The Prayer Porch

Tag: Encouragement

  • The Long Way Home

    “How lovely is your dwelling place, Lord Almighty. My soul yearns, even faints, for the courts of the Lord; my heart and my flesh cry out for the living God.” Psalm 84:1-2

    Some journeys don’t look like journeys at all.

    They look like a Sunday morning in a pew you know by heart. The words in a language you can’t fully understand that settle in your chest not needing translation. The feeling of reaching for a prayer book you’ve carried for years and finding it still fits perfectly in your hands.

    They look like coming home.

    I left the faith tradition that formed me, shaped me, and wrote itself into the deepest places of my soul. I went searching not because I stopped believing, but because something in me was restless. And I found real things along the way. Genuine community. Pastoral warmth. A fresh expression of what it means to love God with your whole life.

    But the soul is honest when we get quiet enough to listen.

    I kept returning to the Office of Divine Prayer. The ancient rhythms of morning and evening praise that the Church has prayed for centuries. I felt something move in me at Mass. The readings at the Liturgy, the moment of the Eucharist, that I could not find anywhere else. Not because God was absent elsewhere but because this is where He has always met me most completely.

    The Eucharist is not a small thing. Not for me. It never was.

    For those of us formed in the Catholic tradition, the Eucharist is the source and the summit. The Eucharist is the Real Presence of Christ given freely, received humbly, transforming us from the inside out. In the Eucharist, we recognize Jesus, the way you recognize the face of someone you have always loved. It is not nostalgia, not habit. It is my soul knowing what it knows.

    I remember one phrase clearly enough to write down – Jezus uczynił wszystko z litości. Jesus did everything out of compassion. And something in me broke open quietly in the best possible way.

    God has been patient with my wandering. He did not shame me for the long way around. He simply kept setting a table and waiting.

    Being called back to an old Polish parish that was built by immigrant hands and immigrant faith, worn smooth by generations of knees on kneelers and fingers on rosary beads. I don’t know everything that this means yet I am finding my footing.

    This is not a post about what I left behind. God does not waste our wandering. Every step of the road was held in His hands.

    This is a post about listening. About what happens when we get honest with ourselves in prayer and stop arguing with what the soul already knows. About the particular mercy of a God who lets us take the long way home. He meets us at the door without a word of reproach.

    If you are somewhere in the middle of your own long road today, sitting with restlessness or regret or the quiet ache of something unresolved – may I offer you this?

    The longing itself is holy. The yearning is not failure. It is your soul being faithful to what it knows is true. The path back may not be a straight line.

    He is not finished with you nor is he disappointed in you. He is simply waiting with a table set and a door open. With all the patience of a God who invented time and is not subject to it.

    Come home at whatever pace you need to. He will be there.

    Lord, thank You for the long way around. Thank You for every season, every community, every moment of genuine grace along the road. Thank You that You do not shame our wandering but simply wait with open arms. Lead us home to where You have always known we belong. Give us the courage to walk through the door. Amen.

    Have you ever taken the long way home in your faith and found that God was waiting there when you arrived? I would love to hear your story in the comments.

  • Cuba’s Water Crisis: A Call to Action

    He causes His sun to rise on the evil and the good, and sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous. Matthew 5:45

    Nearly three million people on that island of Cuba are living without reliable access to water right now. Not inconvenienced by water and not asked to conserve water. Living without it. In Santiago de Cuba, some residents receive water only once every fifteen days. Some communities in the eastern part of the island have gone as long as five months without regular service. Power outages stretching up to twenty hours a day mean that even when water exists in the system, the pumps cannot move it. People line up in the street with jugs to fill from tanker trucks, and some days the trucks do not come either.

    The practical response from those paying attention has been clear and loving: we should be more prepared. Store water. Think ahead. Don’t assume that what we have today will simply always be there.

    For many of us, though, the response is almost reflexive. God supplies our needs, we say. There is no need to worry.

    And then, if we sit with that long enough, the question arrives quietly but with real weight.

    If God supplies our needs, why is He not supplying theirs?

    The Question We Don’t Want to Ask

    There are questions we tend to smooth over quickly in faith communities because they feel dangerous. They feel like the kind of questions that erode trust rather than build it. We rush past them toward the reassuring answer before we have actually let the question breathe.

    This is one of those questions.

    The Bible is full of promises about God’s provision. He fed Israel manna in the wilderness. He multiplied loaves and fish on a hillside. He told us to consider the lilies, the ravens, the sparrows. Our heavenly Father knows what we need before we even ask. These are not minor footnotes in Scripture. They are load-bearing promises that generations of believers have staked their lives on.

