Trusting God in the Waiting and the Breaking

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And for now, that is enough.

The Heart of Becoming a Leader

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Holy Spirit Brings the Right People Together for a Mission

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When Gratitude and Grief Meet at the Table

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Where a Family’s Welcome Reveals the Gospel

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

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

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

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

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

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

And of course, I did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Beginning Again: Restarting the Butterfly Girl Podcast

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

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

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

Why I Am Returning Now

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

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

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

What You Can Expect Moving Forward

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

• Honest conversations about what healing really looks like

• Reflections on faith that come from lived experience and prayer

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

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

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

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

What I Hope This Podcast Offers

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

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

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

Thank You for Being Here

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

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

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

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

When Heaven Spoke in Color: Faith in the Northern Lights

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Faith, Freedom, and Service: A Veterans Day Reflection

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.