Last week was my favorite and most exhausting week of the year: VBS (Vacation Bible School). It's a time to connect with fellow church friends. It's also an opportunity to serve one of the most meaningful groups of people: kids. Ages range from 3-year-olds to almost-teenagers (those going into seventh grade).

I take the week off from my normal job to help wherever I'm needed. I'm doing it right if I feel slightly silly and a lot like a kid again myself. Making a fool of myself causes me to fit right in. Bonus time with my daughter isn't a bad byproduct either. (She only has two more years of attending VBS, then she'll morph into a volunteer. 🥹)

As I taught a lesson to pre-primaries (3- through 6-year-olds), a high, squeaky voice was pulled off the shelf, dusted off, and used again for the first time in a while. It turns out it's a challenge to get kids to want to ask questions and participate, especially when snack time is right after… and they know it.

Another one of my roles was teaching the entire group about animals during the Creature Feature segment. (So, I guess you could say I was a Creature Feature teacher.) I taught how each of the five animals relates to Jesus in some unique way:

Day 1: A cougar kitten showed us that Jesus came to earth as a baby.

Day 2: A gray wolf "teenager" reminded us that Jesus didn't stay little.

Day 3: An American bison demonstrated God's almighty, unmatched power.

Day 4: A grizzly bear's den taught us that Jesus didn't stay in the tomb.

Day 5: A horse painted a picture of what it looks like to share the Good News.

But seriously, did you know an American bison eats the equivalent of 24 loaves of bread a day? It becomes a snowplow in the winter and can toss a refrigerator or a car… or a car that looks like a refrigerator. A horse can run more than 40 mph. A grizzly bear can gain 400 pounds before hibernation, storing much-needed fat for the winter, and has a sense of smell 2,100 times stronger than a human's, catching scents from 10 miles away.

The animal facts were fascinating, but they weren’t what stuck with me most.

(And I suppose when adults say they enjoyed it, that’s a job well done.)

What impressed me more than these critter facts was the moldability of the young minds around me. Not only were the kids brilliant, soaking up learning like sponges, but they were also tender and kind. They took time away from point-making opportunities (because what is a week of VBS without healthy competition?) to help kids from the opposing team learn verses and earn points of their own.

Reflecting on this week, I can’t help but smile. The animals were memorable, but the kids? Unforgettable. Watching them learn, encourage one another, and celebrate each other’s success showed me that shaping young minds isn’t just about teaching. It’s a reminder of what matters most.

And if I’m lucky, I’ll get to do it all over again next year.

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Grumbling erupted from the corner of the living room. Teddy sat beside his bean bag chair with his arms crossed, glaring at the rain-soaked window.

“What’s wrong, Buddy?”

“I can’t play outside. The stupid rain won’t stop.” Teddy turned from the window and glared at the floor.

“Well, how about we fix that!”

“How? You can’t make the rain go away.”

“No, but we can find a fun activity to distract us until you can go outside.”

His look told her he didn’t believe her, but she continued anyway.

“I need to finish up the dishes, then I’ll come find you. OK?”

“Alright,” he huffed.

Twenty minutes later, Jen found her sulking son in the same spot.

“C’mon,” she motioned toward the stairs.

When they reached the second floor of their small townhome, she led Teddy into the study, a space that magically morphed into a guest bedroom just before visitors arrived. On the single bookshelf, a collection of children’s books and well-worn novels she’d collected over the years awaited them. She pulled a navy blue book from a high shelf.

She sat on the dual recliner and motioned him over. Teddy made a face before he flopped onto the couch beside her. Opening the book, she turned the insides toward Teddy and fanned through the pages quickly.

“I can read, Mom. I don’t need pictures anymore.”

“I want to read this one to you.”

He rolled his eyes, folded his arms, and leaned back, daring her to impress him.

“Take cover!” Andrew screamed, diving under the Jeep.

“I’m coming! Don’t leave me—” an explosion cut him short.

Andrew’s screams could barely be heard over the sound of debris pelting the vehicle above him.

“Mom! This is an older-people book. I’m not supposed to...”

Jen patted his knee in reassurance, and he relaxed. Slightly.

When the harsh sounds subsided, he inched out from under the vehicle to find his buddy, Ben, lying a few feet away.

“NO!” He ran closer to assess the damage.

It was done.

No time for tears.

Andrew pulled a tarp from the Jeep and carefully wrapped Ben before placing him in the back of the vehicle.

“Your life for mine, old friend.” He took a deep breath and turned over the ignition.

When he reached the edge of camp, the tips of green tents welcomed him. It felt like home, and yet, he dreaded what came next.

“Mission successful?” the captain asked as he exited the vehicle.

“Yes, Sir! But...”

The captain’s eyes followed Andrew’s to the back seat, and he nodded. Several of Andrew’s comrades joined the captain as they moved Ben to his resting place.

Teddy sat at attention, staring straight ahead and blinking back tears.

“You ok, Bud?”

He nodded vehemently.

“I’m sorry,” a teammate said, gripping his shoulder.

“If it weren’t for him, I—” Andrew’s frame slumped.

“Don’t go there,” the man named Franklin reassured him.

“There’s something I need to show you.” Jen closed the book and stood.

“What? You just started reading!”

She walked toward the bookshelf again, this time grabbing a tired album. Flipping through the pages, she settled on a spread and gingerly placed her finger on a photo with two uniformed men.

