When a Story Surprises the Writer

I recently completed my final personal edits of Light Still Stands and sent the manuscript forward. I expected to feel relief when I hit “send.” Instead, I found myself unexpectedly emotional.

What surprised me most is that I worked on this project for only a little over a month. It was not years in the making. It came together quickly and intensely, almost urgently. Yet in that short span of time, it reached deeper into me than I anticipated.

During those weeks, I was hyper-focused in a way that felt both energizing and consuming. I stayed up late into the night refining chapters and revising themes, sometimes sleeping only three or four hours before getting up to do my actual job the next morning. I would tell myself I was finished for the evening, only to return to one more scene or one more edit. The story followed me into the early hours when I should have been resting.

All of this unfolded while life continued at full pace. I am taking graduate classes. I am producing a Lenten series podcast. I am balancing professional responsibilities. I am also preparing myself mentally for upcoming surgery and the reality of being away from work for a time. None of those commitments paused while I was writing. I simply layered this creative sprint on top of everything else.

Looking back, I can see how much I was carrying.

And yet, I do not regret it.

Somewhere in those late nights, something deeper was happening. I was not just shaping dialogue and structure. I was wrestling with themes of steadiness, surrender, grief, control, and trust. Light Still Stands explores what remains when circumstances feel fragile and how light can endure in uncertain seasons. When I stepped back from the manuscript, I realized those questions were not only fictional. They were personal.

The emotional response I experienced after finishing was not doubt. It was release. It felt like my body and spirit finally catching up to the intensity of the past month. Even in a short, concentrated window of creativity, God was doing deeper work in me than I recognized at the time.

Over the past year, I have sensed God inviting me to live more intentionally. Not reactively. Not driven solely by productivity. Not fueled by the pressure to keep producing the next thing. Intentionally. Finishing this novel and feeling its weight confirmed that invitation. I do not want to move directly from one intense season into another without space to reflect on what has changed within me.

Because of that, I am choosing to pause from beginning any new creative projects for a season.

This is not stepping away from writing. It is choosing to steward it well. My current projects will continue moving forward. Commitments already in motion will remain steady. The Lenten series will continue. Ongoing responsibilities will be honored. But I will not be launching anything new while I process what this experience uncovered and prepare both physically and mentally for what lies ahead.

Intentional living does not always mean slowing down; sometimes it means sprinting when called to do so. But it also means recognizing when it is time to breathe. This past month reminded me that even a brief season can carry deep impact. Now the faithful response is not to rush forward, but to pause long enough to listen.

Sometimes the most surprising projects are the ones that shape us the most.

Walking Through Lent with Intentional Purpose

There are moments in life when God invites us to pause.

After Season Two of the Butterfly Girl Podcast ended, I felt that invitation clearly. Instead of immediately planning the next season, I stepped back. I prayed. I listened. I asked hard questions. Was this podcast something God still wanted me to carry forward? Or was it time to lay it down?

I did not want to continue simply because it was familiar or comfortable. I wanted to be obedient. I wanted to be intentional.

So I took time away.

In that quiet space, something beautiful happened. The silence did not feel empty. It felt purposeful. Slowly, the desire to return to the microphone did not come from pressure or obligation. It came from peace. It came from a gentle nudge to keep walking, keep sharing, keep creating space for honest conversations about faith.

And that is how Season Three was born.

This season is titled Walking Through Lent with Intentional Purpose because Lent is not meant to be rushed through or treated as a checklist. It is an invitation. An invitation to slow down. To examine our hearts. To make room for God to work more deeply in our lives.

Throughout this season, we will talk about intentional prayer, fasting, almsgiving, surrender, trust, healing, and discipleship. Some episodes will be quiet reflections. Others will include guests who share their own faith journeys and wisdom. Each conversation is meant to meet you where you are, whether you are strong in your faith, searching, tired, hopeful, or somewhere in between.

This season is not about perfection.

It is about presence.

It is about choosing, again and again, to walk with Jesus, even when the road feels uncomfortable or uncertain. It is about showing up with open hands and honest hearts.

I am deeply grateful for every listener who has walked this journey with me so far. Your messages, prayers, and encouragement mean more than you know. Thank you for allowing this space to be one of reflection, vulnerability, and growth.

As we begin Season Three together, my prayer is simple:
That you would feel less rushed.
More grounded.
More connected to God.
And more willing to live your faith intentionally.

Welcome to Season Three of the Butterfly Girl Podcast. Let’s walk through Lent with purpose together.

