St. Kateri Tekakwitha: The Saint Who Quietly Walks Beside Me

Every year on July 14, my heart holds two memories at once. It is the feast day of St. Kateri Tekakwitha, and it is also my Grandpa's birthday. Today, he would have turned 91 years old. For as long as I can remember, those two celebrations have been connected in my mind. I cannot think of St. Kateri without thinking of my grandpa, and I cannot remember his birthday without remembering the gentle, courageous saint whose feast the Church celebrates on the same day.

My connection to St. Kateri goes much deeper than sharing a date on the calendar. When I entered religious life, I chose St. Kateri as my patron saint. It was not a decision I made lightly. I wanted a patron saint whose life reflected the kind of woman I hoped to become. The more I learned about St. Kateri, the more I found myself drawn to her quiet strength, deep faith, and unwavering trust in God.

St. Kateri knew suffering from the very beginning of her life. As a young child, she lost her parents and younger brother to smallpox. The disease left her with scars on her face and weakened eyesight, visible reminders of pain she never chose. Although my own scars are mostly invisible, I understand what it means to carry wounds from childhood that shape the way you see yourself and the world. As a survivor of childhood sexual abuse, I know how long healing can take and how deeply those experiences can affect a person's life. Yet one of the greatest lessons St. Kateri teaches me is that we are not defined by our wounds. Suffering may become part of our story, but it does not have the final word.

Despite rejection from members of her own community because of her Christian faith, St. Kateri remained faithful. She loved Christ with remarkable simplicity and perseverance. She did not seek recognition or admiration. She simply desired to belong completely to Him. There have been seasons in my own life when following Christ has felt lonely. There have been moments when I questioned where I belonged and times when healing required walking a path that few people could fully understand. St. Kateri reminds me that faithfulness is often quiet. Holiness is not always found in extraordinary moments. More often, it is found in choosing to say yes to God over and over again, even when the road is difficult.

Another reason I feel such a connection to St. Kateri is her love of silence and prayer. In a world filled with constant noise and distractions, she sought places where she could simply be with God. She understood that healing often happens in the quiet. I have found the same to be true in my own life. Some of the most meaningful moments of healing have not come through dramatic experiences, but through time spent in Eucharistic adoration, sitting with Scripture, journaling, or simply allowing myself to rest in God's presence. Those quiet moments have often been where God has gently reminded me who I am and how deeply I am loved.

I have also always loved how St. Kateri found God in creation. Whether I am watching a butterfly emerge, photographing a beautiful sunset, walking through nature, or simply looking up at the vast North Dakota sky, I often feel closest to God outdoors. Creation has a way of reminding me that God is always at work, bringing beauty from places where we least expect it. St. Kateri saw the beauty of God's presence in the natural world, and that perspective continues to inspire me to slow down, pay attention, and receive each day as a gift.

Perhaps what speaks to me most about St. Kateri is that she never allowed suffering to make her bitter. Instead, she allowed it to draw her closer to Christ. That does not mean her life was easy. It certainly was not. But she entrusted herself to God, believing that His love was greater than every hardship, every rejection, and every loss. That is the kind of faith I continue to pray for. I do not ask for a life without suffering. I ask for the grace to let suffering become a place where God continues His work of healing and transformation.

As I remember my grandpa today on what would have been his 91st birthday, I find comfort in remembering St. Kateri as well. My grandpa reminds me of the love and stability I experienced growing up. St. Kateri reminds me of the God who has walked beside me through every joy, every sorrow, every wound, and every step of healing. Together, they remind me that love endures, faith is worth pursuing, and God is always present.

St. Kateri Tekakwitha is important to me not simply because her feast day falls on my grandpa's birthday or because she was my patron saint in religious life. She is important because her life continually reminds me that our wounds do not define us, healing is possible, faithfulness matters, and God never stops calling us closer to Himself.

St. Kateri Tekakwitha, pray for us.

God's Gentle Reminders Come in Unexpected Ways

Every once in a while, there is a week that feels like God is quietly reminding you that He sees you. Not through dramatic miracles or extraordinary circumstances, but through ordinary moments that become extraordinary because of the love behind them. This has been one of those weeks for me.

Earlier this week, I met a friend for lunch, and somewhere in the middle of our conversation she began sharing what Light Still Stands has meant to her. She told me she has cried several times while reading it because she sees herself in the characters and connects so deeply with their journeys. Then she shared something that touched me even more. She isn't rushing to finish the book. Instead, she's intentionally reading it slowly, savoring each chapter and taking time to reflect before moving on to the next.

As an author, I don't know that there is a greater compliment than that. Of course, I hoped people would enjoy Light Still Stands, but my deepest prayer was never simply that readers would finish the story. I prayed they would pause, wrestle with the questions the characters wrestle with, recognize pieces of their own lives within its pages, and discover that even in life's hardest seasons, God is still present and still writing a story of hope. Hearing my friend describe her experience reminded me that books are sometimes more than stories. They can become companions for the journey, inviting readers to reflect not only on fictional characters but also on the ways God has been at work in their own lives. As she spoke, I silently thanked God, not because someone complimented my writing, but because He allowed a story He placed on my heart to become part of someone else's.

Then today, another unexpected gift arrived. Out of nowhere, my aunt sent me a simple text message that read, "I just want to tell you how proud I am of you and how much I love you." There wasn't a birthday or a milestone that prompted it. She simply wanted me to know. I found myself reading those words more than once because it's amazing how a sentence that takes only a few seconds to type can remain in your heart for the rest of the day.

There was one more unexpected blessing this week. Yesterday, I texted a dear friend because I had an extra ticket to a concert this weekend. She lives out of state, so I sent the invitation hoping she might be able to come, but honestly, I didn't expect it to work out since it was last minute. It felt like one of those invitations you extend because it would be wonderful if it happened, while quietly assuming life would make it impossible.

Instead, she talked with her husband, booked a flight, and decided to come.

The more I've thought about it, the more I believe this weekend is about much more than a concert. I think it may be exactly what the two of us need. Life has a way of filling our calendars while quietly emptying our hearts. We spend so much time caring for others, meeting responsibilities, and answering the next demand that we sometimes forget how deeply we need authentic friendship. We need people who know us well enough that we don't have to explain ourselves, people who can make us laugh, sit comfortably in silence, and remind us that we don't have to carry life's burdens alone. I have a feeling this weekend will be one of those gifts that refreshes both of our souls.

As I've reflected on these three moments, I've realized they all carry the same message. My friend's words reminded me that God can use our gifts in ways we never fully see. My aunt's text reminded me that I am loved, not because of what I accomplish, but simply because I belong to a family that cares deeply for me. My friend's decision to board a plane reminded me that relationships are worth making time for and that sometimes God provides exactly what we need before we even realize we need it.