    And yet on the island of Cuba today, children are thirsty. Elderly people are going without. Families are doing the math of survival in ways that most of us will never have to do. The crisis is real, documented, and worsening. Infrastructure has been crumbling for decades, fuel has been cut off, and the people caught in the middle of political and economic forces far beyond their control are the ones paying the price with their bodies and their daily lives.

    So where is God in that?

    What Provision Actually Means

    We sometimes carry a quietly transactional understanding of God’s provision without realizing it. We receive something we needed and we say God provided. Then when someone else does not receive what they need we find ways to explain the gap that protect our theology and, if we are honest, protect our comfort too.

    We say it must be spiritual warfare. We say their government failed them. We say God is working in ways we cannot see. All of those things may carry truth. None of them, though, fully answers the child who is thirsty.

    What many of us have come to believe, slowly and with some struggle, is that God’s provision almost never moves in a straight line from heaven to the person in need. More often, it moves through human hands, through the Church, and the neighbor who notices. Through the person who stores an extra supply and shares it. Through the aid organization, the missionary, the donor who responds when the news reaches them.

    God does not ignore Cuba. Through the lens of Scripture, He grieves what is happening there in ways that should make the rest of us grieve too. The question He tends to ask back in moments like this is not why am I not providing, but rather: where are My people, and what are their hands doing?

    Faith and Preparedness Are Not Opposites

    Here is where practical wisdom and deep faith actually need each other.

    Trust in God’s provision is not the same thing as passivity. Joseph stored grain for seven years in Egypt before the famine came, and when it did, the provision was there because someone had been faithful and prepared. The wise virgins in Jesus’s parable had oil in their lamps. Preparation is not the opposite of trust. Preparation can itself be an act of stewardship, of faithfulness, of loving the people around us well enough to be ready when they need something we have.

    The instinct to say we are not worried is not wrong. Anxiety is not required of us and God does not ask for it. At the same time, the instinct to pay attention and prepare is also a form of faithfulness. Together, those two impulses make a more complete response than either one alone.

    Where Peace Lives in All of This

    The theological answer that brings the most peace is not a tidy one, but it is a true one.

    God is sovereign over all of it, including the parts we cannot explain. He is present in Cuba in ways we cannot fully see from here. He is working through every Cuban believer who shares what little they have, every church that opens its doors, every act of human kindness that moves water from one pair of hands to another. His provision does not always arrive on our timeline or in the form we expect, but His character does not change because a government failed or an infrastructure collapsed.

    At the same time, the suffering in Cuba is not invisible to Him and it must not be invisible to us. The prophets were relentless on this point: the measure of a community’s faithfulness was how it treated the most vulnerable among them. To look away from Cuba, or from any place of genuine human suffering, and simply say God will handle it is not faith. It is distance dressed up as trust.

    True faith looks, grieves, prays, prepares, and acts. It stores water and gives generously. It trusts God with what it cannot control and takes responsibility for what it can.

    That is the both-and worth sitting with today.

    Lord, we bring Cuba to You today, and every place where people are thirsty and the water does not come. We confess that we do not always understand Your ways, and we ask You to hold what we cannot hold. Give us grieving hearts that will not look away. Give us generous hands that move provision toward those who need it. And give us the wisdom to know the difference between the peace You offer and the comfort we sometimes mistake for it. Amen.

    Filter of Hope wants to give clean water to families – the physical health benefits are countless. They go beyond the physical benefits and help people spiritually by explaining how they can know God personally.

    Do you find it hard to hold faith in God’s provision alongside the reality of suffering in the world? How do you sit with that tension? I would love to hear your honest thoughts in the comments.

  • Faith and Freedom: Lessons from Juneteenth

    It is for freedom that Christ has set us free. Stand firm, then, and do not let yourselves be burdened again by a yoke of slavery.
    Galatians 5:1

    There is a particular kind of freedom that arrives late.

    Not the freedom declared on paper, not the freedom proclaimed from a distance, but the freedom that finally reaches the people it was always meant for. The freedom that travels the last mile on foot, through heat and uncertainty, carried by a messenger on horseback into Galveston, Texas on the nineteenth of June, 1865. Two and a half years after the Emancipation Proclamation had already been signed. Two and a half years of people living in chains that had already, legally, been broken.

    Today is Juneteenth and we are sitting with that.

    We are sitting with the distance between declaration and delivery. Between the word spoken and the word received. Between freedom announced and freedom actually lived.

    I find myself, as I so often do on this Porch, turning that truth over slowly in the light of faith. It seems to me that this tension lives not only in history but in the deepest places of the human soul.

    The Long Distance Between Promise and Arrival

    How many of us know something of this gap between what we have been told is true and what we have actually been able to live into?

    We have been told we are free. Free from shame, from the past, from the weight of every sin and sorrow that once defined us. The declaration has been made. The price has been paid. The Word has gone out.

