When I was in college, two friends and I decided we wanted to go to England and France. I wanted to travel with a bus tour, but my two friends did not think that was the cool way to do it, so I was outvoted. We were going to backpack our way through London and Paris.

I packed as lightly as I could and tried to reassure myself that it would not be as hard as I feared. But it was hard. Given that I have mild cerebral palsy, it was not easy at all. Every time I saw a tour bus pass us by, my backpack seemed to feel heavier. My two traveling companions did not have any disabilities, but they helped me… sometimes.

About halfway through our time in England, we decided to take a day trip to Oxford. All three of us were Alice in Wonderland fans, and there was a little shop there, Alice’s Shop, filled with all things Alice. Happily, I was able to leave my backpack, which by then I had a very love-hate relationship with, at the hostel where we were staying.

I fell in love with Oxford the minute we started exploring. The thought of walking the same sidewalks as so many historical figures throughout Oxford’s history amazed me. C.S. Lewis, Lewis Carroll, and J.R.R. Tolkien all came to mind. When we arrived at Alice’s Shop, I could not get over how charming it was.

As we looked around, one of my friends had a few questions about the prices of some of the merchandise. There was only one person working in the shop, an older gentleman, who came over to answer her questions. I noticed immediately that he was extremely rude. That surprised me because I had met so many pleasant people on the trip, only to find the rudest man in England working in the most adorable little Alice in Wonderland shop.

The more questions we asked, the ruder he became. Maybe I was cranky from lugging that heavy backpack around for over a week, but I could not tolerate the way this man was treating us. I told one of my friends that I needed a break from his rudeness and that I was going to wait outside. She completely understood because she had noticed the same behavior.

I stormed out of the shop and leaned against the wall. Why was this unfriendly man ruining my experience in Oxford? Why was he so mean?

As I stood there, a thought came into my mind: This man needs Christ.

I knew God was speaking to my heart.

Just then, I noticed a bookstore nearby. I thought, maybe I could buy this man a copy of The Hiding Place by Corrie ten Boom. That is one of my favorite books, and Corrie is one of my heroes. I thought that whatever circumstances this old man had lived through to make him so unpleasant and unhappy, Corrie’s story might speak to him.

Corrie and her family were arrested and sent to concentration camps during the German occupation of the Netherlands in World War II for hiding Jews. Even while living through the horrors of Ravensbrück concentration camp, Corrie and her sister continued to lean on Christ and even held Bible studies, pointing other women to Him. I had learned so much from Corrie, and I wanted to share her incredible story with this man.

I knew my friends were going to be in the shop for a while deciding what to buy, so I walked into the bookstore and prayed to myself, “Please, God, let them have Corrie’s book.”

At first, I could not find it. My heart sank.

Then I asked someone who worked there.

“Yes, we do have that book. Let me show you where it is.”

I was so excited. Not only did they have the book, but the salesperson was so friendly, a refreshing change from the shop I had just left.

I bought the book and went back to the Alice shop. Soon after, my friends came out carrying their Alice loot. I pulled out Corrie’s book and showed it to the friend who was a Christian.

“I bought this for the man who was so rude to us.”

She immediately understood why and encouraged me to give it to him.

My other friend, who was not a Christian at the time, asked, “Why would you buy anything for a person like that?”

My Christian friend said, “I’ll explain it to you later, but Ally needs to give this book to that man.”

I became nervous as I walked back into the shop. Was I doing the right thing? Was this man going to yell at me and throw the book at my head?

I found him sitting behind the counter. No one else was in the shop.

I handed him Corrie’s book and said, “I bought this for you. I thought you needed to read this story.”

He took the book and looked at it. Then he looked at me and said, “Thank you.”
He wasn’t rude, but he wasn’t especially warm either. Still, I didn’t mind, because it was more than I expected.

With that, I rejoined my friends outside.

I prayed, “Please, God, use Corrie’s story to lead this man to Christ.”

I knew I would probably never know the outcome of giving this man the book this side of heaven, but God knew what would happen. God had given me an opportunity to place a story in that man’s hands that pointed to Jesus, to the One who is with us through every circumstance, and who loves us so much that He died for us.

My other friend, the one who did not understand why I bought the book, also got to hear that same message.

We may not always know the plans God has for others, but it is a humbling privilege when He allows us to be part of pointing someone toward Christ.

And there was something else God did in me that day.

By the time I gave that man the book, I no longer saw him as the rudest man in England. God had softened my heart and reminded me that this man was someone who needed Christ’s love and salvation. My anger had disappeared. So had my crankiness.

Sometimes God calls us to witness not only through our words, but through compassion. Sometimes He interrupts our frustration and replaces it with mercy. Sometimes the person we least want to show kindness to is the very person God asks us to see through His eyes.

As I think back on that moment, I wonder how often I’ve missed opportunities like this because I was too focused on how I felt.

And even when I have missed them, I’m reminded that God is bigger than my spiritual missteps. When my focus is on Christ instead of myself, He is still faithful to use me for His good.

Sometimes, all He’s asking is that I be willing.

From broken branches to new blooms,
Ally

Author’s Note

For privacy and personal reasons, I write under the name Ally. The stories and reflections I share here are true, drawn from my life and faith journey. I have also changed the names of friends and relatives to protect their privacy.

There is a koi pond along the path where I walk my two miniature schnauzers. A beautifully flowering tree drapes over the water, its pink blossoms reaching toward the surface.

There are a few chairs nearby, and sometimes I sit there for a while.

I like to look up at the blossoms against the blue sky. The sunlight tries to make its way through the branches, leaves, and blooms.

It’s peaceful.

It amazes me how something so simple can calm my stress and soothe my soul.

As I stood by the Koi pond last week, I started thinking about the verse:

I’ve read that verse many times. I even have it written beside my bed.

But I found myself wondering, what does it actually look like to delight in the Lord?

I want to delight in Him because I love Him, not just because He might give me something my heart wants, even though that is part of the promise. For me, that part feels like the cherry on top.

But what does delighting in God feel like, especially when I’m not happy or when life feels heavy?

When I think about the times I’ve felt the most joy in God’s presence, they are usually small moments.

Like this one.

Sitting by the pond. Looking up at the pink blossoms.

For a moment, I realized the scene looked just like the image I use for my Substack logo. My husband Luke was there with me and the dogs, and he took a picture.

Every year, toward the end of winter, I find myself wondering if spring will ever come. And then, almost without noticing, the buds appear.

These blossoms only last a few weeks.

So when the tree is in full bloom, I sit there and try to take it all in.

In those moments, I feel peace. I feel God’s presence.

It feels like a visual gift from Him, something I can only receive, enjoy, and marvel at as I look at each pink petal.

And I think… this is what it means to delight in the Lord.

Just noticing. Just receiving. Just being with Him.

I’ve felt it in other moments too.

Sometimes, after a difficult day, my mind replays everything as I try to fall asleep, and worry slowly takes over my thoughts.

But when I remind myself that God is with me, that He sees the situation and will take care of it, my bed suddenly feels softer. I feel safe beneath my blankets, held, and finally able to rest.

And I think… this is another way I am learning to delight in Him.

I think I’ve wondered about this verse for so long because I always imagined delighting in the Lord would look like intense joy, something visible and expressive, like constant praise.

And maybe for some people, it does look that way.

But that hasn’t been my experience.

For me, it’s found in smaller moments.

It looks like sitting by a pond. Noticing blossoms. Feeling peace in both my mind and heart. Remembering that God is with me.

And that’s okay.

Because God created each of us uniquely, and the way we experience His presence will not all look the same.

And maybe this kind of peace is what it means to delight in the Lord.
I want God to know that I love Him, and that I truly want to delight in Him. That’s my heart’s desire.

From broken branches to new blooms,
Ally

Author’s Note

For privacy and personal reasons, I write under the name Ally. The stories and reflections I share here are true, drawn from my life and faith journey. I have also changed the names of friends and relatives to protect their privacy.

This is a story about the small victories, and learning to celebrate them again as an adult, just like I did as a child.

“Yay, I Did It!”

I used to say it all the time, sometimes out loud, sometimes quietly to myself.

What was I celebrating as a little girl?

It was the small things, buttoning a button on my own, or the very first time I managed to put my hair into a ponytail by myself. These may seem like ordinary tasks, but for me, they were anything but ordinary. Having mild cerebral palsy made fine motor skills much more challenging. Still, like all children, I celebrated my victories, no matter how small. Those were my “yay” moments.

In third grade, I was integrated into a classroom with non-disabled students. I was the only student with a physical disability. It didn’t take long for me to notice that even the simplest tasks took me much longer than my peers. I began to feel ashamed. I tried to hide my struggles, and I became embarrassed to ask for help.

One day, I was in the school bathroom and couldn’t button my pants. No matter how desperately I tried, I couldn’t do it. There was no way I could walk back into my third-grade classroom with my pants unbuttoned. It would have been too humiliating.

My teacher came in looking for me.

“Why are you taking so long, Ally?” she asked.

Holding back tears, I stepped out of the stall and said, “I can’t button my pants.”

Her expression shifted from concern to compassion.

“I can help you with that,” she said gently.

