Summer Palooza and the Spiritual Life

This Thursday is our Summer Palooza at work, and I volunteered to bring a beach-themed cake. At first, it was just meant to be something fun and lighthearted, a way to add a little summer whimsy to the celebration. But as I worked on it, I found myself smiling at how each little piece of the cake carried a quiet reminder of the spiritual life.

The “ocean” side of the cake was made with bright blue frosting, sprinkled with gummy fish swimming through the “waves.” It reminded me of the times in life when I feel caught up in the flow of God’s grace, moving freely, carried along by something much bigger than myself. Those are the seasons when faith feels easy, when prayer flows naturally, when I sense God’s nearness, and when I feel like I’m swimming joyfully in His presence.

On the other side of the pan, I crushed graham crackers into soft “sand,” complete with teddy grahams stretched out on rainbow candy towels and bright umbrellas offering shade. That part of the cake spoke to me, too. There are times in life when I need to step out of the waves and rest—times when stillness, patience, and even waiting in God’s presence are more important than motion. Just like those little teddy grahams soaking up the sun, I sometimes need to simply be, letting God refresh me. The umbrellas reminded me of how God covers and protects me in those seasons when the sun of life feels too strong, when challenges threaten to overwhelm. His promises are always my shade.

As I decorated, I chuckled at the gummy fish. They made me think of Jesus’ words: “Come, follow me, and I will make you fishers of men” (Matthew 4:19). Even something playful like a cake can carry meaning. Just as those little fish swam across the frosting sea, I’m reminded that I’m called to carry God’s joy wherever I go; yes, even to an office party with cake and laughter.

What struck me most as I finished was how God can be found in the simplest things. Who would have thought a cake could carry so many quiet lessons? It reminded me that faith doesn’t have to live only in the pews on Sunday or in the silence of prayer; it’s also in the kitchen as I stir frosting, in the office as I share a laugh with coworkers, and even in the silly creativity of gummy fish and graham cracker sand. God is present everywhere, in the ordinary as much as the extraordinary.

So when Thursday comes and we gather for Summer Palooza, I’ll bring my cake with joy. But more than that, I’ll bring a heart that has been reminded to look for God in every detail - in the waves and in the sand, in work and in play, in laughter and in rest.

Lord, thank You for being present in every part of my life - in the waves that carry me forward, in the sands where I rest, in the shade when life feels heavy, and in the laughter of community. Help me to notice You not only in grand moments of faith, but also in the simple, playful details of everyday life.
May I carry Your joy with me to Summer Palooza and beyond. Amen.

Trusting the Timing, Embracing the Beginning

 Lately, two simple, yet profound, phrases have been weaving their way into my life:

“Trust the timing of your life.”

“What feels like the end is often the beginning.”

These aren’t just pretty words on a page or a bookmark; they’ve been a message that keeps finding me, over and over again. And most beautifully, it’s been coming to me through Mary Ann in my dreams.

Today, that message showed up again. This time in the most unexpected way. I stopped into Hurley’s Catholic Bookstore, not looking for anything in particular, when my eyes immediately landed on two wooden blocks. They carried these exact words that have been echoing in my heart. In that moment, I knew I couldn’t leave without them. It felt like Mary Ann had placed them there just for me, as if to say, “See? I’m still speaking. Keep listening.”

Her presence in these dreams feels warm and familiar, like she’s both encouraging me forward and assuring me that I am exactly where I’m meant to be.

In the waking world, I’ve been carrying my own questions about timing. I’ve wondered if I’ve missed opportunities or if certain doors will ever open again. But when I hear these words - her words - they cut through the noise and settle into my soul. They tell me that the pauses, detours, and even the heartbreaks are not mistakes; they’re part of a divine unfolding.

“What feels like the end is often the beginning” has been especially comforting. Sometimes we only see loss in the moment - the job that ends, the relationship that shifts, the plan that unravels. But in time, we see that those endings are often the very soil in which something new takes root.

