Where a Family’s Welcome Reveals the Gospel

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

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

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

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

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

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

And of course, I did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Beginning Again: Restarting the Butterfly Girl Podcast

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

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

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

Why I Am Returning Now

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

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

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

What You Can Expect Moving Forward

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

• Honest conversations about what healing really looks like

• Reflections on faith that come from lived experience and prayer

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

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

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

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

What I Hope This Podcast Offers

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

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

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

Thank You for Being Here

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

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

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

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

When Heaven Spoke in Color: Faith in the Northern Lights

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Faith, Freedom, and Service: A Veterans Day Reflection

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rediscovering Friendship in God’s Timing

Today I was blessed to spend several hours with a Sister I have known since 2003 but have only recently begun to know more deeply. It amazes me how God can take someone who has been quietly present on the edges of your life for years and bring them closer when your heart is finally ready to receive the friendship He intended.

This Sister is part of the Religious Community I once called home, the same community where I spent five transformative years discerning my vocation. Those were sacred years of prayer, formation, and growth, as I sought to understand God’s will for my life and where He was calling me to serve. Over time, I came to realize that my vocation was not to Religious Life but rather to serve Christ as a single woman, loving and serving others within the Church and the world through my daily work, relationships, and quiet acts of compassion.

Leaving Religious Life was not easy. It meant stepping into the unknown and trusting that God’s plan for me would continue to unfold in ways I could not yet imagine. Looking back, I can see how He never stopped guiding me. He simply redirected my path so that I could serve Him in a different yet deeply meaningful way.

Now, all these years later, God has brought this Sister back into my life in a new light. For more than two decades, I recognized her face, her smile, and her gentle spirit. We crossed paths at events, exchanged polite greetings, and went our separate ways. I always admired her from a distance for her kindness, wisdom, and peaceful way of being, but I never really knew her story, her laughter, or her heart.

In recent months, something began to change. Our conversations have grown deeper, and our time together has become more intentional and meaningful. I have always known Sister to be a woman of deep prayer and faith, yet now I am beginning to see more of the gentle joy, kindness, and humble humor that flow from her closeness with God.

Today, as we sat together for hours, I felt a calm joy that is difficult to describe. It wasn’t excitement or adrenaline; it was a deep peace that assured me I was exactly where I was meant to be, doing exactly what I was meant to do. Simply being present.

This experience made me reflect on how many people God places in our lives — some for a short time, others for a lifetime — and how often it takes time for those reasons to unfold. Sometimes we think we know someone because we have known of them, but a deeper kind of knowing happens when we slow down long enough to truly listen, to share stories, and to see the image of Christ reflected in another person.

I am grateful for this Sister and for her prayers, her laughter, and her friendship. I am also thankful for the quiet joy of reconnecting with someone from a Community that helped shape who I am today. Our time together reminded me that discernment is not a single moment in time. It is a lifelong journey of listening to God’s voice in the people and moments He places along the way.

Tonight my heart is full. What a gift it is to rediscover someone I have known for years and realize that perhaps, all along, God was simply waiting for this season for both of us to bloom in our friendship together.

Sometimes God brings people back into our lives not by accident, but by invitation. When we slow down long enough to listen, we may find that the same person who once crossed our path casually is now meant to walk beside us intentionally.

Who might God be inviting you to see with new eyes today?

Rereading No More Faking Fine: A Return to Honest Lament

I pulled No More Faking Fine off my bookshelf again this week; its familiar underlines and dog-eared pages a reminder of where I once was - and where God has brought me since. The first time I read Esther Fleece Allen’s book, a decade ago, I was desperate for permission to not be okay. Her words, raw and real, gave me that permission. She reminded me that lament is not weakness; it’s worship.

Now, rereading it with a few more miles of healing behind me, I see new layers. Before, I read it through the lens of pain — through tears and exhaustion. This time, I read it through the lens of gratitude. God has met me in the places I once tried to hide, and I can now recognize how He used those seasons to shape my compassion, faith, and voice.