And she did, as if it were no big deal.

Then she offered me something I have never forgotten. She told me that if it happened again, I could simply come stand behind her desk. I wouldn’t have to say a word. She would understand, and no one else in the class would know. She would quietly help me button my pants.

Did that completely take away my embarrassment? No.

But it gave me something just as important, the realization that I could ask for help and still keep my dignity.

And still, my small victories mattered deeply to me. They were still my “yay” moments.

In junior high, I had a very different experience.

During P.E., we were playing baseball, and I was up to bat. My friends were on the field, fellow students who knew me and cared about me.

As I stepped up to the plate, my P.E. teacher called out loudly so the whole class could hear,
“This one doesn’t count!”

My heart sank.

I could see on my friends’ faces that they didn’t agree with her. The pitcher threw the ball, and I swung. I felt the bat connect. The ball didn’t go far, but it didn’t matter, it was a hit.

I made it to first base.

One of my friends was there. He smiled and said, “Good job making it to base,” then shook his head and added, “I can’t believe what the P.E. teacher said.”

His words meant so much to me.

Then the next batter hit the ball deep into the outfield. Suddenly, everyone was shouting, “Run, Ally, run!”

And I did.

I ran all the way home.

My teammates cheered, and one of them called out boldly,
“Ally’s run is going to count!”

The teacher nodded, though without much enthusiasm.

But I didn’t care.

My friends had celebrated that “yay moment” with me, and that meant everything.

Those moments, both the small victories and the bigger, shared ones, are long behind me now. I am in my 50s, but I still have my “yay” moments.

Buttons are still a challenge.

But now, when I succeed, my “yay” is followed by, “Thank You, Lord,” because I know He helped me.

It is the same when I open a jar, crack an egg without making a mess, or put my dogs’ harnesses on by myself. Sometimes, when a task is taking longer than usual, I pause and pray, asking God to help me.

And He does.

He meets me right where I am, just like my third grade teacher did all those years ago. He comes to my aid with love and helps me do what I need to do.

Then I say, “Thank You, Lord,” and celebrate that “yay moment” with Him.

I have learned that God invites me to bring not only the big requests, but the small ones too. Whether it was asking for His help through graduate school and thanking Him when I earned my Master’s degree or simply thanking Him when I almost trip on uneven pavement, He is there.

I have also learned that when I ask others for help, I shouldn’t be embarrassed. It is another way God answers my prayers.

Sometimes, I need to ask for help in order to do what I need to do so I can move forward and accomplish other tasks. If I had refused the help of my third grade teacher because of embarrassment, how much time would I have wasted in the bathroom, when I could have been back in the classroom, learning and moving forward.

God has never said to me, “This one doesn’t count.”

It doesn’t matter whether I succeed or fail at accomplishing a task.

What matters is this, when I call on the Lord, my God and Father is with me.

And wherever He is with me, that is where every effort, every step, every moment becomes a home run.

We reach home plate together and celebrate. That’s what truly counts.

From broken branches to new blooms,
Ally

Author’s Note
For privacy and personal reasons, I write under the name Ally. The stories and reflections I share here are true, drawn from my life and faith journey. I have also changed the names of friends and relatives to protect their privacy.

One of my greatest fears has been this, that as I grow older, I might become more like my dad.

It has only been in the past year that I have truly understood what narcissism is. Looking back, I can now see clearly that my dad has emotionally abused and manipulated my immediate family for decades. My parents are not Christians. My Mom is a strong woman, not a doormat by any means, but through her long marriage she has learned how to navigate the constant minefield that comes with being married to someone with strong narcissistic traits.

I love my husband, Luke, so deeply. The thought that I could one day become abusive toward him, the way my dad has been toward my Mom, has terrified me.

There have been a handful of times when God gave me the courage to confront my dad about his abuse and narcissism. But like many things he is confronted with, he shifts the blame onto others and redirects the focus back to himself. During those conversations, he would say to me,
“You turned out as well as you did because of me.”

I was always quick to respond,
“I am the person I am today because of God, not you.”

I was not about to let him take credit for what God has done in my life.

Over the past five years, my dad’s verbal abuse has grown steadily worse, and with that, my fear grew. After all, I am his daughter. We share DNA. Sometimes when I look in the mirror, I see parts of him in me.

That thought used to shake me.

More than once, I told Luke,
“If I ever become like my dad and start treating you badly, you should leave me.”

Every time, Luke would tenderly tell me that I am nothing like my dad. I wanted to believe him, but deep down I would still wonder,
“I may not be like him now, but what about in 20 or 30 years?”

The fear felt so real that I didn’t even want to imagine that future. I couldn’t bear the thought of ever hurting Luke the way my dad had hurt my mom, my sister, and me.

Last year, I shared this fear with my Mom. I told her I was afraid of carrying on my dad’s legacy of hurtful words and manipulation. She looked at me and said firmly,
“Ally, you are nothing like your dad. You need to stop thinking that way.”

Her words startled me. They felt like they shook something loose inside of me. My Mom knows me better than anyone, and I love her deeply. For her to say that I was nothing like her husband, those words became a balm that began to soothe years of fear.

Earlier this year, I wrote about setting a boundary with my dad in order to protect my time with my Mom. I had no idea what would follow. During our Christmas visit, his anger over that boundary escalated into physical aggression and verbal abuse, and on Christmas night, he forced Luke and me out of the house.

I remember the shock of that moment. Christmas is supposed to be a time of peace and love, and instead it became something I will never forget. Standing there with Luke, I felt a mix of hurt, disbelief, and a strange sense of clarity all at once.

It was traumatic.

But I do not regret setting that boundary. It needed to be done. What I did not expect was that it would expose just how deep his need for control and abuse truly runs.

I am still grieving. I am still healing.

And in that healing, I have been forced to lean more fully on God, my true Father, my Savior.

As I process everything, I am beginning to see my dad more clearly for who he is. But at the same time, I am also seeing myself more clearly for who I am in Christ.

Who I am, and who I will become, is not determined by my past or by my DNA.

When I accepted Christ as my Lord and Savior, I became a new creation.

Yes, I may carry my dad’s DNA, but I am not bound by it.

It is by God’s grace that I will not become like my dad.
It is God’s grace that sets me apart.

Now when I look in the mirror, I no longer see fear.

I see someone who belongs to Christ.

I am no longer afraid of growing old with Luke.
Because I am not bound by my DNA, I am becoming who God wants me to be.

From broken branches to new blooms,
Ally

Author’s Note

For privacy and personal reasons, I write under the name Ally. The stories and reflections I share here are true, drawn from my life and faith journey. I have also changed the names of friends and relatives to protect their privacy.

I was invited to attend my best friend Bree’s parents’ Passover Seder when I was a sophomore in high school. I had never been to a Seder before, so I did not know what to expect. Bree’s dad was a pastor and led a Bible study for young adults, and each year they hosted a Messianic Passover Seder for their group. Each part of the Passover meal tells the story of the Exodus, and in a Messianic Seder, it also points to Jesus in a meaningful way.

I already knew many of the people who would be there, since I had joined them on a few retreats. Still, I felt a mix of nervousness and excitement as I walked in that evening.

As the Seder unfolded, I found myself learning more than I ever expected. Every element was filled with meaning. I remember looking closely at the matzah bread, noticing the small holes and the striped markings. Bree’s parents explained how it symbolized Jesus, how He was pierced and whipped. Even something as simple as matzah bread suddenly felt deeply personal and alive with meaning.

Then came the moment when the youngest person searched for the afikomen, the hidden piece of matzah. I learned that this pointed to Christ’s resurrection. The entire experience was incredibly moving. In many ways, it felt like it completed Easter for me, adding depth and understanding I had never experienced before.

After that year, I tried to attend Bree’s parents’ Seder whenever I could.

Years later, after I married Luke and we moved to Nebraska, I felt a desire to share this experience with others in our small church. When we asked our pastor if we could host a Seder, he immediately said yes.

I ordered Haggadahs, the guidebooks used during Passover that include the story of the Exodus, prayers, and the order of the meal. These were written specifically for a Messianic Seder. We decided to make the meal a potluck, and I gathered all the elements needed for the Seder plate. We used grape juice in place of wine.

The day of the Seder was busy. There was so much to prepare and organize before that evening. Luke agreed to co-lead with me, which meant he would be doing most of the reading aloud from the Haggadah.

At one point, as I was rushing around getting everything ready to take to the church, I slowed down just long enough to notice Luke sitting and eating lunch.

A ham sandwich.

I looked at him and said, with a smile, “You’re eating a ham sandwich on the day of our Passover?”

I guess that’s what happens when two Gentiles host a Seder.

Luke looked up at me, a little sheepish. “I honestly didn’t think about it.”

We both laughed. While I wanted to honor the tradition of Passover, we were not bound by ritual or rules. We simply wanted to honor God the best way we could, even as two Gentiles doing this for the first time.

That evening, about twenty people of all ages gathered for the Seder. Luke and I were both nervous, but excited to share something so meaningful with our church family.

Before we began, we prayed that everyone would receive a blessing and gain a deeper appreciation for the beauty and symbolism of Passover.