“This is Andrew.” She tapped the image of the gentleman on the left.

“No, that’s Grandpa Andy!”

“Right,” she smiled, taking in the resemblance.

“And that’s Great Uncle Ben beside him.”

Teddy looked pensively at her before his gaze drifted toward the window.

“The sun!” he yelled, launching out the back door in the direction of the playground that sat just beyond their tiny yard.

Jen grinned as she followed his spunky frame.

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“It is what it is,” my cousin responded when asked how he was doing in light of a recent divorce.

What was he actually saying?

“There’s nothing I can do about it.”

To me, this phrase feels like a cop-out, not only because it says nothing, but also because it’s borrowed language.

Consider these…

When in Rome…
But have you ever been to Rome?

If the shoe fits…
Does it? What about both of them?

If roles were reversed…
The fact that you’re saying it probably means they’re not.

What about lived language?

It doesn’t have to be dramatic; it’s about ownership.

“In my experience…” That phrase can be the beginning of a #humblebrag. Or, it can reflect experiences that genuinely inform our responses.

Those moments are gold. ✨

Borrowed language is easier than admitting we don’t yet have the words.
Speaking in recycle-ready phrases avoids our being truly known.

Don’t know about you, but I’d rather speak from lived moments than from the thrift shop of repurposed phrases.

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Watching a severed blue tail twitch wasn’t on my agenda for that weekend.

I was typing away on my laptop (or—if I’m being honest—probably binging something on Netflix) when it appeared just inside the room. It breached the threshold and now stood there, insulting me with its presence. Its body stayed perfectly still except for the tail, which twitched ever so slightly.

I sat there in stunned silence. I couldn’t believe my eyes and was a bit afraid to move for fear of what would happen. My two dogs slept peacefully nearby, undisturbed. Unaware of the uninvited guest. Useless. Completely adorable, but useless.

Many a creature has walked into my master bedroom, human and otherwise. Giant spiders? Sure! Centipedes? Absolutely! A plethora of dogs and puppies? Why not!

That day—that creature—was a first.

I knew better than to move, but I couldn’t just sit there either. A victim. A prisoner. And if there’s one thing I hate, it’s feeling trapped in my own house by something with a heartbeat the size of a popcorn kernel.

I got up to grab my salt gun, the one reserved for crawling and flying insects. Not for this visitor. But it’s what I knew. And from past experience, I knew if I could get close enough to shoot it, I could stun it long enough to decide what to do next.

But my opponent was bigger. And I wasn’t entirely sure what it was.

I slid slowly off the bed, and it darted into the coat closet just outside the room. Gone in a blur of claws and audacity.

The bad news: It got away.
The good news: I knew where it was.

That’s when I sent this text to my husband, upstairs and completely unaware of the psychological battle happening below:

He didn’t come down to help me…at first. He came to make sure I wasn’t crazy. Frankly, that’s fair. Marriage is largely verifying whether the other person is overreacting in real time.

Sure enough, there was the intruder’s tail, sticking out slightly from beneath the closet door. It was motionless now, which was somehow creepier.

Eventually, my husband handled the situation in seconds. Seconds I had apparently intended to spend preparing for battle. Asking for help—even when I can’t fully explain the problem or why it matters to me—is healthy.

Apparently, I’m still learning that.

One lizard at a time. 🦎

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In 2024, I posted a whopping four articles on Substack.

At the time, I’d been in a writing group for almost a year. This platform became a place to share stories shaped by what I was learning in that group. It wasn’t earth-shattering or life-changing.

One random post in April. A handful of posts at the end of the year. That was 2024.

In 2025, I wrote and shared 31 articles here, a mix of stories and things I was learning.

In 2026, only four months in, I’ve already posted 28 articles. There’s a bit more strategy now, usually one instructional piece and sometimes a story each week, but the goal is the same: keep writing something regularly.

I used to have a WordPress blog. In the beginning, all was well. It was called Busy But Blessed: A Little Caffeine and Philippians 4:13. Cute, huh? Once I had a blog name, I felt official. I bought a domain and paid for a fancy web hosting package because I thought that’s what official bloggers did.

Translation: I overpaid handsomely for something that distracted me from the one thing I actually needed to be doing: writing. I work full-time, so extra time is a luxury. Nice to have, but not always available. And I’d already been working on my first book since September 2021.

What have I found?

• An outlet for my writing.

• A group of like-minded people.

• A wealth of thoughtful, surprising, and genuinely helpful content.

• A reason to keep showing up.

• A creative rhythm I didn’t realize I needed.

• A place where writing stopped feeling like something I had to earn time for.

Somewhere between “I’ll post occasionally” and “I guess this is part of my life now,” Substack stopped being a side project. It became a place to think out loud, test ideas, tell stories, and stay accountable to the part of me that has always written.

I didn’t come here with a strategy. I came here with a few stories and a little curiosity. Turns out, that was enough to start something bigger than I expected. Humans love to make five-year plans, then get surprised when the small thing quietly becomes the real thing.

I thought I was building a place to post occasionally. Instead, I built a habit. A rhythm. A space that continues pulling me back to the page. Funny how the things we treat as small sometimes end up taking up the most meaningful space in our lives.