When I look at these moments individually, they seem small. A lunch conversation. A text message. A last-minute plane ticket. Yet together they feel like God's gentle whispers saying, "I see you. Keep going. You are loved. You don't have to do this alone."

How often do we pray for God to speak while expecting something dramatic, when all along He is speaking through the people He has placed in our lives? His encouragement often comes through a friend's honesty, a relative's kindness, or someone's willingness to show up. We just have to slow down long enough to recognize those moments for what they are.

This week reminded me that encouragement is never wasted. A heartfelt conversation, an unexpected text, or a simple invitation can become part of God's answer to someone's prayer. We rarely know what another person is carrying or how desperately they need to hear that they matter. So tell someone you're proud of them. Tell them you love them. Encourage them in the work God has been doing through their lives. Invite them to spend time together. Those small acts of kindness may seem ordinary to us, but in God's hands they often become extraordinary reminders that we are deeply seen, fully known, and abundantly loved.

I Saw Jesus Today

There are some Sundays when the homily is what stays with me. Other Sundays, it's a particular line from Scripture or a hymn that continues to echo in my heart throughout the day. But today, it was a man.

As Mass began this morning, a man wearing a long white robe quietly entered the church carrying his shoes in his hands. I immediately noticed that he had no toes. He slowly walked to the very front of the church, sat down on the floor, and began to pray. There was something about the way he carried himself that drew my attention. His movements were slow and deliberate, and his posture reflected humility. Even before Mass officially began, he seemed completely focused on being in the presence of God.

During the opening prayer, Deacon Paul noticed him sitting on the floor. Without interrupting the reverence of the moment, he quietly walked over, warmly welcomed him, and gently showed him where he could sit in one of the pews. It wasn't done to correct him or make him feel uncomfortable. It was simply an act of kindness and hospitality. It struck me how naturally our deacon made room for him, ensuring he knew he belonged.

At first, I wondered if he was Catholic. Perhaps he had wandered in looking for a place to pray. But during the Liturgy of the Word, he turned to the woman sitting behind him and quietly asked for help finding the readings. Without a second thought, she leaned forward, opened the missal, and helped him find the correct page. There was no hesitation, no awkwardness, and no judgment. Just one person helping another encounter God's Word.

From that moment on, I found it difficult to concentrate on anything else happening around me. I wasn't distracted because he looked different. I was captivated by the sincerity of his faith. Throughout the Mass, I found myself watching him. During the homily, he once again lowered himself to the floor and listened with complete attention. There was nothing casual or routine about the way he participated. Every gesture seemed intentional. Every movement reflected someone who knew he was standing on holy ground.

Then came the Sign of Peace. At first, he wasn't quite sure what everyone was doing. He looked around as people began extending their hands to one another. As he watched those around him, he slowly smiled. People reached out to him, shook his hand, and welcomed him into the celebration. There was a joy on his face that is difficult to describe. It was as though, in that moment, he realized he wasn't simply attending Mass. He belonged there.

Then came Holy Communion. As the congregation began processing forward to receive Jesus in the Eucharist, he remained standing where he was. He waited patiently while nearly everyone else approached the altar. He wasn't in a hurry. He wasn't concerned about being first. He simply waited. When it was finally his turn, something extraordinary happened. He slowly walked forward, knelt, bent down and kissed the floor before receiving Holy Communion on the tongue. At that moment, tears began streaming down my face. I couldn't stop crying.

His love for Jesus was unmistakable. There was no performance. There was no attempt to draw attention to himself. There was simply a man approaching the Eucharistic Lord with profound humility, love, and reverence. Looking at him, I had no doubt that he believed what the Catholic Church teaches: that what appeared to be ordinary bread was truly the Body, Blood, Soul, and Divinity of Jesus Christ. I found myself wondering whether my own love for the Eucharist was visible in the same way. Do I approach Jesus with that kind of awe? Do I truly recognize the incredible gift I receive every time I walk forward to receive Him? Without saying a word, this man had become the homily I needed to hear.

After Mass had ended, I watched several parishioners walk over to him. They introduced themselves, welcomed him to our parish, invited him to return, and even embraced him with hugs. No one seemed concerned about how he looked, how he was dressed, or that he had entered carrying his shoes. They simply saw a brother in Christ.

As I reflected on everything I had witnessed, today's Gospel from Matthew 11:25-30 came rushing back to me: "Come to me, all you who labor and are burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am meek and humble of heart; and you will find rest for yourselves. For my yoke is easy, and my burden light."

Those words suddenly felt less like something I had heard proclaimed and more like something I had watched unfold before my eyes. It felt as though Jesus Himself had walked into our parish in the person of this humble man. Not because the man was Jesus, but because he reflected Christ so beautifully. His humility, his poverty of spirit, his reverence, and his complete dependence on God reminded me that Jesus is often found in the people the world overlooks.

I also witnessed something equally beautiful. I witnessed the Body of Christ truly being the Body of Christ. I saw a deacon quietly make room for someone who might have felt out of place. I saw a woman gladly help a stranger find the readings. I saw parishioners extend peace, offer hugs, and make someone feel welcome. No one asked where he came from. No one questioned whether he belonged. They simply loved him. Isn't that exactly what Jesus would do?

I left Mass humbled, filled with joy, and deeply grateful. I was grateful for a parish that welcomes all people. I was grateful for a community that sees dignity before differences. I was grateful for a man whose witness reminded me that authentic faith is often expressed far more through actions than words. Most of all, I left grateful that Jesus still finds ways to teach us, surprise us, and transform us when we least expect it.

I have been to Mass thousands of times, but I have never experienced anything quite like this.

Today, I saw Jesus. Not because He appeared in a miraculous vision, but because He reminded me that every person is made in His image and likeness. Through one man's humble faith, Jesus challenged my own heart. He invited me to look beyond appearances, to welcome without conditions, to love more generously, and to approach the Eucharist with deeper reverence than ever before.

As I continue to pray about this experience, one question keeps echoing in my heart: What was Jesus trying to teach me today? Perhaps the answer is that Christ is still walking into our churches every day, often in the people we least expect. The question is not whether He is there. The question is whether I have the eyes to recognize Him.

250 Years of America. 105 Years of One Extraordinary Life.

This year, America celebrates its 250th birthday. For two and a half centuries, our nation has experienced moments of incredible triumph alongside seasons of hardship. We have seen wars and peace, innovation and uncertainty, division and unity. As we commemorate this historic milestone, I find myself thinking not only about the history of our country but also about the history sitting around my family's table.