As we stood at the front leading, Luke began reading from the Haggadah. Right away, he struggled with the pronunciation of the Hebrew words. He glanced at me with a look that clearly said, “I’m sorry.”

Without thinking, I said, “That’s what you get for eating a ham sandwich for lunch.”

Our friends heard what I said and erupted in laughter.

I immediately realized I had said it louder than intended. But I was not upset with Luke. In fact, he was doing a far better job than I would have. And more importantly, we both knew that God understood every word, even if the pronunciation was not perfect.

Alongside the Hebrew, we also read the English translations, and everyone followed along in their own Haggadah. By the end of the evening, our friends shared how much they had enjoyed the experience. To our surprise and delight, our pastor even said he wanted to make it a yearly church event.

Nothing was ruined by a ham sandwich or mispronounced Hebrew.

God knew our hearts. And He met us there during our Passover Seder.

When I think back on that night, especially the ham sandwich and the struggle with pronunciation, I am reminded of something from my early years as a Christian.

I used to feel nervous about praying out loud in front of others. I worried about saying the wrong words or not praying the “right” way. I wondered if I was using the correct format, or if God expected my prayers to sound like those of a pastor or a more mature believer.

But the truth is, God knows what I want to say before I even begin to pray.

There is no perfect wording. No required format. God is not listening for polished phrases. He is listening to my heart. Prayer is not meant to be a performance. It is a holy moment when I, a child of God, can speak and have a conversation with my Abba, my Father.

Over time, that fear has faded. I am no longer as nervous when I pray in front of others. In fact, I have seen how God can use even simple, imperfect prayers to encourage someone else or speak truth into their life.

And I have learned something freeing along the way.

It does not matter if I stumble over my words.
It does not matter if my prayer is not eloquent.

God understands.
Not the Hebrew.
Not the perfect wording.
Just my heart.
And apparently… even if I had a ham sandwich for lunch.

From broken branches to new blooms,
Ally

Author’s Note
For privacy and personal reasons, I write under the name Ally. The stories and reflections I share here are true, drawn from my life and faith journey. I have also changed the names of friends and relatives to protect their privacy.

A Schnauzer in Trousers

Luke and I have four kids. Two miniature schnauzers and two tabby cats.

Our schnauzers, Milly and Husker, even have their own stroller.

Yup, we’re those kinds of dog owners.

The dogs love it. They are higher up, they feel safe, and I do not have to worry about them being stepped on.

Milly and Husker go almost everywhere with us. They are well behaved, curious, and always ready for an outing. One of our favorite places to take them is a nearby mall that allows people to bring their four-pawed companions.

Sometimes I dress them in cute outfits. One of my favorites is their traditional German clothing. Milly has a tiny dirndl and Husker has lederhosen with a little shirt and trousers.

They are German miniature schnauzers after all.

When the dogs are dressed like that, they attract a lot of attention.

Some people smile when they see them. Others burst out laughing and tell us how adorable they are. Many stop to ask if they can pet the dogs, who are always delighted to receive attention.

But every now and then someone walks by, looks at them, and scowls.

I can only imagine what those people might be thinking: “Dogs should stay home. Why do people feel the need to parade their pets around?”

When that happens, it does not really bother Luke or me. We simply keep walking, smiling as Milly and Husker wag their tails.

Today I was thinking about one of those outings and how comfortable I feel in those moments. I am happy to connect with other dog lovers. I don’t worry about the people who disapprove.

Then a thought crossed my mind.

Why do I feel so confident displaying my love for my dogs, yet sometimes feel hesitant displaying my love for Christ?

For example, when Luke and I pray before a meal in a restaurant, I sometimes feel self-conscious. If I am with a non-Christian friend and they say something inaccurate about God or the Bible, there have been moments when I hesitated to speak up.

I have been on one short term mission trip. I know how to share the gospel. Strangely, the people I struggle most to talk with about Christ are family members and close friends.

I didn’t want them to feel judged. I didn’t want them to become angry with me.

So I found myself asking a question.

Why am I completely unashamed to be seen pushing two schnauzers in a stroller, yet sometimes feel hesitant to speak openly about the God I love?

Sometimes I imagine people thinking something similar about my faith: “Your religious beliefs should stay at home. Why parade them around in public?”

Part of the reason I struggle with this goes back to my own family. My parents never wanted to talk about God or spiritual things. Because they did not agree with my evangelical Christian beliefs, whenever I tried to witness to them our conversations almost always escalated into arguments. They often accused me of being brainwashed.

But there have also been moments when God has given me courage and the right words to speak. There have been times when I was able to talk with friends and relatives with both love and conviction about how Christ is the only way to salvation. I could share with certainty that Christ died for my sins and that I am forgiven.

I just wish I could always speak that freely, no matter who I am talking to, whether it is my boss, a neighbor, a family member, or a coworker.

Sometimes I need to remind myself what is really at stake. If I truly love people, then I should want them to know the truth about Christ. Their reaction to me does not compare with the importance of their salvation.

In fact, I found Jesus because someone was willing to speak up.

When I was in third grade, my bus driver shared the gospel with me.

What if she had stayed silent because she was afraid she might get in trouble for talking about her faith?

I’m not saying that my salvation depended on whether or not my bus driver witnessed to me. God would have used someone else because I was already searching for Jesus.

But my bus driver would have missed out on an incredible blessing.

After I asked Jesus into my life, my bus driver and I talked about Him often. She taught me songs about Jesus. We praised Jesus on the bus all the way home. I remember feeling joyful and safe.

For the first time, I understood that Christ had forgiven my sins and loved me.

He had clothed me with a robe of righteousness.

I was like Milly and Husker riding happily in their stroller, secure in their outfits and wagging their tails

I need to be mindful of how many people God places in our paths who might be searching, the way I was as a child on that school bus.

Sometimes courage begins with something simple, a prayer spoken quietly in a restaurant, a conversation with a friend, or a small moment when we choose not to stay silent.

I am grateful my bus driver chose courage all those years ago. Because of her, I met Jesus. And it reminds me that even the smallest acts of faith can echo far into eternity.

From broken branches to new blooms,
Ally

Author’s Note

For privacy and personal reasons, I write under the name Ally. The stories and reflections I share here are true, drawn from my life and faith journey. I have also changed the names of friends and relatives to protect their privacy.

“I just feel broken this month.”

I heard my friend Kim say those words over the phone. I could hear the ache in her voice. Kim is one of my favorite people, and my heart hurt for her.

But then she added, “I know I’m feeling this way because Jesus is working on me.”

I knew exactly what she meant. I have been there many times myself.

Kim is walking through family dynamics similar to mine, with an emotionally abusive father. She is also battling internal narratives that whisper she is not worthy. She worries she may never find someone to marry because she feels so different from other young women her age.

Kim is in her mid twenties. She loves Jesus deeply. She is beautiful, intelligent, and incredibly talented. Her focus has always been on deeper things than appearances or trends. There is nothing wrong with enjoying those things, of course. But when you live in Southern California, where image and presentation can carry a lot of weight, it is easy for someone like Kim to feel a little out of place.

She told me she feels different from other girls her age. She has wondered why a man would find her attractive when she does not look like what culture labels as desirable.

I understood what she was going through.

Kim is also part Japanese and very proud of her heritage. She speaks of it with joy and depth. During our conversation, we began talking about seasons of pruning, when God refines us to draw us closer to Himself.

Seasons of refinement come in different ways. Sometimes God corrects us. Sometimes He calls us back to trust. Sometimes He brings to light the dark lies we have believed about our worth.

I knew it was one thing to tell Kim how amazing she is. It is another thing to help her believe it.

As we talked, I silently asked God to give me the right words.

Then a thought came to me.

I told Kim that years ago I had heard about a Japanese practice of repairing broken pottery in a way that makes it more beautiful than before. I could not remember the details, so I asked her if she knew what it was called and if she could explain it to me.

She did.

“Kintsugi,” she said.

Kim explained that when a precious plate or bowl breaks, the pieces are carefully glued back together using gold. Because the cracks are highlighted with gold, the repaired piece is considered even more beautiful and valuable than it was before. No two pieces break in the same way. No two are repaired the same way. That uniqueness is part of what makes them precious.

Tears filled my eyes as she spoke.

When she finished explaining Kintsugi, I simply said, “Kim, you just described yourself.”

She burst out laughing.

The sound of her understanding felt like a chorus of angels to me.

Then she asked where I had first heard about Kintsugi. I told her about a sermon I once heard. The pastor shared a story about a young married couple. The husband had cerebral palsy, and his wife did not have a disability. While unpacking boxes in their new home, he accidentally dropped and shattered a treasured heirloom plate. He felt terrible. His new bride was disappointed, but she knew it was an accident.

She remembered hearing about Kintsugi. She sent the broken pieces to be repaired with gold. When it was returned, she displayed it in a prominent place in their home.

She told her husband that when we go through trials, we may feel shattered. But when we put our hope in Christ, He restores us. We are not merely put back together. We are made more beautiful because He works through our brokenness to make us whole in Him.