I’ve followed Esther on social media for years because I see so much of my own story in hers. She’s open about the ache of abandonment, the confusion of unanswered prayers, and the beauty that can still bloom in broken places. Her honesty continues to inspire me to stay authentic in my own journey, whether I’m writing, creating, or simply showing up as I am. It’s refreshing to see someone model what it looks like to live faithfully and vulnerably, without glossing over the hard parts.

Her second book, Your New Name, beautifully builds on the message of No More Faking Fine. In it, she explores how God gives us new names—names that speak of redemption, belonging, and identity in Christ rather than shame or past labels. That message struck a deep chord with me. For years, I carried names that were never meant for me: unworthy, broken, too much, not enough. But like Esther writes, God is in the business of renaming us. Through His grace, I’ve begun to embrace the names He’s given me instead: beloved, restored, chosen, free.

Both of her books speak to the rhythm of healing—first learning to lament, then learning to live with new purpose. No More Faking Fine gives you permission to bring your pain to God; Your New Name reminds you that your pain doesn’t define you. Together, they echo the gospel truth: that God meets us in our sorrow and leads us into a new identity.

These aren’t just books I’ve read once and set aside. I’ve reread them four or five times over the years, and each time, something new speaks to me—something that meets me right where I am. I’ve also given away more than two dozen copies of each to friends, family, and even strangers who needed hope. I keep extras on my shelf because I know the message will reach someone at just the right moment, the same way it reaches me every time I read them.

Esther's reminder that “God can handle our honesty” still hits hard. It’s easy to slip back into performing and pretending I’m fine to avoid discomfort or to meet others’ expectations. But honest faith doesn’t fear the truth. Honest faith says, “Here I am, Lord - hurt, hopeful, and still believing.”

If you’ve ever found yourself faking fine, smiling when you want to cry, or showing up when your soul feels heavy, this book is worth reading (or rereading). It’s not a how-to guide on fixing your feelings; it’s a gentle invitation to bring your whole heart to God.

As I close its pages once again, I’m reminded that authenticity is not the absence of pain but the presence of truth, and that’s where real healing begins.

If I could, I’d give Esther Fleece Allen 1,000,000 stars. Her words continue to heal hearts, point people back to Jesus, and remind us all that we don’t have to fake fine to be fully loved. 

Be Not Afraid: Reflections on Healing and Trust

Yesterday brought an unexpected reminder of faith and courage. I found myself sitting in a waiting room, uncertain about what the afternoon/evening would bring. It wasn’t a place anyone looks forward to, but sometimes life slows us down just enough to make us listen to our bodies, our hearts, and to God’s quiet voice within us.

As I sat there, I thought of the woman in Scripture who had been hemorrhaging for twelve years (Mark 5:25–34). Her story has always touched me, but this time it felt especially close. She lived with uncertainty and pain, yet she never stopped believing in the possibility of healing. With quiet courage, she reached out to touch the hem of Jesus’ cloak, and in that moment of faith, everything changed. Jesus didn’t just heal her physically, He looked into her soul and said, “Daughter, your faith has made you well.”

That story is one of courage in the face of fear. And today, on the Feast of Pope St. John Paul II, those same words he so often spoke - Be not afraid” - echo through my heart. He faced immense suffering in his life, yet he carried hope with him wherever he went. His faith didn’t erase the challenges he faced; it illuminated them with peace.

I think that’s what faith is meant to do. It doesn’t always give us immediate answers or clear outcomes, but it gives us something better. It gives us trust. The kind of trust that reminds us we don’t walk through uncertainty alone. The kind that allows us to breathe, pray, and rest in God’s presence, even when the path ahead feels unclear.

Yesterday reminded me that faith can look quiet. It can look like patience, like seeking help, or like waiting with grace. It’s the steady belief that God is already at work, even when we can’t see how.

So today, as I reflect on St. John Paul II’s life and the faith of the woman who reached for Jesus, I carry those three words close to my heart: Be not afraid. Whatever we face, may we reach out in faith, trust that God sees us, and find peace in knowing that we are never alone.

Lord Jesus, When we feel uncertain or afraid, help us to remember Your words: “Do not be afraid; just have faith.” Give us the courage to reach out to You as the woman in the Gospel did and to trust that even the smallest act of faith can open the door to grace. Teach us to rest in Your timing, to find peace in Your presence, and to believe that You are working for my good even when I cannot see it. Through the intercession of Pope St. John Paul II, may we learn to live with faith that is bold, hope that is steady, and love that never fails. Amen.