You can listen to the Butterfly Girl Podcast on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, or Amazon Music.

Why I’m Writing Light Still Stands

When I began Light Still Stands, I believed I was writing a Catholic young adult novel about a parish, a bell tower, and teenagers navigating faith and doubt. The book is still in progress. The manuscript is not finished yet. But as the story has unfolded, I have realized I am writing about something much deeper than I first imagined.

I am writing about endurance.

There were experiences in my childhood that introduced fear and confusion far too early. For a long time, I did not have language for them. Silence felt safer than explanation. My body carried tension long after circumstances changed. Those early fractures shaped how I understood trust, safety, and belonging.

And yet, beneath all of that, something steady remained.

Light still stood.

I was raised by my grandparents, whose faithfulness shaped me long before I formally entered the Catholic Church. I was not Catholic until I was nineteen years old. But I was raised around people who believed in God and who showed me what it meant to live with moral conviction and consistency. My grandparents created rhythm, structure, and stability when other parts of my early life felt uncertain.

Alongside them were close friends and neighbors who became steady souls in my world. They modeled what it meant to live the Catholic faith in practical ways. They showed up to Mass. They volunteered. They stayed in hard conversations. They kept choosing community even when faith felt complicated. From them I learned that faith is not the absence of doubt. It is the willingness to remain.

There were also absences in my early years that left quiet but lasting questions about belonging and worth. Before I could articulate what abandonment meant, I understood what it felt like when someone did not stay. That awareness shaped how I viewed relationships and how I measured safety. And yet, against that backdrop, there were people who did remain. That contrast between leaving and staying lives at the heart of this novel. Light Still Stands asks what truly makes something endure. Is it perfection, or is it presence?

In 2025, I lost a dear friend to cancer. I did not know she was sick. She chose to carry that privately. The loss came with sorrow and with surprise. Grief like that has a particular weight. It leaves you reflecting on conversations you did not know were final. It reminds you how much of life unfolds quietly, beyond what we can see. That experience deepened my understanding of how fragile and sacred relationships are, and that awareness has shaped the emotional landscape of this story.

Forgiveness has been one of the longest journeys of my life. It did not arrive quickly. It did not excuse harm or erase failure. It was not about pretending the past did not matter. It was about refusing to let brokenness define me. It was about releasing what was never mine to carry. That slow work of healing threads through this novel. The characters wrestle with fear, doubt, and the question of whether they will measure the world by its instability or by who stands beside them when it trembles.

For years, I have written for children because I believe stories shape hearts early. I want young readers to encounter courage, virtue, imagination, and faith in ways that feel honest and hopeful. As I move into young adult literature, that conviction deepens. Teenagers deserve good, quality, faith-filled literature that respects their intelligence and complexity. They deserve stories that acknowledge darkness without glorifying it. They deserve narratives where faith is resilient, thoughtful, and rooted in reality.

Light Still Stands is still unfolding. The bell tower in Maple Hollow bears cracks and signs of repair. It is not flawless. It requires tending. But it stands. In many ways, that image mirrors my own life. Structures can fracture. People can fail. Loss can arrive without warning. Yet presence, perseverance, and grace can hold.

That is why I am writing this novel.

Because even when the structure shows its history, light remains.

Light still stands.

Changing the Sails in the Storm

The other day I was scrolling through social media when I heard Father Michael Sliney say, “You can’t change the wind, but you can change the sails.” I can't stop thinking about those words
because the wind right now feels relentless.

It feels like unrest in Minneapolis. It feels like the reported abduction of Nancy Guthrie. It feels like the reality that children go missing every day in our country. It feels like the ongoing loss of innocent and helpless unborn lives. It feels like families torn apart by political, emotional, and spiritual division. The headlines feel heavy. The divisions feel personal. The sorrow feels constant.

The instinct is to react with outrage or to shut down completely. To argue harder. To despair faster. To try to control what is far beyond me. But Father Sliney’s questions cut through the noise: What is God asking of me in this situation? How does God want me to respond with His love right now?

I cannot stop every act of violence. I cannot prevent every tragedy. I cannot heal every fractured relationship. I cannot calm every headline. I cannot change the wind.

But I can change the sails.

For me, one of the first and most powerful adjustments is prayer. Prayer is not passive. It is not avoidance. It is an intentional turning of the heart toward God when everything feels unstable. It is asking Him to bring justice where there is injustice, protection where there is vulnerability, healing where there is trauma. It is placing names and faces before Him instead of just scrolling past them.