After sharing that story with Kim, I told her that she is like a beautifully restored Kintsugi plate. Her experiences, her depth, her love for Christ, all of it sets her apart. The man who walks closely with the Lord will see that beauty. He will not be looking for something glossy and surface level. He will recognize Christ in her life. He will see gold.

I have felt broken many times in my life. I still carry the pain of emotional wounds from my father. Listening to Kim explain Kintsugi pierced my heart. I had remembered the idea of broken pieces being restored, but I had forgotten the gold. I had forgotten the increased beauty.

Toward the end of our conversation, we reflected on how truly amazing it is that the God of all creation is also the loving Father who meets us in our brokenness. Out of all the people in the world, He is still by our side when we cry out to Him to restore us and love us.

Someone must deeply care about a plate to gather its shattered pieces and repair it with gold. How much more does Christ care for us, who are infinitely more precious than pottery?

Some seasons leave scars. But when we turn to Christ, He does not waste our pain.

And when we give Him the glory for carrying us through, our testimony shines like gold along the cracks. The very places where we once felt most broken become the places where His beauty is most visible.

In the past, in my brokenness, I have often asked, “Why do I need to go through this, Lord?” But now, after hearing Kim’s explanation of Kintsugi, I can look back through my seasons of trials and see gold.

From broken branches to new blooms,
Ally

Author’s Note

For privacy and personal reasons, I write under the name Ally. The stories and reflections I share here are true, drawn from my life and faith journey. I have also changed the names of friends and relatives to protect their privacy.

We were sitting on soft, familiar couches during our weekly church small group. It was near the end of our time together, and we had begun sharing prayer requests. This was about four years before I met my husband, Luke. I was thirty-four years old.

A woman named Linda was sitting across from me. She was in her early forties, new to our group, and very involved in church activities. I did not know her well yet. I had been part of this small group for three years, and by then the members were my close friends.

I usually waited until everyone else shared before speaking, if I had anything to share at all. That week, I do not remember having a specific prayer request on my heart.

Linda began to speak, but I could tell she was hesitant. Once she started, her words poured out. She shared how tired she was of being single. Tired of searching for a Christian partner. Tired of waiting. She admitted she felt frustrated with God.

As she spoke, my heart began to race. Not because I was shocked by her honesty, but because I recognized myself in her words. I understood that longing. That ache to be married.

God is big enough for our frustration. We can be impatient with Him. We can even be angry with Him. Those emotions exist because we are in a relationship with Him. The real danger is not feeling too much, but feeling nothing at all. Indifference can signal that there is no relationship.

No matter how we feel toward God, He still loves us. We are His children. Just as children experience a wide range of emotions toward their parents, and loving parents remain present through them all, God remains with us. Always ready to receive us. Always ready to love us.

As Linda finished speaking, she said one final sentence that landed heavily with me.

“I am just waiting for my life to start.”

For years, I had prayed to meet someone who would love me. I wondered why so many of my friends were married and I was not. Was it because I had cerebral palsy? Because I was not attractive enough? Because I was getting older?

Her words echoed in my mind. I found myself asking, when will my life start?

Almost immediately, I felt God speak to me.

“Your life started when I died for you on the cross.”

Tears streamed down my face as the truth of those words settled in me. My friends sitting on either side noticed and asked what was wrong, and whether I wanted to share.

I hesitated. I did not want to burst into uncontrollable tears. I also did not want Linda to feel dismissed or diminished. But I felt compelled to share what God had spoken to my heart.

As I said the words out loud, the weight of them hit me even harder.

“My life does not start with marriage. My life started when Christ died for me on the cross.”

That was when I really began to cry.

In that moment, everything I thought I wanted suddenly lost its grip on me. My tears were not just sadness. They were a reminder of how deeply I needed Christ. He is my life. He is my salvation.

I looked over at Linda. She was crying too. She did not say anything, and neither did I. I never wanted her to think I was minimizing her pain. Her longing was real, and it mattered.

Linda never spoke to me about that night again. I can only hope that God met her heart the same way He met mine.

Because the truth is this.

Our lives do not begin when our circumstances change.
They begin when Christ calls us His own.

At that moment, I did not know that God would later bring someone into my life to marry. There are no guarantees that we will ever fully understand God’s will as it unfolds. What I did know, even then, was that I was already whole in Christ before reaching any adult milestone, including my marriage to Luke.

Nothing compares to recognizing and accepting Christ as Lord and Savior. Every blessing God gives beyond that is a gift of grace, never a requirement for a full life. They are, quite simply, cherries on top.

From broken branches to new blooms,
Ally

Author’s Note
For privacy and personal reasons, I write under the name Ally. The stories and reflections I share here are true, drawn from my life and faith journey. I have also changed the names of friends and relatives to protect their privacy.

When I first married Luke and moved to the small Nebraska town where he grew up, I felt like I did not quite fit.

I had grown up in Southern California. Everything felt different. The pace of life. The wide open farmland instead of freeways, rows of corn instead of rows of palm trees. The quiet rhythm of small town America.

Luke’s parents welcomed me with open arms. His church embraced me. People were kind and genuine. So I could not understand why, in the middle of all that warmth, I still felt out of place.

One day, Luke and I were driving past a soybean field when I noticed a few lone stalks of corn rising up in the middle of it. They looked so out of place that I laughed.

“How does that happen?” I asked.

Luke explained that it was called volunteer corn. After corn is harvested, some kernels are left behind in the soil. When the farmer plants soybeans the following season, those leftover seeds sometimes sprout and grow among the soy plants. They were planted in a previous season, but they rise up in a new one.

As he talked, I kept staring at those tall stalks standing in the middle of a soybean field.

I can relate to those lone stalks, I thought.

Why did I feel like that lone stalk of corn standing in a sea of soybeans? Everyone around me was welcoming. I knew it was God’s will for me to marry Luke. So why did I still feel different?

Was it because I was Filipino and self conscious about my darker skin?
Was it because I was from Southern California and adjusting to the slower rhythm of small town life?
Why did I feel so visible, so aware of my differences?

As the weeks went by, I began to know people more deeply. Not just polite Sunday morning greetings, but real conversations. I went to Bible studies. I attended adult Sunday school. Luke and I shared dinners with his parents and their friends. I started recognizing faces around town.

I did not notice it happening at first, but those out of place feelings were slowly fading.

Belonging did not happen all at once. It happened in conversations, shared meals, laughter, and faith.

Then one night in July, we were having dinner with Luke’s parents and close friends. The men were discussing how tall the corn crops were getting that year. Without thinking, I said, “The corn is about two feet taller than it was at this time last year.”

Silence.

Everyone stared at me.

I could almost hear their thoughts. How does this girl from California know that?
As soon as the words left my mouth, I thought, “Where did that come from?”

Then I remembered. I had watched a story on the local news about crop growth. I had found it fascinating. I quickly explained where I heard it. Apparently, somewhere along the way, I had gone Nebraskan.

The table erupted in laughter. When I looked at Luke, he looked proud.

Without even realizing it, God, the Great Gardener, had helped me take root.

I had been in such a rush to fit in. But here is what I learned about volunteer corn. Those seeds were planted in a previous season. When they sprout in new soil, they still grow tall if the ground is rich.

My skin color did not change. I was still from Southern California. But God had planted me in a small Nebraska town, and I began to flourish, not only because it was His will, but because the Christians around me nourished me spiritually. Luke’s parents became my parents. His family became my family. His church friends became my community. I was rooted in Christian love and fellowship.

I realized I was not out of place. I was simply a seed from a previous season, growing in new soil. Even volunteer corn can grow strong when it is planted in good soil.

From broken branches to new blooms,
Ally

Author’s Note

For privacy and personal reasons, I write under the name Ally. The stories and reflections I share here are true, drawn from my life and faith journey. I have also changed the names of friends and relatives to protect their privacy.

We knew it was coming. But now that it has happened, it does not make it any easier.

My beloved father-in-law, Jim, passed away peacefully last night and stepped into glory.

I have written before about Jim and his close walk with the Lord.

I accepted Christ into my life when I was in third grade. My parents are not believers. For more than forty years, I have prayed every night that they would see their need for Christ as their Savior and invite Him into their lives.

Growing up, I always wished I had a Christian father. I would look at my best friend Bree’s dad, who was a pastor, and imagine what it would be like to have a father who loved Jesus. To be able to talk freely with my dad about God and what He was doing in my life. To ask questions about spiritual things. To ponder together how much we loved Christ.

I could not do that with my own dad.

When I first became a Christian, I was so excited about having Jesus in my heart. I tried to share that excitement with my parents. Instead of joy, I was met with anger. I was accused of being brainwashed. I learned quickly that I had to be careful about what I said when it came to my faith.

In an earlier post, I shared how I adopted Bree’s parents as my Christian parents. I was especially close to her mom and felt like I had a mother in Christ. But I still longed for a dad in Christ.

God gave me that gift when I married Luke.

After our wedding ceremony, Jim walked up to my dad and said, “You will not need to worry about Ally when they move to Nebraska. I will take care of her.” And he did.

From the moment I met Jim, he embraced me with love and a big bear hug. Not long after Luke and I were married, Jim told me I was an answer to his prayers for a wife for Luke. He said he no longer had to worry about Luke being alone. Then he looked at me and made it clear that I was now one of his daughters.