Witnessing a Heart Awakened to Christ

Tonight, I attended the new parishioner event at Sts. Anne and Joachim Catholic Church, and it felt like stepping into the warmth of a family I didn’t know I was missing. The parish social hall glowed softly beneath the warm lights, filled with friendly conversation and the hum of community. Along one side of the room, a table was beautifully set with trays of hors d’oeuvres - bacon-wrapped water chestnuts, cheeses, fruit, chips and dip, and cheesecake - that seemed to invite people to gather, linger, and talk. The joyful giggles of children playing on the stage echoed through the room like music. It was the sound of life, of faith being lived out in real time through fellowship, welcome, and joy.

By God’s gentle design, I found myself seated at a table with Kelvin, a gentleman I had met a few months ago. I remembered his warmth and sincerity right away, but tonight I noticed something even more radiant: a deep, unmistakable fire for the Lord. As we talked, Kelvin shared that he’s currently in the OCIA program and will be entering the Catholic Church this November. His eyes lit up as he spoke about yearning for Jesus in the Eucharist, describing it with such purity and conviction that it caught my breath. His longing was not merely intellectual; it was the kind that springs from the soul, a holy ache for union with Christ.

Listening to him speak took me back nearly three decades, to my own journey into the Catholic Church in 1997. I could almost feel the same anticipation stirring within me again, that mixture of wonder, humility, and reverence filling my heart when I first knelt before the Blessed Sacrament, knowing that Jesus was truly present. Kelvin’s story rekindled that sacred awe and reminded me of how faith, once awakened, continues to grow and deepen in ways we can never fully predict.

I thought about how the Holy Spirit weaves these encounters into our lives, connecting one person’s story of conversion to another’s story of renewal. Perhaps that is how God draws us closer, through the quiet intersections of faith shared over simple conversations and hors d’oeuvres, laughter and grace, old memories and new beginnings.

As the evening came to an end, I lingered for a moment before leaving. The children were still laughing and playing on the stage. Their joy echoed like a benediction over the room. I closed my eyes for a second, offering a silent prayer of gratitude for Kelvin’s courage and zeal, for the beauty of our Church, and for the reminder that God is always at work, awakening hearts to His love in ways both grand and gentle.

Walking out into the cool night air, I felt that same warmth within me: a quiet renewal, a rekindled flame. What a blessing it is to witness someone discovering the treasure that has sustained me all these years. And what a gift to be reminded that conversion is not a single moment in time, but a lifelong invitation to fall in love with Christ again and again.

Lord Jesus, thank You for the gift of Your presence in the Eucharist,
the source and summit of our faith. Thank You for the ways You reveal
Yourself through others, through stories, conversations, and moments that
remind us of Your nearness. Bless Kelvin as he prepares to enter Your Church,
and bless all who are still searching for You. Rekindle in each of us
the fire of Your love, that our hearts may burn brightly with faith, gratitude, and joy. 

Amen.

Grace Amid the Storm: Reflections on Hazel After a Busy Week

This past week was one for the books – full of deadlines, deliverables, and long hours as I worked to complete a few major projects. By Friday evening, I felt both proud and completely spent. Yet, as He so often does, God found a way to meet me in the midst of the exhaustion. When a couple of Sisters invited me to see the new movie Hazel, I said yes without hesitation, not realizing just how much my heart needed that quiet pause.

Hazel is based on the true story of Hazel Miner, a 16-year-old North Dakota farm girl who, during a blizzard in 1920, gave her life to save her younger siblings. The film was beautifully made – a honest, emotional, and grounded in faith. What struck me most was how ordinary Hazel was. She wasn’t seeking heroism or recognition; she was simply a young woman rooted in love, courage, and faith. When the storm hit, her instinct was to protect those entrusted to her care, no matter the cost. Her calm determination and unwavering love became a reflection of Christ’s own sacrificial love, reminding me that holiness is found not in perfection but in the quiet courage of choosing love again and again.