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If something didn’t change—and fast—I wasn’t going to make it to my forty-first birthday. I hadn’t taken a meaningful day off work in months. Going all-in, no brakes, was fun for a season: the feeling of adrenaline coursing through my veins as I made the final touches on a major project, moving miles a minute through obstacles that were no longer a problem. As a long-term strategy, this failed. Every time.

Sure, I’d taken plenty of personal and sick days along with holidays in the last year. But just because I wasn’t at the office didn’t mean I was resting. In the last three months alone, our family braved a dangerous ice storm; my husband had his last major surgery related to an unfortunate event from last year; we celebrated four years since Adoption Day for our daughter Gabby; my team survived Tax Day; I celebrated 13 years at my current company; and I launched my first book.

After the whirlwind was over, if I didn’t strategically step away, things would start to break down. The signs were already there. Allowing that to happen would be a costly and painful mistake. I was determined not to let it go there this time.

“Why don’t you take a day off?” my husband suggested. At first, the idea sounded too simple to work. A day away from the office wasn’t equivalent to a solution to burnout. But what could it look like to add intentionality behind some time off? Deciding to follow his advice was almost instant. What day would make sense? That’s when I nailed down the date: two days after Tax Day, I would step away.

But taking a day off wasn’t the hard part. Taking one intentionally was. I didn’t want a random Friday filled with errands, distractions, Netflix binging, or half-rest. I wanted to interrupt the rhythm I’d been living inside of long enough to remember what it felt like to be a person instead of a machine.

Expect things not to go as planned

Friday came, and all started according to plan… then my phone started blowing up.

All 35 members of my immediate family are taking a trip out East this summer to celebrate my parents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary. That’s too many people to squeeze into one rental, so we all coordinated short-term rentals to stay nearby. There will be group events throughout the week, but having almost three dozen humans in the same spaces will take some planning.

My family decided it would happen that day. The first day off I’d had in months. Perfect timing. Disruption rarely asks permission before arriving.

I turned the text thread and notifications off, and to solidify the decision, I turned all my electronics to “Do Not Disturb” mode. (Whoever invented that feature, Thank You!)

This day won’t be perfect, so it isn’t fair to expect it to be. Remember: the goal isn’t perfection; it’s disruption. If your normal rhythm is stress, speed, obligation, and reaction, then even a slightly imperfect day can still be wildly restorative.

Pick a day to step away

The minute you lock in the day, just know: invites will start rolling in. There will be conflicts galore. Protect that day. Don’t give in. Interrupting your rhythm will be worth it. Choose a day with intention. Don’t wait until burnout forces the decision for you.

Your body is usually polite before it becomes dramatic.

Plan ahead

Anything you can do beforehand, do it. Removing potential interrupters in advance will only help. The only person who knew how and where to find me that Friday was my husband. Accessibility is one of the biggest threats to rest. Constant availability trains your brain to stay alert, even when your body is technically off the clock. If everyone can reach you instantly, your brain never fully clocks out. Creating boundaries ahead of time isn’t selfish; it’s practical.

I get to work at 6:00 a.m., sometimes even arriving before the sun! I knew I wanted to stay up late the night before my day off, sleep in, yet still get up at a decent hour before the day slipped away entirely. I need 7-8 hours of sleep each night. If I stayed up till 1:00 a.m., I could get up at 8:00 a.m. and have squeezed in the bare minimum of sleep. That would give me just enough time to get ready for the day and head to my first venue by 8:30 a.m.

Note on the venue(s)… do your research. I lost some momentum during the two-hour writing retreat portion of my day while waiting in line for coffee (apparently, Friday mornings are when everyone has the same idea), trying to find the WiFi password (and utterly failing), and being distracted by the new venue. Don’t be like me. Choosing a familiar yet offsite enough venue can help.

Environment matters more than we admit. A change in scenery can shift your mindset, but unfamiliar places also come with friction. Strike a balance between “different enough to feel fresh” and “familiar enough to avoid wasting mental energy.”

The goal of this step is to clear your schedule and prime it for your Top Three.

This was the most important part of the entire day. Without intention, free time tends to disappear into scrolling, errands, chores, or vague productivity disguised as rest.

Ask yourself, “What do I want to feel like when this day is over?”

This question alone inspired the entirety of my day. I wanted to feel accomplished yet grateful and relaxed at the end of the day.

Establish your Top Three

If you can’t do anything else on the day you’ve chosen, what are the three things you want to have done that day? Think less about achievement and more about alignment. What would make the day feel worthwhile when it was over?

Naps in excess of an hour count! Notice the order of events: therapy/relaxation was last. I’m glad I planned this for the end of the day. I arrived home relaxed, ready to tackle tasks, but still refused to do them… until the next day.

Part of breaking your rhythm means refusing to follow your usual script. My weekdays typically begin before sunrise, which meant sleeping in felt almost rebellious. That alone made the day feel different.

Nothing dramatic happened that Friday. No breakthrough. No life-changing revelation. Just a quiet interruption to a pattern that had been running unchecked for too long.

How did I actually feel when Friday was over?

Accomplished. Meaningful. Relaxed. In that order.

Sometimes the healthiest thing you can do is disrupt the rhythm that’s slowly wearing you down. Not everything in life needs to be maintained. Some patterns deserve to be broken.

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Because once you lose it, you spend the next hour pretending to work while actually just rearranging sentences and questioning your life choices.

