When Healing Looks Like a Sunrise

This morning, on my way to a follow-up doctor's appointment and then physical therapy for my shoulder, I looked toward Sts. Anne and Joachim, my parish, and had to stop for a moment. The sky was beautiful. The colors stretched behind the church in a way that made an ordinary morning feel anything but ordinary. There was something about seeing those colors surrounding a place that has become so important to me that made me reach for my phone and take a picture.

I wasn't looking for a sign. I wasn't even thinking about writing something from the moment. I simply thought it was beautiful. But the longer I looked at the photo, the more I began thinking about where I was headed this morning and what stood in front of me. A church. My church. A place where I have prayed, worshiped, received Christ in the Eucharist, sat in silence, celebrated, struggled, questioned, and found community. A place that has become part of my life here in Fargo. And behind it was this incredible sky, filled with color and light, all while I was on my way to continue working on healing. There was something quietly fitting about that.

My shoulder has been a lesson in patience. There have been appointments, physical therapy sessions, exercises, questions, and the frustration that comes when the body doesn't heal as quickly or as neatly as we would like it to. I would much rather healing have a clear timeline: do this for this many weeks, feel better, move on. But healing rarely seems to follow the timelines we create for it.

I know that from far more than my shoulder. There have been other kinds of healing in my life that have taken years. Some came so slowly that I didn't even realize healing was happening until I looked back and recognized that something inside me had changed. Maybe that is part of what struck me about the sky this morning. The darkness hadn't completely disappeared. The light was simply beginning to change it.

And isn't that so often how Christ works? He doesn't always remove every difficult thing from our lives. He doesn't always give us immediate answers. He doesn't promise that following Him means we will never hurt. But He enters those places with us. Slowly, sometimes almost imperceptibly, the light begins to look different. What once felt completely dark isn't quite as dark anymore. What once seemed impossible to carry becomes something we discover we haven't been carrying alone. What once defined us becomes only one part of a much bigger story.

Looking at Sts. Anne and Joachim beneath that morning sky reminded me of how many times Christ has met me in ordinary places and ordinary moments. Not necessarily with dramatic answers, but sometimes simply with beauty: a sunrise, a church steeple against the sky, the quiet of the sanctuary, a familiar face at Mass, the Eucharist placed on my tongue, or a few minutes in prayer when I didn't have the words to say much of anything. Those moments may seem small, but I have learned not to dismiss them because healing often happens in small moments, too.

Physical therapy is a good reminder of that. You don't necessarily see the difference after one exercise or one appointment. You keep showing up. You keep doing the work. You trust that those small movements are leading somewhere, even when progress feels painfully slow. Perhaps our spiritual and emotional healing isn't so different. We keep showing up. We keep praying. We keep receiving Christ. We keep allowing people to walk with us. We keep choosing forgiveness, sometimes more than once. We keep trusting that God is doing something even when we can't see it yet.

And then every once in a while, He gives us a moment when we can look back and recognize just how much the colors have changed. That is what this photo feels like to me. I was on my way to an appointment because my shoulder still needs healing. There is still work to do. But there in front of me was my parish, standing beneath a sky that seemed to be moving from darkness into light.

Maybe I needed that image this morning. Not because God was promising me that everything would suddenly be fixed, but because it reminded me of something I have learned again and again throughout my life: Christ is present in the healing. He is there in the doctor's office and in the physical therapy room. He is there when progress comes quickly and when it seems like nothing is changing. He is there in the wounds we can point to and in the ones no one else can see. And He is there in the beautiful morning sky above the church we call home, quietly reminding us that darkness never gets the final word.

Sometimes healing doesn't arrive all at once. Sometimes it looks more like a sunrise. The darkness slowly gives way, the colors begin to change, and the light grows.

And Christ has been there the entire time.

Where I Was Meant to Be

Father Pedro Arrupe, S.J.

Some days have a way of holding more than one emotion at the same time. Yesterday was one of those days for me.

For months, I had known the beatification of Blessed Fulton J. Sheen was coming. As someone who has spent time learning about his life, writing about him, and developing an even greater appreciation for his witness, I knew it would be a meaningful day. I also knew I wouldn't be there in person.

Still, when yesterday finally arrived and I began seeing pictures from friends who were there, I felt something I hadn't quite expected. I was extremely jealous. Not in a way that took away from how happy I was for them. I loved seeing their pictures and hearing about what they were experiencing. But there was also a little ache in knowing that this beautiful and historic moment was happening and I was watching it from hundreds of miles away.

So I kept EWTN on throughout the day. It became the background to my Thursday, allowing me to catch pieces of the celebration and feel connected in some small way. But as the day unfolded, I began to realize there was something rather fitting about where I would spend part of the evening.

Somewhere Else

Because I knew I wouldn't be able to attend the beatification, I had volunteered to help with Women Adoring Jesus, an event at my parish. I served on the planning committee, and the evening included Adoration of the Blessed Sacrament, Confession, a talk on prayer by Father Luke, and time afterward for refreshments and conversation. About 50 women came.

As I sat in the church during Adoration, there was still a part of me thinking about everything that had happened earlier in the day. I thought about my friends who had been there for the beatification. I thought about Blessed Fulton Sheen. Then the connection hit me. Here I was wishing I could have been there to celebrate a man who had built his life around showing up before Jesus in the Blessed Sacrament, and I was sitting before Jesus in the Blessed Sacrament.

I couldn't help but smile at that. Maybe I didn't need to be anywhere else.

Learning to Just Be

Father Luke's talk last night was about prayer, but what stayed with me wasn't a new method or a list of things I should be doing. It was almost the opposite. He talked about opening our hearts to God's presence and learning how to simply spend time with Him, to “waste time” with God.

