I Wish You Enough: When Is Enough… Enough?

I recently came across a story that has been quietly sitting with me. A father and daughter stand at an airport, holding onto each other a little longer than usual. Instead of saying a simple goodbye, the father whispers something unexpected: “I wish you enough.” At first, it sounds incomplete. Enough of what? Enough for how long? Enough to get through what lies ahead? But the deeper I sat with it, the more I realized how powerful those words truly are. To wish someone “enough” is not to wish them an easy life. It is to bless them with balance. With seasons. With sunshine and rain. With growth and rest. With joy and struggle. With just enough of each to shape the soul.

If I am honest, this message hit close to home. I am a learner. A dreamer. A woman who loves education, books, research, and stretching her mind. I have pursued degrees. I am currently working on another. I am always thinking about what comes next. Another certification. Another class. Another way to grow. And somewhere along the way, I had to pause and ask myself a hard question: When will it be enough? Not enough in the sense of quitting growth or abandoning purpose, but enough in the sense of contentment. Enough in the sense of trusting that I am not defined by my accomplishments. Enough in the sense of knowing that my worth does not rise and fall with my résumé.

Scripture speaks gently into this tension. “Godliness with contentment is great gain” (1 Timothy 6:6). There is nothing wrong with learning. In fact, we are encouraged to grow in wisdom: “Let the wise listen and add to their learning” (Proverbs 1:5). But there is a difference between growing because God is calling us forward and striving because we are afraid to be still. I have learned that sometimes my hunger for more comes from holy curiosity, and sometimes it comes from restlessness. From wanting to prove myself. From believing I have not done enough yet to be worthy of rest. And Jesus offers a different invitation: “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest” (Matthew 11:28).

Enough does not mean stagnant. It means surrendered. It means asking God whether the next step is rooted in purpose or pressure. Whether the next degree is about calling or comparison. Whether the pursuit is grounded in obedience or anxiety. When I reflect on this story, I realize that “I wish you enough” is really a prayer of trust. Trust that God will provide what we need for today. Trust that we do not have to carry tomorrow yet. Trust that becoming who we are meant to be is a lifelong journey, not a finish line. Jesus reminds us of this when He says, “Do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself” (Matthew 6:34).

What if enough is not about how many degrees we earn, but how deeply we love? What if enough is not about how much we achieve, but how faithfully we walk with God? What if enough is not about what we collect, but about what we release? Release perfection. Release comparison. Release the constant need to prove ourselves. And instead receive enough peace to sleep at night, enough courage to take the next right step, enough humility to keep learning, enough wisdom to know when to rest, and enough faith to trust God’s timing.

So today, I offer this blessing to you and to myself. May you have enough sunlight to keep your hope alive. Enough rain to help you grow in compassion. Enough struggle to strengthen your faith. Enough joy to remind you why life is beautiful. Enough love to anchor your heart. And enough grace to remember that you are already enough in the eyes of God. Growth is good. Learning is beautiful. Dreams are sacred. But we were never meant to run endlessly. We were meant to walk with God. And sometimes the bravest thing we can say is not “What’s next?” but “Thank you, Lord, for today.”

Saying Yes to Life: Faith, Fire, and the Quiet Holiness of Love

Tonight, after watching Soul on Fire, I didn’t immediately reach for my phone or turn on another show. Instead, I sat quietly and let the weight of the story settle into my heart. There was something sacred about that stillness, as if God Himself was inviting me to linger in the moment and listen. The film stirred emotions I wasn’t fully prepared for: gratitude, sorrow, hope, and a renewed awareness of how fragile and precious this life truly is. It reminded me that faith is not lived only in churches or prayer books, but in hospital rooms, kitchen tables, late-night conversations, and the ordinary spaces where God quietly meets us.

As the credits rolled, I felt an unmistakable nudge toward reflection. Not the kind that stays surface-level, but the kind that reaches deeper and asks uncomfortable and holy questions. Am I truly living the life God is calling me to live? Am I saying yes to love even when it costs me something? Am I allowing suffering to soften my heart instead of hardening it? Soul on Fire did not simply tell a story of survival. It proclaimed a testimony of surrender, perseverance, and grace, reminding me that every breath we are given is an opportunity to choose faith again.