Those words filled my heart with joy.

From then on, I could freely share how God was working in my life with a godly dad, without fear of being shut down. I shared my struggles and my joys. I told Jim what God was teaching me and how I was growing. He understood. He listened. He offered godly wisdom from the storehouse of decades spent walking closely with the Lord.

This is what I had always hoped for in a relationship with an earthly father.

Nothing compares to my relationship with my Heavenly Father. But my relationship with Jim was an answer to the deep yearning I had carried for so long.

Jim’s passing comes almost on the heels of the rejection of my own dad.

Last Christmas, my father, who has been emotionally abusive toward me, my mom, and my sister, threw Luke and me out of his house. Two weeks earlier, I had set a boundary to guard my time with my mom. I did not want our time together tainted by my dad’s harsh and abusive words.

That boundary ended up serving two purposes. It protected my mental health. When my dad became physically aggressive toward me, attacked our faith in Christ, and ordered us to leave his house, it revealed exactly why that boundary was necessary.

The grief from that experience is still raw. The wound of rejection from one’s own father is almost indescribable. That loss is different from death, but it is just as heavy.

In stark contrast, I think about the kind of man Jim was. He was a devoted husband, a loving father, and a dependable friend. Beneath those attributes was a deeper foundation, his desire to reflect Christ in both his words and his actions.

I confided in Jim about my dad’s past abuse and his lack of interest in a Savior. Jim would listen with compassion. Then he would gently remind me, “We need to keep praying for your dad and your mom.”

Even today, those words feel like a salve on my wounded heart.

Now I find myself grieving twice. I am still carrying the grief of what my own father did. And now I am grieving the loss of my Christian father.

Grief upon grief.

As I sit with this sorrow, I am reminded that God is still my Father. He does not abandon. He does not throw me out. He does not break His promises. He gave me Jim’s love as a gift, not as a replacement, but as a reflection of His own heart.

It is a strange paradox to feel such deep sorrow and yet also hold hope. Jim trusted Christ. I will see him again. That assurance does not erase the ache, but it shines light into a very dark season.

I cannot help but feel like I have lost two dads in the span of seven weeks. One loss is the ache of a living father who chose rejection and estrangement. The other is the loss of a father who chose me, welcomed me, and reflected God’s heart in ways my own dad never could.

That contrast cuts deep.

But I am grateful. Grateful that God allowed Jim to be part of my story. Grateful that I experienced a father’s love that was safe, faithful, and rooted in Christ. Grateful that when my own father could not or would not be who I needed, God placed someone in my life who showed me what unconditional fatherly love looks like.

Jim’s influence does not end with his last breath. His faith, his kindness, his example are woven into the lives of those he loved, including mine. Death does not erase that.

When we ask, God gives us the courage to say what needs to be said.

When I spoke to my dad, I brought truth into the open. I named the cycle of abuse that had shaped so much of our family life. I set a boundary to protect my heart and my marriage. That conversation changed things, but it brought clarity that could no longer be ignored.

But the courage to have it did not come from me. God gave me the strength to speak truth.

It also takes courage to speak love out loud.

A year ago, I stood in front of Jim while he sat in his favorite armchair. I told him how much he meant to me. I told him that I loved him and how grateful I was for the way he had welcomed me as his daughter. I told him what his presence in my life had meant.

I was not expecting to be so overcome with emotion, but the tears came freely.

Jim’s steady, faithful love had been a salve to the ache I had carried for years.

The way he welcomed me reflected the kind of fatherly love God intended for His children.

One conversation required the courage to confront. The other required the courage to be vulnerable. Both needed to be said. And in both, God gave me the strength to say them.

When I finished, Jim stood up and hugged me the way a loving father embraces his daughter.

Jim was a humble man. But in the eyes of many, he was a great and godly man.

And in mine, he will always be a gift from my Heavenly Father, one He knew I needed here on earth.

From broken branches to new blooms,
Ally

Author’s Note
For privacy and personal reasons, I write under the name Ally. The stories and reflections I share here are true, drawn from my life and faith journey. I have also changed the names of friends and relatives to protect their privacy.

I remember the first time I saw it.

A huge painting was hanging in the National Gallery in London. It was The Execution of Lady Jane Grey, a dramatic 1833 oil painting by the French artist Paul Delaroche. The painting portrays the moments before the execution of Lady Jane Grey, who was beheaded in the Tower of London.

The portrait drew me closer. I could not take my eyes off it.

Lady Jane Grey reigned for only nine days. After the brief blink of her reign, Queen Mary assumed the throne and gave Jane a choice. She could convert to Catholicism and renounce her Protestant faith, or she could face death. Jane chose to remain faithful to her beliefs and to face the executioner.

Even before I saw the painting in person, Jane Grey had already become one of my Christian heroes.

There was a bench in front of the painting, and I sat there longer than my traveling companions would have liked. I wanted to take in the full drama of the scene. I thought about Jane’s bravery as she searched for the block where she would lay her head. I noticed the compassion of the priest gently guiding her. I felt the sorrow of the ladies in waiting. Even the executioner’s face showed that he was touched by the scene unfolding before him.

As I gazed at the portrait, I thought about the promise of salvation that Jane knew could only be found in Christ. Though she was only seventeen years old at the time of her death, she was a devoted student of Scripture. I let the painting draw me in, allowing my heart and imagination to be moved by it.

I believe God gifts painters, musicians, and writers with the ability to move our hearts, and we should allow ourselves to be moved, whether that movement leads us to laughter, to tears, or to worship.

A couple of years ago, Luke and I were watching a YouTube video by The Piano Guys. They were playing their rendition of O Come O Come Emmanuel, with one musician on piano and the other on cello. The music was so beautifully mournful that I began to cry. Luke was deeply moved as well.

It felt as though, through the music, you could hear God calling out, pleading with Israel to come to Him, to invite Him into their hearts as their Messiah. We watched the video three more times, letting ourselves lean into the sorrow for a lost world and the hope of saving grace found in Christ.

It is God speaking through the talents He has given others, inviting us to feel deeply, to remember truth, and to lift our hearts toward Him.

Through painting, music, and story, God reaches places in us that words alone often cannot. Art has a way of bypassing our defenses and speaking directly to the soul. It reminds us of truth when we are weary, of hope when the world feels heavy, and of courage when faith comes at a price.

Lady Jane Grey’s story is not just history captured on canvas. It is a testimony. Her life and death echo the words of Christ Himself, that whoever loses their life for His sake will find it. Her faith, preserved in paint centuries later, still points hearts toward the same hope she clung to, salvation found in Christ alone.

In the same way, a simple melody played on a piano and cello can become a prayer. It can awaken grief for a broken world while also stirring longing for redemption. It can remind us that God is still calling, still inviting, still pursuing hearts with mercy and grace.

When we allow ourselves to be moved by God honoring art, we are not just experiencing beauty. We are bearing witness. We are remembering that our faith is not abstract. Through art, our emotions are stirred and awakened, calling us to feel and to be deeply human. And through it all, God uses these moments to draw us closer to Him, to awaken our hearts, and to lift our eyes back to the promise of Christ.

Art, when offered to God, becomes worship. And when received with open hearts, it becomes a powerful reminder that God is always speaking, and always near.

From broken branches to new blooms,
Ally

Author’s Note

For privacy and personal reasons, I write under the name Ally. The stories and reflections I share here are true, drawn from my life and faith journey. I have also changed the names of friends and relatives to protect their privacy.

Recently, I was watching a TV show where the characters tried to crush an uncooked egg by squeezing it in their hands. The point of the scene was to show just how difficult it is to break an egg this way. I had seen this demonstrated before, but I had completely forgotten about it.

When I saw it again, I was fascinated all over. How could something that looks so fragile actually be so strong?

So, of course, I Googled it.

I wanted to understand why it is so hard to crush an egg simply by squeezing it.

Here is what I found:

“You can’t break an egg by squeezing it because its arched, dome like shape distributes pressure evenly across the entire shell, much like strong architectural arches, making it incredibly resistant to compression when force is applied uniformly from all sides. While eggs are strong under compression, they are weak against focused, uneven forces, which is why they crack easily when tapped on a hard edge.”

I found this explanation fascinating. I love analogies, and as soon as I read it, I thought, there has to be a Christian analogy in here somewhere.

So I decided to take a crack at it. Sorry for the pun.

Let us imagine the egg represents a believer, and the shell represents God’s protection.

In our everyday lives, we experience pressure from all sides. Stress. Family responsibilities. Work demands. Expectations placed on us by others, and expectations we place on ourselves. On top of that, there are life’s curveballs that seem to come out of nowhere. Illness. Job loss. Disappointment. Grief. Challenges we never asked for, yet somehow find ourselves carrying.

God allows these pressures to exist in our lives, not to crush us, but to strengthen us as we rely on Him and His promises. These challenges, both big and small, shape our character. When we trust that God is with us, even when everything feels heavy, He holds us together. We may feel squeezed, stretched, and tired, but we are not broken.

Like the egg, though, our shell becomes vulnerable when pressure is no longer evenly supported.