That phrase stayed with me because I am not particularly good at wasting time. I like to know what I'm accomplishing. I like checking things off lists. There always seems to be something that needs my attention, and sometimes I carry that same mentality into prayer. Am I concentrating enough? Am I saying the right things? Should I be reading something? Should I be getting something out of this? Suddenly, even sitting quietly with Jesus can become another thing I am trying to accomplish.

Father's words invited me to think about prayer differently. What if I didn't have to accomplish anything? What if I could just be there?

He spoke about Mary and her willingness to receive. There was something about that word, receive, that caught my attention. Receiving requires a different posture than doing. It means allowing myself to stop long enough to recognize that I don't have to earn what God wants to give me.

A Prayer I Keep Coming Back To

At one point, Father offered a very simple prayer: “Lord, help me to know how much You love me.”

I wrote it down. There is something about that prayer that feels both simple and incredibly difficult. It is one thing to know intellectually that God loves me. It is another thing entirely to allow that truth to reach all the places inside of me that aren't always convinced.

Maybe sometimes the more honest prayer is, Lord, I want to believe You love me, but there is a part of me that struggles with that. Maybe I don't have to fix that part before I bring it to Him. I can simply bring it.

Father also shared a few lines attributed to Jesuit Father Pedro Arrupe about falling in love with God: “Fall in Love, stay in love, and it will decide everything.”

I've heard those words before, but they sounded different to me yesterday, maybe because I was sitting there thinking about Blessed Fulton Sheen. What makes someone return to a chapel every day for a Holy Hour? Discipline certainly matters. Commitment matters. But I wonder if, underneath all of that, there is something much simpler: love.

Maybe Sheen kept showing up because somewhere along the way, that hour stopped being merely something he did and became time spent with Someone he loved. That thought has stayed with me.

What Happens in the Silence?

Father Luke also mentioned Pope Benedict XVI's 2012 World Communications Day message and his reflections on silence and communication. That immediately caught my attention because communication has been such a large part of my professional and academic life. We usually think communication requires words. Someone speaks, someone listens, and information is exchanged.

But Father asked a question I haven't stopped thinking about: What kind of communication happens in silence?

I thought about sitting before the Blessed Sacrament. Sometimes silence feels uncomfortable because I want to fill it. I want to say another prayer, read another page, or give my mind something to do. But perhaps silence doesn't always need to be filled.

Father described it as an awareness of the “even more.” I loved that. There is always more happening than I can see, more than I can understand, and more than I can put into words. Maybe silence gives me enough room to notice that.

Not Where I Expected to Be

When I woke up yesterday morning, part of me wished I were somewhere else. I wanted to be there for the beatification. I wanted to celebrate with my friends. I wanted to experience that moment firsthand.

By the end of the evening, though, I found myself thinking about the strange beauty of how the day had unfolded. I had spent the day watching Blessed Fulton Sheen's beatification from a distance, and then I ended it sitting before the same Jesus Sheen had chosen to sit before every day.

There was no grand spiritual moment or sudden revelation. Mostly, there was just quiet. Maybe that was the point. I didn't have to understand everything. I didn't have to produce anything. I didn't even have to know exactly what to say. I just had to show up.

Lord, here I am.

Those words feel different to me today. Maybe some days, that really is enough. While I still wish I could have been there yesterday, I'm beginning to appreciate where I was instead.

God Sees the Whole Puzzle: Trusting the One Who Sees All

Yesterday morning, as I was getting ready for Mass, I listened to the Season 4 finale of the Butterfly Girl Podcast, “Walking Forward Whole.” I wasn't prepared for how emotional I would become listening to my own words. Season 4 has been about moving from wounds to wholeness, and in the finale, I reflected not only on what each of my guests had shared but also on my own journey. I talked about how healing hasn't meant forgetting what happened or reaching some imaginary place where nothing hurts anymore. It has meant learning that my wounds don't get to tell me who I am. Jesus does.

As I listened, I found myself thinking about where my life has been and where it is now. There was a time when I saw so much of my life through the lens of what had happened to me. Over time, God began changing that slowly and patiently. Through people, prayer, therapy, spiritual direction, Scripture, the sacraments, friendships, and countless ordinary moments, He began showing me that my story was bigger than the things that had wounded me.

In the episode, I said something that struck me differently when I heard myself say it. I used to think peace would come once everything finally made sense. Now I know I can still have questions and trust the One who has the answers. Maybe that was why the tears came. I could look back and see things I couldn't see when I was living through them.

Then I went to Mass. Throughout the Mass, we sang O Bless the Lord, My Soul, Come, Ye Thankful People, Come, Fairest Lord Jesus, and I Sing the Mighty Power of God. The readings were from Isaiah, Psalm 145, Philippians, and Matthew. I was already carrying everything I had been thinking and feeling while listening to the podcast when Father Littlefield began talking about these words from Isaiah: “My thoughts are not your thoughts, nor are your ways my ways, says the Lord.”

Suddenly, the morning connected. Father talked about the times when our thoughts and ways don't align with God's because we don't see all the pieces of the puzzle, but God does. That was exactly what I had just been reflecting on while getting ready for Mass.

There have been so many moments in my life when I was holding one painful piece of the puzzle and couldn't understand what God was doing. I wanted answers. I wanted things to be different. I wanted to know why certain things had happened and why God wasn't changing circumstances the way I thought He should. I couldn't see the picture. I could only see the piece in my hand.

Now, looking back, I can see more of the picture. Not all of it, of course. There are still things I don't understand, and I suspect there always will be. But I can see God's fingerprints in places where I couldn't recognize them before. That is something I talked about in the podcast too. There were seasons when I couldn't feel God's presence, but He was still providing what I needed. Sometimes I simply didn't recognize that He was carrying me.

Maybe that is why the words from Psalm 145 felt so fitting too: “The Lord is near to all who call upon him.” God's nearness doesn't mean we will always understand what He is doing. Sometimes we won't. Sometimes the piece in our hands won't make any sense at all, but He is still near.