These words by John O'Learly continue to echo in my heart:

“To move through the adversities of life we must have a reason to thrive that is bigger than all the challenges that we face. My purpose is simple. Because God demands it. Jack was teaching me to say yes to life. The good and the bad.”

Those words carry the weight of the Gospel. To say yes to life is to say yes to God’s will, even when it is inconvenient, uncomfortable, or unclear. It is to trust that suffering does not have the final word. It is to believe, as our faith teaches us, that resurrection always follows the cross.

Earlier today, before I even watched the movie, I had nearly a two-hour FaceTime “date” with Josie. We read books. We did activities. We laughed. We shared small moments that felt surprisingly sacred. In that time together, I realized something deeply personal.

Josie is my Jack.

Being her Godmother has transformed me. It has reshaped how I understand vocation, service, and love. God did not give me this role by accident. Through Josie, He teaches me patience. Through her joy, He reminds me of wonder. Through my responsibility to her, He calls me to live with greater intention and integrity.

Spiritual motherhood is not symbolic. It is real. It is sacrificial. It is a daily yes to praying for her, showing up for her, guiding her toward truth, and loving her in a way that reflects Christ’s love. When John speaks about purpose being rooted in God’s demand, I hear that call clearly. Love is not optional. Presence is not optional. Faith is meant to be lived, not simply believed.

Soul on Fire also reminded me that healing is not instant. Transformation is rarely dramatic. Most of the time, holiness grows quietly. It grows in choosing forgiveness when it is hard. In trusting God when answers are delayed. In continuing to love when exhaustion sets in. In staying faithful when the road feels long.

The movie’s message about community struck me deeply as well. None of us are meant to walk alone. God designed us for relationship. He heals us through others. He strengthens us through shared burdens. Whether it is friendship, family, mentorship, or spiritual kinship, grace often arrives wearing the face of another person.

John O’Leary’s words, “You get one life, make yours matter,” feel like a modern echo of the saints. The saints did not seek comfort. They sought fidelity. They made their lives matter not through perfection, but through surrender. Through daily choices to love God and neighbor more fully.

Making life matter does not require grand gestures. Sometimes it looks like missionary work. Sometimes it looks like quiet service. And sometimes it looks like sitting on FaceTime for two hours reading children’s books and laughing with a little girl who has no idea she is helping shape a woman’s faith.

Tonight, I am grateful. Grateful for stories that remind me of God’s faithfulness. Grateful for John O’Leary’s witness. Grateful for Josie, who unknowingly teaches me how to say yes to life every day. And grateful for a God who continues to invite us into purpose, even in ordinary moments.

May I keep saying yes to love, to faith, to service, to joy, and to the good and the hard because this life is a gift. And by God’s grace, I want mine to matter.

Living My Best Life, Even in the Middle of It All

Lately, I have found myself saying something that once felt impossible to believe: I am living my best life.

Not because everything is easy. Not because there are no challenges. And certainly not because life has unfolded exactly as I once imagined. I am living my best life because I have never been more at peace.

That peace greets me every morning in the simplest of ways. There is a small sticky note on my bathroom mirror that reads:

I say these words every single time I wash my hands. What started as a reminder has become a prayer. A quiet act of surrender. A daily return to trust.

Recently, I watched the Hallmark movie A Melbourne Match, and one line stopped me in my tracks:

“Life is a journey without a map. Sometimes we get lost on a path we didn’t choose, but we still have to keep moving forward.”

That quote stayed with me long after the movie ended because it named something I have lived. For a long time, I believed life was something I could plan carefully, chart clearly, and control if I tried hard enough. But real life does not come with a map. There have been moments when I found myself on roads I never intended to travel, carrying losses, disappointments, and health challenges that were not part of my original vision.

And yet, I am still moving forward.

Moving forward does not always look like confidence or certainty. Sometimes it looks like getting up, saying a prayer at the sink, and trusting God enough to take the next small step. Sometimes it looks like grieving what was, while remaining open to what is still becoming.