Our shell can crack when we take our eyes off God and stop trusting Him, not because God leaves us, but because we stop leaning on Him. It happens when we isolate ourselves from people who care about us. When we try to hide our brokenness from God and from those who love us. When all the pressure we are carrying gets forced onto one fragile place in our heart, instead of being shared, supported, and surrendered, the shell breaks.

But our Heavenly Father is the God who created the universe.

If our shell cracks, or if we feel crushed under the weight of everything we are carrying, God is able to restore us. He is not limited by our broken places. He can give us a new shell, one strengthened by grace, truth, and love.

God never intended for us to be crushed by what He allows in our lives.

Scripture reminds us that we are supported on all sides. By Him. By other believers who know and love us. By prayer. By truth found only in Christ. When we stay connected, the weight is shared, just like an egg’s shell spreads pressure across its entire surface.

What looks fragile can be far stronger than it appears, especially when it is held together by God. As Scripture reminds us, when we are weak, then we are strong. At least for me, I often forget just how strong I am in Christ.

From broken branches to new blooms,
Ally

Author’s Note

For privacy and personal reasons, I write under the name Ally. The stories and reflections I share here are true, drawn from my life and faith journey. I have also changed the names of friends and relatives to protect their privacy.

When I was in graduate school, I became involved in a young adult Bible study for men and women. I had accepted Christ into my life back in third grade, and up to that point, I considered myself a mature Christian.

Because I was new to the group, I was still figuring out who everyone was and where I fit. One young woman stood out to me almost immediately. Her name was Helen. She was warm, friendly, and welcoming. At first, her friendliness felt like a little too much. During group discussions, her outlook on life struck me as overly optimistic, almost Pollyannaish.

Looking back, I realize my judgment said more about me than it did about Helen. I interpreted her kindness and optimism as simplicity, assuming she viewed the world through rose colored glasses.

Then one night, Helen brought someone she had just met to Bible study. The guest was around our age and wearing a dress. As we all sat down on the floor, she joined the circle and listened to the discussion about that week’s topic. It soon became apparent that she was struggling with some mental health challenges. Still, she contributed appropriately and respectfully to the conversation.

As she spoke, though, she sat in a way that unintentionally exposed her while sitting on the floor in a dress. I felt embarrassed for her and unsure of what to do.

Helen noticed.

She was sitting beside her guest. Without drawing attention or interrupting the conversation, Helen scooted forward and positioned herself in front of her, shielding her and preserving her dignity. Her guest did not seem to notice or mind at all. The moment passed, but something in me shifted.

I was deeply moved. Helen had been both compassionate and protective, honoring this young woman without shaming her or making her feel exposed.

On the drive home, I thought about how quickly I had judged Helen. I had assumed she viewed the world through rose colored glasses. What I finally understood was that Helen was a deeply compassionate Christian woman who loved people and wanted them to come to Christ.

I came to realize that Helen did wear rose colored glasses. But they were rose colored because they were stained with the blood of Christ.

That moment taught me something important about myself and about Christian love. I realized how easily I connected spiritual maturity with words, knowledge, and confidence, while forgetting the quiet acts of love that require awareness, humility, and courage. True Christlike love does not announce itself or draw attention. It notices, it protects, and it preserves dignity.

As I grow older, I hope the lens through which I view others will, like Helen’s, always be stained with the blood of Christ.

From broken branches to new blooms,
Ally

Author’s Note

For privacy and personal reasons, I write under the name Ally. The stories and reflections I share here are true, drawn from my life and faith journey. I have also changed the names of friends and relatives to protect their privacy.

Last month, I met one of my favorite people for coffee.

We live in different states, so getting to see Kim in person felt like a gift. Kim is the daughter of one of my dearest friends. Twenty four years ago, I held her as a precious baby in my arms, and over the years I have watched her grow into an amazing young Christian woman.

A year ago, Kim reached out and asked if we could talk weekly. We were navigating similar struggles with family dynamics, and she wondered if we could walk through them together. Of course, I said yes. I thought it would be a chance to encourage her and offer some guidance along the way.

So on most Sunday afternoons, we talk on the phone.

As the weeks passed, something unexpected happened. I realized that many times, I was the one being ministered to. Kim is highly intelligent and has a deep love for God, and week after week, our conversations fill my spiritual cup through sweet fellowship.

Needless to say, I was truly excited to meet her for coffee in person.

When I walked into the small coffee shop, I slowly scanned the room, table by table, looking for her. I did not see Kim anywhere. I arrived a little early, so I found a cozy nook and settled in, fully prepared to wait.

A few minutes later, I received a text from Kim saying she was already there, sitting on the left side of the shop.

I was surprised. I was sure I had already looked.

I got up and walked to the area she described. There was a counter facing the wall, and a young woman was sitting there. I softly called out Kim’s name. She turned around.

It was her.

Kim had cut her long hair short, so I did not recognize her from behind. When she saw me, she stood up, and the hug she gave me told me everything I needed to know. She was just as happy to see me. Her new haircut was adorable.

Kim followed me back to the cozy nook I had claimed earlier, and we spent the next stretch of time talking, laughing, and sharing our hearts. Our conversation felt deeply blessed.

Why?

Because there were three of us at that table. Kim, me, and God.

A few weeks after our coffee date, Kim and I were talking on the phone. She shared her desire to be married one day. I asked her what qualities she hoped to find in a husband.

She described the kind of man she was praying for, then paused and said, “I am not sure how to describe the relationship I want.”

Then she added, “I want to find a man like Uncle Luke.”

That statement truly warmed my heart.

My husband, Luke, loves God deeply, and he loves me well. I treasure our marriage, and hearing Kim say that filled me with gratitude. I wanted her to find a wonderful Christian man too, but I also wanted to help her understand what truly makes a relationship lasting.

I am by no means an expert on marriage, but I can speak from nearly fifteen years of sharing life side by side, weathering both calm waters and stormy seas together.

As I searched for the right words, God gave me an analogy.

I asked Kim if she remembered how excited we were when we finally saw each other in the coffee shop. She said she did. I asked her about the connection we felt and how natural our conversation was. She agreed it had been a special time.

I told her that this is how you want your marriage to feel. You want to feel happy and connected in each other’s presence. You want to feel understood. You want to be able to be fully yourself.

I explained that romance and intimacy matter in marriage, but they are not everything. After almost fifteen years of marriage, I can say that romance often looks different than what movies portray.

Sometimes it looks like Luke telling me he loves me throughout the day.

Sometimes it looks like him eating the red and blue sour gummy worms because he knows I do not like them, leaving the rest for me to enjoy.

Sometimes it looks like disagreements followed by sincere apologies.

Sometimes it looks like Luke not being able to change the situation we are in, but being there to wipe my tears and hold me close.

Luke and I are not just husband and wife. We are best friends.

If I am somewhere by myself and see something interesting or cute, my first thought is usually, Luke should see this.

But the most important part of our marriage is that God is with us. He wrote our love story, and He remains at the center of our relationship.

Over the years, I have learned that there are different kinds of relationships and friendships.

Some stay at the surface level. You get together, have fun, and enjoy each other’s company.

Others go much deeper into Christian fellowship. In those relationships, masks come off. You still laugh and enjoy life together, but you also see each other’s broken places, the messy moments, and even the ugly parts, and you choose love anyway.

In these kinds of relationships, you can laugh together, cry together, and mourn together. You can even get angry, say things you regret, and then come back with a heartfelt apology, knowing you will still be met with grace.

You are loved fully because you are their person, and they are yours.

That kind of love is the foundation of every relationship worth building.

Marriage is not just romance.

It is deep friendship. It is shared faith in Christ. It is grace and forgiveness practiced daily. It is knowing that even in disagreement, you are still choosing one another.

It is the joy of being fully known and fully loved.

And when God is welcomed into that space, when He is invited to sit at the table and walk alongside two imperfect people, love becomes something steady, something lasting, something that can hold both joy and sorrow without breaking.

I love Kim deeply, and I know God wants what is best for her. I do not know if marriage is part of His plan for her life, and Kim understands that marriage does not complete her. She knows she is already whole because she is in Christ.

I am praying that if God has a person for her, she will recognize him in His timing. Kim is only twenty four. She is learning to wait, to trust, and to live fully where she is.

And who knows. Maybe somewhere nearby, on the left side of a coffee shop, someone special is waiting for Kim to arrive. And when they meet for coffee, there will be three at the table.

From broken branches to new blooms,
Ally

Author’s Note

For privacy and personal reasons, I write under the name Ally. The stories and reflections I share here are true, drawn from my life and faith journey. I have also changed the names of friends and relatives to protect their privacy.

As Luke and I started our drive home after the heaviness of Christmas night with my dad, we were traveling through the remnants of the storm from the day before. The rain had not fully passed, and neither had the weight we were carrying. Our hearts were still heavy as we quietly and verbally processed everything that had happened. In my mind, replaying the trauma we experienced, it felt as though the storm was still raging.