Father Littlefield also talked about how God is continually calling us to conversion, to change, and to grow closer to His Sacred Heart. That connected with another theme that ran throughout the podcast season. Healing and transformation aren't things we finish. We are always becoming. God continues to work in us one day, one surrender, and one yes at a time. That is where I am. I am still becoming, still healing, still learning to surrender, still discovering places in my life where my ways aren't God's ways, and still learning that I don't need to understand everything before I trust Him.

Then came Communion. At some point, some of the Precious Blood was spilled on the floor. I watched as one of the Eucharistic Ministers carefully and reverently purified the place where it had fallen, and I became teary-eyed again. After everything I had been thinking about that morning, there was something about watching that moment that touched me deeply.

That was the Blood of Christ. The Blood of the One who had been with me through every piece of the puzzle. The One who was there when I knew He was there and when I couldn't feel Him at all. The One who was there through the wounds and the healing. The One who has patiently been changing the way I see myself and my story, while teaching me to recognize His presence even in the moments I didn't understand. The One who sees the entire picture. And perhaps most importantly, the One who doesn't stand at a distance waiting for me to figure everything out. He gives Himself to me.

That may be what tied the entire morning together for me. Before Mass, I had listened to myself reflect on how far God has brought me. During Mass, I was reminded that His ways are not my ways because He sees what I cannot see. Then, in the Eucharist, I was reminded that the God who sees the whole picture is not distant. He is near.

Looking back over my life, I can see more pieces now than I could years ago. I can see people God placed in my path. I can see moments of grace I didn't recognize at the time. I can see ways He was working when I thought nothing was happening. But I still don't see the whole puzzle, and maybe I never will in this life.

Perhaps walking forward whole isn't about finally understanding every piece. Maybe it is about reaching the place where I can look at the piece in my hand, even the one I don't understand, and trust the God who sees where it belongs. Yesterday reminded me that I don't need to see the whole picture.

I know the One who does.

Sometimes Success Looks Like a Conversation

Yesterday, I had the opportunity to spend part of my Saturday at Overbooked Bookstore in downtown Fargo for an author meet-and-greet and book signing. Just outside, downtown was full of activity as the Red River Market, North Dakota’s largest farmers’ market, brought people into the area for a beautiful September Saturday.

Going into a book signing, it can be easy to measure the success of the event by one thing: how many books you sell. If that were the only measure, yesterday might have seemed like a quiet event. There were not a lot of book sales. But I have learned that sometimes the most important moments at an author event have very little to do with how many books leave the table. They happen in the conversations.

Throughout the event, people stopped to look at the books, ask questions, share pieces of their own stories, and learn why I write. Those conversations gave me opportunities to talk about faith, children, healing, courage, and the mission behind my books. And that matters just as much as making a sale.

One of the sweetest surprises of the day was a visit from a friend who was in town from Illinois. I was not expecting to see her, which made the visit even more special. In the middle of a busy downtown Fargo Saturday, that familiar face was such a gift and another reminder that sometimes the moments we remember most are the ones we never planned.

One of the things I have tried to remain grounded in throughout this journey as an author is remembering why I began writing in the first place. It was never simply about selling books. My books have become another way for me to tell stories that encourage children and families, share faith, talk honestly about difficult experiences, and remind people that hope can still be found in places where life has been painful. It is also why 100% of the proceeds from my books are donated to organizations that help children who have experienced abuse or trauma.

So when someone stops at my table and asks about that mission, when a parent picks up a book and wants to know the story behind it, or when a conversation opens the door to talk about faith and healing, something important has already happened.

Yesterday was also a reminder that being an author sometimes means simply being present. You bring the books, set up the table, smile at the people walking past, answer questions, and tell the story when someone wants to hear it. Then you trust that you may never know what God chooses to do with those small encounters.

There is something special about doing that in downtown Fargo, especially on a day when the sidewalks were busy with people enjoying the Red River Market and everything happening downtown. I am grateful to Overbooked Bookstore for giving me the opportunity to be there and for continuing to create a space where local authors and readers can connect.

Of course, I am grateful every time someone chooses to purchase one of my books. Every sale helps support the organizations at the heart of this ministry. But yesterday reminded me that numbers do not always tell the whole story. Sometimes success looks like selling a book. Sometimes it looks like meeting a new reader. Sometimes it looks like someone stopping for five minutes and having a conversation you never expected to have. Sometimes it looks like a friend from Illinois walking through the door when you least expect it. And sometimes our job is simply to show up, offer what God has placed in our hands, and trust Him with what happens next.

Yesterday, there were not many sales, but there were conversations, connections, and a few unexpected gifts. And I am learning more and more that those moments may be every bit as important.

Sometimes Grace Looks Like Showing Up Anyway

The more public I become with my story, my books, and my podcast, the more I realize I can’t only share the hopeful parts of my life. If I’m going to talk about authenticity, then I need to actually be authentic. And today was messy.

I woke up in pain. I’ve been dealing with something going on with my left arm and shoulder, and I had an MRI on Friday. I didn’t sleep great, I hurt, and I was in a bad mood. My prayer time didn’t feel very fruitful either. I tried to pray, but my heart just wasn’t in it. I was irritated, uncomfortable, and honestly, I didn’t really want to be around anyone, including myself.

I still made myself get ready for Mass. Then I stood in my closet and cried because I hated everything I put on. Since my hysterectomy this spring, my hormones have been all over the place and I’ve gained weight. I’m working on that with my doctor and dietitian, but knowing that doesn’t make it easier to look in the mirror and feel comfortable in your own body. Eventually, I found a dress I hadn’t worn in years. I put it on, thought I looked frumpy, and went to Mass anyway. I also told myself that after Mass I was going to buy flowers because if I wasn’t going to be cheerful today, at least my apartment could be.

Then God started chipping away at my mood.