And prayer must move into action.

One thing I know I can do is support organizations that walk alongside children who have experienced abuse and trauma. I cannot rescue every child. But I can help those who are already doing that work. That is why 100 percent of the proceeds from my book sales go directly to organizations that support children in crisis. It is one small but concrete way I can change the sails. Writing stories. Selling books. Turning creativity into compassion in action.

Changing the sails might also mean refusing to let anger harden into hatred. It might mean advocating for the unborn with both conviction and tenderness. It might mean choosing conversation over contempt within my own family. It might mean guarding my heart from cynicism when it would be easier to give up.

The wind will keep blowing. The question is not whether the storm exists. The question is how I will respond inside it.

Changing the sails may look small. A whispered prayer. A donation. A book purchased that becomes support for a child who needs safety and healing. A gentler tone in a hard conversation. But even a slight shift in direction can change the course of a journey.

I cannot change the wind. But by God’s grace, I can adjust the sails of my heart toward mercy, truth, protection of the vulnerable, and love. And in a storm like this, that is not small at all.

I Wish You Enough: When Is Enough… Enough?

I recently came across a story that has been quietly sitting with me. A father and daughter stand at an airport, holding onto each other a little longer than usual. Instead of saying a simple goodbye, the father whispers something unexpected: “I wish you enough.” At first, it sounds incomplete. Enough of what? Enough for how long? Enough to get through what lies ahead? But the deeper I sat with it, the more I realized how powerful those words truly are. To wish someone “enough” is not to wish them an easy life. It is to bless them with balance. With seasons. With sunshine and rain. With growth and rest. With joy and struggle. With just enough of each to shape the soul.

If I am honest, this message hit close to home. I am a learner. A dreamer. A woman who loves education, books, research, and stretching her mind. I have pursued degrees. I am currently working on another. I am always thinking about what comes next. Another certification. Another class. Another way to grow. And somewhere along the way, I had to pause and ask myself a hard question: When will it be enough? Not enough in the sense of quitting growth or abandoning purpose, but enough in the sense of contentment. Enough in the sense of trusting that I am not defined by my accomplishments. Enough in the sense of knowing that my worth does not rise and fall with my résumé.

Scripture speaks gently into this tension. “Godliness with contentment is great gain” (1 Timothy 6:6). There is nothing wrong with learning. In fact, we are encouraged to grow in wisdom: “Let the wise listen and add to their learning” (Proverbs 1:5). But there is a difference between growing because God is calling us forward and striving because we are afraid to be still. I have learned that sometimes my hunger for more comes from holy curiosity, and sometimes it comes from restlessness. From wanting to prove myself. From believing I have not done enough yet to be worthy of rest. And Jesus offers a different invitation: “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest” (Matthew 11:28).

Enough does not mean stagnant. It means surrendered. It means asking God whether the next step is rooted in purpose or pressure. Whether the next degree is about calling or comparison. Whether the pursuit is grounded in obedience or anxiety. When I reflect on this story, I realize that “I wish you enough” is really a prayer of trust. Trust that God will provide what we need for today. Trust that we do not have to carry tomorrow yet. Trust that becoming who we are meant to be is a lifelong journey, not a finish line. Jesus reminds us of this when He says, “Do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself” (Matthew 6:34).

What if enough is not about how many degrees we earn, but how deeply we love? What if enough is not about how much we achieve, but how faithfully we walk with God? What if enough is not about what we collect, but about what we release? Release perfection. Release comparison. Release the constant need to prove ourselves. And instead receive enough peace to sleep at night, enough courage to take the next right step, enough humility to keep learning, enough wisdom to know when to rest, and enough faith to trust God’s timing.

So today, I offer this blessing to you and to myself. May you have enough sunlight to keep your hope alive. Enough rain to help you grow in compassion. Enough struggle to strengthen your faith. Enough joy to remind you why life is beautiful. Enough love to anchor your heart. And enough grace to remember that you are already enough in the eyes of God. Growth is good. Learning is beautiful. Dreams are sacred. But we were never meant to run endlessly. We were meant to walk with God. And sometimes the bravest thing we can say is not “What’s next?” but “Thank you, Lord, for today.”