This December, my great-grandmother will celebrate her 106th birthday. While America marks 250 years of history, I have the incredible blessing of knowing someone who has lived through nearly half of it. Even more remarkable, our family currently has six living generations. This is a gift I never take for granted. Every family gathering reminds me that history is not just found in books or museums. Sometimes it is found in the stories shared around a dinner table.

A couple of years ago, I had the privilege of interviewing my great-grandmother for a college communications class. What began as an assignment quickly became one of the most meaningful conversations I have ever had. Listening to her reflect on more than a century of life gave me a greater appreciation for both her resilience and the values that have shaped our family.

Born on December 27, 1920, she entered a world that looked nothing like the one we know today. She has lived through the Great Depression, World War II, the Civil Rights Movement, the Space Age, the arrival of personal computers, the internet, smartphones, and now artificial intelligence. She has watched the world transform in ways that most of us can scarcely imagine. Yet what amazes me most is not simply what she has witnessed but how she has embraced those changes. At 105 years old, she uses a cell phone, keeps up with family on social media, and continues to learn new things. During our interview, she laughed and admitted she was "electronically challenged" while trying to connect technology, but she has never let her age keep her from staying connected to the people she loves.

As we talked, it became clear that while the world around her has changed dramatically, the values that have guided her life have remained constant. Faith has always been at the center of who she is. She shared how she was taken to Sunday school as a young girl and continued attending church throughout her life as she raised her own family. Her commitment to faith was never something she simply talked about. It was something she lived.

She also spoke about her lifelong love of learning. Although attending college was not emphasized when she was growing up, curiosity was always encouraged. She spent countless hours at the local library reading, especially books about history. Then, at the age of sixty, she decided to return to school and earned her associate's degree. When she told me about it, I realized that learning had never been a season of life for her. It had become a way of life.

As someone who has spent my career in education and has returned to college several times myself, I now recognize how much of that love for learning has been passed from one generation to the next. During our conversation, she also shared how her parents encouraged their children to stay informed, vote, and treat every person with kindness and respect. Growing up in a small rural community, she had little opportunity to meet people from different backgrounds, yet her parents taught her to be respectful and inclusive of everyone. Those values became part of the legacy she passed on to her children, grandchildren, and generations that followed.

Toward the end of our interview, I asked what brought her the greatest joy. Her answer was immediate. She spoke proudly of her children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and great-great-grandchildren. She smiled as she talked about our family's monthly book club, where multiple generations gather to read, discuss books, and simply enjoy being together. Then she said something I have never forgotten: "All my life has been learning, and I'm still learning."

Those words have stayed with me because they perfectly capture the kind of life she has lived.

As America celebrates 250 years, I think about the countless individuals whose names may never appear in history books but whose lives have quietly shaped families, communities, and future generations. My great-grandmother is one of those people. Her legacy is not measured by fame or recognition but by faith faithfully lived, a deep love of learning, unwavering perseverance, and the values she has passed to six generations of our family.

History is often told through presidents, wars, and landmark events. But perhaps the most meaningful history is found in ordinary people who lived extraordinary lives of quiet faithfulness.

This Independence Day, I am grateful for the history of our nation. I am equally grateful for the history within my own family. What a privilege it is to know someone who has lived for more than a century, to witness six generations gathered together, and to be reminded that the greatest legacies are not built in a single moment but one faithful day at a time.

Interview with my Great-Grandma.

Butterfly Girl Season 4: God is Present in the Becoming

Next Sunday, July 5, Season 4 of the Butterfly Girl Podcast begins.

As I have spent the past several months praying, writing, recording, and preparing for this season, I have found myself reflecting on just how much can change in a relatively short period of time.

This past year has been one of tremendous growth in my own life. It has also been a year marked by grief, transition, new beginnings, uncertainty, healing, and countless reminders that God is still at work, even when life feels unfinished.

Perhaps that is why the theme for this new season emerged so naturally. Living the Transformation: From Wound to Wholeness.

For much of my life, I viewed healing as a destination. I believed that if I worked hard enough, prayed hard enough, attended enough therapy sessions, or simply waited long enough, eventually I would arrive at a place where the wounds no longer hurt, the questions disappeared, and everything finally made sense.
I imagined healing as an ending.

What I have discovered instead is that healing is often a way of living. There is no finish line where we suddenly become perfectly whole. There is no moment when grief permanently disappears, fear never returns, or we stop needing God.

Instead, there is a lifelong invitation to continue becoming. To continue healing. To continue trusting. To continue allowing God to transform us. And honestly, that realization has been both humbling and freeing because it means that we do not have to wait until we have everything figured out before we begin living fully. We do not have to be completely healed before God can use us. We do not have to hide the unfinished parts of our stories. This season was born from that truth.

Over the coming weeks, we will have honest conversations about authenticity, grief, identity, faith, trust, prayer, community, and what it means to live fully alive in God while still carrying wounds, questions, and unresolved pieces of our stories. We will talk about learning to live unhidden. We will explore the difference between performing faith and experiencing God as a loving companion. We will examine how suffering can shape us without defining us. And throughout it all, we will return again and again to the truth that God is present in the becoming.

One of the reasons I chose the butterfly as the symbol for this podcast last year is because transformation has always resonated deeply with me. A butterfly does not emerge instantly. There is hidden work. There is waiting. There are long seasons when nothing appears to be happening. Yet, beneath the surface, transformation is unfolding.

I suspect many find themselves in seasons like that.

This past year and a half has reinforced the reality that some of life's most significant transformations occur quietly and often imperceptibly. Growth rarely happens in dramatic moments. More often, it unfolds through ordinary days, difficult conversations, honest prayer, grief, therapy, journaling, and the simple decision to continue showing up.

There have been seasons in my own life when healing felt painfully slow. Seasons when little appeared to be changing and when questions seemed to outnumber answers. In looking back, it has become clear that God was often doing His deepest work during those very times.

Transformation rarely announces itself. More often, it unfolds quietly beneath the surface.

It unfolds in choosing authenticity over performance, in learning to trust again after disappointment, in receiving love after years of self-protection, in speaking truth after years of silence, and in allowing oneself to be fully known.

The older I become, the more convinced I am that wholeness is not the absence of wounds. Rather, wholeness is learning to live with openness, hope, and trust while allowing God to continually transform those wounds into places of grace.

That is the heart of this season.

My hope for Living the Transformation: From Wound to Wholeness is that it will offer encouragement to those who are still becoming. My hope is that these conversations will serve as a reminder that healing is possible, that growth often occurs in hidden places, and that God remains present even in the unfinished parts of our stories.

Returning to Ordinary Life...Listening to Where God Leads

Nine weeks away from work felt both incredibly long and surprisingly brief. When I returned to work on June 1 after being off for nine weeks, I wasn't entirely sure what to expect. Recovery has a way of changing us. Stepping back into the familiar routines of my role as Communications Specialist with Core Technology Services felt both comforting and strange at the same time.