    And yet, some mornings we wake up still wearing chains that have already been broken. We carry grief we have been told to release. We rehearse failures that have already been forgiven. We live in the long two and a half years between the proclamation and the messenger arriving at our door.

    The people of Galveston on June 19th, 1865 did not receive new freedom that day. Rather, they received the news of a freedom that had been theirs all along, a freedom that the structures around them had conspired to withhold, to delay, to deny. The sin was not in the slowness of the messenger. The sin lived in the system that refused to carry the news, that benefited from the silence, that kept people bound in a bondage that had already been declared over.

    We would do well to sit with that today and not look away too quickly.

    What Juneteenth Asks of Those Who Follow Jesus

    There is no honest way to follow Christ and remain indifferent to the freedom of other people. The Jesus of the Gospels moved toward the bound, the marginalized, the ones whose dignity had been stripped by systems and structures and the silence of those who should have known better. He taught from borrowed boats in front of crowds that the powerful ignored. He touched the untouchable. Moreover, He said the Spirit of the Lord had anointed Him to proclaim freedom for the prisoners.

    Juneteenth is a day that asks us plainly: are we the ones carrying the news, or the ones who benefit from its delay?

    That is not a comfortable question and it was never meant to be. The Porch has always been a place for honest reflection rather than comfortable religion, and today of all days calls us to something more than a surface celebration.

    We can celebrate, and we should. The joy of Juneteenth is real and sacred and worth every note of it. All of it is holy. Resilience dressed in celebration is one of the most beautiful things human beings do.

    Even so, celebration without reflection is incomplete. Joy without justice is fragile. For those of us whose faith calls us to love our neighbors as ourselves, Juneteenth is also an invitation to ask hard questions about what freedom means, who still waits for it, and what we are willing to do to carry the news the rest of the way.

    The Freedom That Is Already Yours

    Perhaps you are reading this from your own version of the long two and a half years.

    Perhaps your freedom has been declared but not yet felt. Perhaps you know in your head that you are forgiven, released, redeemed, but your heart is still standing in the field, waiting for the messenger, not quite believing the war is over.

    Hear this today: the proclamation has already been made. The price has already been paid. You are not waiting for God to decide to free you. What you are waiting for is to receive news that is already true.

    That receiving is sometimes the hardest work of faith. It requires us to let go of an identity built around bondage, and that is frightening even when the bondage is painful, because at least it is familiar. Freedom asks us to become someone we have not yet learned to be.

    Even so, the Spirit of God does not grow impatient with the slow walk toward liberation. He rides the long distance. He finds us in Galveston. He speaks into the fields and the quiet rooms where we have been living as though the proclamation never came.

    You are free. You have always been free. Come and live like it.

    On This Juneteenth

    Let us celebrate the freedom that finally arrived on June 19th, 1865 and honor the people whose resilience carried them through the years it took to get there.

    Let us grieve honestly the freedoms still delayed, still denied, still traveling the last mile in a world that does not always want to carry the news.

    Let us also examine our own hearts for the places where we benefit from silence, from delay, from looking away from what is right in front of us.

    And finally, let us receive, perhaps for the first time or the hundredth time, the freedom that Christ has already declared over every life, including ours.

    Stand firm in it. Put the chains down. The war is over.

    Lord, on this Juneteenth we remember. We remember those who waited in bondage for news that should have reached them sooner. We honor their endurance and their joy. Forgive us for the ways we have been slow to carry freedom to others, in our communities, in our relationships, and in our own hearts. Lead us to live as truly free people, and to spend that freedom not on ourselves alone but on the liberation of every soul still waiting in the long gap between declaration and arrival. Amen.

    Where in your own life are you living in the gap between what God has declared and what you have actually received? And what would it look like today to finally let the news arrive? I would love to hear your reflection in the comments.

  • Compassion: The Heart of Jesus’ Teachings

    Compassion: The Heart of Jesus’ Teachings

    He got into one of the boats, which was Simon’s, and asked him to put out a little from the land. And He sat down and taught the multitudes from the boat.” Luke 5:3

    I don’t always understand the words spoken at Polish Mass. The rhythm of the language washes over me like water – familiar in sound, foreign in meaning and yet something still arrives. Something settles in the heart that doesn’t need a perfect translation.

    This past Sunday, I sat with my notebook open and caught what I could. One phrase came through clearly enough to write down: Jezus uczynił wszystko z litości. Jesus did everything out of compassion.

    The priest was speaking about Luke 5, the scene at the Lake of Gennesaret where the crowd pressed so close that Jesus stepped into Simon’s boat and pushed out from shore. He sat down – teachers sat in those days when they were about to say something important and He taught the people from the water.

    Out of compassion.