Moving to Fargo was one of those forward steps that required trust rather than certainty. I did not have every answer or a perfectly drawn plan, but I listened closely and followed where I felt God was leading. That move placed me in work that truly fits my gifts as a Communications Specialist and has allowed me to grow professionally in ways I never could have predicted.

Alongside that work, I am pursuing a second master’s degree, not from a place of deficiency, but from a desire to keep becoming. Learning continues to stretch me, sharpen my thinking, and invite me into deeper reflection. I am also writing children’s books that emerge from prayer, imagination, and love, stories meant to offer comfort, wonder, and faith to young hearts. Creativity has become sacred space for me, where healing and hope quietly meet.

All of this growth is happening on many levels at once. I am growing spiritually, mentally, and emotionally, even as I navigate personal health challenges and walk beside people I love through their own struggles. These experiences have softened me and expanded my compassion. They have taught me that real strength is often quiet and steady, formed not in dramatic moments, but in faithful perseverance.

Peace, I have learned, does not come from having all the answers. It comes from trusting the One who does.

Each day, as I read the words on my mirror and let water run over my hands, I am reminded that God’s love is greater than my fear, God’s desire for my happiness is deeper than my understanding, and God’s wisdom is guiding me even when the path feels unfamiliar.

Life may be a journey without a map, but I am no longer afraid of getting lost. I am learning to trust the Guide who walks with me, step by step.

And in that trust, even with challenges, I can honestly say I have never been happier or more at peace.

Going Home by a Different Way: When Epiphany Changes the Road Home

This past Sunday (January 4) was the Solemnity of the Epiphany of the Lord and it felt like a moment of unveiling. God was revealed not only to Israel, but to the whole world. Father Luke’s homily gently but firmly invited us to step into that revelation personally, not as distant observers of the Magi’s journey, but as fellow travelers who are also being called to move, to seek, and to be changed.

The readings themselves set the stage for awe and humility. Isaiah encounters the holiness of God and recognizes his own unworthiness. The psalmist wrestles honestly with doubt, confusion, and the temptation to lose heart. Saint Paul reminds us that it is grace, not our own effort, that raises us from death to life. And in Matthew’s Gospel, the Magi follow a star into the unknown and discover not a king clothed in power, but a child whose presence quietly changes everything.

As Father Luke reflected on the actions of the Magi, I found myself realizing how closely their journey mirrors my own over the past year, especially since moving to North Dakota in April and returning to Illinois over the holidays. What once felt like a practical relocation has slowly revealed itself as a deeper spiritual pilgrimage, one marked by discernment, courage, and real interior change.

The Magi first set out, leaving the comfort of their lives without knowing exactly where they were going. Since moving in April, I have learned how unsettling and sacred that kind of departure can be. Leaving meant releasing familiar rhythms, relationships, and the quiet confidence that comes from knowing how life works. I arrived in a new place without everything figured out, trusting that God was already present ahead of me. That lesson deepened during my visit to Illinois over the holidays. Returning to familiar places did not mean returning to who I once was. I felt the pull of nostalgia alongside the quiet awareness of how much I have grown. Setting out, I am learning, is not a one-time decision. Sometimes it means choosing again not to step back into patterns that no longer lead to life, even when they feel safe or familiar.

Along the way, the Magi asked questions and sought wisdom rather than pretending to have all the answers. Since April, I have learned how necessary that posture is. Moving required me to ask for help, to admit uncertainty, and to listen more attentively to God and to trusted people. During my time in Illinois, those questions became more personal and more difficult. Why do certain situations leave me anxious or depleted? What am I being asked to release? Where is God inviting me to choose health over habit? These questions did not lead to easy answers, but they did bring clarity. I am learning that God is not threatened by honest questioning and often uses it to draw us toward freedom and truth.

When Herod attempted to manipulate the Magi, they refused to comply, choosing fidelity over fear. Father Luke’s reminder that faith sometimes requires holy defiance resonated deeply with me, especially during my holiday visit. Being back revealed dynamics and expectations that once felt unavoidable but now felt misaligned with the healing God has been doing in me. I had to make intentional choices to create distance from certain situations. That distance was not rooted in anger or rejection, but in faithfulness to the work God has been doing in my heart. Going upstream has meant saying no to guilt-driven expectations and yes to emotional and spiritual health. Like the Magi, I am learning that obedience to God sometimes requires quiet, firm defiance.