The filmmakers captured that truth with grace. Faith wasn’t something preached, but lived. The blizzard became more than a storm; it became a symbol of every trial that tests our faith, a moment of surrender when trust in God is the only thing left to hold onto. Watching Hazel’s selflessness unfold on screen felt like witnessing a modern parable, a living Eucharist. It moved me to tears and left me pondering how I respond when life’s own storms arise. Do I cling to control, or do I trust that God will provide what I need?

In the midst of such a demanding week, the movie was a profound reminder that our strength doesn’t come from ourselves but from grace. Hazel’s story brought me back to the truth that God calls us to love sacrificially every day to serve faithfully, even when no one notices, and to find holiness in the ordinary moments. Her courage also made me think about the quiet saints around us: the people who give, suffer, and persevere with faith, often unseen.

As I left the theater, walking alongside the Sisters, I felt both humbled and renewed. The week’s noise and busyness faded into perspective. I realized that even in long workdays and deadlines, my efforts can become an offering, an act of love given back to God. Hazel reminded me that in every storm, no matter how fierce, Christ is near. Sometimes He speaks through Scripture, sometimes through silence, and sometimes through the powerful witness of a young girl whose love outlasted the cold.

Even in the fiercest storm, grace is never far away. Love – pure, steadfast,
and self-giving – a will always find a way to shine through the cold.

Sacred Simplicity: Friendship, Faith, and Rest

This past weekend, I spent time in Rochester with one of my dearest friends, Shauna. From the moment I arrived, everything felt familiar and easy like stepping into a space where you can simply be. There was no need for plans or perfection, no rush to fill the hours. Just the quiet joy of spending time with someone who knows you well and meets you right where you are.

We talked about school, work, faith, and the things that make us laugh. We wandered through shops, tried on cozy sweatpants and smelled candles, and shared small discoveries that made us smile. We did homework side by side, each lost in our own focus yet grounded in the comfort of companionship. Even when we ate food that was, at best, mediocre, it didn’t matter. It wasn’t about the meal; it was about the company, the laughter between bites, and the ease that comes with not needing anything to be perfect.

There’s something sacred about friendships like the ones that don’t demand, but invite; that don’t exhaust, but restore. Our conversations weren’t filled with grand revelations, but with realness. We listened to each other’s hopes, frustrations, and prayers. And in those moments, I was reminded of how God often works through the steady presence of people He places in our lives.

On Sunday morning, we ended the weekend with Mass at the Co-Cathedral of St. John the Evangelist. Before Mass began, we prayed a rosary together, our voices soft and unhurried in the quiet of the church. Bead by bead, the prayers felt like a thread weaving gratitude, intention, and peace through our hearts. There was something profoundly comforting about sharing that time with a friend: two women, side by side, offering our joys and burdens to Mary and her Son.

When Mass began, I felt an overwhelming sense of peace. The beauty of the liturgy, the soft echo of the cantor, and the sacredness of being present before the Lord. All of it felt like a fitting close to a weekend rooted in grace. I found myself whispering a quiet thank you for friendship, for faith, for rest, and for the reminder that sometimes holiness looks like an ordinary weekend spent with someone who helps you see God more clearly.

Sometimes we think joy is found in big adventures or perfectly planned getaways. But more often, it’s found in these small, gentle moments: laughter over a subpar meal, shared silence over textbooks and laptops, and in prayers whispered before Mass. It’s in the presence of someone who reminds you that you’re not walking this journey alone.

A Closing Prayer

Lord, thank You for the gift of friendship that reflects Your love.

Thank You for the people who bring light into our lives
through simple moments and honest conversations.

Bless our time together, even the ordinary parts,
and let them draw us closer to You.

May every shared laugh, quiet prayer, and peaceful pause
remind us that Your grace is found not only in the extraordinary,
but in the everyday.

Amen.

Boundaries, Healing, and the Culture of Love: The Quiet Work of Renewal

**NOTE: Last night I listened to a discussion that stirred something deep in me, and it inspired today’s reflection.

When I think about boundaries, healing, and the culture of love, I realize how much of this has unfolded for me since moving to Fargo. Life in Illinois was full and busy, with constant commitments and responsibilities pulling me in different directions. In Fargo, I’ve been given the gift of quiet, which has allowed me to slow down, step back, and spend more intentional time with God. This quieter pace has become fertile ground for what I now see as the quiet work of renewal.