That morning, the storm softened into a drizzle, and the sun began to push through the parting clouds. Everywhere I looked, there were rainbows. Some stretched faintly across the sky. Others appeared briefly in the water spraying up from the trucks ahead of us. Rainbows kept appearing along our route. It felt as though they were surrounding us. Reminders of God’s promises, even while we were still hurting.

Luke was driving. I was turned slightly toward him when I noticed one rainbow that did not look like the others. This one was unusually wide, and the colors seemed deeper. Each band appeared equally thick and bold. I had never seen a rainbow like it before.

It was a fat rainbow.

Out of curiosity, I looked up what makes a rainbow appear wider on my phone. What I read caught my attention.

“One reason is the size of the raindrops. Larger raindrops spread the colors out more, making the rainbow look wider and bolder. Another factor is the combination of steady rain and strong sunlight. When both are present at the same time, more light is reflected and refracted, creating a fuller rainbow.”

I have always loved rainbows.

Whenever I see one, I usually think of God’s promises. Not just one, but the many promises He has made for those He loves. That thought has always brought me comfort.

But that morning, comfort felt out of reach. My heart was too heavy. I did not think anything could lift it. I was not interested in rainbows in that moment of hurt and pain, yet they seemed to appear with every mile we drove. It felt impossible to escape them.

And still, that wide rainbow stayed with me long after it faded.

I began to wonder if God was trying to tell me something. If the raindrops were larger because the pain was deeper. If the comfort needed to be fuller because the wound was heavier than I wanted to admit.

I also wondered if God was reminding me of something else. That even though my dad tried to trample the light of Christ within me, that light was not extinguished. It still shines. And depending on how I respond, that light can shine even more clearly, reflecting God’s grace against darkness rather than being diminished by it.

I believe both are true.

I believe God knew exactly how heavy my heart was that morning, and He met me there, not by removing the pain, but by reminding me that His promises do not shrink when life becomes harder. They widen. They deepen. They become more visible after the storm has passed and God’s light finally breaks through.

That wide rainbow did not erase what had happened two nights before. The hurt was still real. But God’s presence in the aftermath was just as real.

As we continued driving home, I realized that healing does not always arrive as relief. Sometimes it comes as reassurance. A reminder that even when relationships remain broken, God’s love and His promises remain intact.

And maybe that was what I needed most that morning. Not answers. Not resolution. Just the assurance that I was in my Heavenly Father’s presence, and that nothing could change that, because He would never cast me out, even after my earthly father withheld his love and demanded that Luke and I leave his presence.

God knew the storm in my mind had not yet settled, and in His love, He met me with a rainbow wide enough to hold my heavy heart.

From broken branches to new blooms,
Ally

Author’s Note

For privacy and personal reasons, I write under the name Ally. The stories and reflections I share here are true, drawn from my life and faith journey. I have also changed the names of friends and relatives to protect their privacy.

For much of my life, I did not have language for what was happening in my family. What I knew was that my dad’s words and actions often left my mom, my sister, and me feeling unworthy of his approval and love. This story begins with a boundary I set before Christmas, but the truth is, it was shaped by decades of unspoken harm and a long journey toward clarity.

Before Christmas, I set a boundary with my dad. I explained why I was setting it, after years of verbal and emotional harm directed toward my mom, my sister, and me. In the past year, his words had also begun to hurt members of our extended family.

It was not dramatic. It was not public. It was not delivered in anger. It came after a season of reflection, prayer, and conversations with trusted sources who helped me understand what healthy boundaries actually are and what they are not.

What I learned was simple, but not easy.

Boundaries are not punishments. They are not ultimatums. They are not attempts to control someone else. They are a way of naming what behavior we can and cannot live with, especially when harmful patterns have already taken root.

With that understanding, I told my dad how his behavior affected me and what I needed going forward to protect my peace. I did not ask him to agree. I asked him to respect it.

He did not respond. He chose to ignore my request.

No acknowledgment. No questions. No attempt at repair. The boundary simply disappeared into silence, as if ignoring it might undo it.

That silence told me something important.

Boundaries do not create problems. They reveal them.

After several days of silence, I shared what had happened with my mom. She was upset and confronted my dad about ignoring my request. After that conversation, he complied with the boundary outwardly. Based on that, and wanting to proceed in good faith, my husband Luke and I decided to still attend Christmas Eve dinner cautiously, hoping that restraint might signal a willingness to respect the boundary.

In the week leading up to Christmas, there was a simmering tension my dad had towards me. It surfaced in sharp comments and small acts meant to provoke, almost as if he were baiting a confrontation. Then Christmas Eve arrived, and on the surface, things appeared calm. Dinner was polite. Conversation stayed light. I found myself hoping restraint meant resolution.

But calm is not the same as a change of heart.

The next night, December 25, everything shifted.

What followed was not a single argument. It was an escalation that unfolded over several hours. As I later talked through the events with trusted counsel, it became clear that the conflict was about exposure.

Instead of acknowledging what was being said, my dad became defensive and agitated and began arguing with my mom. The focus shifted away from his behavior, and she was framed as the problem. When I stepped in to defend her, my dad did not experience that as disagreement. He experienced it as a threat.

His response escalated quickly. He told Luke and me to pack our things and leave the house. During that escalation, he became physically aggressive toward me. As we packed, he repeatedly entered our room without knocking and continued yelling. He attacked our faith, questioned whether we were truly Christians, and accused me of being an ungrateful daughter for setting a boundary at all.

It was after six in the evening. Both Luke and I have physical disabilities. The situation no longer felt safe.

So we left and stayed at a hotel.

We live out of state, and the next morning a storm rolled in. We stayed an extra night before making the two day drive home. In retrospect, that extra day mattered more than I realized. It gave us time to process what had happened and to rest in God’s presence.

What stands out to me now is not panic, but clarity. I did not feel dramatic fear while packing. I felt a strong, focused urgency to get us out. Later, I understood that as the Holy Spirit guiding us toward safety.

The first night away, sleep was shallow. The second night, after a full day of quiet and no confrontation, both Luke and I slept deeply, which is rare for me. That rest felt like a gift from God, a sign that our bodies finally recognized safety.

I had been deeply wounded by my dad many times before, but not like this. Not only did he become physically aggressive, he attacked our faith. My dad is not a Christian, and I have spent many years trying to explain the Gospel to him. This time, my faith was not just misunderstood. It was trampled.

I know how to defend my faith in Christ, but in the middle of defending myself, I sensed the Holy Spirit telling me to stop explaining and keep packing. My dad was not seeking to understand our faith. He was in attack mode.

When I later consulted trusted sources, I found myself minimizing what had happened. I told myself that even though he became physically aggressive, it was not that bad because I was not hurt. Even though he attacked my faith, maybe he simply did not understand. Even though he told us to leave on Christmas night, we were still fine because we had a hotel.

What I realized later was that this kind of mental reframing is exactly what people do after years, sometimes decades, of emotional abuse. I had never thought of myself as someone who had been abused, not until a few days after December 25.

It was a paradigm shift.

Later that night, once Luke and I were settled in the hotel, my dad sent mocking and blaming text messages, telling me I had ruined Christmas for my mom. In the days that followed, I learned he told another relative a different version of events, one where we had simply decided to leave without reason.

This too fit the pattern.

Setting a boundary did not cause what happened.
The reaction to the boundary revealed and confirmed a pattern of abusive behavior that had already been there.

A boundary does not create conflict.
A boundary reveals conflict that was already there.

Healthy people may feel disappointed, but they adjust.
Unhealthy dynamics react because a boundary interrupts control, entitlement, or denial.

That is why boundaries are so clarifying.
They stop the fog.

Jesus modeled this kind of discernment. He did not explain Himself endlessly to people committed to misunderstanding Him. He withdrew when hearts were hardened. Silence, in those moments, was not weakness. It was wisdom.

I am choosing distance now, not out of anger, but out of honesty. In my extended Filipino family, pretending everything is fine is sometimes called putting on the Filipino smile, a way of maintaining harmony by hiding pain. I can no longer hide pain behind a smile.

Ignored abuse, like a slow growing cancer, erodes everyone it touches, even those standing nearby.

I did not leave that house in fear.
I left with clarity.

And clarity, I am learning, is a form of peace, even when it hurts.

The morning after our first night at the hotel, with the storm still rolling through, we went to the front desk to ask if we could stay one more night. The receptionist told us yes, adding that we were lucky. The room we had stayed in was the last available room. The hotel had been nearly full because of the Christmas holiday, and that room was still open for another night.

Luke and I both knew it was not luck. It was God meeting us where we were and preparing a place of refuge.

From broken branches to new blooms,
Ally

Author’s Note

For privacy and personal reasons, I write under the name Ally. The stories and reflections I share here are true, drawn from my life and faith journey. I have also changed the names of friends and relatives to protect their privacy.

When I worked at a university as a Disability Services Specialist, one of my summer responsibilities was staffing an orientation table for our office. My role during that season was to tell incoming students about the accommodations available to support them in their courses.

Because I worked at a large state university, the incoming freshman class alone was around 3,000 students, and the number of transfer students was also substantial. For four days a week, about 300 students a day moved through orientation. After the formal sessions ended, students were funneled into a large room where different campus departments had tables set up. These were offices students would eventually need to know in order to be successful in their college careers.