Saying Yes to Life: Faith, Fire, and the Quiet Holiness of Love

Tonight, after watching Soul on Fire, I didn’t immediately reach for my phone or turn on another show. Instead, I sat quietly and let the weight of the story settle into my heart. There was something sacred about that stillness, as if God Himself was inviting me to linger in the moment and listen. The film stirred emotions I wasn’t fully prepared for: gratitude, sorrow, hope, and a renewed awareness of how fragile and precious this life truly is. It reminded me that faith is not lived only in churches or prayer books, but in hospital rooms, kitchen tables, late-night conversations, and the ordinary spaces where God quietly meets us.

As the credits rolled, I felt an unmistakable nudge toward reflection. Not the kind that stays surface-level, but the kind that reaches deeper and asks uncomfortable and holy questions. Am I truly living the life God is calling me to live? Am I saying yes to love even when it costs me something? Am I allowing suffering to soften my heart instead of hardening it? Soul on Fire did not simply tell a story of survival. It proclaimed a testimony of surrender, perseverance, and grace, reminding me that every breath we are given is an opportunity to choose faith again.

These words by John O'Learly continue to echo in my heart:

“To move through the adversities of life we must have a reason to thrive that is bigger than all the challenges that we face. My purpose is simple. Because God demands it. Jack was teaching me to say yes to life. The good and the bad.”

Those words carry the weight of the Gospel. To say yes to life is to say yes to God’s will, even when it is inconvenient, uncomfortable, or unclear. It is to trust that suffering does not have the final word. It is to believe, as our faith teaches us, that resurrection always follows the cross.

Earlier today, before I even watched the movie, I had nearly a two-hour FaceTime “date” with Josie. We read books. We did activities. We laughed. We shared small moments that felt surprisingly sacred. In that time together, I realized something deeply personal.

Josie is my Jack.

Being her Godmother has transformed me. It has reshaped how I understand vocation, service, and love. God did not give me this role by accident. Through Josie, He teaches me patience. Through her joy, He reminds me of wonder. Through my responsibility to her, He calls me to live with greater intention and integrity.

Spiritual motherhood is not symbolic. It is real. It is sacrificial. It is a daily yes to praying for her, showing up for her, guiding her toward truth, and loving her in a way that reflects Christ’s love. When John speaks about purpose being rooted in God’s demand, I hear that call clearly. Love is not optional. Presence is not optional. Faith is meant to be lived, not simply believed.

Soul on Fire also reminded me that healing is not instant. Transformation is rarely dramatic. Most of the time, holiness grows quietly. It grows in choosing forgiveness when it is hard. In trusting God when answers are delayed. In continuing to love when exhaustion sets in. In staying faithful when the road feels long.

The movie’s message about community struck me deeply as well. None of us are meant to walk alone. God designed us for relationship. He heals us through others. He strengthens us through shared burdens. Whether it is friendship, family, mentorship, or spiritual kinship, grace often arrives wearing the face of another person.

John O’Leary’s words, “You get one life, make yours matter,” feel like a modern echo of the saints. The saints did not seek comfort. They sought fidelity. They made their lives matter not through perfection, but through surrender. Through daily choices to love God and neighbor more fully.

Making life matter does not require grand gestures. Sometimes it looks like missionary work. Sometimes it looks like quiet service. And sometimes it looks like sitting on FaceTime for two hours reading children’s books and laughing with a little girl who has no idea she is helping shape a woman’s faith.

Tonight, I am grateful. Grateful for stories that remind me of God’s faithfulness. Grateful for John O’Leary’s witness. Grateful for Josie, who unknowingly teaches me how to say yes to life every day. And grateful for a God who continues to invite us into purpose, even in ordinary moments.

May I keep saying yes to love, to faith, to service, to joy, and to the good and the hard because this life is a gift. And by God’s grace, I want mine to matter.

Living My Best Life, Even in the Middle of It All

Lately, I have found myself saying something that once felt impossible to believe: I am living my best life.

Not because everything is easy. Not because there are no challenges. And certainly not because life has unfolded exactly as I once imagined. I am living my best life because I have never been more at peace.

That peace greets me every morning in the simplest of ways. There is a small sticky note on my bathroom mirror that reads:

I say these words every single time I wash my hands. What started as a reminder has become a prayer. A quiet act of surrender. A daily return to trust.

Recently, I watched the Hallmark movie A Melbourne Match, and one line stopped me in my tracks:

“Life is a journey without a map. Sometimes we get lost on a path we didn’t choose, but we still have to keep moving forward.”

That quote stayed with me long after the movie ended because it named something I have lived. For a long time, I believed life was something I could plan carefully, chart clearly, and control if I tried hard enough. But real life does not come with a map. There have been moments when I found myself on roads I never intended to travel, carrying losses, disappointments, and health challenges that were not part of my original vision.