Now, nearly a month later, I can honestly say that returning to ordinary life has been a gift. There is something sacred about ordinary life. The emails. The meetings. The projects. The conversations with colleagues. The simple rhythms that make up our days.

During those nine weeks away, I missed those routines more than I expected. Recovery slowed life down in ways I had not anticipated and gave me space to notice things I often overlook when life is moving quickly.

Looking back, I realize that ordinary life is anything but ordinary. Even while I was away from work, life remained wonderfully full.

One of the greatest joys of these past several weeks has been completing the audiobook version of Light Still Stands. Hearing the story come to life in an entirely new format has been both exciting and deeply emotional. This novel carries so many themes that are close to my heart: healing, faith, grief, hope, community, and the reminder that even when life feels uncertain, God's light continues to stand. It has been humbling to watch this story continue finding new readers and, soon, new listeners.

At the same time, I have been busy planning Season 4 of the Butterfly Girl Podcast: Living the Transformation: From Wound to Wholeness. This season feels especially meaningful because it explores what happens after survival, after surrender, and after the beginning stages of healing. We often celebrate dramatic moments of transformation, but real healing usually unfolds slowly in ordinary days, quiet choices, lingering questions, and the ongoing work of becoming. I am incredibly grateful for the guests who will be joining me this season and for the opportunity to continue these honest conversations about faith, grief, identity, trust, healing, and hope.

Another unexpected blessing has been receiving invitations to be a guest on a variety of other podcasts. Each invitation feels both humbling and deeply personal. Sharing my story has never been about telling my story simply for its own sake. Rather, it has always been about creating space for others to recognize that they are not alone, that healing is possible, and that our wounds do not have the final word.

Every conversation is an opportunity to remind someone that hope still exists. And then there is the surprise I did not see coming.

When I began recovering, I had absolutely no intention of starting my second novel, When the Bells Ring Again, the second book in the Light Still Stands trilogy. In fact, I fully intended to wait until 2027 to begin it. But stories have a way of refusing to remain silent.

Characters kept showing up in my thoughts. Scenes replayed themselves over and over in my mind. Conversations between Clara, Micah, Lily, and Noah seemed to unfold while I was resting, walking, or trying to sleep. The words were swirling around in my head, and eventually, I realized I simply needed to start writing the draft.

So I did.

What began as a few notes quickly became chapters. Then more chapters. Before long, I found myself once again immersed in the lives of characters who have come to feel like old friends.

Sometimes God surprises us by placing new invitations before us precisely when we think we are supposed to be resting.

As June comes to a close, I find myself carrying a renewed sense of gratitude.
Gratitude for healing that continues.
Gratitude for meaningful work.
Gratitude for stories.
Gratitude for conversations.
Gratitude for creativity.
Gratitude for community.

And gratitude for the gentle ways God continues to lead, even when the path ahead looks different than we expected.

Ordinary life has returned, and I am grateful to be living it once again.

Healing and Hope Begin with a Brave Voice

There are moments in life that feel almost impossible to fully describe with words. After months of writing, editing, revising, praying, waiting, hoping, and anticipating, that is exactly how I feel as Ellie Finds Her Brave Voice is finally becoming real.

For so long, this book existed quietly in drafts, notes, late-night ideas, and whispered prayers. There were moments of excitement, moments of uncertainty, and many moments where I simply had to trust the process and keep moving forward one page at a time. To now hold this story in my hands and watch it prepare to enter the world feels both surreal and deeply emotional.

Ellie Finds Her Brave Voice was written from a place very close to my heart. It is a story about courage, safety, healing, trusted adults, and helping children understand that their voices matter. My hope is that this book helps children feel seen, protected, empowered, and reminded that they are never alone.

This book also carries a deeply personal dedication. Ellie Finds Her Brave Voice is dedicated to Mary Ann, who was my therapist and dear friend for nearly 15 years until her passing on May 20, 2025. There are some people who quietly change the course of your life simply by helping you believe that your voice deserves to exist. Mary Ann was one of those people for me.

Through some of the hardest moments of my life, she created a space where I could slowly learn what safety, trust, healing, and honesty looked like. She helped me recognize that surviving was not the same as living, and that finding healing often begins by finally allowing yourself to speak the truths you once felt too afraid to say aloud. Over time, she helped me become brave enough to find my own voice.

That journey is woven quietly throughout this story.

While Mary Ann helped me find my voice, there were also many others who walked beside me throughout my healing journey and who continue to support me even today. Healing is rarely something we experience alone. Along the way, God placed compassionate people in my life who listened, encouraged, prayed, and reminded me that I was never abandoned in the midst of my struggles. Some helped through words, while others simply offered their presence, kindness, patience, and willingness to stay. Each person became part of the story of learning that healing is possible, hope can return, and brave voices can grow stronger over time.

While Ellie’s story is fictional, the heart behind it is very real. The themes of courage, safe adults, healing, and learning to speak up were shaped not only by my own experiences, but also by the compassion and encouragement of the people who have helped guide me throughout the years. In many ways, this book exists because others helped me believe that healing and hope were possible.

One of the most meaningful moments throughout this entire journey came when I received permission from Erin Merryn to use the Erin's Law Foundation logo within the book. Honestly, it is difficult to put that feeling into words. It was one of those moments where gratitude, disbelief, humility, joy, and overwhelming emotion all seemed to exist together at once. Knowing that someone whose advocacy has helped protect countless children believed enough in this project to allow that partnership was an honor far beyond anything I could have imagined.

For those unfamiliar, Erin’s Law is named after survivor and advocate Erin Merryn, who courageously shared her own story to help prevent child abuse through education and awareness. Erin’s Law encourages age-appropriate personal body safety education in schools, helping children understand boundaries, safe and unsafe touch, trusted adults, and how to speak up if something does not feel right. Today, Erin’s Law has been passed in most states across the United States, helping bring prevention education and awareness to millions of children.

Because this mission matters so deeply to me, 100% of the proceeds from Ellie Finds Her Brave Voice will benefit the Erin’s Law Foundation and its continued work protecting children, supporting survivors, and helping schools and families create safer environments for young people.

In many ways, this book is more than a story. It is a prayer. It is hope placed onto pages. It is a reminder that brave voices matter, healing matters, and children deserve to feel safe, heard, believed, and loved. For me personally, it is also a quiet thank you to the people who helped me find the courage to speak, heal, and keep moving forward even when the journey felt overwhelming.

Thank you, Mary Ann. Thank you to everyone who has walked beside me throughout my healing journey and continues to do so today. Thank you to every person who prayed for this project, encouraged me, supported its mission, and believed in this story long before it was ever finished.