    I find myself turning that phrase over slowly, the way you might turn a stone in your palm. Not Jesus taught because it was His duty. Not Jesus taught because the crowd demanded it. But because something moved in Him when He looked out at those people gathered at the water’s edge, hungry and leaning in. Compassion isn’t a policy. It isn’t a method. It’s a movement of the heart.

    And here is what strikes me: He didn’t wait for a more suitable moment. There was no pulpit, no prepared room, no ideal setting. There was a borrowed boat, a tired fisherman, and a crowd that needed something He had to give. So He used what was available. He taught from where He was.

    I wonder sometimes if we wait too long for the right conditions before we offer what we have. Before we speak what we know to be true, before we reach toward someone, before we let my faith do something visible in the world. I tell myself the moment isn’t quite right and we need to be more prepared.

    But compassion doesn’t wait for the right conditions. Compassion sees the crowd and gets in the boat.

    I couldn’t follow every word of that homily. But somehow, in the gap between languages, this is what I heard: Jesus did everything out of compassion. Even this, the teaching, the reaching. All of it was moved by love, not obligation.

    Maybe that’s the quietest and most revolutionary thing about Him.

    Lord, move me the way You moved. Not out of duty or performance, but out of something genuine and tender. When I see someone leaning in – hungry, waiting, hoping – let compassion be what gets me in the boat. Amen.

    Have you ever received something meaningful in an unexpected setting – a place or a moment where you didn’t expect to hear from God? I’d love to hear about it in the comments.

  • Simple Ways to Refresh Your Mind and Spirit Daily

    As we head out for an overnight trip to a little beach resort, I have to admit, I have been counting down the days. There is something about packing a small bag, leaving the to-do list behind, and knowing that for one night, the only thing on the agenda is rest.

    I keep thinking about why I need this so much right now. It is not that anything is wrong. Life has just been full, the good kind of full and the busy kind of full all mixed together, and somewhere along the way my cup got pretty empty without me even noticing.

    We tend to treat rest like something we earn. Work hard enough, get through enough, and then maybe, if there is time left over, we can rest. But that is not how God designed it. In Genesis, He rested on the seventh day, not because He needed to recover from being tired, but because He was showing us something important. Rest was woven into creation from the very beginning. It is not a reward for finishing. It is a rhythm we are meant to live by.

    When I think about it that way, taking this little trip does not feel like an indulgence. It feels like obedience to the way God made me. He made all of us with limits, with the need for sleep, for quiet, for stepping away. Ignoring that does not make us more faithful or more productive. It just empties the cup faster.

    But here is the thing. You do not need a hotel reservation to fill your cup.

    Although I am a homebody and there is truly no place that I would rather be, I will be the first to admit that getting away helps. The change of scenery, the sound of waves, waking up without an alarm clock screaming at me, all of that is wonderful. But most days we cannot just pack a bag and leave. Most days we are right here, in the middle of our regular lives, with laundry piling up, meals to make and emails waiting and people who need us.

    So how do we fill our cup right where we are?

    Here are a few small things that have helped me, and maybe one of them will speak to you too.

    Take a walk without your phone. Even just twenty minutes. Let your mind wander instead of scrolling. Notice what is blooming, what the air smells like, how the light looks this time of day.

    Sit on your own porch. You do not need a beach to sit somewhere quiet with a cup of tea or coffee and just be still for a few minutes. Watch the birds. Listen to the wind. Let yourself do nothing for a little while.

    Slow down with Scripture. Instead of rushing through a verse to check a box, read it slowly. Let it sit with you. Ask God what He might be saying to you through it today.

    Say no to one thing that drains you. This week, look at your schedule and find one thing you can let go of, even just once. Use that freed up time to do something that fills you instead.

    Call someone just to talk. Not to plan anything, not to solve a problem, just to connect. Sometimes a real conversation with someone who loves you is more refreshing than an entire day off.

    None of these require money or time away. They just require permission to slow down and to believe that the world will keep turning even if you are not constantly pouring yourself out.

    Tonight, we will watch the sun set over the water, and tomorrow we will come home renewed. But the truth I keep coming back to is this. Renewal does not start when we arrive somewhere new. It starts the moment we choose to rest, wherever we are.

    Lord, thank You for designing rest into our lives from the very beginning. Help us see it not as something we have to earn, but as something You freely offer. Show us small ways to fill our cups this week, even in the middle of ordinary, busy days. Amen.

    I would love to hear from you. What is one small thing that fills your cup, even on an ordinary day? Share in the comments, I always love hearing how you find rest in your own lives.

  • The Balance Between Tools and Stillness

    The Balance Between Tools and Stillness

    I wrote this post about slowing down. Then I asked AI to help me do it faster.
    If that does not sum up the tension most of us are living in right now, I do not know what does.
    We talk about stillness, pin quotes about rest. We nod along when someone says we need to unplug. And then we pick up our phones before our feet hit the floor in the morning, fill every quiet moment with noise, and reach for the next tool that promises to help us do more in less time.
    I am not pointing fingers. I am looking in the mirror.