Maybe that’s why the image of a butterfly feels so fitting for these sayings. A butterfly’s beauty is only possible because it surrendered to the cocoon, trusting the stillness before it could fly.

So today, I hold onto these reminders, Mary Ann’s reminders, to trust the process, welcome the unknown, and believe that every ending is simply a disguised beginning.

When the Gardener Replants You

"See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?
I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland."

                                                                                                                                                   —Isaiah 43:19

When I decided to replant my English Ivy this afternoon, I thought it was simply because it had outgrown its pot. But as I got closer, I noticed something awful. Mold was forming in the soil from overwatering, and tiny gnats had taken up residence. The plant still looked green and alive, but beneath the surface, unhealthy conditions were quietly taking hold.

It struck me how much this mirrors my own faith journey. There have been seasons when, from the outside, I seemed fine—rooted, steady, even thriving. But underneath, unhealthy patterns had taken root: bitterness, fear, self-reliance, and unhealthy attachments. Sometimes they grew because I was “overwatered” with noise and busyness, too much of what I didn’t need, and not enough of what truly nourished me.

The gnats and mold were a wake-up call that the environment needed to change. In my own life, God has used moments of discomfort, loss, and disruption to show me when the soil of my heart had grown stale. Like a good gardener, He doesn’t ignore the decay; He gently uproots me, removes what’s unhealthy, and replants me in a place where I can breathe again.

Replanting is messy. Roots have to be untangled, old soil shaken off, and pests removed. It can feel like a stripping away. That’s where I have been in recent months. God pulled me out of what no longer served His purpose, cleared away what choked my spirit, and placed me in fresh soil.

Now, I’m starting to see the growth. Small, tender shoots of hope are pushing through in my life. The heaviness has begun to lift. My roots are sinking into new soil, finding strength in Him, and reaching for the light. Just like my ivy, I’m not yet in full bloom, but the signs are there: more peace, more clarity, more trust. The process that once felt like loss now feels like renewal.

The ivy will keep growing, and so will I. With time, care, and the steady presence of the Gardener, what once was stifled will flourish again.

Lord, You are the Gardener of my life and soul. Thank you for loving me enough to notice when my roots are crowded, when my soil has gone stale, and when things I cannot see have begun to choke out my growth. Thank you for not leaving me in that place, even when I resisted the change. 

In Your mercy, You have lifted me from where I was, shaken off what was harming me, and placed me in fresh, life-giving soil. I feel the light on my leaves again. I sense the living water soaking deep into my roots. And, though I am still tender from the move, I can see signs of life springing up in me. 

Help me to trust the process You have begun. Teach me patience for the seasons where growth is slow. Protect me from anything that would creep in to steal my peace. Keep my roots anchored in You, my true source of strength. 

May my life be a living testimony that even when we are uprooted, it is never to harm us, but always to bring us into a place where we can flourish under the care of the Gardener's hands. Amen.

When the Desert Blooms

I never saw it coming.

When I moved to Fargo, I thought I was ready for the change. I had navigated moves before, walked away from familiar places, and built new lives in new spaces. But this time, the homesickness crept in like an uninvited guest, settling heavily in my chest. Loneliness became a steady echo in my days. I cried every single day until July 4th - sometimes quietly, sometimes in deep sobs that left me exhausted. I hadn’t anticipated how much the absence of familiar voices, streets, and rhythms would sting.

It felt like God had led me into a desert, a wide, quiet, aching place, I hadn’t prepared for. At first, I fought it. I tried to fill the silence, numb the ache, convince myself it wasn’t so bad. But deserts have a way of stripping you down to what matters. Slowly, God began to whisper in the stillness. He was not wasting this wilderness.

In the emptiness, I found a deeper hunger for Him. My prayers became raw; my trust stretched farther than I thought it could reach. I began to notice tiny blooms in the barren ground, peace that didn’t make sense, hope that flickered where it shouldn’t, and joy that showed up in unexpected ways.