People smiled at me when I walked into church, and someone complimented my dress. Fr. Luke gave a homily about not allowing evil to prevail, and something about it hit me exactly where I was. After Mass, more people stopped me. They asked how I was doing. They complimented the dress I had cried over wearing. Someone even wanted to know where I bought it.

Then I went to Walmart for my flowers. As I was walking out, two women I had never met stopped me and told me they loved my dress. One of them said it made me look beautiful and that it just “screamed you're a woman with a great personality.”

I almost laughed. Seriously, God?

These women knew absolutely nothing about the morning I had just had. They didn’t know I had cried in my closet. They didn’t know how uncomfortable I felt in my body. They didn’t know I had gone to Mass in a terrible mood. And they certainly didn’t know that the dress they loved was the same dress I almost didn’t wear because I thought I looked awful in it.

Maybe that was exactly the point.

I think sometimes I expect grace to feel big, obvious, and holy. I expect it to come during beautiful prayer when I feel completely connected to God. But today, grace looked different. Grace looked like making myself go to Mass when I didn’t feel like it. It looked like people noticing me when I wanted to disappear. It looked like a homily I needed to hear. It looked like strangers at Walmart saying something kind at exactly the right moment. And it looked like buying myself flowers because I knew I needed a little beauty around me.

None of the things that were bothering me this morning magically disappeared. I’m still dealing with the pain. I’m still figuring out what’s going on with my shoulder. I’m still working through the changes in my body. But my mood changed. My apartment is a little brighter, and I feel a little more like myself again.

So maybe my prayer time this morning was more fruitful than I thought.

Being open to God doesn’t always mean feeling peaceful, joyful, or particularly prayerful. Sometimes it means coming to Him irritated, hurting, frustrated, and not feeling very much like yourself. It means getting dressed when you would rather stay home, walking through the church doors anyway, and trusting that God can work with whatever you managed to bring Him that day.

Sometimes grace doesn’t change the circumstances.

Sometimes grace simply meets us right in the middle of them.

And sometimes being faithful is as simple as showing up anyway.

Prayer Is Not Another Thing on My To-Do List

People sometimes ask me how I manage to do everything I am doing right now. I am working full-time, taking two graduate classes, writing books and promoting the ones that are already published, preparing for speaking engagements, recording interviews for the Butterfly Girl Podcast, guesting on other podcasts, doing television interviews, attending book events, and handling all of the behind-the-scenes work that comes with trying to share my books and the mission behind them. On paper, it sounds exhausting, and there are certainly days when I am tired or when my calendar looks a little intimidating. Yet most of the time, I feel energized by everything I am doing because so much of it brings me life. I believe these opportunities are connected to what God is asking of me in this season, and writing, speaking, podcasting, sharing stories, continuing my education, and doing meaningful work are all things I genuinely love.

But there is something important that I have come to understand: I would not be able to do any of it if I did not first spend time in prayer. Recently, I was talking with an upcoming guest for the Butterfly Girl Podcast, and our conversation turned to this very thing. We were talking about how easy it is to become consumed by everything we need to accomplish. There are emails to answer, projects to finish, deadlines to meet, appointments to attend, people who need something from us, and goals we are trying to reach. But if we are not first spending time in relationship with Jesus, eventually all of that activity begins to run on our own strength, and our own strength has limits.

The temptation, especially for someone who loves being productive, is to make prayer another item on the to-do list alongside answering emails, finishing assignments, writing another chapter, preparing a presentation, and recording a podcast. But I do not think that is how Jesus wants us to approach prayer. Prayer is not another task I need to complete so I can feel accomplished at the end of the day. Prayer is a relationship. If one of my closest friends asked me to dinner, I would not think about checking “spend time with my friend” off my list. I would make room for that person because the relationship matters to me. I would put it on my calendar, protect that time, sit down, listen, talk, laugh, share what has been happening in my life, and simply enjoy being together. Why should my relationship with Jesus be any different?

Sometimes we need to schedule prayer, but that does not mean we have turned prayer into a task. It means we are intentionally protecting time for a relationship that matters. There is a difference between putting “pray” on a checklist and saying, “This is the time I have set aside to be with Jesus.” For me, that time changes everything. Prayer is where I bring the things I am excited about and the things I am worried about. It is where I wrestle with decisions, surrender the things I cannot control, listen for God's direction, and remember why I am doing all of this in the first place.

Prayer is also where many of my ideas begin. My writing is deeply connected to my prayer. So is my podcast, the way I approach speaking opportunities, and the mission behind my books. The more time I spend with God, the more I recognize that creativity and productivity are not simply about how much I can accomplish. They are about being attentive to what God is asking me to do and being willing to follow where He leads.

I also believe God is blessing my efforts because I am trying to begin with Him. That does not mean every opportunity works out the way I expect or that following God's Will suddenly makes everything easy. It means that before I move forward, I am trying to listen. I am asking God where He wants me, what He wants me to say, which opportunities I should pursue, and which ones I should release. Then I am trying, imperfectly but sincerely, to remain faithful to what I believe He is asking of me. The more that happens, the less I see all of these opportunities as things I have somehow created for myself. I see them as gifts and invitations. My responsibility is not to control the outcome. My responsibility is to listen, respond, and remain faithful.

I have also noticed that when I keep prayer as my highest priority, somehow there is enough time. I am able to work full-time, keep up with graduate school, write, prepare for speaking engagements, record podcasts, promote my books, and say yes to the opportunities God places before me, while still finding time to rest, relax, spend time with friends, laugh, enjoy life, and simply be present. That balance matters to me because I do not believe God is calling me to accomplish as much as possible at the expense of everything else. Rest matters. Friendship matters. Joy matters. Taking an evening to relax matters. Spending time with people I love matters.