And yet, I am still moving forward.

Moving forward does not always look like confidence or certainty. Sometimes it looks like getting up, saying a prayer at the sink, and trusting God enough to take the next small step. Sometimes it looks like grieving what was, while remaining open to what is still becoming.

Moving to Fargo was one of those forward steps that required trust rather than certainty. I did not have every answer or a perfectly drawn plan, but I listened closely and followed where I felt God was leading. That move placed me in work that truly fits my gifts as a Communications Specialist and has allowed me to grow professionally in ways I never could have predicted.

Alongside that work, I am pursuing a second master’s degree, not from a place of deficiency, but from a desire to keep becoming. Learning continues to stretch me, sharpen my thinking, and invite me into deeper reflection. I am also writing children’s books that emerge from prayer, imagination, and love, stories meant to offer comfort, wonder, and faith to young hearts. Creativity has become sacred space for me, where healing and hope quietly meet.

All of this growth is happening on many levels at once. I am growing spiritually, mentally, and emotionally, even as I navigate personal health challenges and walk beside people I love through their own struggles. These experiences have softened me and expanded my compassion. They have taught me that real strength is often quiet and steady, formed not in dramatic moments, but in faithful perseverance.

Peace, I have learned, does not come from having all the answers. It comes from trusting the One who does.

Each day, as I read the words on my mirror and let water run over my hands, I am reminded that God’s love is greater than my fear, God’s desire for my happiness is deeper than my understanding, and God’s wisdom is guiding me even when the path feels unfamiliar.

Life may be a journey without a map, but I am no longer afraid of getting lost. I am learning to trust the Guide who walks with me, step by step.

And in that trust, even with challenges, I can honestly say I have never been happier or more at peace.

Going Home by a Different Way: When Epiphany Changes the Road Home

This past Sunday (January 4) was the Solemnity of the Epiphany of the Lord and it felt like a moment of unveiling. God was revealed not only to Israel, but to the whole world. Father Luke’s homily gently but firmly invited us to step into that revelation personally, not as distant observers of the Magi’s journey, but as fellow travelers who are also being called to move, to seek, and to be changed.

The readings themselves set the stage for awe and humility. Isaiah encounters the holiness of God and recognizes his own unworthiness. The psalmist wrestles honestly with doubt, confusion, and the temptation to lose heart. Saint Paul reminds us that it is grace, not our own effort, that raises us from death to life. And in Matthew’s Gospel, the Magi follow a star into the unknown and discover not a king clothed in power, but a child whose presence quietly changes everything.

As Father Luke reflected on the actions of the Magi, I found myself realizing how closely their journey mirrors my own over the past year, especially since moving to North Dakota in April and returning to Illinois over the holidays. What once felt like a practical relocation has slowly revealed itself as a deeper spiritual pilgrimage, one marked by discernment, courage, and real interior change.

The Magi first set out, leaving the comfort of their lives without knowing exactly where they were going. Since moving in April, I have learned how unsettling and sacred that kind of departure can be. Leaving meant releasing familiar rhythms, relationships, and the quiet confidence that comes from knowing how life works. I arrived in a new place without everything figured out, trusting that God was already present ahead of me. That lesson deepened during my visit to Illinois over the holidays. Returning to familiar places did not mean returning to who I once was. I felt the pull of nostalgia alongside the quiet awareness of how much I have grown. Setting out, I am learning, is not a one-time decision. Sometimes it means choosing again not to step back into patterns that no longer lead to life, even when they feel safe or familiar.

Along the way, the Magi asked questions and sought wisdom rather than pretending to have all the answers. Since April, I have learned how necessary that posture is. Moving required me to ask for help, to admit uncertainty, and to listen more attentively to God and to trusted people. During my time in Illinois, those questions became more personal and more difficult. Why do certain situations leave me anxious or depleted? What am I being asked to release? Where is God inviting me to choose health over habit? These questions did not lead to easy answers, but they did bring clarity. I am learning that God is not threatened by honest questioning and often uses it to draw us toward freedom and truth.

When Herod attempted to manipulate the Magi, they refused to comply, choosing fidelity over fear. Father Luke’s reminder that faith sometimes requires holy defiance resonated deeply with me, especially during my holiday visit. Being back revealed dynamics and expectations that once felt unavoidable but now felt misaligned with the healing God has been doing in me. I had to make intentional choices to create distance from certain situations. That distance was not rooted in anger or rejection, but in faithfulness to the work God has been doing in my heart. Going upstream has meant saying no to guilt-driven expectations and yes to emotional and spiritual health. Like the Magi, I am learning that obedience to God sometimes requires quiet, firm defiance.