The Magi’s journey ultimately led them to worship. Since moving, worship has become less about routine and more about refuge. In seasons of transition and emotional intensity, prayer has grounded me. During the holidays, when emotions surfaced and old wounds felt close, returning to Mass and prayer reminded me where my true peace lies. In worship, I have learned to bring my whole self, not just the parts that are composed or strong. The Eucharist has become a place where I can lay down what I cannot carry and receive grace instead. In Eucharistic adoration and quiet prayer, I am reminded who God is and who I am. I was made to worship, to receive, and to be restored.

Finally, the Magi went home by a different route. An encounter with the living God always changes direction. It has been made clear to me that I am not the same person who began this journey eight months ago, even though some of the groundwork has been coming together for years. The changes I have made are not about resolutions or self-improvement. They are about transformation. Choosing distance, setting boundaries, and letting go of certain dynamics has reshaped how I understand friendship, family, and faith. Going home by a different route has meant honoring the growth God has given me, even when that growth includes grief or loss. My prayer life has deepened, and my trust in God has become quieter, steadier, and more real.

Epiphany reminds me that God reveals Himself so that we may be changed. Like the Magi, I did not set out simply to travel or to return unchanged. I set out to encounter Christ. And in that encounter, I am learning to let the Lord continue changing my heart, leading me, gently and faithfully, home by a different way.

An Intentional Start, Still Rooted in Christmas

So much of our faith is lived not only in feast days, but in the quiet space that follows them. Even now, as the Church still rests in the joy of Christmas, the rhythm begins to soften. The lights are still glowing, the manger still stands, and yet the days grow quieter. Today feels like that kind of day. No big proclamations. No dramatic beginnings. Just the gentle call to be faithful where I am, still carrying the wonder of Christmas into ordinary moments.

The Christmas season reminds us that God comes quietly. Not with spectacle or force, but as a child, entrusted to human hands, growing slowly, hidden for years before ever speaking a public word. There is something comforting in remembering that even after the angels sang and the shepherds knelt, life returned to meals, work, friendships, and waiting. Faith continued not through fireworks, but through fidelity.

Yesterday held its own kind of Christmas grace. I spent the afternoon with Teri and Kelvin, sharing greens, black-eyed peas, and ham for lunch. It was a simple meal, but one filled with warmth and laughter. We played Sequence throughout the afternoon, the kind of unhurried time that feels increasingly rare. Though Teri and Kelvin are newer friends from the parish, there was nothing new or awkward about the day. It felt as though we had been friends for years.

I left their home with a full heart, reminded of how God weaves community together in quiet ways. Parish friendships often grow this way, slowly and steadily, through shared tables and shared stories. This, too, is Christmas lived out. Emmanuel does not leave when the feast day passes. He stays, present in conversations, hospitality, and the simple gift of being known.

As the calendar turns, I feel especially aware that grace does not disappear with December. It continues in the Christmas season’s invitation to notice God-with-us in ordinary places. In morning prayer offered without polish. In familiar routines. In the gentle discipline of showing up again.

Intentional living, for me, is deeply tied to this understanding of Christmas. It is choosing to make space for God not only in moments of celebration or crisis, but in the small, daily acts of trust. It is beginning the year not by striving, but by staying attentive. Asking, Lord, how are You dwelling with me today?

There is a temptation at the start of a new year to rush toward clarity, to demand answers about the months ahead. But the Christmas season teaches patience. The Child in the manger does not hurry us. God reveals Himself in His time, one step at a time, one day at a time.

Today, intentionality looks like prayer woven into the day rather than saved for later. It looks like gratitude for friendships that feel like gifts. It looks like trusting that the life God is shaping does not require me to force it into being.

This year does not need to be conquered. It needs to be received, like Christ Himself.

So today, still within the glow of Christmas, I choose faithfulness over frenzy. Presence over pressure. Trust over control.

Lord Jesus,

You came to us not in noise or power, but in humility and love.

Teach me to recognize You in the quiet moments, in shared meals, in ordinary days.