Prayer does not seem to take time away from everything else. Instead, it helps everything else fall into its proper place. When prayer comes first, I am more intentional with the time I have. I am less likely to spend energy on things God is not asking me to carry. I can work hard when it is time to work and rest without feeling guilty when it is time to rest. There is a freedom in knowing that I do not have to do everything. I simply need to be faithful to what God is asking of me today.

That has been especially meaningful to me as we prepare for Venerable Fulton J. Sheen's beatification. His life and witness have become such an important part of my ministry, and I have been intentionally asking for his intercession. I ask him to pray for me, to help guide this ministry, and to help me use whatever opportunities God gives me for His glory. It is not lost on me that, during this particular season, so many doors have been opening.

As a Catholic, I believe in the communion of saints, and I believe that those who have gone before us can intercede for us before the Father. So yes, I believe Venerable Fulton Sheen is praying for me and advocating for this ministry before the Father because I have specifically asked for his intercession. There is something both humbling and beautiful about that. I am doing the work in front of me, but I know I am not doing it alone.

There will always be more things I could do. There will always be another project, another opportunity, another email, another idea, and another goal. Prayer helps me discern which ones are actually mine. It reminds me that my value is not measured by the number of things I accomplish. I do not have to prove anything to God by being busy. The purpose of prayer is not to make God help me become more productive. The purpose of prayer is to know Him. And strangely enough, when that relationship comes first, everything else begins to find its proper place.

I have more clarity about what deserves my attention. I recognize when I need to say yes and when I need to say no. I am able to approach the work in front of me with more peace because I am reminded that I am not carrying the mission alone. Sometimes we tell ourselves that we will pray when life slows down, perhaps after this semester, after this deadline, after this event, after work settles down, or after we finish everything else. But life rarely slows down on its own. If a relationship matters, we make room for it in the life we are living right now.

Maybe the invitation is not simply to “find more time to pray.” Maybe it is to make an appointment with Jesus. Put the time on your calendar if you need to and protect it the same way you would protect dinner with someone you love. Bring your coffee. Bring your Bible. Sit in Adoration. Go for a walk and talk with Him. Spend time with Scripture. Sit quietly in His presence. Do not approach that time wondering how quickly you can finish it so you can move on to everything else. Spend time with a Friend.

I am learning that the fuller my life becomes with opportunities, responsibilities, dreams, relationships, and work that I love, the more important that relationship becomes. I may be energized by everything I am doing, but Jesus is the source of that energy. Before the books, before the podcast, before the speaking engagements, before school, before work, before the interviews, and before the next opportunity, there has to be time with Him. And when I give Him that time first, I continue to be amazed by how much there is still time for afterward. There is time for the work He is asking me to do, time for the people He has placed in my life, and time to rest and enjoy the life He has given me.

Prayer is not the first thing on my to-do list. Jesus is the One I want beside me through everything else.

Learning Where to Spend My Heart: A Friend Who Stays

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about friendship. About the people who come into our lives, the people who stay, the people who slowly drift away, and the people we eventually realize may not have been the friends we thought they were.

There are people I could be angry with. There are friendships I could look back on and list all the ways I showed up, all the times I reached out, and all the ways I cared, and then compare those things to what I received in return. But I don’t want to live that way. I’m not angry. If anything, I think I’m finally learning.

I’m learning that one of the gifts of getting older is becoming more intentional about where I spend my energy and, maybe even more importantly, where I spend my heart. For a long time, I think I believed that if I cared enough, tried hard enough, checked in often enough, or continued to show up, I could somehow keep every relationship intact. When someone became distant, my instinct was often to wonder what I could do differently. Should I reach out? Should I try again? Did I do something wrong? Do they still care?

There comes a point when those questions become exhausting. Not because the people involved are necessarily bad people and not because every friendship that changes needs a villain. Sometimes people simply change. Lives move in different directions. Priorities shift. Seasons end. Sometimes we also have to admit that a relationship meant more to us than it did to the other person. There is sadness in realizing that, but there can also be freedom.

Somewhere along the way, I began paying attention to the people who didn’t make me wonder. They are the people who send a text out of nowhere saying, “I was thinking about you.” They are the people who call just because. They remember something I mentioned weeks ago and ask me about it. They don’t need anything from me. They aren’t reaching out because they need a favor, an answer, a connection, or something I can provide. They simply thought of me and wanted me to know.

There is something incredibly beautiful about being remembered.

Those small moments have taught me more about friendship than some of the bigger gestures ever have. They have also taught me that genuine friendship doesn’t require chasing. That doesn’t mean friendship doesn’t require effort. Of course it does. Loving another person requires intentionality, sacrifice, patience, forgiveness, and sometimes choosing to show up when it isn’t convenient. But there is a difference between investing in a friendship and carrying one.

I’m learning that difference. I’m learning that I can care deeply about someone and still recognize when it is time to stop chasing the relationship. I can be grateful for what someone once meant to me without being angry that things have changed. I can wish someone well from a distance. I can let go without resentment. I can choose to spend more of my energy loving the people who are actually present.

As I have reflected on all of this, though, I keep coming back to something deeper. For all the lessons human friendship has taught me, there is one friendship in my life that is unlike every other. It is my friendship with the Lord. Maybe I appreciate that friendship more deeply now precisely because I have experienced the imperfections of human relationships.

People disappoint us. Not always intentionally. Sometimes they don’t know what we need. Sometimes they’re carrying things we know nothing about. Sometimes they forget. Sometimes they misunderstand us. Sometimes they simply don’t have the capacity to show up in the way we hoped they would. I know I have disappointed people, too. I’m human, and so are they.

But Jesus is different.

When I look back over my life, through every season and every version of myself, He has been there. There were times when I recognized Him immediately and there were times when I didn’t. There were moments when His presence felt almost tangible and others when I wondered why He seemed so quiet. Yet when I look back now, I can see Him.