Then I saw my husband’s name pop up with a play button. It was a video of my daughter enjoying her new bounce house, complete with an inflated slide, basketball hoop, and water spraying in all directions.

Chaos. Joy. Zero calendar invites.

I lived in the north for almost three decades. Experiencing snow as a kid was pure bliss. Snow days were a rare and delicious treat. As an adult, needing to make it to the office in a full-on white-out was…dread.

Somewhere along the way, wonder got rescheduled.

That day, my daughter was fully in the moment.

Time didn’t exist. The only metric was: keep going.

No outcome. No agenda. Just…more.

I was on a schedule.

Every hour accounted for, every task justified.

Every minute explained, as if existing required permission.

Kids experience life to the fullest.

Adults? We manage things.

We get better at life and worse at living it.

• Fluorescent paradise for eight hours: controlled productivity.
  The kind that looks impressive on paper and feels like nothing in your body.

• Bounce house for six hours: complete freedom.
  The kind you can’t measure, which is probably why we stop choosing it.

And there it was, the tension no one warns you about: the life you’re building versus the life happening without you.

One looks responsible. The other feels real.

I chose the latter. And did just the same as my daughter: spent the remainder of daylight outside, watching her exemplify joy.

No optimization. No productivity hack. Just showing up.

When given the choice, I hope we all choose the second option.

Even when it feels inconvenient. Even when it makes no sense on paper.

We learned to manage it. We forgot to be in it.

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It’s been a week. My first book launched last Wednesday.

Unreal.

My brain is still catching up.

The most common question I’ve been asked in these last seven days is, “How does it feel?”

Part terrific, part terrified.

Why?

There’s a lot of real in this book. I have a habit of being brutally, yet kindly, honest when I communicate.

My childhood and upbringing weren’t always a rose garden.

Adulthood? More like lying on a bed of cacti.

The reality is, I wouldn’t trade any of it.

I wouldn’t trade any of it.

Doing so risks not knowing what I know now.

Sharing my story brought so much more than “Great job” or “The book was awesome.”

It created meaningful moments.

And that makes me wonder…

If the outcome of sharing our story is connection like this, what really holds us back?

Or maybe, deep down, fear that it will matter.

Because once it’s out there, it’s no longer just yours. It has the power to meet someone else right where they are.

That kind of honesty changes things.

I’m only one week in, and I already know this: the scary part isn’t the writing.

It’s the sharing.

But it might also be the point.

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That sentence feels both surreal and strangely quiet after everything it took to get here.

This book didn’t start as a “book idea.” It started as tension. As questions I didn’t have answers to. As moments that didn’t make sense while I was living them.

It’s a story of disapproval, storms, and the quiet ache of not quite belonging.

It’s about navigating expectations—some spoken, most silently imposed—and slowly realizing how easy it is to lose your voice when you spend too long trying to live up to them.

It’s also about what it takes to get that voice back.

At the center of it all is our adoption journey.

April 8, 2026, marks four years since Gabby legally became ours. Four years since everything shifted. Not all at once, not in some cinematic, neatly wrapped moment—but slowly, imperfectly, and in ways I’m still learning to understand.

If there’s one truth this story keeps circling back to, it’s this:

And sometimes, it takes walking through uncertainty, disappointment, and more than a few storms to actually believe that.

This book holds a lot:

The hard conversations.
The moments of doubt.
The quiet, ordinary days that didn’t feel significant at the time, but ended up changing everything.

It also holds humor, because if you don’t learn to laugh somewhere along the way, the weight of it all gets unbearable.

And it holds faith—not the polished, easy kind, but the kind that gets tested, stretched, and rebuilt over time.

A sense of home, I’ve learned, isn’t a destination. Healing doesn’t arrive all at once. Neither does hope.

These are built slowly. Through perseverance. Through love. By choosing to keep going when it would be easier not to.

That’s what I poured into these pages.

Not perfection. Not answers to everything. Just honesty.

Wherever you find yourself in The Gabby Effect, my hope isn’t just that you understand my story.

It’s that somewhere in it, you recognize your own.

You can find the book here.

And if you’re here reading this—whether you’ve followed my writing for years or just stumbled into this space today—thank you!

This part of the journey exists because of you. 💟

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My daughter held her latest creation with pride as she showed it to her small audience, our friends who were visiting. “Look what I made!” she exclaimed. She opened her palm to reveal a tiny porcelain cupcake with splashes of red, purple, and green. It was noticeable that she had made an effort to stay inside the lines, but somewhere between her tiny paintbrush and inexperienced hands, the objective had been lost. That certainly didn’t dampen her feeling of accomplishment that day.

She’d completed her project the day my husband and I spent at the hospital while he underwent a six-hour surgery. Since the moment the procedure had been scheduled months in advance, dread hovered over my thoughts and plans, letting anxiety creep in. Its monstrous grip held tight to my former calm and contentment. I’m not usually a worrier, but with the final surgery of four coming up, I knew the risks.

My husband had been in a life-threatening accident on an unseasonably warm evening, just before spring emerged in 2025. After that, his taking advantage of the gorgeous weather seemed like a crime. The hospital stay, multiple surgeries, and numerous follow-up appointments that followed were stifling. The last thirteen months had been filled with a new level of unknowns for our family.