Help me to live this year with faithfulness rather than fear,

to welcome Your presence where I am,

and to trust the work You are doing, even when I cannot yet see it.

May I walk forward with a heart rooted in gratitude,

open to Your gentle leading,

and willing to receive each day as gift.

Amen.

From One Small Resolution to an Intentional Life

As the year comes to a close, I find myself pausing in that quiet space between what has been and what is still unfolding. These days invite reflection, not in a tidy or linear way, and this past year was not small; it stretched me, shaped me, and asked more of me than I sometimes felt able to give.

I have never been someone who makes New Year’s resolutions. Not because I do not want to grow or change, but because I know myself well enough to know that big promises made on January 1 rarely hold their shape by the end of the month. Over the years, I have learned that when I aim too high too quickly, I often end up discouraged rather than transformed. The pressure to overhaul everything at once usually sends me back to old habits instead of forward into new ones.

So in January of 2025, I tried something different. Instead of creating a long list of goals, I made one very small and very practical resolution. I committed to doing laundry every week.

It may sound trivial, or even funny, but for me it was significant. I have always hated doing laundry. Because of that, I avoided it, postponed it, and negotiated with myself about it. I often waited six weeks before finally tackling it. Yes, I genuinely owned enough clothes to make that possible. Too many clothes if I'm being honest!

Laundry had become one of those tasks that lived quietly in the background of my life, creating constant low-level stress while I pretended it was not there. When the piles grew, so did the feeling of being overwhelmed. When I finally did it, it felt exhausting rather than manageable.

Choosing to do laundry every week was not about productivity or organization in a grand sense. It was about practicing consistency in something small. It was about learning how to care for my space and my life in a way that felt realistic rather than punishing.

Week after week in 2025, I followed through.

There was no dramatic turning point. No sudden transformation. But something shifted. That one small act became a quiet rhythm in my life. It reminded me that discipline does not have to be harsh to be effective. It showed me that tending to ordinary responsibilities is not meaningless. It is part of living a grounded and attentive life.

Over time, I noticed how much mental space that consistency created. The background stress of unfinished tasks began to ease. Keeping up with something I once avoided gave me a small but steady sense of accomplishment. It taught me that change often arrives not through bold declarations, but through faithful attention to the small things.

When I look back on 2025, I see a year marked by both significant beginnings and profound losses. I started a new job, stepping into unfamiliar rhythms and responsibilities, learning new systems, new expectations, and new versions of myself. There was excitement and gratitude, but also vulnerability. Growth, I am learning, often feels unsettling before it feels strong.

I also moved to Fargo, a physical relocation that mirrored a deeper internal shift. Moving meant leaving behind familiarity and comfort, learning new streets and seasons, and building a sense of home from the ground up. Some days were filled with possibility. Others felt lonely and chaotic. Both were true.

This year also brought the milestone of graduating with a degree in communications and a starting another master's program. A moment that should have felt purely celebratory, yet arrived layered with exhaustion, relief, pride, and a quiet grief for the version of myself who carried that journey from beginning to end. Graduation marked not just an achievement, but the closing of a long chapter of persistence, late nights, self-doubt, and determination. I am proud of that woman. I am learning to say that out loud.

Alongside these milestones came loss. The loss of friends. The loss of loved ones. The slow, painful kind of loss where people are still physically present but no longer the same. The kind of loss that does not announce itself loudly, but changes everything quietly. This year taught me that grief is not something you get through. It is something you learn to carry, often alongside joy, often without resolution.

There were relationships that changed, some that ended, and others that revealed their depth in unexpected ways. I learned who could sit with me in hard moments, who could listen without fixing, and who could stay even when answers were unclear. I also learned that some connections, no matter how meaningful they once were, cannot travel with you into every season of life.

As 2025 comes to a close, I realize this year was not about dramatic transformation. It was about learning to show up. It was about discovering that growth often begins in the most ordinary and unglamorous places.

That realization is what led me to how I want to approach 2026. Instead of making a resolution, I am choosing a word. My word for 2026 is intentional.