We often hear the call to “change the world,” but it can feel overwhelming like a burden too heavy to carry. When I hear that phrase, I sometimes imagine huge movements, world leaders, or people who have platforms far beyond my reach. But the truth is, real transformation begins much closer to home. When your culture changes, your community’s culture changes, and then the whole world’s culture changes.

This truth echoes the wisdom of St. Teresa of Calcutta, who said, “If you want to change the world, go home and love your family.” She understood something profound: world change doesn’t start on a grand stage. It begins in the ordinary, in the everyday, and in the way we treat those closest to us with love, patience, forgiveness, and kindness.

In my own life, I’ve had seasons when I needed to take a step back from organizations I was heavily involved in, from friendships that left me drained, and even at times from family relationships that weighed heavily on my heart. These choices weren’t easy. At first, I felt guilt for creating distance. I wondered if I was letting people down or failing to live up to expectations. But through prayer and reflection, I’ve learned that boundaries are not rejections. They are acts of love, ways of protecting peace in my own personal culture so that I can show up more lovingly, more authentically, and more fully for the people God has entrusted to me.

My faith reminds me that even Jesus withdrew from the crowds. He went up the mountain alone to pray. He sought quiet spaces to rest and to reconnect with His Father. If the Son of God needed solitude, how much more do I? Those pauses are not selfish; they are sacred. They are where healing begins. They are where I remember who I am: God’s beloved daughter. They are where God equips me to return to others not empty or resentful, but with a heart renewed, ready to love.

For me, healing has meant learning the hard but necessary art of saying “no.” No to unhealthy expectations. No to being everything for everyone. No to staying in patterns that steal my peace. Each “no” creates room for a greater “yes.” Yes to forgiveness, yes to hope, yes to grace, and yes to joy. This isn’t always easy, and sometimes I stumble. But even in my failures, I see how God works. When my heart shifts, even slightly, the ripple spreads: my family feels more peace, my friends experience more compassion, my community begins to reflect the love God is planting in me.

And that’s what St. Teresa meant when she said to “go home and love your family.” Love starts small. It doesn’t need a stage, a spotlight, or a worldwide audience. It begins in the quiet culture of our own hearts and homes: how we greet one another at the end of a long day, how we speak in moments of frustration, how we choose to forgive, how we decide to serve one another in ordinary ways. These small beginnings matter, because love is contagious. It spreads outward to our families first, then to our communities, and eventually to the world.

That is the quiet work of renewal. Personal transformation is never just personal; it is the seed of cultural renewal. When I change, my culture changes. And when we choose to love those closest to us, as Christ calls us to, we participate in something far greater than ourselves. We participate in God’s quiet, powerful work of changing the world one heart, one home, one relationship at a time.

Grace in Simple Moments

Yesterday I made the 4.5-hour drive with a heart full of anticipation. What unfolded reminded me that sometimes the most ordinary days hold the most extraordinary graces.

There was nothing flashy about the setting - just a warm breeze, sunshine spilling across the yard, and the scent of fresh-cut grass hanging in the air. Yet, in that simplicity, I felt God’s presence so clearly. I’ve been praying and pondering what it means to truly know and live as His beloved daughter, and yesterday became a lived answer to that prayer. To sit, breathe, and simply be without striving, this is where God speaks gently and reminds me that His love is already mine.

That quiet awareness deepened as the evening unfolded. The highlight was CC stepping onto the stage as Wilbur in Charlotte’s Web. Watching her embody such joy and courage was a gift. With floppy ears and a beaming smile, she radiated life, heart, and wonder. She was indeed “some pig - terrific and radiant.” What struck me most was not just the performance itself but the way her joy overflowed into all of us. It was impossible not to smile, not to feel lifted, not to see God’s light shining through her.

Driving home, I carried with me more than the memory of a play. I carried the reminder that joy is contagious, that love shows up in laughter and shared presence, and that God’s grace is often revealed in the faces of those we love. Yesterday was a nudge to rest in who I am - His beloved - and to see His goodness stitched into both the quiet and the celebratory moments.