    What Are We Really Reaching For?
    Here is the question I have been sitting with lately. When I reach for a screen, a shortcut, a distraction, what am I actually reaching for?
    Sometimes it is efficiency. And that is fine. Tools are not the enemy. We use them, and that is okay.
    But sometimes, if I am honest, I am reaching for noise because the quiet feels like too much. Because sitting still means sitting with something I have not fully dealt with yet. Because presence requires something of me that busyness lets me avoid.

    The Still Small Voice
    In 1 Kings 19, the prophet Elijah was exhausted, overwhelmed, and hiding in a cave. God did not show up in the wind. Not in the earthquake. Not in the fire.
    He showed up in the still small voice.
    That phrase has stayed with me. Still. Small. Voice.
    Not a notification, a headline or a highlight reel. A whisper that requires us to be quiet enough to actually hear it.
    And I wonder sometimes how many still small voices we are scrolling right past.

    Tools or Crutches?
    I want to be clear about something. This is not a post about technology being bad. I use it every day. It helps me work, connect, create, and serve the people I care about. There is nothing inherently wrong with that.
    The question I keep coming back to is a matter of the heart.
    Is this tool serving my calling, or replacing the part of me that is supposed to show up?
    Am I using it to do good work more effectively, or am I using it to avoid the slower, quieter work that only happens when I put everything down and just be?
    There is a difference between a tool and a crutch. And only we know, in our most honest moments, which one we are holding.

    The Discipline of Putting It Down
    Stillness is not passive. It is one of the most countercultural, disciplined, intentional things we can choose in a world that rewards constant motion.
    It means choosing the slower path sometimes. The handwritten note instead of the quick text. The walk without earbuds. The morning that begins with Scripture before it begins with a screen. The prayer that is not rushed because something else is waiting.
    It means trusting that what grows in the quiet is worth more than what we produce in the noise.
    And it means being honest with ourselves when we are reaching for distraction and calling it productivity.


    Lord, forgive us for the quiet we keep filling. For the stillness we keep scrolling past. For the moments You were speaking and we were not listening because we were too busy doing.
    Teach us to put it down. Not perfectly, not all at once, but faithfully and with intention. Remind us that You are not found in the noise. Help us to be still enough, brave enough, and quiet enough to hear You when You whisper.
    And when we reach for the wrong thing, gently turn our hands back toward You.
    Amen

    Lastly, I wanted to share two morning devotionals that have genuinely anchored my own quiet time and helped me choose presence over noise. These are resources I use and love personally. Please note that the links below are affiliate links, which means I may receive a small fee if you purchase through them at no additional cost to you. I only share what I truly believe in, and these are no exception.

    Jesus Calling, Small Brown Leathersoft, with Scripture References: Enjoying Peace in His Presence (A 365-Day Devotional)

    The Divine Romance: 365 Days Meditating on the Song of Songs (The Passion Translation, Imitation Leather) – A Heartfelt Translation of the Song of Songs

  • Creating a Legacy: Small Moments That Matter

    Creating a Legacy: Small Moments That Matter

    They Didn’t Know They Were Teaching Us

    There was no curriculum.

    No lesson plan. No intentional moment where they sat us down and said, this is what matters. They just lived. And we watched.

    Our grandparents’ lives were shaped by things most of us will never fully know. Depression-era kitchens where nothing was wasted. Wars that took sons and changed the ones who came back. Faith practiced not as a feeling but as a discipline. Sunday clothes. Handwritten letters. Gardens that fed families because they had to.

    They didn’t call it resilience. They called it Tuesday.

    And somehow, in the watching, we learned.

    What Did We Take?

    Perhaps it was the way your grandmother’s hands moved without thinking. Kneading bread, snapping beans, folding laundry with a kind of quiet dignity that said this work matters. She wasn’t performing. She was providing.

    Or perhaps it was your grandfather’s word. The way he shook a hand and meant it. The way a promise wasn’t a suggestion.

    Either way, we took their grit without realizing we were picking it up. Their patience. Their ability to sit with hard things without needing to fix them in an hour.

    They knew how to wait. And in watching them wait, so did we.

    That generation understood something we are still trying to recover. That character is not built in the highlight moments. It is built in the accumulated weight of ordinary faithfulness. Showing up. Following through. Keeping the faith even when the faith costs something.

    We absorbed that. Maybe not all at once. Maybe not even consciously. But it is in us, whether we recognize it or not.

    Who Had the Most Influence?

    We each have an answer to that question, and it doesn’t always come wrapped neatly.