Choosing to be intentional is not about controlling the future. It is about responding to life with care. It is about no longer living on autopilot, saying yes out of obligation, or pushing through simply because I always have. It is about choosing where my energy goes, who I give my time to, and how I honor my own limits.

To be intentional is to slow down enough to notice how I am living. It is choosing to act rather than react. It is asking honest questions such as what actually matters now, what deserves my attention, and what I can gently release. It is asking how I want to feel in the life I am building.

I want to be intentional in my work, grounding it in purpose rather than pressure. I want to be intentional in my relationships with family and friends. For me, that does not only mean closeness and availability. It also means discernment. Intentionality sometimes includes distance, boundaries, and the willingness to protect my own energy. It means recognizing when certain dynamics leave me depleted rather than supported, and giving myself permission to step back when needed.

Being intentional with relationships may mean choosing fewer interactions but more meaningful ones. It may mean saying no without guilt and trusting that distance does not always signal a lack of love. Sometimes distance is an act of care for both myself and others. Protecting my energy allows me to show up more authentically where I am truly called to be present.

I want to be intentional with my faith, making space for it rather than squeezing it into the margins of my life. That may look like simple, honest prayer, moments of quiet reflection, or choosing stillness when everything around me feels loud.

I also want to be intentional with my time, my rest, and the way I speak to myself. Not everything deserves equal access to my energy. Rest is not something I earn after productivity. It is something I need in order to live fully and faithfully.

This word does not promise ease. It asks for awareness, courage, and honesty. But it also offers clarity and freedom. It offers the possibility of living in alignment rather than constantly reacting to expectations, pressures, or old patterns.

If 2025 taught me the power of small, steady choices, then 2026 will be about making those choices with care and purpose.

Not perfectly.
Not all at once.
One week at a time.
One day at a time.

Faith, Friendship, and the Gift of Community: Lessons from The Star

Last night, I watched The Star with friends, expecting a lighthearted animated movie. What I did not expect was how quietly meaningful it would become, or how deeply its themes would echo long after the screen went dark.

At its heart, The Star is a story about unlikely companions on a shared journey. The characters are not heroic because they are fearless or strong, but because they stay. They keep walking even when they are unsure, tired, or afraid. They accompany one another, offering encouragement, protection, and presence when it matters most. The film gently suggests that none of us is meant to navigate life alone, and that sometimes the most important thing we can do is simply keep showing up for each other.

One of the lessons that stood out most is how courage grows in community. The characters stumble and doubt themselves, yet something changes when they realize they are not alone. Their strength comes not from having everything figured out, but from being willing to take the next step together. It is a quiet reminder that support does not always look like solutions or advice. Often, it looks like companionship.

That theme carried seamlessly into the rest of the evening. After the movie ended, Brett (Yogi), Amy, and I did not rush off or turn on something else. We stayed. We talked for more than three hours. The conversation moved easily between laughter and reflection, memories and present realities, lighthearted moments and deeper truths. It felt like a continuation of the story we had just watched, lived out in real time.

These are the friendships that do not require constant proximity to remain strong. It is one that can go months or even years without regular contact and still feel steady and safe. My friendship with Yogi is one of my longest friendships, and I have been blessed to develop a friendship with his wife, Amy, over the last 20 years. She is a beautiful soul and I'm deeply inspired by her love and dedication to the Church and self-growth. Yogi and Amy are the kind of friends who are always a phone call or text away, always willing to open their home, always ready to make space when I need a place to land. Being with them reminded me that enduring friendship is one of the quiet gifts that carries us through seasons of uncertainty.

What The Star ultimately affirms is that presence matters. Not the kind that fixes everything, but the kind that stays. The kind that listens. The kind that walks alongside someone else without needing to control the outcome. Sitting there with Yogi and Amy
, I realized how often the most meaningful moments in life are unplanned, unpolished, and deeply human.

As the night came to a close, I felt a sense of gratitude settle in. Gratitude for stories that remind us of what truly matters. Gratitude for friendships that endure distance and time. Gratitude for conversations that linger and homes that welcome. May we all be blessed with people who walk beside us when the road feels long, who offer warmth without conditions, and who remind us, simply by being there, that we do not have to carry life on our own.

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.