In moments where worry tries to steal my joy, God installs small reminders. “I’ve got you,” He says, through a friend bringing a meal, sending a thoughtful text, or praying with me. I have to remember that my husband wasn’t taken from me. This ordeal has given us even more to be thankful for. How else would I discover that it takes him a minimum of two hours to awaken from “surgery sleep” when an anesthesiologist is involved? (He treasures his rest, even in those moments!) And where else would I have been able to enjoy his post-procedure loopy moments?

My word for this year is “moments,” and it’s God’s personal reminder to me to enjoy the little things in life, to let time slow down. To take deep breaths when I wouldn’t have taken pause at all. He provided these snapshots to remind me of what He wants me to reflect on.

My husband’s last surgery took place thirteen months after the incident, and I was worried about it. Why? Isn’t God good enough? Hadn’t He shown me His faithfulness? I let the unknown take over my gratitude for how far we’ve come. The day before surgery at church, I was reminded of one of my favorite verses:

Just like the level of pride my daughter had when she completed her cupcake, God must cherish the beautiful horizons He paints, the sunsets that take our breath away. He crafts each new day, and yet, He is faithful to us too. This verse served as a reminder that God was watching over Surgery Day as well. May I never take another day or moment for granted again, no matter what the schedule holds.

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In elementary school one year, something wild happened…

Before personal computers were everywhere, I’d been consistently writing since I knew how. Back then, writing was manual, pen-to-paper. It was a sensory experience: grab a sheet of lined paper (college- or wide-ruled), whichever was preferred, snag a No. 2 pencil, and off it went. Creating something, seeing the words on the page, feeling the pencil press grooves into the paper with each stroke, and continuing to develop my handwriting were facets I’ve never gotten over. While helpful, typing on a keyboard still isn’t the same.

At a young age, most of my handwritten words were stowed away in super-secret diaries, the ones that came with a lock and key. I shared my deepest and innermost thoughts that would never see the light of day or meet another set of eyes. When I became more mature and advanced in my writing, I upgraded to a journal (a diary without the lock and key).

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Back in elementary school, I wrote a story about my summer break on a piece of wide-ruled notebook paper…

My family and I traveled to Alabama to visit my grandparents, aunt, and cousins. I didn’t get to see my cousins often, so I was excited about the trip. My aunt had recently purchased a new-to-her home, so she insisted that we cousins spend some extra time together. They had pets, which was the cherry on top. We would spend the night at my aunt’s house, to which my siblings and I squealed with excitement. My parents were staying at my grandparents’ house, five minutes down the road.

No official house tour took place. My siblings and I sat on the floor in my aunt’s family room, talking with her and my cousins and petting the animals (birds, cats, and dogs). It was a bright room with mint-green walls and a high ceiling with lots of windows. The air felt thick, carrying a musty smell that clung to the room. We sat on the crusty-carpeted floor because she didn’t have much furniture yet. Bird cages lined the windows.

It should have been a comfortable, cozy setting.

It wasn’t.

Something about it felt off, like the room was holding its breath.

My aunt casually told us mysterious stories about the house. They weren’t happy stories. One of her cats had a litter of adorable kittens, so she briefly left the room to grab towels and help the new mother care for the babies. When she got back, most of the kittens had disappeared. She thinks the mom ate them! (My stomach turned. I remember going quiet.)

I was seven or eight years old at the time, and that was hard information to process. My cousins continued the storytelling session by sharing multiple occasions when light switches would randomly change positions, usually leaving the room’s occupant in the dark. Lights snapping off mid-sentence, mid-step. (I braced myself for it to happen while we were there, just to show off. It didn’t.) They said other times, they could hear someone walking on the creaky wood floors upstairs while everyone was downstairs. Slow, deliberate steps moving back and forth.

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After the stories, my cousins showed off their rooms. Naturally, I wasn’t too thrilled about the prospect, but curiosity won. What would we find? My other siblings were going, too, so why not? One cousin’s closet revealed another door inside, the kind you see in the movies that leads to the attic. Sure enough, same here. Thank goodness, we didn’t go into the attic. That would’ve pushed my rising anxiety over the edge.

The longer I was in the house, the more uneasy I became. My chest tightened. My thoughts got louder. Never have I felt like that before or since. It was as if my spirit was conflicting with something inside the house, and they couldn’t coexist. (When asked later, my siblings couldn’t corroborate my story.) Really? I didn’t need them to. The feeling was undeniable. The only explanation I can offer years later is that I was experiencing spiritual oppression at a young age.

I knew what I had to do: I couldn’t spend the night there. Every instinct in me said, “Get out!” In fact, the feeling got so strong that I was uncomfortable spending another moment there. The thought of being in that place after dark was unbearable. Night hadn’t even fallen yet, and I was already imagining shadows stretching across those mint-green walls. It took some convincing on my part, but after lots of begging, my aunt finally called my parents, who picked me up minutes later, just before dark. My other siblings spent the night there.

When I got to school that fall, I shared my handwritten account of the “haunted house” encounter with a classmate of mine, complete with illustrations. She felt compelled to share it with her friend. That friend shared it with another friend. The story made its way around the class, then my entire elementary school. I don’t recall the story ever making its way back to me, but that didn’t matter at the time.

While the feeling was incredibly empowering, I wondered: if my words could have that kind of influence then, and in the form of a simple story, how could they be used to create lasting impact?

If I could share a story that would share itself, perhaps I was onto something.