He was there in the joy and in the heartbreak. He was there when people surrounded me and when I felt completely alone. He was there when I had beautiful words to pray and when all I could offer Him was silence. He has heard the prayers I have prayed a hundred times. He has listened to the questions I still don’t have answers to. He has received my gratitude, my frustration, my tears, my laughter, my confusion, my hope, and everything in between.

And He has stayed.

There is something about that word that means more to me these days. Jesus has stayed. He knows every part of me, including the parts I readily share with others and the parts I would rather keep hidden, and He stays. I don’t have to earn His attention. I don’t have to wonder whether I am bothering Him. I don’t have to make myself useful so that He will want me around. I don’t have to perform for Him. I can simply come.

Maybe that is why Jesus’ words in the Gospel of John have become so beautiful to me: “I have called you friends.” (John 15:15)

Friends.

The God of the universe doesn’t merely allow me to approach Him. He desires a relationship with me. He wants my heart. The more I understand that, the more I realize how often I have expected human relationships to give me something that only God can completely provide. I have wanted people to make me feel known, but Jesus already knows me. I have wanted people to make me feel remembered, but Jesus has never forgotten me. I have wanted people to reassure me that I matter, but Jesus settled that question on the Cross. I have wanted people to stay, but Jesus already promised that He would.

That doesn’t make human friendship less important. If anything, I think it makes it more beautiful. When I stop asking another person to fill a place in my heart that belongs to God, I become freer to simply receive that person as the gift they are. I can appreciate the friend who sends the unexpected text without needing them to always say exactly the right thing. I can treasure the person who calls to check in without expecting them to always know when I need them. I can forgive people when they disappoint me because I know I have disappointed others, too. I can recognize when a friendship has changed without allowing that change to determine what I believe about myself.

Maybe that’s what I’m learning in this season. Not everyone who enters my life is meant to stay forever. Not every relationship deserves the same amount of my time and energy. Not every friendship needs to be rescued, and not every goodbye needs to become a source of anger.

Sometimes we simply learn. We learn who checks in, who remembers, who celebrates with us, and who sits with us when there is nothing they can fix. We learn who wants our presence rather than simply what we can offer them. Hopefully, those experiences also make us ask ourselves an important question: Am I that kind of friend to others?

This reflection isn’t only about noticing who has or hasn’t shown up for me. It’s also about becoming more aware of how I show up for the people God has entrusted to me. Do I send the text when someone crosses my mind? Do I make the call? Do I remember? Do I listen without immediately trying to fix things? Do I celebrate someone else’s joy without comparing it to my own life? Do I make people feel like they matter apart from what they can do for me?

Maybe those quiet nudges to reach out to someone are sometimes God’s way of allowing us to become His presence to another person. Maybe some of the unexpected texts and phone calls I have received were His way of reminding me through someone else, “I see you. I haven’t forgotten you.”

I don’t know, but I do know that I want to pay closer attention. I want to spend less energy chasing people and more energy loving people. I want to hold relationships with open hands instead of clenched fists. I want to be grateful for those who walk beside me without demanding that they promise to walk beside me forever. When someone doesn’t stay, I want to be able to let them go without allowing disappointment to harden my heart.

Ultimately, no human being can promise me forever. But Jesus can.

So, no, I’m not angry at the people who turned out not to be the friends I thought they were. There may still be sadness. There may still be disappointment. But there is also gratitude for what those experiences have taught me. They have taught me to be more intentional about where I expend my energy. They have taught me to notice the people who quietly and consistently show up. They have taught me not to chase affection or friendship. They have taught me to ask whether I am giving others the kind of friendship I hope to receive.

Perhaps most importantly, they have reminded me where my heart ultimately belongs. Human friendships will change. People will come and go. Some will surprise me with how faithfully they stay, and others will surprise me when they don’t. Underneath all of those relationships, though, is the friendship that has carried me through every season of my life.

Jesus is the One who has seen every version of me and loved me through all of them. He is the One who knows the entire story and still calls me friend. He is the One who doesn’t just send a reminder that He is thinking about me, but continually finds ways to remind me that I have never left His thoughts. He is the One who remains, no matter how many other relationships change.

Maybe learning where to spend my heart begins there, with the Friend who has had it all along.

Following Where God Leads: Living the Transformation

There are moments in life when you pause, look back, and realize that the road beneath your feet is one you never could have mapped out yourself. Lately, I've found myself doing exactly that.

Recently, I learned that the Butterfly Girl Podcast is currently ranked as the #1 podcast on Spotify and Apple Podcasts when people search the keywords "faith and hope," according to PodSEO. When I saw it, I smiled not because of the ranking itself, but because it felt like another quiet reminder that God continues to bless what He calls us to do.

When I first began writing books and recording podcasts, I wasn't thinking about rankings, interviews, or recognition. My prayer was simple: "Lord, if You can use my story to help even one person know You more deeply, then it's all worth it." He has answered that prayer in ways I never could have imagined.

But perhaps the greatest miracle isn't the doors that are opening around me. It's what God has been doing within me.

For the first time in my life, I can honestly say that I am the most peaceful and joy-filled I have ever been. That doesn't mean life has suddenly become easy or that there haven't been disappointments, grief, unanswered prayers, or difficult seasons. In fact, some of the hardest chapters of my life have unfolded within the past year. The difference is that my peace is no longer dependent on my circumstances. My joy isn't rooted in success, recognition, or whether things unfold according to my plans. It is rooted in Christ.

There was a time when fear, insecurity, and the wounds of my past shaped so much of my life. Childhood sexual abuse, parental abandonment, and years spent believing I had to prove my worth left scars that only God could truly heal. That healing didn't happen overnight. It came through years of counseling, prayer, spiritual direction, trusted friendships, and slowly learning to believe what God had been saying about me all along—that I was His beloved daughter.

