Her Giant steps

  If I could name this year, I would call it my Gethsemane year. At the beginning of this year, I thought I was losing my mind. Truly, There were days I would wake up and feel like I was walking through fog, surrounded by people, conversations, routines, and yet, completely detached from it all. I could laugh, I could talk, I could show up, but inside I felt empty. And that emptiness terrified me. It wasn’t a loud pain, It was quiet, the kind that sits deep in your chest and refuses to leave. There were nights when I would lie awake, unable to find words for what I was feeling. I just knew that something in me was collapsing, the certainty, the strength, the “I’m okay” mask I had worn for so long. It’s strange how loneliness can exist even when you are surrounded by love. I wasn’t alone in the physical sense, I had people, I had moments, I had noise around me but none of it reached me. I felt like I was watching life through glass: close enough to see it, too far to touch it. And t...

  I’ve always thought “to the ends of the earth” sounded like something for missionaries — people who sell everything, move across oceans, and preach in places no one has ever heard the name of Jesus. But lately, God has been showing me that  “the ends of the earth”  isn’t just a destination — it’s a heart posture. Sometimes,  the ends of the earth  is not a faraway land. It’s the uncomfortable yes. It’s the person who hurt you that God asks you to forgive. It’s the small conversation you didn’t plan to have but that turns into someone meeting hope again. This year at Fearless has stretched me in ways I didn’t expect. Each topic, each assignment felt like another corner of my heart being reached by God’s truth. I realized that going to the ends of the earth begins by letting Him reach  the ends of me  — the places I keep hidden, the fears I disguise as busyness, the doubts I baptize with nice words. It’s easy to say, “Lord, send me anywhere,” until He ...

  A line from a song sat with me this week: “You don’t have to fix the moment to be worthy in my pain.”It made me pause and reflect, gently uncovering truths I hadn’t noticed before. All my life I thought faith needed a certain kind of proof. Growing up sickly, I expected one spectacular sign: the illness gone, the miracle obvious. When that didn’t happen, I felt cheated and small, like God’s attention was measured by how loudly He intervened. I kept waiting for the scene to be “fixed” so I could finally feel known. This year I’ve been writing my first book, and the process forced me to meet those old expectations again. Putting pieces of my life on the page revealed a pattern: I had been looking for large, tidy moments that would prove God’s nearness, instead of learning to recognize the quieter ways He shows up. Writing changed how I remember. It didn’t manufacture miracles — but it shifted what I count as one. Here’s what I learned along the way: Being seen is not the same as be...