If I could write something that would in turn help at least one person, that would be enough for me.

I always knew I would write a book; I didn’t know that I would share my story, the one God gave me and prompted me to write. A story that, even then, refused to stay on the page. It has been one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. But it has also been one of the most rewarding. My story is for those who are alone, seeking a sense of home, but are facing obstacles that seem impossible to surpass.

Everyone is trying to find home, a place of belonging and peace. A place where they can be unapologetically themselves. A place where there is contentment and rest. A place where nothing feels like it’s working against you. Whatever obstacle you face, I hope and pray that after reading my story, you discover it is not an obstacle, but instead, an opportunity.

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I’m a sucker for a delicious cold brew coffee.

And not just any cold brew.

Each morning, I dedicate five minutes to the perfect recipe: a tablespoon of my favorite concentrated brew, a splash of half-and-half, and sometimes, a squirt of liquid raw sugar. If I add sweetness at the end, I use a little hand mixer to pull everything together before I fill the tumbler with filtered water. Once filled, my routine is complete.

Today was a bit…different.

During the second step (adding half-and-half), rather than a splash of dairy, a cottage cheese texture oozed its way out of the bottle. There was no salvaging what had already been thoroughly ruined. I dumped the “mixture” out, took a deep breath, and started over. Minus the creamer. Hours later, I’m still enjoying my smooth coffee combo. I like cottage cheese, but as a food group, not for a caffeine kick.

I knew something smelled off yesterday, but dairy does that. The half-and-half bottle had some build-up on the cap and threads, so I cleaned it off and moved on.

Problem solved, I thought.

It wasn’t a problem. It was a warning. “I’m turning!” it tried to tell me.

By this a.m., the deed was done.

In that moment, staring down at the curdled combo, I considered pretending it was fine.

I did not consider drinking it.

Some routines are worth the ritual. Not because they’re perfect, but because they make starting over feel normal.

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The day was finally here.

This day wouldn’t take the memories away, but if successful, it would remove the visible wounds.

I stared at my bookbag as if it were a foreign object. I couldn’t bring myself to pack it. Not because I couldn’t. Because doing so meant I’d have to process Monday.

Monday.

The dreaded day I would hand my husband back over to a medical team.

Again.

Something felt unsettling about calling anything “final” when you’ve already lived through the moment that almost wasn’t.

On Tuesday, February 25, 2025, he was almost taken from me. Not in a hypothetical, “that could have been bad” kind of way. In the kind of way that rearranges something in you without asking permission.

We were lucky, but we didn’t walk away without some souvenirs, reminders of life’s fragility.

Broken bones and permanent scars needed to be removed. Fixed. Reconstructed. Made to look more like before.

This surgery is supposed to be the last one.

The last procedure.
The last time I walk him into a building and let someone else take over.
The last time I sit in a waiting room pretending I have any control over the outcome.

The word “final” is supposed to feel like relief. Like a finish line. Like something we get to celebrate.

But sitting here, staring at a bag I still haven’t packed, it feels more like being asked to loosen my grip.

As long as there was another appointment, another procedure, another plan, I could convince myself I was doing something. Holding something together. Controlling at least a small piece of the outcome.

But this part? This requires something different.

Not control, but trust.

Not answers, but surrender.

And maybe that’s the real work all this time.

Not just getting him through surgery after surgery, but learning how to release what was never mine to hold so tightly in the first place.

If all goes well, the visible wounds will fade.

And in their place, something quieter but stronger remains: relief, perspective, and a renewed way of seeing what we’ve been given.

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Hi, I’m Gnorman!

I was born on January 6, 2026, with built-in wisdom to share. I can’t wait to change the world…although these boots aren’t doing me any favors. Actually, it might be my non-existent legs. You see? I already know what boots and legs are, and I’m not even three months old.

My best friend, whom I lovingly refer to as my handler, is Jess. She’s always on the computer, noisily typing on that silly thing. Something about word wizardry. (If anyone should be using sorcery, it’s me.) Maybe I’ve missed my calling…

Anyway, I’m excited to begin my quest to change the world. Since I can’t walk very fast, or much at all apart from a little wobble action, I suppose I’ll have to defer to my friend. With all those words she’s putting into that piece of machinery, I have no doubt she can help.

Onward and upward!

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Dear Jess,

You are a strong woman, one who has, with My help, overcome many obstacles. You didn’t know you would watch your dog die in the summer of 2024, only to nearly lose your husband the following year. But you shared those experiences with others, allowed them to support you, and leaned on Me.

You are stubborn, and I can use that. Don’t let it get in your way. Use it to tell others about Me and to share your story. I have given you a unique life, and your story will be unlike any other. Don’t let the fear of success keep you from pursuing what I have in store.

I want to bless you beyond your wildest dreams.

Let Me.

With miraculous love,
God

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This week was filled with a surplus of grumbling, especially in the evenings after work. My MacBook and I had a recurring “date.” Every night so far this week. My husband wisely steered clear.

The workload morphed me back to Middle School computer class, where I first learned how to use Microsoft Word. In 2026, the bones are still the same, just with a few more bells and whistles.

When taking on the task of self-publishing a book through Amazon, it feels a lot like applying all the things you learned back in computer class—with a gallon of fuel poured on top and someone hovering nearby with a lit match over everything you just built that now smells faintly of gasoline.

