A Journey of Faith, Friendship, and Courage

More than 25 years ago, Lori and I first crossed paths as young women eager to serve. We joined the Sisters of St. Francis of the Immaculate Conception, known as the Heading Avenue Franciscans in West Peoria, IL, to teach Vacation Bible School on the Standing Rock Indian Reservation in South Dakota. Those days of prayer, teaching, and laughter formed a bond that has lasted a lifetime. We became fast friends. Our birthdays are only a day apart, and over the years, we've celebrated milestones together. I was at her wedding, and later, at the baptism of her oldest son.

Life, as it often does, carried us down different roads. Though we’ve only seen each other three or four times in person since those early days, we never lost touch. Social media, texts, cards, and, most importantly, prayer have kept our friendship alive.

In 2014, Lori received a diagnosis that changed everything: Adrenal Cortical Carcinoma (ACC), also known as cancer of the adrenal gland. It is a one-in-a-million cancer, with a devastatingly low survival rate, because there are typically no symptoms until it has already spread into other organs. By the time it is discovered, treatment is incredibly difficult. Since that moment, Lori has been living not only with ACC but also with additional cancers that have followed.

And yet, she continues to live with extraordinary courage, humor, and faith. In her own words, she describes how “not all cancer - or illnesses - are visible.” Just this summer, she hiked for miles at scout camp and trekked around Michigan, seemingly healthy on the outside, even while carrying an invisible battle within. She is honest not only about the frustration, the anger, and the fatigue, but also about the grace of God that keeps her grounded. “God is good,” she reminds us. “He hears my cries, my anger, my frustration, and still He wraps me in His arms and loves me.”

Lori’s story is a reminder that faith doesn’t erase suffering, but it does transform it. It gives us strength to face the unthinkable, hope when fear feels overwhelming, and community when isolation tries to take hold.

For me, Lori’s journey is personal. She is not just a “friend from long ago,” but a sister of the heart whose witness inspires me daily. Though our paths don’t cross often, every message, every update, every shared prayer ties us together across the miles. I pray for her, by name, at the Consecration of Holy Eucharist without fail, knowing that at that moment, Heaven and Earth are as close as they ever are, and the Communion of Saints is right there.

I share Lori’s story not only to honor her courage but to remind us all: be kind. You never know what battles someone else is fighting, especially when those battles are invisible. Check in on one another. Offer support. Love one another because that is what we are called to do.

Please join me in keeping Lori and her family in your prayers. Pray for strength on the hard days, for wisdom for her doctors, for moments of joy in the midst of struggle, and for the unshakable peace that only God can provide.

Lori, my dear friend, you are not alone. You are deeply loved.

Prayers for Annunciation: When Violence Touches the Sacred

"The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit." 
— Psalm 34:18

Today, my heart is heavy as I process the devastating news of the shooting at Annunciation Catholic Church in Minneapolis, during what should have been a safe, sacred moment: an All-School Mass.

As a former teacher with over fifteen years of experience, primarily in Catholic schools, I understand the significance of those Masses. They are not just a time of worship; they are moments of community, of formation, of children learning that their faith is a refuge. To imagine such a holy space pierced by violence is almost too much to bear.

I have lived through two real-life lockdowns during my teaching years. Neither time was due to violence inside the school, but because danger was just outside our doors. I remember the pounding in my chest, the way the silence in the classroom felt suffocating, and the weight of trying to keep my students calm when I myself was trembling inside. Those memories came flooding back as I watched the news this morning. 

Right now, my prayers are with the students, who should never have to carry the memory of seeing or hearing violence in their place of learning and worship. I pray for the teachers and faculty, who will have to guide young hearts through fear and trauma while holding their own. I pray for the families who entrusted their children to the safety of a school and parish that suddenly feels broken. And I pray for the parishioners, whose church walls now hold echoes of grief when they were meant to have only praise.

We must surround them all with love, prayer, and tangible support. May God’s peace comfort every heart, may His healing cover every wound, and may His light break through even the darkest shadows.