After months of carrying this story in my heart, I cannot fully express the joy of finally watching Ellie Finds Her Brave Voice begin its journey into the world.

Welcomed Home Through the Light

A few days ago, I was driving home when I looked up and saw this sky hovering over my apartment complex. The clouds were dark and heavy, but streams of light were breaking through with such intensity that I immediately felt something deep within me pause. It almost felt as though Heaven itself was leaning down toward earth.

For a moment, I felt welcomed home.

Later, when I looked more closely at the photo, I noticed something else. In the center of the opening in the clouds, I could almost make out the face of Christ emerging through the light. The opening itself resembled a heart, and the rays poured outward as though love itself was breaking through the darkness.

The image has stayed with me ever since because it reflects so much of the heart behind Light Still Stands.

I wrote Light Still Stands out of a deep desire to explore what it means to remain faithful when life feels uncertain, painful, and unresolved. The story was born from questions many of us quietly carry: Where is God when things change? What happens when faith feels fragile? How do we continue forward when relationships strain, grief lingers, or fear begins to overshadow hope?

That is exactly why this photograph struck me so deeply.

The clouds in the image remind me of the emotional and spiritual weight carried throughout the novel. The characters in Light Still Stands are not untouched by suffering. They wrestle with grief, uncertainty, emotional wounds, loneliness, disappointment, and the ache of searching for meaning when life no longer feels stable. They long for healing while also fearing what healing might require of them.

And yet, despite all of that darkness, the light remains. Not perfectly. Not loudly. But persistently.

The rays breaking through the clouds felt like a visual representation of the novel’s central message: faith does not erase suffering, but it teaches us how to stand within it. The light in this photo does not remove the storm clouds surrounding it. Instead, it shines through them. That distinction matters because so much of real life happens there — in the middle space where pain and hope coexist.

At its heart, Light Still Stands is about endurance. Not the kind that ignores suffering, but the kind that learns to remain present in the middle of it. It is about discovering that faith is sometimes less about certainty and more about continuing to trust even when clarity has not yet arrived.

That is what this image felt like to me: a reminder that Christ still breaks through the heaviness.

The heart-shaped opening in the sky especially moved me because the novel continually returns to the reality that love often enters through broken places. Sometimes our wounds become the very places where grace reaches us most deeply. Sometimes we encounter Christ not after the storm has passed, but while standing directly beneath it.

As I looked at the light rays pouring down over the place I call home, I realized how much this mirrors my own journey and the journey reflected within the novel itself. There have been seasons where I have questioned where God was in the middle of grief, trauma, exhaustion, transition, and uncertainty. Seasons where the clouds seemed impossible to see through.

Yet even in those difficult seasons, light continued to appear in quiet ways. I found it in prayer, in friendship, in moments of rest, in unexpected peace, and in the kindness of others. Sometimes, it was simply the reminder that I was not alone.

Small rays of light.

That is what Light Still Stands ultimately points toward. Not a life free from storms, but a God who remains present within them. A God who continues calling us forward even when the road ahead feels unclear.

Even when the clouds gather, grief lingers, and faith feels fragile, the light continues to shine. And sometimes, if we are willing to look up, we catch a glimpse of that light breaking through the sky reminding us that Christ has been beside us the entire way home.

Looking Through the Lens

Yesterday afternoon, I was on FaceTime with my Goddaughter, Josie, reading Just the Way You Are by Max Lucado. It was a simple moment in the middle of the day. No big plan. No deep discussion. Just conversation, laughter, and a children’s book shared through a screen.

But somewhere in the middle of reading it aloud, I realized the message was not only for her.

It was for me too.

The story carries a simple but powerful truth: you are loved not because of what you accomplish, how impressive you are, or how perfectly you perform, but simply because you belong to the One who made you.

As I read the words to Josie, something inside me grew quiet.

Lately, healing has looked very different than I expected. It has not looked like constantly pushing forward or trying to prove my strength. It has looked more like slowing down. Resting when my body needs it. Sitting with emotions instead of trying to outrun them through productivity. Learning how to simply be present.

And yet, even in that process, there are moments when I still feel this subtle pull to keep accomplishing, keep creating, keep doing. Not because I think my worth depends on it, but because somewhere deep down, I still sometimes feel like I need to impress the Father. Like I need to hand Him something measurable instead of simply allowing myself to be loved as His Beloved Daughter.

Today, a friend sent me two separate images and asked for help combining them. One was a photograph of a camera lens. The other was an image of a lamb. When the images were merged together, something about it immediately struck me.

Inside the camera lens stands a small lamb. Muddy. Vulnerable. Ordinary. And yet the lamb is what is fully in focus. Behind it, blurred in the distance, stands the shepherd.

The image feels symbolic of how God sees us. The lamb is not performing. It is not proving anything. It is simply standing there, fully seen.

Sometimes I think I spend too much time trying to focus the lens on everything else: what I should be accomplishing next, fixing next, producing next, or becoming next. Movement can feel safer than stillness because stillness leaves room for us to actually hear what is happening in our hearts. But God keeps gently drawing the focus back to something simpler: belonging.

The lamb does not earn the Shepherd’s attention by being extraordinary. The lamb is loved because it is His.

And maybe that is what I needed to hear yesterday afternoon while reading to Josie: that healing is not always about striving, that rest is not weakness, and that being present is not wasted time. Maybe God is not asking me to impress Him nearly as much as He is asking me to trust Him and remember that before I accomplish anything, before I prove anything, before I become anything, I am already His Beloved Daughter.

Sometimes grace arrives quietly. Through a child’s book. Through an ordinary conversation. Through two separate images unexpectedly becoming one. Through a little girl listening on FaceTime. Through a reminder that the Shepherd’s love was never dependent on performance in the first place.

Sometimes the most healing words are the simplest ones: You are loved. You belong. Just the way you are.

Sometimes Remaining Means Resting

There are moments in life when something you have carried for so long finally reaches the point where you can release it into the world. Not because it is perfect. Not because the process was easy. But because you know it is time.

That is where I found myself with my Catholic young adult novel, Light Still Stands.

After countless edits, rewrites, formatting changes, cover revisions, moments of excitement, and moments where I honestly wondered if I would ever reach the finish line, I finally released the book. Seeing it live felt surreal. Years of work, prayer, frustration, and persistence had finally become real.

And then I had to pull it back down.

At first, that felt devastating.

There is something emotionally exhausting about thinking you have finally crossed the finish line only to realize there is still more work ahead. More edits. More corrections. More details that need attention. Pulling the book down felt, in some ways, like taking a step backward after fighting so hard to move forward.