Which Word template should I use? Translation: What dimensions will my physical book have?

Which book cover template should I use? Translation: How can I make the size of the cover match the size of the actual book?

How do I make the headings and page numbers on Page 20 mirror those on Page 2? Translation: I need a Word crash course on headers and footers.

It’s not Amazon; it’s me.

A massive learning gap, paired with a multitude of user errors, is smeared all over this process.

I learned patience. That was baked in. But I also learned something else.

Self-publishing is not for the easily deterred, and my stubbornness is a weapon…of sorts. I don’t have any quit in me when it comes to doing something I believe in.

• Helping customers troubleshoot a software glitch? ✅ Check!

• Listening to a lengthy vent about a recent experience a friend had? ✅ Check!

• Leading my daughter to the correct answer for her arithmetic problem? ✅ Check!

Late last night, well after my usual bedtime (when I knew I’d be feeling the lack of sleep in the wee hours of the morning), the publishing platform finally stopped screaming.

I’d done it.

I’d checked the boxes, aligned all the margins, and fulfilled the previously blank fields.

In instances like this, I don’t know how to say “no.” And that’s a good thing.

When faced with life’s challenges—when something you unashamedly believe in is on the other side—don’t let any size serving of difficulty dictate whether or not you continue.

I survived self-publishing. I learned so much. And I wouldn’t trade this experience for anything.

Whatever you’re facing, you’ll make it through, too. Don’t give in! 👊🏼

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“Well, that’s gonna leave a mark!”

“What do you mean, Barbara?”

“Oh, it’s nothing. I just shaved a nice little sliver off my thumb. No big deal!”

“Ummm… that sounds like a bigger deal than just a bad day.”

“Sheesh, Henry! You don’t have to make everything so dramatic. It’s just a little blood.”

“Oh my! Remind me not to look at it again until the bleeding has stopped. That made me woozy!”

“Henry, you’re such a pushover! Stop looking at it. I’ve got it covered.”

“That’s what you said about both of our children, and look how they turned out.”

“They turned out just fine. Stop your bellyaching, Old Man. Katie is my pride and joy. Henry Junior? Well, let’s just leave it at this—he favors his father.”

“Barbara Jane! I cannot believe you would flatter me so. Young Henry is (almost) the best thing to ever happen to me. I’m honored to be called his father.”

“Well now, you have me tearing up, dear.”

“They’re good kids. We went from surviving and keeping them alive to becoming quite the fun bunch. I can’t believe they’ve been out of the house for a decade now. Katie’s wedding to John was one of the most beautiful things…”

“Ah, yes! John is almost like a son to me now. So respectful and wicked smart!”

“We lucked out with Henry’s wife Sara, too. What a sweetheart!”

“How’s that thumb doing?”

“Well, now, just as good as your ego is doing right now, Henry!”

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The keys felt like magic at the end of my fingertips.

Once I learned how to type, “sprinting” across a keyboard helped me visualize dreams coming true. Words held power. And magic.

In middle school, I was kind of a big deal…in my head, at least.

At the age of nine—the same age my daughter Gabby is now—I learned to silence my voice to meet the demands and expectations of others. A piece of my identity disappeared.

Until Typing Class.

My teacher had a favorite student, whether she realized it or not. She was one of the first adults who went to bat for me. That felt good after being told to be seen and not heard for many years.

My first typewriter didn’t have letters, so I could truly learn them.

Along with my in-class teacher, Mavis Beacon taught me a few things, too, including how mistyping digits on the number pad would send poor groceries careening off the edge of a checkout conveyor belt. “Playing” cashier wasn’t as fun as it sounds.

Thanks to someone who believed in me, I went on to hone my skills to the tune of 100+ wpm (wpm = words per minute, for those who are curious and counting).

What truly sticks out is…

And power requires responsibility.

I have the power to communicate at my fingertips:

Words can become weapons.

Or wizardry.

Nowadays, my keyboards still don’t have letters on them.

But not because they didn’t have them in the first place.

Because I used them.

Because fluency leaves evidence.

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I never imagined that I could fall in love with the sounds and smells of spring, which arrived early this year. The purr of tree frogs and the melody of birds who had been silenced by an especially icy winter awaken my eardrums. The scent of past rain and pollen tempts my nostrils. The sky seems a bit bluer today, and the grass is just starting to shift from a sleepy brownish yellow to a subtle green.

“Billy, are you gonna help me with this here plow?”

Ugh.

Spring also meant work. Nearly endless. Until the first freeze. Being a farmer—or in my case, a farmer’s apprentice—afforded little time off. Early mornings, late evenings. A season that stretched on.

I sped up my pace in answer to Jim’s question.

This was our fourth season working together. One of my favorite things about those last three years has been the progress. When I started learning from Jim, there were three fields; now there are a dozen. The farm has grown to something of a force in this region.

The best part? The animals. Those weren’t here in the beginning either. They came Year Two. Bessie was my girl. She would only let me milk her, and Jim hated it. He also joked that I’d never be able to leave. I told him as long as he didn’t transition to beef cattle, I’d stick around. The highlight of my day is seeing Bessie. Cows don’t seem to display emotion, but I know she looks for me.

When we were done in the field that morning, I headed to the barn. There she was, her tail twitching, eyes expectant—or as expectant as a cow can be. When she saw me, she let out a deep bellow. I couldn’t very well start with another cow since she’d already welcomed me back. There were only half a dozen cows, so my current chore didn’t take long.