    Often, the most influential person in the room wasn’t the loudest. It was the one who stayed. The grandmother who showed up every Sunday. The grandfather who didn’t say much but was simply there, steady, consistent, immovable.

    Influence rarely announces itself. It settles quietly into the spaces between moments, and lives in the smell of a kitchen, the sound of a hymn sung under the breath, the sight of someone bowing their head before a meal without making a production of it.

    It lives in what was modeled more than what was spoken.

    And yet sometimes, if we’re honest, the family tree had broken branches. Maybe the grandparent we needed wasn’t available. There was distance, or silence, or pain where warmth should have been. Maybe the person who shaped us most wasn’t a grandparent at all. Maybe it was a neighbor, a Sunday school teacher, a coach, an aunt who stepped in without being asked.

    God is creative in how He places people in our paths.

    Even so, He was weaving something. Even in the gaps.

    What Did We Cling To?

    If the picture wasn’t perfect, and for many of us it wasn’t, we clung to the fragments.

    The one summer we spent with her. The way he laughed at the dinner table that one Christmas. A recipe written in shaky cursive on an index card. A phrase they repeated so often it became part of us.

    We make do. You’ll be alright. God is faithful.

    We clung to the glimpses. And in time, the glimpses were enough to build a foundation.

    Because God has a way of letting even imperfect people plant seeds in us that bloom long after they’re gone. He wastes nothing. Not the hard years, not the broken relationships, not even the losses we still carry. He takes what was given to us, however incomplete, and He works with it.

    That is grace.

    What We Carry Without Knowing It

    Here is something worth sitting with. We are more shaped by those who came before us than we often realize.

    The way you handle conflict and the way you respond to uncertainty and the way you talk about money, or struggle, or God. The way you love people when it is inconvenient.

    Some of what we carry is beautiful and some of it needs to be examined. Our part of the work of a maturing faith is learning to hold both with honesty.

    We are not prisoners of what we inherited but we are shaped by it. And knowing that changes how we live going forward.

    Now It’s Our Turn

    And so here’s the question that changes everything.

    What are we leaving behind?

    Not in a will. Not in a savings account. But rather in the lives of the people watching us right now. Because someone is always watching. A child. A younger coworker. A friend who is struggling and quietly taking notes on how we handle hard things.

    Legacy isn’t reserved just for grandparents. Legacy is being built right now, in the ordinary moments we don’t think anyone is paying attention to.

    The way we respond when things don’t go our way. How we speak about people who aren’t in the room. The way we show up when it costs us something.

    They are watching. And they are learning.

    Furthermore, it doesn’t require biological children to leave something that lasts. What about the coworker you encouraged on a hard day, the one who went home and told their spouse someone actually saw me today. Think about the friend you sat with in the waiting room, not because you had the right words but because you showed up anyway. Think about the younger person at church you took seriously when no one else did. The neighbor you checked on. The family member you refused to write off even when it would have been easier.

    Legacy is built in small, unremarkable moments that we will likely forget but they will be remembered.

    What Does It Look Like?

    Practically speaking, it looks like integrity when no one is grading you. When the decision is small enough that no one would ever know, and you still choose what is right.

    It looks like staying at the table when the conversation gets hard. Not walking away, not shutting down, but remaining present when presence is the most difficult thing to offer.

    It looks like admitting you were wrong. Humility is one of the most powerful things we can model, especially for younger people who have been taught that strength means never backing down. Showing them otherwise is a gift they may not recognize for years.

    Beyond that, it looks like faith that doesn’t evaporate when life gets heavy. Not perfect faith. Not tidy faith. But faith that keeps showing up. Faith that says I don’t understand this, but I still trust You. That kind of faith, witnessed up close, does something in a person that no sermon can fully replicate.

    It looks like the way we love people who are difficult to love. The way we choose kindness when we could choose something easier. The way we point people, quietly and consistently, toward something bigger than ourselves.

    And still, we may never know the full reach of what we leave. Just as our grandparents never knew that the way they kneaded bread or kept their word would echo forward decades later, we won’t always see what takes root in the people around us.

    But God sees it.

    And He is faithful to multiply what we offer, however small it feels in our hands. A few loaves. A few fish. Offered honestly. And watch what He does.

    Lord, thank You for the ones who came before us. The ones who shaped us without knowing it, who gave us more than they realized. For the grandmothers who prayed over us and the grandfathers who showed us what faithfulness looks like. And for those of us whose story had gaps, thank You for filling them in ways only You can.

    Now help us turn and face forward. Help us live in a way that leaves something worth finding. Not a perfect life, but a faithful one. Not a spotless record, but a consistent presence. The seeds we plant today be ones that bloom long after we are gone, in people we may never fully see.

    Help us to be, for someone else, exactly what we needed when we were young.

    Amen.