Last week, I returned to Illinois to pick up my car, see family, and spend time with friends. Would going back to my old home reopen the wound? Would leaving again make the desert feel even drier? Would the comfort of familiar arms and laughter make Fargo feel emptier when I returned?

To my surprise, it didn’t.

Instead, I came back to Fargo with peace in my heart and confidence in my steps. My time in Illinois had been a gift - long conversations, honest prayers, and deep laughter with people who have known my journey through both storms and sunshine. The conversations were so rich and meaningful that taking photos didn’t even cross my mind most of the time. I wasn’t there to capture moments on a screen; I was there to be fully present in them. In fact, I only took two photos the entire week - a snapshot from lunch with my great grandma, who is 104 years old, and my great aunt. The single picture of my grandma and I holds more meaning than an entire album could because it reminds me not just of her long life, but of the living, breathing moments of connection that matter most.

Much of the trip was spent in my car, talking to God, reflecting on what He has done in me over the last few months. Those miles felt like sacred ground, an altar stretched across highways and backroads.

And now, back in my apartment, I realize something: the desert was never meant to destroy me. It was meant to prepare me. It was where God taught me to listen, to trust, to find Him in the quiet.

Home isn’t just where I came from. It’s where God is leading me. And here in Fargo, the desert is blooming.

Lord, thank You for meeting me in the desert places, for turning tears into trust and emptiness into peace. Thank You for the gift of deep conversations, for sacred miles on the road, and for the blessing of time with those I love. Teach me to live fully in each moment, to choose presence over distraction, and to see Your hand at work in every season. May my heart remain open to the places You lead me, and may the deserts of my life continue to bloom with Your grace. Amen.

Faith on the Highway: Finding God in Life’s Long Detours

Today I completed the more than 12-hour drive back to Illinois to pick up my car after nearly five months apart. The journey felt like more than just a drive; it was a return to something familiar, a reclaiming of independence, and a pilgrimage toward home and the people who make it feel that way.

For months, life has felt like navigating a maze with a blindfold on. While I had a rental car to keep me moving, the experience was anything but smooth. Dealing with the rental company and Ford was like wading through thick mud. Every step forward felt like a struggle, weighed down by delays and endless back-and-forth phone calls. Having my own car back isn’t just about four wheels and an engine; it feels like being handed the reins of my own journey again.

The miles stretched endlessly before me, a ribbon of highway unraveling like a chapter waiting to be written. The hum of the tires became the rhythm of a heartbeat, steady and relentless, carrying me closer to familiar faces and places that have stitched themselves into the fabric of my soul. Each town I passed was like a marker of time, a reminder that the road doesn’t just connect destinations. It connects hearts, memories, and the pieces of myself I sometimes forget I’ve left scattered along the way.

Much of this drive became sacred space—a moving chapel where prayers flowed as steadily as the passing mile markers. I found myself thanking God for what He has done in my heart over these last 3.5 months of living in Fargo: the courage He’s given me to start fresh in a new city, the healing that continues to unfold, the friendships slowly blooming, and the ways He’s been drawing me closer to Him in the stillness and the unknown. Each prayer was like a stone laid on the path ahead, reminding me that no matter where I go, He has been, and always will be, the One leading me forward.

By hour nine, the journey felt like climbing a mountain – every incline testing my endurance, every turn a reminder that reaching the summit would be worth it. And it was. Arriving in Illinois, I was met with hugs that felt like warm blankets on a cold night, laughter that filled the air like music, and the quiet comfort of simply being with people who know my heart without me having to explain a thing.

This trip reminded me that the long, winding road is not just a path to a destination; it’s a teacher. Every delay, every stretch of silence, every whispered prayer is a lesson in trust. God doesn’t waste the miles. He uses every one of them to draw us closer to His heart, to show us that no matter how uncertain the journey feels, His grace is steady, His love unchanging, and His presence unfailing.