I cleaned and tidied up the barn and headed to the equipment garage. Jim was already there grumbling about something or other. It had been a dry spring so far, so his complaints likely had something to do with lack of rain.

“You know Who you can ask if you’re not happy with the weather,” I taunted when I got within earshot.

“Keep your judgment to yourself, Billy. Geez, you always get bold after seeing that darned cow.”

I chuckled and went back to work.

When the day was done and the sun crept below the horizon, I pulled away from the plantation. My truck sputtered as I headed for home. I could embrace days just like this one forever if given the chance.

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I awoke with a start, the screech of tires and the blare of car horns assaulting my ears.

I looked out my apartment window and felt my stomach drop when I realized I was no longer on the second floor. I was miles above the ground in a high-rise apartment.

I reached for my flannel and boots out of habit, only to find they had been replaced by a sports jacket and loafers. In place of my truck keys was my phone with a reminder about an upcoming sales presentation.

A deep breath didn’t help since the familiar smells of dirt and manure from my work boots were absent. All I could smell was stale air and something artificial.

What have I done?

“Alright, if I’m in this alternate reality, I might as well see it through.” The confusion settled into something steadier. Not calm. Just stubborn.

The jacket probably fit fine when it was tailored, but it felt stifling. How the taxi driver knew to bring me to another skyscraper only a few blocks away I had no idea.

My “sales presentation” was in fifteen minutes. I tried not to panic. As I exited the vehicle, exhaust and something sour I couldn’t place filled the air.

I walked into the lobby, and no one took notice. Everyone was moving fast, eyes down. No one cared, and no one offered directions.

“Mr. Johnson!” a lady who looked to have just escaped her teenage years waved and motioned me over to the elevators. “Do you have your presentation ready? I can’t wait to hear it!” She didn’t wait for an answer.

The presentation.

I opened the folder I must have grabbed from the apartment.

There it was. The title: Farm Removal in Favor of Shopping Complex.

On the next page, bullet points and an aerial view of a large plantation.

Jim’s farm.

I closed my eyes.

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Jim would already be out by the shed, cap shoved back, one hand braced on his hip while he pretended that knee didn’t ache in the cold. He’d be squinting at the field like it had personally offended him, waiting for me to quit stalling and grab the other end.

And Bessie. She would be working herself into a temper, tail flicking, hooves shifting, that low warning rumble building in her chest because breakfast was late and her boy was missing.

Three years. Fence posts I’d set with my own blistered hands. Gates that only hung right if you lifted them first. Ruts in the path worn down by my boots, morning after morning.

This place, whatever it was, wanted me to forget all of it.

I opened my eyes.

No. Not today.

However I’d landed here, whatever lie waited in the rest of that folder, I couldn’t just nod along and let the wheels roll over everything I love.

“Are you ok, Mr. Johnson?”

“Better than ever,” I said as we exited the elevator on the twentieth floor.

The smell of electronics, paper, and carpet almost unnerved me, but I pressed on.

“Alright, Bill. Let’s see what you got!” the man at the head of the table motioned for me.

I smiled and nodded, making my way to the front of the room.

“I was supposed to come here today to tell you kind folk why a farm should go away in favor of shopping. I’m sure there was good reason behind it at the time. Ladies and Gentlemen, there’s not enough sky in this place. Animals need to graze. Farmers? What they do is hard, hard work. But it’s like therapy...”

“Bill?” the man looked concerned, but intrigued.

I went on. And on. And on.

I thought my heart might burst as the sports jacket tightened around my chest.

And then everything went black.

I awoke with a start. Again.

“Well, there you are, Son. My, you sure have a flair for the dramatic!” Jim chuckled as he continued mucking out the stall.

The realization hit like cold water. I jumped up, brushing hay from my jeans. “Race you to the next chore!” I called, and Jim’s bewildered look followed me out of the barn.

Outside, I paused, drawing in a long breath.

I had almost traded it all for fluorescent lights and polite applause.

And there it was.

Same dusty boots. Same manure smell. Same sky.

Bessie bellowed.

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A year ago today, my world turned on its axis.

Not slowly or gently.

Violently.

Words were said, but their truth wouldn’t penetrate my brain at first…

A year ago today, my husband was in an unforeseen, life-threatening accident that fractured the left side of his face.

The helmet he was wearing?

It saved his life.

The days and weeks that followed were filled with stitches and surgeries. Time moved differently inside those hospital walls. My gratitude for his medical team grew exponentially during his 4-day, 3-night stay. For those who cared for him in those early hours, I don’t have words.

For what my husband experienced as a result of the wreck… I don’t have words for that either.

A handful of learnings stand out when I think back on this season:

• Life is fragile, and moments are precious.

• Teeth are expensive. (Ok, ok… I already knew this based on my own struggles in this area, but it’s still worth noting.)

• Insurance is crucial; miracles are better.

• People want to help, and sometimes, they just need to be invited. And sometimes, you have to let them.

One year later, we still feel the aftershocks. There are appointments and bills and stories we tell differently now.

But there is also breath. And laughter.

And a man sitting nearby as I write this. Alive. A marriage that knows, in its bones, how quickly everything can change.

We were shattered. But we were not lost.

And we are still here.

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