    Who shaped you without knowing it? Was it a grandparent, or someone who stepped in and filled that space? And what are you building right now in the people watching your life? You don’t have to have it all figured out to leave something that lasts. We’d love to hear your story in the comments.

  • Let Go of Worry: Embrace Peace in God’s Care

    Let Go of Worry: Embrace Peace in God’s Care

    Nobody sees it on you.

    And that is exactly the thing about quiet worry. It does not announce itself. It does not show up dramatically or demand attention. Instead it settles in somewhere behind your eyes and under your ribs and becomes so familiar that you almost forget it was not always there.

    You wake up with it and go to bed with it. It follows you through grocery store lines and dinner conversations and Sunday morning worship with a smile that nobody questions. In fact you have grown so skilled at holding it that most people in your life have no idea how heavy it actually is.

    But God sees it. Every single ounce of it.

    Psalm 55:22 says this: “Cast your cares on the Lord and He will sustain you. He will never let the righteous be shaken.”

    Cast. Not manage. Not organize. Not carry more efficiently. Cast.

    That word demands action. It is the posture of someone who decides the weight belongs somewhere else. Not because the worry is not real and not because the circumstances are not hard. But because God made His shoulders for exactly this and He did not make yours for it.

    The truth is God never designed us to carry chronic worry. He did not build our minds and bodies for the constant hum of low grade fear that so many of us have accepted as just the way things are. The sleeplessness. The tight chest. The what ifs that follow us from room to room. The rehearsing of conversations and outcomes that have not even happened yet. He never intended any of that for us.

    Because putting it down feels irresponsible. Stopping the worry feels like an open invitation for something to catch us off guard. And somewhere along the way we started believing that anxiety was just the price of loving people and living in an uncertain world.

    So can we gently challenge that today?

    Here is what we know. Worry has never changed a single outcome. It has never stopped a hard thing from happening or pulled a good thing any closer. What worry has done instead is rob countless people of the present moment they deserved to fully live. People who missed the ordinary graces of a Tuesday because they were already living in a terrible version of next month that never actually came.

    Jesus knew this about us. In Matthew 6 He asked the most tender and disarming question: “Can any of you by worrying add a single hour to your life?” He was not scolding us. Rather He was inviting us to notice the futility of the thing we grip so tightly. Then He pointed us to the birds and the flowers and a Father who holds all of it without forgetting a single sparrow.

    And He has not forgotten you either.

    The thing you quietly carry today – the relationship hanging in uncertainty, the health concern you have not told anyone about, the financial pressure you smile through, the future that feels like standing at the edge of something you cannot see – He knows it. He knew it before you opened your eyes this morning. And still He has not left it unattended.

    Here is what casting looks like in real life. It is not a one time event. We practice it daily. Sometimes moment by moment. Our hands open and release what we are gripping and every single time God meets us right there. Not always with answers. Not always with the resolution we wanted. But always with His presence. And ultimately His presence sustains us when the circumstances refuse to move as fast as we hoped.

    So today we come to the porch with open hands.

    We name the thing we have been quietly carrying. We do not dress it up or minimize it or pretend it weighs less than it does. Instead we bring it exactly as it is and lay it at the feet of the One who said come to me all who are weary and I will give you rest.

    And then we breathe.

    Because we were never meant to hold this weight forever. It always belonged to Him.

    Lord, You see the worry we carry in the quiet places. The weight nobody else knows about. The fear that grew so familiar we almost stopped noticing it. And yet You have seen it all along. Today we choose to cast. Our hands open wide. We release what we have been gripping and trust that You are not surprised by any of it. Your shoulders hold what ours were never built to carry. Sustain us today as only You can. Give us the grace to breathe and the courage to trust. Remind us again that You have never once dropped what we place in Your care. In Jesus name, Amen.

    What are you carrying today that you need to lay down? The porch is a safe place. We would love to hear from you in the comments.

  • Life Lessons from Nature: Trust and Provision

    Life Lessons from Nature: Trust and Provision

    “But ask the animals, and they will teach you.” Job 12:7

    I wasn’t expecting a theology lesson on a Monday morning. But there they were, two fox kits tumbling across the church lawn in the golden early light, their father trotting just ahead, steady and sure. I stood still and watched longer than I probably should have.

    And I listened.

    There is something about witnessing new life in the middle of an ordinary week that quietly rearranges you. Spring has a way of doing that, arriving uninvited into our routines and reminding us that the world is still being tended.

    “Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them.” Matthew 6:26

    Jesus said birds. But I think He meant fox kits too.

    These little ones have no awareness of what lies ahead, the summer heat, the eventual scattering that comes with autumn, the wide world waiting beyond the den. They only know this morning. This grass. This father leading them forward. And somehow, that is enough.

    Isn’t that what we are invited into? Not mastery of the future, but trust in the One who holds it.