Lord, thank You for the gift of joy, for the courage of children who remind us to shine freely, and for the grace of ordinary days that reveal Your extraordinary love. Help me rest in the truth that I am Your beloved, and may I carry that truth into the world with peace, gratitude, and joy. Amen.

Adventures in Faith and Imagination

I’ve always believed that stories have the power to open hearts, spark imagination, and draw us closer to God. Over the years, I’ve had the privilege of writing books that blend faith, creativity, and wonder. This season, I’m especially excited to share not just one, but two new releases that have been on my heart for a long time.

As a writer, educator, and lifelong learner, I find great joy in helping children and families encounter the beauty of God in ways that are approachable, joyful, and inspiring. These upcoming books reflect that calling: one invites young readers to celebrate the saints through creativity, and the other welcomes them on a backyard adventure where faith, imagination, and even dinosaurs come together in the most delightful way.

Whether you’re a parent, grandparent, teacher, catechist, or simply someone who loves to share meaningful stories, these books are designed to create special moments of faith and fun. And what makes these projects even more meaningful is that all proceeds will go directly to organizations that support abused children, so every page turned is also a step toward healing and hope for those in need.

Miriam’s Heavenly Tea Party - A Coloring Book for All Saints’ Day

Arriving just in time for All Saints’ Day, my new coloring book, Miriam’s Heavenly Tea Party, invites children to gather around the table with some of the Church’s most beloved saints. From St. Francis to St. Teresa of Calcutta, young readers can bring these holy men and women to life with color while learning their stories in a fun, prayerful way.

This book is perfect for classrooms, parish activities, family celebrations of All Saints’ Day, or simply a cozy afternoon of coloring that nurtures faith and creativity.

Mary, Dinosaurs, and the Wonders of God: A Backyard Adventure with Momma Mary - A Children’s Story for the Holidays

Just in time for the holiday season, I’ll also be releasing my next children’s storybook: Mary, Dinosaurs, and the Wonders of God: A Backyard Adventure with Momma Mary. This whimsical and faith-filled tale follows two children as they explore the beauty of God’s creation with Mary by their side even discovering the playful world of dinosaurs along the way!

It’s a story of faith, imagination, and discovery. Perfect for reading together during the holidays, gifting to loved ones, or adding to your family’s bookshelf for year-round inspiration.

Sharing Faith Through Story & Creativity

Both of these new books reflect my passion to help

children and families discover the wonder of God through story. Whether through coloring pages filled with saints or a backyard adventure that mixes faith with dinosaurs, my hope is that these books will spark joy, nurture curiosity, and strengthen faith for readers of all ages.

Pre-Order & Purpose

Both books are now available for pre-order at my website.

Witness Through Words: Reflections on St. Maximilian Kolbe

Last night, I went to see "Triumph of the Heart," the latest movie about St. Maximilian Kolbe. His story of sacrificial love and courage stirred something deep within me. It reminded me of my days as a journalist for The Catholic Post, a former newspaper for the Diocese of Peoria, when I felt a profound responsibility to capture stories that carried the light of Christ into people’s homes. Even though I’m no longer in that role, my love of writing remains a central part of who I am, and St. Maximilian's witness reminded me why words matter so much.

St. Maximilian used every tool available to him - pen, press, radio - not for personal gain, but to spread truth, defend the faith, and encourage hope. Watching the movie, I realized that while his final act of stepping into another man’s place in Auschwitz was the ultimate testimony, his earlier dedication to communication was also a form of martyrdom: day after day, he poured himself out through the written and spoken word so that others might know Christ.

That realization struck me. My own writing may never carry the gravity of his, but I’ve always believed that stories - whether news articles, reflections, or children’s books - can become channels of grace. They remind people they are not alone, that God is present, that truth and love still triumph in a world so often shadowed by fear and division.

I left the theater feeling challenged to see my writing, both past and present, as a continuation of that mission: to be a witness through words, to use the gifts God gave me as a way of bringing light into dark places.

Lord Jesus, thank You for the vocation of writing and for the example of St. Maximilian Kolbe. Help me to use my words wisely, with courage and humility, so that they point others toward You. May my pen, like Kolbe’s, always serve Your kingdom.