The Magi’s journey ultimately led them to worship. Since moving, worship has become less about routine and more about refuge. In seasons of transition and emotional intensity, prayer has grounded me. During the holidays, when emotions surfaced and old wounds felt close, returning to Mass and prayer reminded me where my true peace lies. In worship, I have learned to bring my whole self, not just the parts that are composed or strong. The Eucharist has become a place where I can lay down what I cannot carry and receive grace instead. In Eucharistic adoration and quiet prayer, I am reminded who God is and who I am. I was made to worship, to receive, and to be restored.

Finally, the Magi went home by a different route. An encounter with the living God always changes direction. It has been made clear to me that I am not the same person who began this journey eight months ago, even though some of the groundwork has been coming together for years. The changes I have made are not about resolutions or self-improvement. They are about transformation. Choosing distance, setting boundaries, and letting go of certain dynamics has reshaped how I understand friendship, family, and faith. Going home by a different route has meant honoring the growth God has given me, even when that growth includes grief or loss. My prayer life has deepened, and my trust in God has become quieter, steadier, and more real.

Epiphany reminds me that God reveals Himself so that we may be changed. Like the Magi, I did not set out simply to travel or to return unchanged. I set out to encounter Christ. And in that encounter, I am learning to let the Lord continue changing my heart, leading me, gently and faithfully, home by a different way.

An Intentional Start, Still Rooted in Christmas

So much of our faith is lived not only in feast days, but in the quiet space that follows them. Even now, as the Church still rests in the joy of Christmas, the rhythm begins to soften. The lights are still glowing, the manger still stands, and yet the days grow quieter. Today feels like that kind of day. No big proclamations. No dramatic beginnings. Just the gentle call to be faithful where I am, still carrying the wonder of Christmas into ordinary moments.

The Christmas season reminds us that God comes quietly. Not with spectacle or force, but as a child, entrusted to human hands, growing slowly, hidden for years before ever speaking a public word. There is something comforting in remembering that even after the angels sang and the shepherds knelt, life returned to meals, work, friendships, and waiting. Faith continued not through fireworks, but through fidelity.

Yesterday held its own kind of Christmas grace. I spent the afternoon with Teri and Kelvin, sharing greens, black-eyed peas, and ham for lunch. It was a simple meal, but one filled with warmth and laughter. We played Sequence throughout the afternoon, the kind of unhurried time that feels increasingly rare. Though Teri and Kelvin are newer friends from the parish, there was nothing new or awkward about the day. It felt as though we had been friends for years.

I left their home with a full heart, reminded of how God weaves community together in quiet ways. Parish friendships often grow this way, slowly and steadily, through shared tables and shared stories. This, too, is Christmas lived out. Emmanuel does not leave when the feast day passes. He stays, present in conversations, hospitality, and the simple gift of being known.

As the calendar turns, I feel especially aware that grace does not disappear with December. It continues in the Christmas season’s invitation to notice God-with-us in ordinary places. In morning prayer offered without polish. In familiar routines. In the gentle discipline of showing up again.

Intentional living, for me, is deeply tied to this understanding of Christmas. It is choosing to make space for God not only in moments of celebration or crisis, but in the small, daily acts of trust. It is beginning the year not by striving, but by staying attentive. Asking, Lord, how are You dwelling with me today?

There is a temptation at the start of a new year to rush toward clarity, to demand answers about the months ahead. But the Christmas season teaches patience. The Child in the manger does not hurry us. God reveals Himself in His time, one step at a time, one day at a time.

Today, intentionality looks like prayer woven into the day rather than saved for later. It looks like gratitude for friendships that feel like gifts. It looks like trusting that the life God is shaping does not require me to force it into being.

This year does not need to be conquered. It needs to be received, like Christ Himself.

So today, still within the glow of Christmas, I choose faithfulness over frenzy. Presence over pressure. Trust over control.

Lord Jesus,

You came to us not in noise or power, but in humility and love.

Teach me to recognize You in the quiet moments, in shared meals, in ordinary days.

Help me to live this year with faithfulness rather than fear,

to welcome Your presence where I am,

and to trust the work You are doing, even when I cannot yet see it.

May I walk forward with a heart rooted in gratitude,

open to Your gentle leading,

and willing to receive each day as gift.

Amen.