Please join me in lifting up Annunciation Catholic School and Parish. Let us be united in prayer for safety, healing, and hope.

You Don’t Owe Your Past a Lifetime

Taped to the corner of my computer monitor is a faded sticky note that reads: “No matter how long you have lived one way, you are allowed to change everything. You don’t owe your past a lifetime.” I can’t remember where I first heard it or even when I stuck it there, but it’s been in my line of sight every single day – quietly waiting, like a seed pressed into the soil, unnoticed until the right season.

This morning, the words didn’t just sit on the page. They cracked open, like that seed finally breaking through the ground. The truth of them surged through me, not softly but with force as if a dam had given way and living water rushed into every dry corner of my mind, body, and soul.

The last four months have been a season of deep change for me. Moving to a new city, stepping into a new role, beginning graduate school at a different university, and continuing to do the hard work of healing have all stirred something inside. At times it has felt like the ground beneath me was shifting, and I wasn’t sure if I could find my footing again. But in the midst of all that, I’ve heard this quiet truth: I don’t owe my past a lifetime.

For a long time, I lived as though I did. I believed that if I had walked a path for years, I was required to stay on it, even if it no longer brought life. I thought loyalty to what was familiar was the same as faithfulness. But what I’m learning is that God doesn’t call us to stay bound to what keeps us small. He invites us into freedom. He reminds us that His mercies are new every morning, that beginnings are always possible, even after long seasons of living one way.

Letting go hasn’t been easy. Old patterns – perfectionism, striving for approval, measuring my worth by what I do – have clung tightly. Slowly, I’ve realized those patterns don’t fit who I’m becoming. They once helped me survive, but they cannot help me grow. The changes of these past months have peeled back those layers, and while it’s uncomfortable, it’s also liberating.

Starting again doesn’t erase the past. It honors it for what it was, thanks it for its lessons, and then releases it to make space for something new. God has been teaching me that change isn’t a betrayal of who I was, but an act of faith in who He is shaping me to be. Each day I get to take small steps into that truth: writing new words, building new friendships, creating rhythms of rest, and trusting that the story unfolding now is worth embracing.

So, if you find yourself carrying the weight of your past as though it’s a debt you’ll never be free from, hear this: you don’t owe your past a lifetime. You are free to change everything, even now, even here. God’s love makes room for it. And I am learning, day by day, to step into that freedom.

A Roller Coaster of a Day

The last 24+ hours have been nothing short of a roller coaster. What began with disappointment has ended with renewed hope, and somewhere in between, I was reminded that God has a way of redirecting paths when our own plans feel like they’re falling apart.

Yesterday, I lost my illustrator. After all the dreaming, planning, and advertising for Miriam’s Heavenly Tea Party coloring book, the news hit like a punch to the stomach. For a moment, I feared that everything: the timeline, the excitement, and the joy of sharing this project was about to unravel.

Instead of sitting in discouragement, I went to work. I interviewed potential illustrators, each conversation a mix of cautious hope and whispered prayer that someone would not only see the vision but also share the heart behind it because this project has never been just about a coloring book; it’s about creating something beautiful for children while supporting organizations that serve those who have suffered abuse of any kind.

And today, God provided. I found a new illustrator, through a mutual friend, who not only has the creativity to bring Miriam’s tea party to life, but also understands and supports the mission that fuels it. Their compassion and passion breathe fresh life into this project, and together we are moving forward with renewed energy.

Best of all, the printing of Miriam’s Heavenly Tea Party is still on track! What first looked like a detour has instead turned into confirmation that the right people will always come alongside when the mission is clear and the purpose is greater than ourselves.

Yes, the last 24 hours have been dizzying, but they’ve also been filled with grace. I step forward grateful, hopeful, and more certain than ever that this book will bless the children and organizations it is meant to serve.

✨ Pre-orders are now open! Reserve your copy of Miriam’s Heavenly Tea Party today and be part of a mission that brings joy to children and support to those who need it most.

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.