A Sacred Moment at Blaze Pizza

While having lunch at Blaze Pizza today, I witnessed a moment of quiet grace that stirred my heart. A family of seven or eight entered, their children waiting with a stillness that felt rare in such a busy place. Their father sat with them, while their mother, balancing a baby close to her heart, placed the order with a quiet strength and tenderness.

As the meal was prepared, the father and older daughters filled water cups for everyone. Meanwhile, the younger children visited softly with one another, calm and content until the pizzas were brought to the table.

Then it happened.

One of the youngest little boys turned to his mom and asked, “Mom, can we pray now so we can eat?”

For a moment, I thought I had misheard him. But then, in unison, I heard: “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.” Together they prayed, right there in the middle of a busy restaurant.

I was stunned in the best possible way. I had never seen a family I didn’t know pray publicly before a meal in a restaurant. It wasn’t a performance. It wasn’t for show. It was natural, faithful, and rooted in love. In a world where it often feels easier to keep faith private, this small act of devotion radiated something powerful.

It reminded me of the theme of the National Christ Child Society Conference I attended last week. We spoke about the courage it takes to live our mission boldly in today’s world: serving children, advocating for families, and letting faith guide our actions, not just in church pews or behind closed doors, but wherever God places us.

This family’s prayer was a living witness to that same theme. They didn’t hide their light. They didn’t wait until they were home. They offered thanks in the middle of an ordinary lunch, reminding me that holiness is often found in the most ordinary moments.

In that simple, public prayer, this family became the light of Christ for me. Their quiet witness reminded me that faith doesn’t have to be loud to be powerful; it only needs to shine where it is, unafraid and unashamed. Just as the conference encouraged us to carry Christ’s light into the world, that family brought it into a pizza shop, and in doing so, they lit a spark in my own heart.

Waking Up in Song: Carrying the Light Forward

This morning I woke up with a song on my lips and in my heart. The lyrics echoed softly as I opened my eyes, almost as if they had been sung over me during the night. I didn’t plan it, and yet the melody and words were there, rising up from within me. Waking up in song is more than coincidence; it feels like prayer, like the Spirit’s way of reminding me of what I most need to carry forward.

In the glow of the National Christ Child Society Conference, with its theme “Be the Light,” the timing of these lyrics feels especially significant. Singing in the quiet morning reminds me that light often begins in hidden, unexpected places like a melody stirring in the early dawn. Light doesn’t always arrive in dramatic ways. Sometimes it comes as a gentle nudge, a reminder to let joy and hope lead before anything else has a chance to take root.

The conference called each of us to become bearers of light for children, families, and communities in need. It challenged me to look closely at my own life: Am I radiating light in my words, in my work, in my presence with others? The song that woke me up feels like a personal answer. Light is not only what I do; it’s also what I carry inside. If my heart is filled with song, even in sleep, then God is showing me that His light is already planted within me, ready to shine outward.

I think of the women I met at the conference - their dedication, their generosity, their passion for service. Each of them reflected light in a unique way, like many voices blending into a choir. My own morning song is a continuation of that harmony, reminding me that when we share light, the music of hope and love keeps playing long after the gathering ends.

Today, I want to carry that song with me, not only in melody but in action. To sing with my life by speaking words of encouragement, offering compassion, and choosing joy. To let my light rise like morning song, so that others may hear it and feel its warmth.

Jesus, Light of the World, thank You for planting a song of joy within me.
Help me to carry that song into the lives of others,
so that my words and actions may reflect Your love.
May my life be a hymn of light, drawing others closer to You.
Amen.

Be the Light: A Journey of Faith and Hope

This past weekend, I traveled to Bethesda, Maryland, for the National Christ Child Society Conference, held under the theme Be the Light. Before the conference officially began, we took a day trip into Washington, D.C., that became much more than sightseeing; it became a living reflection of what it means to carry Christ’s light into the world.

Our first stop was the Opportunity Shop run by the DC Chapter of the Christ Child Society. This high-end resale shop raises money to fund the chapter’s programs for children and families in need. Walking through the shop, I saw how gently used items - clothing, jewelry, household goods - are transformed into hope and opportunity for others. The shop embodied the theme so beautifully: ordinary things, given with love, become extraordinary light for those in need.