At the same time, I knew deep down it was the right decision.

I cared too much about the story, the message, and the readers to rush past things that still needed refinement. What people often do not see about publishing is how much vulnerability exists behind the scenes. By the time a writer releases a book, they are usually already emotionally exhausted from carrying it for so long. So when unexpected issues arise after publication, it can feel crushing.

What made this season even harder was that all of it unfolded while I was recovering from a complicated surgery and on medical leave.

From the outside, I know some people looked at everything I was doing and thought I was keeping myself too busy. Between relaunching the novel, revising files, creating a companion workbook, and continuing to write, I understand why it may have appeared that way.

But what people did not always see were the pauses.

The long stretches of rest between the work.

The days where progress looked like answering a few emails or making a couple edits before needing to lie down again. The afternoons where I would open my laptop with every intention of working longer, only to realize my body had already decided for me that it was time to stop. The moments where healing interrupted my plans whether I wanted it to or not.

To others, the process may have looked fast. To me, it did not feel fast at all.

Everything took longer because I was listening to my body in ways I never really had before. I was learning that healing cannot be rushed simply because your mind wants to move faster. Recovery forced me to measure progress differently. Some days success was not finishing workbook pages or completing manuscript edits. Some days success was simply resting before I completely exhausted myself.

At the same time, this project became part of my healing process. Not in a way that ignored the need for rest, but in a way that gave purpose and creativity a place within recovery. Writing again reminded me that I was still myself beyond the surgery, the pain, the appointments, and the limitations. Working on Light Still Stands and the companion study workbook gave me something life-giving to pour myself into during a season that could have easily become consumed entirely by frustration and physical recovery.

There were moments where writing felt therapeutic. Moments where revisiting themes of endurance, uncertainty, suffering, discernment, and faith unexpectedly mirrored my own experience. I realized I was not just editing a story about remaining faithful through difficulty. I was living it. That does not mean the process was easy.

There were still days where I felt frustrated with how slowly recovery moved. Days where I wanted my body to cooperate with my plans. Days where exhaustion won. Days where I questioned whether I had the energy to keep going.

But slowly, I began to understand something important: healing is not only physical. Sometimes healing also comes through creating, through purpose, through storytelling, through prayer, and through rediscovering pieces of yourself after something difficult changes you.

Somewhere in the middle of the frustration, exhaustion, healing, and uncertainty, something unexpected happened. A parish reached out asking to use Light Still Stands as a parish book study.

Suddenly, while I was still editing and preparing to relaunch the novel, I also found myself creating an entire six-week companion study workbook to accompany it. Scripture reflections. Discussion questions. Catechism references. Weekly prayers. Themes about suffering, discernment, endurance, relationships, and faith under pressure.

It was both beautiful and overwhelming.

I spent hours fixing details most readers will probably never notice. Fonts. Margins. Spacing. Formatting glitches. Cover adjustments. Upload errors. Revisions. Re-exports. The kind of behind-the-scenes work that nobody really talks about when they picture “becoming an author.”

And yet, through all of it, I kept realizing something important: this process was teaching me the very lesson at the center of the novel itself.

Remaining.

Remaining when things feel uncertain, when faith feels costly, when the easier option would be to walk away, and when the outcome is unclear. And sometimes, remaining means resting too.

I also learned that frustration and joy can exist together. I think sometimes we assume that once something good finally happens, the struggle disappears. But often the joy arrives carrying exhaustion beside it. The accomplishment comes with weariness. The answered prayer still requires perseverance.

Maybe that is part of growth too.

This experience taught me that creative work is rarely linear. There are setbacks. Revisions. Delays. Unexpected turns. Moments where you wonder if all the work is worth it. But I also learned that sometimes stepping back is not failure. Sometimes it is stewardship. Sometimes taking the extra time is an act of care.

Most of all, I learned that God often works quietly through persistence. Not always through dramatic breakthroughs. Not always through instant success. But through continuing to show up.

Continuing to revise.
Continuing to heal.
Continuing to trust.
Continuing to remain.

Now, I am incredibly grateful to say that Light Still Stands has officially been relaunched on Amazon, and the companion study workbook is now available through my website. What began as a story written quietly over time has become something larger than I expected: a resource not only for readers, but for prayer, discussion, reflection, and community.

This process stretched me far more than I expected. But maybe that is what meaningful work does. It changes the work itself, and it changes the person creating it.

Through every setback, revision, delay, moment of rest, and relaunch, one truth kept returning to me: The light still stands.

When the Timing Isn’t What You Planned

“Sometimes the delay is simply life preparing the right timing.”

I did not want to believe that when it happened. After months of prayer, writing, editing, and pouring my heart into Light Still Stands, the moment had finally come. I uploaded it to Amazon, shared the news on social media, and sent emails announcing that it was available. People responded with excitement, and some purchased it right away. It should have been a moment of pure joy.

Not long after, I realized something was not right. The book was not exactly how I had envisioned it. It needed another careful review and another round with my editor. Everything shifted in an instant. I had to make a decision that felt both necessary and painful, and I took it down.

After telling others it was ready, I had to admit that it was not. After celebrating the release, I stepped back into waiting. The disappointment was real. There was embarrassment in knowing that I had already shared it publicly. There was frustration in recognizing that people had purchased something I knew could be better. There was also a deeper question rising quietly within me, asking why this happened after everything that had already gone into it.

In that stillness, something began to change. This was not failure. It was refinement. The story was not over. This was part of it.

A different kind of courage is required to pause when everything in you wants to move forward. There is humility in acknowledging that something needs more time. There is strength in choosing excellence over urgency, even when it slows the momentum you worked so hard to build. Trust grows in moments like this, even when it feels uncomfortable.

The message of Light Still Stands is about faith under pressure, about staying when it would be easier to walk away, and about trusting when things feel uncertain. I found myself living that message in a very real way. The situation was no longer just something written on a page. It became something I had to walk through personally.

It would have been easier to leave it as it was. Many people might have done that. Something deeper would not allow me to settle. This story matters. The message matters. The people who will read it matter.

So I wait. I trust. I continue the process with patience and intention. The delay does not erase the purpose. It shapes it.

When Light Still Stands is released again in the way it was meant to be, it will carry more than words. It will carry the experience of surrender, the decision to pause, and the willingness to trust the process even when it did not unfold as planned.

The delay does not take away from the calling. It strengthens it. Even here, in the waiting, the light still stands.

Light Still Stands: A Story Born from Prayer and Faith

There are moments in life when something you have carried quietly for years becomes real, something you can finally hold in your hands. This is one of those moments. Light Still Stands is now available on Amazon, and even writing that feels surreal. What began as an idea, a pull on my heart that I could not ignore, has become a published novel, and I am filled with both gratitude and excitement as I share it with the world.

