautiful.

One of my favorite moments came as we all sat around the table. One by one, we shared: “The best part of our day, the hardest part of our day, what we want to ask of Jesus and Mary, and what we want to ask of the family.” Each voice, small and big, offered something honest. Something tender. Something hopeful. It was precious and uplifting, the kind of ritual that strengthens hearts and bonds at the same time. A little family examen. A holy pause in the middle of everyday life. Watching Jenn and Frank guide their children through that moment reminded me again what amazing parents they are.

After dinner, another sweet moment unfolded. I had brought Christmas gifts for the kids. The excitement on their faces was immediate. They could hardly wait to open them, their little hands ready to tear into the paper. Inside were copies of Miriam’s Heavenly Tea Party and copies of my other books. Their joy was contagious, and almost right away they asked if I would read to them.

And of course, I did.

They gathered close as I read aloud, and even though the books had just been opened, it felt like the stories belonged to them instantly. When we finished, their enthusiasm kept going. They wanted to show me their rosaries, tiny treasures they held with reverence, and they asked to see mine too. It was such a tender, faith-filled moment, sharing something sacred with children whose hearts receive God with such openness.

But it was the moment I was getting ready to leave that stayed with me the most.

One of the kids ran up and said, “I love you, Kimberly.”

Another followed with, “You have a beautiful smile.”

Then came more hugs, more kisses, and more of that unfiltered affection that children offer so freely.

Again, Luke 19:6 echoed in my heart: Welcomed gladly. Not because I brought anything extraordinary, or because I earned it, but because love was already there waiting to be shared.

Zacchaeus welcomed Jesus with joy, but Jesus also welcomed Zacchaeus. He noticed him. He called him by name. He saw his heart. That exchange of seeing and being seen is where transformation begins.

onight reminded me that hospitality, true Christ-like hospitality, has that same power. It notices. It embraces. It creates space for belonging. It reminds us that relationships are gifts, and sometimes the Gospel looks like a child squeezing your hand and saying, “I love you.”

Tonight, I was welcomed gladly. And I left carrying that joy with me.

Beginning Again: Restarting the Butterfly Girl Podcast

There is something sacred about returning to a project you once set aside. You look at it again, feel that familiar pull, and realize it never stopped belonging to you. It simply waited for the right moment to come alive again.

That is exactly how it feels to restart the Butterfly Girl Podcast.

When I recorded the very first episode four years ago, I had a hope-filled heart and a desire to create a space for honest conversations about healing, faith, and transformation. Then life shifted, as life often does, and the podcast needed to pause. A pause is not an ending. Sometimes it is preparation for something deeper.

Why I Am Returning Now

During the past few years, I have continued to grow, heal, pray, and learn. My journey has reminded me again and again that people need safe spaces to talk about their stories and to hear the stories of others.

I am a survivor of childhood sexual assault. That experience shaped parts of my life, but it does not define who I am. Trauma is something that happened to me, not my identity. What defines me are the choices I make, the faith I hold, the love I offer, and the courage I continue to build.

Restarting this podcast feels like the right way to bring my voice, my mission, and my purpose together again. It feels like opening a window and letting in fresh air that has been waiting on the other side.

What You Can Expect Moving Forward

I do not have every episode planned and I think that is a good thing. Healing and creativity both grow best when they have room to breathe. Here is what I hope you will find in this new season of the Butterfly Girl Podcast:

• Honest conversations about what healing really looks like

• Reflections on faith that come from lived experience and prayer

• Personal stories that show growth, struggle, joy, and the quiet courage to keep going

• Guest conversations with survivors, teachers, therapists, faith leaders, writers, and others who carry wisdom

• Encouragement for anyone who is trying to rebuild, rediscover, or reclaim their voice

Some episodes will be simple and reflective. Others may be full of storytelling or practical guidance. All of them will be rooted in hope and honesty.

What I Hope This Podcast Offers

My deepest hope is that this podcast becomes a gentle and steady space. A place where people feel seen, heard, and understood. A place where truth and grace live side by side.

I hope a survivor listens and feels less alone. I hope someone in a season of waiting finds a little more faith for the road ahead. I hope a parent or teacher learns how to support a child who is hurting. I hope someone who feels lost hears something that helps them breathe again.

Healing does not happen in silence. It happens when stories are shared, when voices rise, and when we remember that transformation is possible at any stage of life.

Thank You for Being Here

If you have followed my writing, my books, or my journey, thank you. If you are new here, welcome. You are part of this new beginning just by reading these words.

New episodes of the Butterfly Girl Podcast will be released on Sunday mornings. They will be moments of connection, reflection, and encouragement as the week begins.

You can follow the podcast for free on Spotify but you will need to download the app on your phone,
or go to the podcast section of my website.

Here is to beginning again. Here is to courage and hope. Here is to the butterfly inside each of us, ready to grow and fly in its own time. Welcome back to the Butterfly Girl Podcast.

When Heaven Spoke in Color: Faith in the Northern Lights

Last night, the heavens above Fargo were alive with color as they were across the country. The Northern Lights shimmered across the sky in brilliant shades of red and green, filling hearts with awe and gratitude. I did not take these particular photos, but when I saw them, I instantly felt the same sense of wonder that so many experienced beneath that glowing sky. It was as if creation itself was worshiping, and for a few quiet moments, we were invited to join in.

The Northern Lights have always been a marvel of both science and spirit. We know that they occur when particles from the sun collide with our atmosphere, creating waves of color that ripple through the sky. Yet for those who watch in silence, it often feels like something more. It feels like a whisper from God, reminding us that His presence is not distant or confined to a church building. It moves and breathes in the world He made, lighting up even the darkest night.