That journey is exactly why I chose the theme for Season 4 of the Butterfly Girl Podcast: Living the Transformation: From Wound to Wholeness. Those words aren't simply the title of a podcast season. They are the story God has been writing in my own life. Transformation isn't pretending the wounds never happened. It is allowing Christ to redeem them. Wholeness doesn't mean our scars disappear. It means they no longer define who we are because Christ has rewritten our identity.

Every episode this season explores what it looks like to move from surviving to living, from hiding to healing, from striving to trusting, and from carrying wounds in isolation to discovering the freedom that comes from allowing God to transform them. As I record these conversations and reflect on the stories of my guests, I realize something beautiful: God isn't simply asking us to talk about transformation. He wants us to live it. Looking at everything unfolding in my own life right now, I can't help but see that this season is a reflection of that very message.

One of the greatest gifts of healing has been learning to trust God's timing instead of trying to control the outcome. I find myself no longer chasing opportunities or worrying about whether the next door will open. Instead, I'm simply trying to remain faithful to the One who keeps opening doors I wasn't even knocking on.

One recent example has been my children's coloring, activity, story, and prayer book, The Life of Blessed Fulton J. Sheen. Through an unexpected opportunity, the manuscript was sent to Ignatius Press for consideration as a possible publishing partnership. Just having one of the most respected Catholic publishers review my work was an incredible honor. While they shared that they genuinely loved the book, they didn't feel they could produce it in time for Archbishop Sheen's anticipated beatification this September. Years ago, I probably would have viewed that as a disappointment or even a closed door. Today, I see it differently. I see a God who is still writing the story.

Almost immediately afterward, another friend who has a relationship with Sophia Institute Press offered to send the manuscript to them for consideration. So now I wait, and I pray. If it is God's will, I trust that He will make the path clear. If it isn't, I will continue doing exactly what He has already placed before me—writing, speaking, podcasting, and sharing the hope He has given me. That peace is a gift. Not because I know how everything will turn out, but because I know the One who does.

This season has also been filled with opportunities I never expected. I've had the privilege of being interviewed on numerous podcasts, featured in newspapers, and next week I'll be appearing on a television talk show based in Bismarck, North Dakota. Every invitation has felt like another unexpected door opening before me. These aren't opportunities I've spent years trying to create. They are reminders that God is capable of doing far more than I could ever plan for myself. When I surrendered my own agenda and simply began saying "yes" to Him one faithful step at a time, He started opening doors I didn't even know existed.

I don't share these things to bring attention to myself. I share them because every opportunity points to God's faithfulness, not my accomplishments. Left to myself, I never would have chosen the experiences that shaped my life. But God has taken the broken pieces of my story—childhood sexual abuse, parental abandonment, years of healing, seasons of grief, and moments when I questioned whether anything good could come from my pain—and He continues to transform them into opportunities to offer hope to others.

If anything good comes from my books, my podcast, my speaking, or these interviews, it belongs entirely to Him. I believe He is using my story, my gifts, and my willingness to simply say "yes" to help people encounter Christ. More than anything else, I want people to know that they are loved, that they are seen, that they are heard, and that they are never alone. If someone finishes one of my books, listens to an episode of the Butterfly Girl Podcast, or hears me share my testimony and comes away believing those truths just a little more deeply, then everything has been worth it.

The Butterfly Girl Podcast being ranked #1 for "faith and hope" is exciting, and I am deeply grateful. But rankings will come and go. Publishing opportunities may or may not happen. Television interviews will end. Recognition fades.

What lasts is the work God is doing in hearts. That is the true measure of success.

As I continue this journey, my prayer remains the same as it was when I first began: "Lord, keep opening the doors You want me to walk through. Give me the courage to follow wherever You lead. Let me never seek recognition more than faithfulness. May every word I write, every conversation I have, every child I reach, and every story I share bring glory to You."

Because this has never been about building my name. It has always been about pointing people to His.

And if my own life is any evidence, then I can say this with complete confidence: Jesus still transforms wounds into wholeness. He still heals. He still restores. He still opens doors no one else can open. And when we follow where He leads, we discover that the greatest miracle isn't what He does through us; it's who He transforms us to become.

St. Kateri Tekakwitha: The Saint Who Quietly Walks Beside Me

Every year on July 14, my heart holds two memories at once. It is the feast day of St. Kateri Tekakwitha, and it is also my Grandpa's birthday. Today, he would have turned 91 years old. For as long as I can remember, those two celebrations have been connected in my mind. I cannot think of St. Kateri without thinking of my grandpa, and I cannot remember his birthday without remembering the gentle, courageous saint whose feast the Church celebrates on the same day.

My connection to St. Kateri goes much deeper than sharing a date on the calendar. When I entered religious life, I chose St. Kateri as my patron saint. It was not a decision I made lightly. I wanted a patron saint whose life reflected the kind of woman I hoped to become. The more I learned about St. Kateri, the more I found myself drawn to her quiet strength, deep faith, and unwavering trust in God.

St. Kateri knew suffering from the very beginning of her life. As a young child, she lost her parents and younger brother to smallpox. The disease left her with scars on her face and weakened eyesight, visible reminders of pain she never chose. Although my own scars are mostly invisible, I understand what it means to carry wounds from childhood that shape the way you see yourself and the world. As a survivor of childhood sexual abuse, I know how long healing can take and how deeply those experiences can affect a person's life. Yet one of the greatest lessons St. Kateri teaches me is that we are not defined by our wounds. Suffering may become part of our story, but it does not have the final word.

Despite rejection from members of her own community because of her Christian faith, St. Kateri remained faithful. She loved Christ with remarkable simplicity and perseverance. She did not seek recognition or admiration. She simply desired to belong completely to Him. There have been seasons in my own life when following Christ has felt lonely. There have been moments when I questioned where I belonged and times when healing required walking a path that few people could fully understand. St. Kateri reminds me that faithfulness is often quiet. Holiness is not always found in extraordinary moments. More often, it is found in choosing to say yes to God over and over again, even when the road is difficult.