Light Still Stands is, at its heart, a story about faith when life does not go the way you expected. It follows four teenagers in a small town whose lives begin to unravel in ways they cannot control. Clara has always been the one to hold everything together, but she begins to realize that strength may not look the way she thought it did. Noah carries a quiet grief and wrestles with whether God is still listening. Micah refuses to remain silent when something feels wrong, even when it comes at a cost. Lily wrestles with the tension between faith and reason, questioning how belief holds up when suffering becomes real. Set against the steady presence of a parish bell tower, the story explores what happens when everything familiar begins to shift and faith is no longer easy or comfortable. It is not a story about having all the answers, but about choosing faith in the middle of uncertainty.

This book has been on my heart for a long time. For more than 30 years, I have walked alongside teenagers as a teacher, a Director of Religious Education, and in youth ministry, and I have seen the same questions surface again and again. What do you do when life does not make sense? Where is God in suffering? What does faith look like when it is no longer easy? These are not abstract questions. They are real, lived experiences. I wanted to write something honest, something that did not pretend faith removes hardship but instead shows what it looks like to hold onto faith in the middle of it. In many ways, this is the book I wish my students had, and it is also the book I needed.

Once this story began, it did not come from a place of hesitation. It came from prayer. The inspiration felt clear and persistent, and once it took hold, I could not stop writing. What unfolded on the page often felt less like constructing a story and more like responding to something that had already been placed on my heart. The writing itself became a form of prayer, a way of listening, of processing, and of staying present to what God was doing. There were moments when entire scenes came with a clarity that I can only describe as grace. It was not forced. It was received.

At the same time, the story is deeply rooted in my own struggles. Not in a way that mirrors the plot directly, but in the emotional and spiritual landscape behind it. I know what it feels like to carry responsibility and try to hold everything together, only to realize that strength is not the same as control. I know what it is to wrestle with questions that do not have immediate answers, to sit in uncertainty, and to continue moving forward anyway. I know what it means to walk through seasons of suffering and to wonder where God is in the middle of it, not from a place of losing faith, but from a place of wanting to understand it more deeply.

There have been moments in my life where surrender was not a single decision but something I had to choose again and again. Moments where prayer was not easy or polished, but honest and sometimes quiet. Moments where faith was not about clarity, but about trust. Those experiences shaped this story in ways that go beyond the surface. They gave it weight, depth, and truth. The characters may be fictional, but the questions they ask and the struggles they face are very real.

The bell tower in the story became a powerful symbol for me as I wrote. It represents something steady, something present, something that remains even when everything else feels like it is shifting. That image is rooted in my own understanding of faith, that even when circumstances change, even when life feels uncertain, God’s presence does not disappear. It stands. It remains.

This release is more than just publishing a book. It is the sharing of something that has been formed through years of experience, prayer, and reflection. My hope is that when you read Light Still Stands, you find yourself somewhere in its pages, that you feel seen in your own questions, and that you are reminded that faith is not about having everything figured out. It is about continuing to trust, even in the middle of uncertainty, even in the middle of struggle.

Because even in the storm, the light does not disappear. It still stands.

Reimagining Identity: The Butterfly Girl Podcast Logo

Creating a logo for the Butterfly Girl Podcast was more than a design task. It became a reflection of identity, mission, and the heart behind the message I feel called to share.

When I first began thinking about a logo, I knew I didn’t want something generic or overly complicated. I wanted something that felt like an extension of the podcast itself. The Butterfly Girl Podcast is rooted in faith, healing, growth, and becoming who God created us to be. The logo needed to visually carry that same message.

The butterfly felt like the natural starting point. Butterflies represent transformation, renewal, and hope. They remind us that growth often happens in hidden, difficult seasons before something beautiful emerges. That symbolism aligns so deeply with the stories and conversations I share on the podcast. It reflects healing after hardship, finding your voice, and stepping into who you are meant to be.

Color played an important role as well. I chose teal and red intentionally. Teal brings a sense of calm, healing, and peace. It is also the color of Sexual Assault Awareness Month, which holds deep meaning in the work I feel called to do. So much of my mission centers around helping children find their voice, raising awareness, and supporting healing for those who have experienced abuse. Incorporating teal into the logo is not just a design choice. It is a quiet but powerful statement of solidarity, awareness, and hope. Red adds boldness, courage, and life. It represents the strength it takes to share your story, to speak up, and to walk forward in faith even when it feels uncertain. Together, these colors create a balance between gentleness and strength.

One of the most meaningful parts of the design process was incorporating faith in a subtle but powerful way. Instead of making the cross the focal point, I chose to place a soft glow of light at the center of the butterfly. It’s a quiet reminder that God is present in the transformation. The light doesn’t overpower the image, but it grounds it. That felt important. Faith is at the center of this podcast, but it is lived, experienced, and carried, not forced.

As I reflected more deeply on the logo, I also felt a strong pull to move away from the original version. The earlier logo, while meaningful in its own way, featured a literal image of me wearing butterfly wings. It captured a moment, but it didn’t fully capture the mission. It felt more personal than purposeful, more about an image than an invitation.

I began to realize that the podcast is not about me. It is about the message. It is about creating a space where others can see themselves, where healing can happen, and where transformation is possible. Shifting to a symbolic butterfly allows the logo to become more inclusive. It invites others into the story instead of centering it on a single image.

This change also reflects growth. Just like the butterfly itself, the podcast is evolving. What once felt like the right representation no longer fully holds the depth of what this space has become. And that is okay. Growth often calls us to refine, to realign, and to step more fully into purpose.

As the design came together, I kept returning to one question: does this reflect the heart of the mission? The answer, finally, felt like yes.

This logo is more than a design. It is a symbol of healing, awareness, faith, and transformation. It honors the stories that are shared, the voices that are finding their way, and the quiet, courageous work of becoming.

And in many ways, it feels like just the beginning.

Scars That Speak of Resurrection

On Thursday, a close friend sent me a meditation by Venerable Fulton J. Sheen titled Jesus of the Scars. It came at a time that felt anything but random. We are in the Easter season, a time when we celebrate the Resurrection and hold onto the truth that death does not have the final word. And knowing that this reflection came from someone who will be beatified this fall made it feel even more significant. Even more personally, he is from my home diocese, the Diocese of Peoria, which made the meditation feel less like something I happened to read and more like something I was meant to receive. 

As I read it, I was struck by how closely Easter remains tied to the Cross. One line stayed with me: “Unless there is a cross in our lives, there will never be an empty tomb… unless we suffer with Him, we shall not rise with Him.” I have heard that before. I have believed it. But now, I understand it in a way I didn’t before.