From there, we went to the Basilica of the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception. Stepping into the Basilica was like stepping into a sacred embrace. The brilliance of the mosaics and the peaceful silence reminded me that Christ is the true Light of the world, and Mary reflects that light by leading us closer to Him. In that space, I felt the call of our Society’s mission: just as Mary said “yes” to God, we are called to say “yes” to serving children and families. Surrounded by Christ Child members from across the country, I felt encouraged to bring this light back to my own community.

Next, we visited the Washington Monument. Rising high above the Reflecting Pool, its marble tower gleamed in the afternoon light. To me, it stood as a symbol of aspiration, an invitation to live lives marked by integrity, service, and hope. Even in playful moments, like holding the monument in my hand for a photo, I was reminded that each of us, no matter how small we feel in history’s sweep, is called to be a light in the time and place where God has planted us.

At the World War II Memorial and the Lincoln Memorial, I reflected on the light of courage and sacrifice. The WWII Memorial honors men and women who gave their lives so others could live in freedom. At the same time, the Lincoln Memorial enshrines the memory of a leader who guided a divided nation. Their legacies challenge us to be the light in times of division by defending dignity, praying for peace, and seeking reconciliation. Just as these memorials shine as reminders of resilience, our own lives are meant to shine with God’s love in difficult times. 

When the conference began, one of the highlights was hearing Dr. Ben Carson deliver his keynote address. He spoke about his upbringing, the challenges he faced, and the way his mother instilled in him the importance of reading. Literacy, he said, opened the door to his future. His story resonated deeply with me and with the Christ Child Society’s programs, many of which focus on literacy for children. 

As I listened, I thought about why I write children’s books. Stories shape hearts and minds, spark imagination, and plant seeds of faith and hope. Books can open a child’s world, just as they did for Dr. Carson, and provide a foundation for dignity and opportunity. Writing for children is, for me, one way to be the light as I place words and images into young hands that affirm their worth and point them toward God’s love. Dr. Carson’s story was a confirmation that literacy is not just about learning to read; it is about opening doors to the future and helping children see the light within themselves.

Throughout the weekend, I was also blessed by the people God placed in my path. Getting to know MaryAnne and Barb, fellow members of the Quad Cities Chapter, deepened my appreciation for the friendships and shared mission that sustain us. An unexpected joy was reuniting with Sister Miriam Caritas (Beth McMurray) from the Sisters of Life. Her community’s charism - to protect and enhance the sacredness of every human life - mirrors the heart of the Christ Child Society’s mission. Their witness reminded me that being the light is not something we do alone, but together, through community and shared purpose.

As I reflect on the weekend, I see how every moment, the Opportunity Shop, the Basilica, the monuments, Dr. Carson’s words, and the people I encountered were all threads in a single tapestry. They reminded me that to Be the Light means transforming the ordinary into hope, saying yes to God’s call, aspiring higher, honoring sacrifice, investing in literacy, cherishing life, and building community.

I left Washington, D.C., and the Christ Child Society Conference in Bethesda with a renewed sense of purpose. Just as Mary carried the light of Christ into the world, I want to say “yes” in my own ways to serve, to love, to build, and to shine with His light. In a world and a nation that so desperately need healing and hope, the call to Be the Light feels more urgent and more beautiful than ever.

The whole group that attended the National Christ Child Society Conference in front of the Basilica of the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception in Washington, DC.

Christ Child Society of the Quad Cities Members: Mary Anne Dockery-Jackson, President (Center), Barb Singleton, Layett Coordinator (Right), and myself, Website and Social Media Coordinator.

A window dedicated to Mary Virginia Merrick,
Foundress of the Christ Child Society

The Washington Monument

The Lincoln Memorial

Dr. Ben Carson (pictured with his wife, Candy) gave a keynote talk on his life and the importance of literacy at an early age. His mother, who had less than a third-grade education, ensured that her sons received a good education and were successful in life.

An unexpected reunion with Sister Miriam Caritas of the Sisters of Life. We haven't seen each other in more than 20 years. It was a joy and a blessing to catch up with her.