Another reason I feel such a connection to St. Kateri is her love of silence and prayer. In a world filled with constant noise and distractions, she sought places where she could simply be with God. She understood that healing often happens in the quiet. I have found the same to be true in my own life. Some of the most meaningful moments of healing have not come through dramatic experiences, but through time spent in Eucharistic adoration, sitting with Scripture, journaling, or simply allowing myself to rest in God's presence. Those quiet moments have often been where God has gently reminded me who I am and how deeply I am loved.

I have also always loved how St. Kateri found God in creation. Whether I am watching a butterfly emerge, photographing a beautiful sunset, walking through nature, or simply looking up at the vast North Dakota sky, I often feel closest to God outdoors. Creation has a way of reminding me that God is always at work, bringing beauty from places where we least expect it. St. Kateri saw the beauty of God's presence in the natural world, and that perspective continues to inspire me to slow down, pay attention, and receive each day as a gift.

Perhaps what speaks to me most about St. Kateri is that she never allowed suffering to make her bitter. Instead, she allowed it to draw her closer to Christ. That does not mean her life was easy. It certainly was not. But she entrusted herself to God, believing that His love was greater than every hardship, every rejection, and every loss. That is the kind of faith I continue to pray for. I do not ask for a life without suffering. I ask for the grace to let suffering become a place where God continues His work of healing and transformation.

As I remember my grandpa today on what would have been his 91st birthday, I find comfort in remembering St. Kateri as well. My grandpa reminds me of the love and stability I experienced growing up. St. Kateri reminds me of the God who has walked beside me through every joy, every sorrow, every wound, and every step of healing. Together, they remind me that love endures, faith is worth pursuing, and God is always present.

St. Kateri Tekakwitha is important to me not simply because her feast day falls on my grandpa's birthday or because she was my patron saint in religious life. She is important because her life continually reminds me that our wounds do not define us, healing is possible, faithfulness matters, and God never stops calling us closer to Himself.

St. Kateri Tekakwitha, pray for us.

God's Gentle Reminders Come in Unexpected Ways

Every once in a while, there is a week that feels like God is quietly reminding you that He sees you. Not through dramatic miracles or extraordinary circumstances, but through ordinary moments that become extraordinary because of the love behind them. This has been one of those weeks for me.

Earlier this week, I met a friend for lunch, and somewhere in the middle of our conversation she began sharing what Light Still Stands has meant to her. She told me she has cried several times while reading it because she sees herself in the characters and connects so deeply with their journeys. Then she shared something that touched me even more. She isn't rushing to finish the book. Instead, she's intentionally reading it slowly, savoring each chapter and taking time to reflect before moving on to the next.

As an author, I don't know that there is a greater compliment than that. Of course, I hoped people would enjoy Light Still Stands, but my deepest prayer was never simply that readers would finish the story. I prayed they would pause, wrestle with the questions the characters wrestle with, recognize pieces of their own lives within its pages, and discover that even in life's hardest seasons, God is still present and still writing a story of hope. Hearing my friend describe her experience reminded me that books are sometimes more than stories. They can become companions for the journey, inviting readers to reflect not only on fictional characters but also on the ways God has been at work in their own lives. As she spoke, I silently thanked God, not because someone complimented my writing, but because He allowed a story He placed on my heart to become part of someone else's.

Then today, another unexpected gift arrived. Out of nowhere, my aunt sent me a simple text message that read, "I just want to tell you how proud I am of you and how much I love you." There wasn't a birthday or a milestone that prompted it. She simply wanted me to know. I found myself reading those words more than once because it's amazing how a sentence that takes only a few seconds to type can remain in your heart for the rest of the day.

There was one more unexpected blessing this week. Yesterday, I texted a dear friend because I had an extra ticket to a concert this weekend. She lives out of state, so I sent the invitation hoping she might be able to come, but honestly, I didn't expect it to work out since it was last minute. It felt like one of those invitations you extend because it would be wonderful if it happened, while quietly assuming life would make it impossible.

Instead, she talked with her husband, booked a flight, and decided to come.

The more I've thought about it, the more I believe this weekend is about much more than a concert. I think it may be exactly what the two of us need. Life has a way of filling our calendars while quietly emptying our hearts. We spend so much time caring for others, meeting responsibilities, and answering the next demand that we sometimes forget how deeply we need authentic friendship. We need people who know us well enough that we don't have to explain ourselves, people who can make us laugh, sit comfortably in silence, and remind us that we don't have to carry life's burdens alone. I have a feeling this weekend will be one of those gifts that refreshes both of our souls.

As I've reflected on these three moments, I've realized they all carry the same message. My friend's words reminded me that God can use our gifts in ways we never fully see. My aunt's text reminded me that I am loved, not because of what I accomplish, but simply because I belong to a family that cares deeply for me. My friend's decision to board a plane reminded me that relationships are worth making time for and that sometimes God provides exactly what we need before we even realize we need it.

When I look at these moments individually, they seem small. A lunch conversation. A text message. A last-minute plane ticket. Yet together they feel like God's gentle whispers saying, "I see you. Keep going. You are loved. You don't have to do this alone."

How often do we pray for God to speak while expecting something dramatic, when all along He is speaking through the people He has placed in our lives? His encouragement often comes through a friend's honesty, a relative's kindness, or someone's willingness to show up. We just have to slow down long enough to recognize those moments for what they are.

This week reminded me that encouragement is never wasted. A heartfelt conversation, an unexpected text, or a simple invitation can become part of God's answer to someone's prayer. We rarely know what another person is carrying or how desperately they need to hear that they matter. So tell someone you're proud of them. Tell them you love them. Encourage them in the work God has been doing through their lives. Invite them to spend time together. Those small acts of kindness may seem ordinary to us, but in God's hands they often become extraordinary reminders that we are deeply seen, fully known, and abundantly loved.