I recently went into the hospital for what was supposed to be a routine surgery, something simple enough that I was expected to go home the very same day. It was meant to be controlled, manageable, predictable. But it didn’t unfold that way. Instead of returning home, I was admitted for five days. What was supposed to be routine became complicated and frightening. My body became a place of unexpected complication, and I found myself in a situation I had not prepared for, one I could not control. I remember the heaviness in my chest, the struggle to breathe, and the quiet awareness that something was not right. I remember how quickly everything shifted, how vulnerable I felt, and how deeply I realized that I was not in control.

And yet, somewhere within that experience, there was a question that surfaced, quietly but persistently: Where are You?

The meditation spoke about the scars of Christ not only as reminders of suffering, but as pledges of victory. That is not an easy truth to hold when you are in the middle of pain. There is nothing about those moments that feels victorious. It feels like loss, like fear, and like something you would never choose. It feels like your body has been overtaken, like your sense of stability has been shaken. Y
et, during this Easter season, we are reminded that Christ did not rise without His scars. He kept them. He revealed them. They were not erased in the Resurrection. They were transformed.

That realization has begun to change how I understand what happened to me. In the hospital, I wanted healing to mean going back to what was before, to a version of myself untouched by what I had just endured. But Christ does not present healing that way. When He rises, He does not hide His wounds. He shows them. Not as evidence of defeat, but as proof that suffering did not have the final word. That means the Resurrection is not about removing the wound, but about what God does within it.

The meditation also reminds us that Christ does not offer immunity from suffering. He does not promise that we will be spared pain, sorrow, or even moments of deep fear. That truth is difficult, but it is also grounding. It means that what I experienced was not outside of His awareness. It was not meaningless. It was not abandoned. Even in those moments when I felt fragile, when I did not feel strong or steady, when I wondered where He was, He was there.

Looking back, I can see it more clearly. He was there in the quiet steadiness that carried me when I did not feel steady. He was there in the people who cared for me, in the presence that surrounded me, in the breath I continued to take even when it felt difficult. He was there in ways I did not recognize at the time, but that I can begin to see now.

The meditation describes our trials as “the shade of His hand outstretched caressingly.” That is not how suffering feels in the moment. It does not feel gentle or comforting. But perhaps it means that even in the pain, we are not alone. Even in trauma, we are not outside His reach. Even in the scars we now carry, there is something being held, something being transformed, something that will not be wasted.

We are in the Easter season, and yet I find myself still carrying pieces of Good Friday within me. And maybe that is exactly where faith deepens. The Resurrection does not erase the Cross; it gives it meaning. I am still healing, still processing what I experienced, still learning what it means to trust in a way that is not rooted in control. But I am beginning to believe that the scars I carry are not signs of defeat. They are places where Christ has met me, and where He continues to meet me.

Because of Him, the worst thing is never the final thing. Because of Him, the wound is not the end of the story. Because of Him, even this will rise.

The Simons God Sent Me: Not Alone on the Road to Calvary

As I have walked through this season of suffering, I have found myself returning again and again to the image of Simon of Cyrene stepping forward to help Jesus Christ carry His cross. It is a moment that can easily be passed over, yet it holds a quiet depth. It reminds us that even in the most painful journey, God does not intend for us to walk alone. He provides companions, people who step in, often unexpectedly, to help carry what feels too heavy. It is not lost on me that I am walking through this during Holy Week, a time when the Church enters most deeply into Christ’s suffering, death, and the promise of resurrection.

There is something deeply human, and deeply holy, in that moment Simon is drawn into suffering he did not choose. And yet, he becomes part of Christ’s journey to Calvary.

I have come to understand that moment differently through my own suffering.

My hysterectomy, and the complications that followed, became a kind of cross I did not choose. There were moments of fear, moments of pain that felt overwhelming, and moments when I simply did not know how I would take the next step forward. Physically, emotionally, and spiritually, it was heavier than I anticipated.

And yet, I was not alone on that road.

God sent me hundreds of Simons.

Before I even realized how much I would need them, Sister Elaine was there. She walked with me every step of the way. She sat by my bedside in the hospital, a quiet and steady presence in moments that felt anything but steady. She prayed with me and for me, grounding me in a peace that did not come from my circumstances. She read Scripture aloud, reminding me of God’s promises when my own strength felt depleted. She massaged my feet to help soothe me and calm down my body so it would function as it was needed to. 

Her care did not end when I left the hospital. She brought me back to the convent with her, creating a space where I could truly begin to heal. She made sure I took my medications, encouraged me to walk when I needed to move, and gently reminded me to rest when I pushed too hard. Through her attentiveness and love, I experienced what it means to be cared for in both body and soul. She did not simply help me carry the cross in one moment. She stayed.

Janean, too, became a Simon in one of the most difficult moments of my journey. Through FaceTime, she was present with me during what felt like one of the most traumatic experiences in the hospital. Even through a screen, her presence was real. Her voice was calm and steady when everything inside me felt anything but.

She spoke words I needed to hear. She reminded me that I was safe. She reminded me that I was not alone. And most importantly, she reminded me that Jesus was right there with me in that moment.

There is something powerful about someone who can hold space for you when fear rises, who can speak peace into chaos. Her voice became an anchor, helping me breathe, helping me remain present, helping me trust that I would get through that moment.

There were others too. Prayers spoken for me. Messages sent. Quiet acts of love that reminded me I was surrounded by a community willing to carry this with me.

Simon did not take the cross away from Jesus. He shared in it.

That is what love does.

It does not always fix or remove suffering. Sometimes it simply enters into it, lifts with you, and refuses to let you walk alone.

In my recovery, I have found myself drawn more intentionally into uniting my suffering with that of Christ. Not in a way that glorifies pain, but in a way that gives it meaning. Crucifixion of Jesus is not the end of the story. It is inseparable from the Resurrection of Jesus.

That truth has carried me.

There were moments when my body felt broken, when healing seemed slow, when I questioned why things had become so complicated. But even there, I began to see that suffering, when united with Christ, is never wasted. It becomes a place of encounter. A place where grace quietly enters.

In the hardest moments, I have prayed not for the cross to disappear, but for the strength to carry it with Him.

And in that prayer, I have also come to see that I am not only the one being helped. I am also being formed. Softened. Drawn closer to the heart of Christ, who knows suffering intimately.

Simon’s act was brief, but it was enough. Enough to change the course of that moment. Enough to remind us that God allows others to step into our suffering as instruments of His love.

I will never forget the Simons who have walked with me.

Their prayers, their presence, their faith, have been a living reminder that even on the road to Calvary, love is never absent.

And as I continue to heal, I carry this hope: That just as Christ’s suffering led to resurrection, so too will this season of pain give way to new life.