In Scripture, light has always been a symbol of God’s presence. From the burning bush that called to Moses, to the pillar of fire that guided the Israelites, to the dazzling light of Christ’s Transfiguration, the message has always been the same: God is near. He reveals Himself not only in words, but in wonder. The radiant red that filled the sky last night felt like a living reflection of that truth.

The deep hues reminded me of the Holy Spirit, often represented as fire and light. It is the same Spirit that hovered over the waters at the beginning of creation, the same Spirit that descended upon the apostles at Pentecost, filling them with courage and renewal. Perhaps this brilliant display of light was a gentle reminder that the Spirit still moves through creation today, filling us with peace, awe, and faith when we take the time to look up.

As I gazed at the photos this morning, I could not help but think of how God continues to reach out to us through beauty. The world can feel chaotic and heavy at times, yet God’s artistry never stops. He paints reminders of hope across the heavens, inviting us to slow down and see His love written into the fabric of the universe. The Northern Lights are a reminder that the same Creator who shaped galaxies and starlight also shaped each of us, breathing life into our souls and purpose into our days.

Moments like these call us to gratitude. Gratitude for the mystery that keeps us humble, for the beauty that awakens our hearts, and for a Creator who never stops speaking through His creation. Even when clouds cover the stars or storms fill the air, the light is still there, waiting to break through.

Though I did not take these photographs myself, they capture something eternal: the way God’s light continues to reach us. It shines above us, around us, and within us. It reminds us that faith is not just something we hold in our hearts; it is something we can see reflected in the sky. And when we lift our eyes to that glowing canvas, we are reminded once again that God is still painting hope across the night.

**Note: Photos were shared on the Fargo/Moorhead/Area Community Page on Facebook and are being used with permission from the photographers.**

Faith, Freedom, and Service: A Veterans Day Reflection

Each year on November 11, we pause to honor the brave men and women who have served in the Armed Forces, ordinary people who answered an extraordinary call. Veterans Day invites us not only to remember their courage but also to recognize the deep faith that often sustains such service.

For many who have worn the uniform, faith has been their anchor in uncertain times — the quiet prayer before a mission, the whispered Psalm in the darkness, the cross tucked into a pocket as a reminder that God walks with them even in the valley of shadows. Their service reflects Christ’s teaching in John 15:13: “Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.”

As people of faith, we are called to remember that freedom itself is a gift, and with that gift comes responsibility to serve others, to protect the vulnerable, and to work for peace. Veterans have embodied that call through sacrifice and steadfast devotion. Their courage reminds us that true strength often comes not from power, but from love and faith lived out in action.

This Veterans Day, may we not only express gratitude but also lift up every veteran in prayer:

• For healing of body, mind, and spirit.
• For comfort to families who carry memories of loss and love.
• For the grace of peace in a world that still longs for it.

In every flag that waves, every note of “Taps,” and every quiet moment of remembrance, may we see the hand of God guiding our nation toward compassion, justice, and unity.

Let us give thanks for all who have served, and recommit ourselves to living lives worthy of their sacrifice, rooted in faith, hope, and love.

Today I remember and pray particularly for those in my life who have served in one of the branches of the Armed Forces. 

• Bob Becker (Grandpa) - Army
• Frank Wujek - Navy
• Janean Doherty - Navy
• Jeff and Jocelyn Wujek - Navy
• Jason Motter - Marines
• Jay Stabler (Uncle) - Army
• Tim Glass - National Guard
• Mitch McCoy - National Guard
• Norman Souba (Grandpa) - Army
• Matt Levy (Navy)
• And many more

Lord, bless our veterans and all who continue to serve. May Your light shine upon them and bring peace to their hearts.

Forever and Ever, Amen: A Weekend of Music, Memories, and Meaning

Last night I went to the Randy Travis concert in Grand Forks, alone. That’s not something I usually do, but something inside me said to go. And I’m so glad I listened.

The concert was unlike anything I’ve experienced. Though Randy’s stroke has changed his ability to sing, his presence filled the arena with grace, gratitude, and quiet strength. You could feel his heart in every smile, every wave, every lyric shared through the voice of James Dupré, who sang Randy’s songs with deep reverence. The original Randy Travis Band played alongside him, giving the evening an authenticity that felt like stepping back in time.

When the first notes of Forever and Ever, Amen filled the room, I felt my throat tighten and my eyes well up. That song has always been my favorite and one of my grandparents’ favorites, too. They didn’t sing along to the radio, but they loved Randy’s music, the way it carried messages of faithfulness, love, and devotion that matched the kind of life they lived. Hearing it performed again stirred a deep nostalgia. 

Being there alone gave me space to feel it all — the memories, the inspiration, and the reminder that even when life changes in ways we never expect, beauty can still emerge. Watching Randy on stage, surrounded by those who’ve walked the journey with him, was a powerful picture of resilience and grace.

Tonight, I carried that spirit with me as I volunteered at the Sts. Anne and Joachim Fall Festival. After the emotional night before, it felt grounding to spend time in community, meeting new people, laughing, sharing food, and chatting with those I’m still getting to know.

There’s something sacred in those small interactions: a familiar face offering a smile, a new acquaintance becoming a friend. Volunteering reminded me that while music can stir the soul, connection is what sustains it.

As I reflect on this weekend, I’m reminded that inspiration often comes when we step a little outside our comfort zone whether it’s going to a concert alone or saying yes to a volunteer opportunity. Both moments filled my heart in different ways.

Faith, love, and community — that’s the melody I’m taking with me this week.