    I have been watching this family for a few weeks now. The mother, quieter and less visible, working faithfully behind the scenes. The father, steady in his provision, showing up day after day. The kits, growing stronger, venturing a little further each time, not because they have figured everything out, but because they are held.

    “He will cover you with his feathers, and under his wings you will find refuge.” Psalm 91:4

    That image of covering – of shelter that doesn’t remove us from the world but sustains us within it, is exactly what I watched play out on that church lawn. The kits are not hidden away forever. They are being prepared. Covered. Sent out in due season.

    Seasons change. They always do. What looked like winter gives way to something new. And God, faithful as ever, is already out ahead of us, steady and sure, just like that father fox trotting across the morning grass.

    A Moment to Reflect:

    When did you last pause long enough to let creation speak to you? What did you notice?

    Where in your life are you being asked to trust the One who is out ahead of you, even when you cannot see the full path?

    Lord, thank You for the ordinary mornings that turn out to be anything but ordinary. Thank You for fox kits and golden light and the quiet ways You remind us that You are still tending this world and us. Where we are anxious about what lies ahead, cover us. Where we have forgotten to look up, open our eyes. You are faithful in every season. We trust You with this one too.

    Amen.

  • Honoring All Mothers: A Careful Look at Grief and Joy

    Honoring All Mothers: A Careful Look at Grief and Joy

    Mother’s Day is coming.

    The stores know it. The commercials know it. The flower shops and the brunch menus and the greeting card aisles all know it. And for some of us that is a beautiful thing. A reason to celebrate, to gather, to say out loud what we sometimes forget to say the other 364 days of the year.

    But we want to sit on the porch today with the mothers the commercials forget.

    We want to sit with the woman who is scrolling through her phone this weekend seeing everyone else’s celebrations while her arms still remember the weight of the baby she never got to bring home. The one who painted a nursery and chose a name and loved with her whole heart before the world ever had a chance to know. You are a mother. Your grief is real. And God has not forgotten the child He knew before you did.

    Psalm 34:18 says “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” He is not far from you this weekend. He is closest to you right where the ache is deepest.

    We want to sit with the woman who lost her mother this year. Or ten years ago. Or thirty years ago and still reaches for the phone on Mother’s Day before remembering. Grief does not follow a calendar and love does not have an expiration date. Missing her is not weakness. It is the evidence of something that mattered.

    We want to sit with the mother whose adult children are busy. Or distant. Or difficult. The one who raised them, poured herself into them, prayed over them in the dark, and now waits for a text that comes late or not at all. The one who would never say it out loud but carries a quiet wondering about whether any of it mattered.

    It mattered. Every sleepless night mattered. Every prayer mattered. Every sacrifice that no one saw and no one thanked you for mattered. Galatians 6:9 reminds us “Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.” Your harvest is coming. Do not give up on them.

    And we want to sit with the mother in the nursing home. The one in the chair by the window on Sunday afternoon watching the parking lot. The one whose hands still remember rocking babies even when her mind can no longer recall their names. The one whose children mean to visit and keep meaning to visit and somehow Sunday comes and goes and the chair by the window stays empty.

    She is still a mother. Her love did not diminish when her memory did. And if no one comes this Sunday we pray she feels the presence of the One who never leaves. Isaiah 46:4 promises “Even to your old age I am He, and to gray hairs I will carry you. I have made and I will bear. I will carry and will save.” He carries what we cannot carry. He remembers what the mind forgets. He sits in the chair beside her even when we do not.

    Mother’s Day is joyful and we do not want to take that from anyone. But joy and grief live in the same house sometimes. And the truest thing we can do on a day like this is make room for both.

    So if you are celebrating this weekend, celebrate fully. And if you are grieving this weekend, grieve honestly. And if you are somewhere in between, holding joy in one hand and sorrow in the other, you are in very good company on this porch.

    You are seen. You are known. You are loved by a God who called Himself a comforter, who compared His own love to that of a mother who cannot forget her nursing child, who said even if she forgets, I will not forget you.

    He has not forgotten you. Not today. Not ever.

    Happy Mother’s Day to every kind of mother. Every kind of daughter. Every woman carrying something tender this weekend.

    We see you.

    Lord, this weekend we bring You every mother who is hurting. The ones grieving babies they never got to hold. The ones missing mothers they can no longer call. The ones waiting by the phone for children who have grown distant. The ones sitting by windows in quiet rooms hoping someone remembers. Meet them where they are. Let them feel Your presence so close it feels like arms around them. Remind them that they are seen and known and deeply loved by You. And for every mother celebrating this weekend, multiply their joy. In Jesus’ name, Amen.

    Whatever this Mother’s Day holds for you, we are glad you are here on the porch. Will you share how we can pray for you this weekend in the comments?