My table was almost always placed between Financial Aid and Academic Advising. Understandably, those were two of the most popular stops. Students crowded around those tables in thick clusters, while my table often sat quietly in the middle. At times, I felt almost invisible.

Students came in waves. When the crowds thinned, some would start walking toward my table, then suddenly notice the sign that read Disabled Student Services. Many would immediately change direction, making a wide arc to avoid me altogether. I understood. I never took it personally.

But for a small number of students, my lonely table became a beacon of light.

Some approached with a visible sense of relief. “There you are,” they would say. Others came simply curious, asking what services our office provided. They listened intently as I explained how accommodations exist to provide equal access to course materials. I shared that we supported students with physical disabilities, learning disabilities, and mental health disabilities.

Occasionally, students listening to my explanation would become deeply interested, even if they did not personally need accommodations. They would tell me about a friend who struggled, or a younger sibling who dreamed of going to college but had a disability and would likely need support. Those conversations mattered too.

For students who did need accommodations, the questions came quickly. I often watched faces full of anxiety slowly soften into expressions of hope. During orientation, students with disabilities hear about academic rigor, expectations, and graduation requirements. Quietly, many are asking themselves, How am I going to do this? How will I make it to graduation?

When I told them about reading software that could help them access textbooks, or extended time on exams for those with physical limitations that made writing or typing difficult, I could see something shift. The question of How am I going to do this was replaced with a new thought. I can do this with the tools available to me.

Many students had never been told about accommodations in high school. They had no idea what support existed in higher education. I watched more than one mother tear up as I explained what accommodations could mean for her son or daughter.

Hope is powerful. It can change the way we see our circumstances in an instant. It helps us push through seasons where we feel stuck or overwhelmed. Hope reshapes our view of the future. It eases the worries of those who love us. Hope lifts slumped shoulders and helps us stand taller. Sometimes, it even puts a skip in our step.

My table may not have been the most popular at those student events, but for a few, it was one of the most important tables they found.

That is why I am sharing this story.

Like my Disability Student Services table, this is how I see my Substack. The stories I share may not be for most people, and that is okay. But for a few, I pray that God uses what He has done in my life to give them hope.

I write about living with a physical disability and how God walks with me through struggle and challenge. I also write about navigating life with an emotionally abusive father. These are heavy topics. Many people who come across my Substack may not relate, and I understand that. But I also know there are readers whom God leads here because they are living similar stories. They have walked through the same wilderness and are quietly asking if there is a way out.

I pray that God uses my words to point them to the hope found in Christ, and to the peace He offers, the kind described in Psalm 23:

Around the holidays, I found myself distracted by numbers. Subscribers. Followers. Growth. Somewhere along the way, I lost sight of why I started writing in the first place. My goal was never numbers. My goal was to tell my story in a way that reflected the hope and salvation found only in Christ.

I want to be focused on being used by Him, not measured by metrics. I want to pray for the few who need reassurance that they are not alone. If God can use my writing to lift the shoulders of even one weary soul, helping them stand tall with their eyes fixed on Christ, then every word is worth it.

And if that person walks away with even a small skip in their step, that will be the sweetest gift of all.

So if you found this page weary from the road you have been walking, may these words remind you that God has not lost sight of you.

From broken branches to new blooms,
Ally

Author’s Note

For privacy and personal reasons, I write under the name Ally. The stories and reflections I share here are true, drawn from my life and faith journey. I have also changed the names of friends and relatives to protect their privacy.

When I was in my early thirties, I had a friend whose father in law owned a live turkey named Dinner.

Dinner lived in my friend’s backyard, and the first time she invited me over, she gave me a warning. To enter the house, I would need to walk through a small gate in the backyard and cross the yard to the back door where she would let me in.

Naturally, I had questions.

Why are you warning me about the turkey? Is he unfriendly? Will he attack me? Should I be worried?

She assured me I would be fine. Dinner was not aggressive, just unpredictable. You simply did not want to get in his way.

Out of curiosity, I asked if they planned to eat him someday. She laughed and said no. Dinner was very old. He was a pet.

I had never been around a live turkey before. The only turkeys I knew were the ones that appeared on our dinner table every Thanksgiving.

So when I approached the gate for the first time, I paused. My heart was pounding, and my hand hovered over the latch longer than it needed to. I scanned the yard carefully and spotted Dinner at the far edge. I was immediately struck by how large and tall he was. He was, frankly, intimidating.

Seeing that he was preoccupied with his own meal, I decided it was safe to open the gate and step inside. My first instinct was to run straight to the door and escape into the safety of the house. Instead, I chose to walk slowly and calmly, hoping not to draw his attention.

With each careful step, my mind raced. I tried to recall everything I had ever learned from wildlife shows. Could a turkey pose a threat like a bear or a lion? Should I make myself look bigger? Should I avoid eye contact?

By the time I reached the door, I tried not to knock too frantically. My friend opened it and welcomed me inside. I glanced back into the yard. Dinner had not moved. He was still enjoying, dare I say it, his dinner.

Over time, my fear of the old turkey faded. My friend was right. As long as I stayed out of his way, Dinner ignored me. Once, he even walked right past me. I avoided eye contact and stood very still, quietly marveling at the size of that magnificent bird.

Looking back, I realize Dinner became a symbol of unfamiliar change, something that felt intimidating simply because I had never encountered it before.

That experience reminds me of how we often approach major changes in our lives.

I was afraid when I chose to pursue special education. What if it ended in disaster? Years later, when I transitioned into working at a university supporting disabled students with accommodations, I wondered if I would regret that change. When Luke and I decided to move out of Nebraska, I asked myself the same question again. Would it turn out to be a big mistake?

I have come to believe that every significant change in our lives is meant to be taken in small, steady steps with God. With each step, we seek His will. Unlike my first encounter with Dinner, those steps are not meant to be taken in fear.

We are called to trust God’s direction while remaining attentive to the wisdom and guidance He provides, including any red flags He reveals along the way.

Each time I have taken a step forward and crossed into a life changing season, I have been able to look back and marvel at how God carried me through.

I have learned that God often meets us before a change in our lives, but with guidance, steadying us as we decide open the gate to face whatever “Dinner” stands before us.

From broken branches to new blooms,
Ally

Author’s Note

For privacy and personal reasons, I write under the name Ally. The stories and reflections I share here are true, drawn from my life and faith journey. I have also changed the names of friends and relatives to protect their privacy.

If you get to know me long enough, you will discover that I love animals, especially dogs. If I see a stray dog, I will do everything I can to safely find a place to park my car and go after it. If the dog is not friendly, I will not push my luck, but if there is even a chance I can help, I feel compelled to try.

In college, I still lived at home with my parents. Any stray dogs I found often came home with me, much to the chagrin of my mom. At one point she threatened, “Ally, if you bring home one more dog, both of you are sleeping in the backyard. You need to stop bringing home dogs.”

Did I stop? No, of course not.

One day, I noticed a small dog in the front yard of a neighbor I did not know well. I was not even sure it was their dog. What made the situation feel urgent was the weather. It had been raining hard for a while, and this little dog was tiny. I saw him down in the gutter, walking in circles while a strong stream of rainwater rushed over him.

I could not understand why he kept running in circles instead of hopping up onto the sidewalk. I parked my car, ran over, and lifted the poor, soaking wet little creature out of the gutter. When I checked his tag, I realized he belonged to the house right in front of us.

I did not know what was making me wetter, the pouring rain or the long white haired dog in my arms. His soaked fur covered his eyes completely. Honestly, if I could have attached a long stick to his back, he would have looked like a mop.

When I reached the front door, I noticed it was cracked open just enough for the little guy to slip outside. Between the heavy rain and strong wind, my neighbor must have forgotten to lock the door and a gust had blown it open. I rang the doorbell, but no one answered. I gently placed the dog back inside and closed the door.

As I walked back toward the driveway, my neighbor’s son pulled in. I explained what had happened and why the dog was soaking wet. He thanked me and assured me he would dry him off and take care of him.

A few days later, I received a note from the dog’s owner. She thanked me for rescuing him and explained that he was very old and completely blind. She added that if I had not pulled him out of the gutter when I did, he might have drowned.

It is such a gift when God gives us the opportunity to help another, even when they are a stranger. There are no coincidences. God places us in a certain place at a certain time to do His will. Sometimes that means offering practical help. Sometimes it means being a witness to Christ’s love. Sometimes it means sharing why Christ died on the cross and how He rescues us from places we cannot escape on our own, lifting us out of a gutter overflowing with sin.

But what about the moments when we want to help, and for whatever reason, we cannot?

Bear with me. I have one more animal story.

When my husband Luke and I lived in Nebraska, we were driving down a country road past a cattle ranch surrounded by a barbed wire fence. As we drove, I spotted something along the fence line near the road. At first I thought it was a big dog, but as we got closer, I realized it was a little calf. Somehow, it had slipped through the fence.

Luke was driving, and I immediately said we needed to stop and help the calf. He asked, “How exactly are we going to do that?” That was when he noticed me looking into the back seat, mentally calculating whether a calf could fit in our small SUV.

Luke calmly said, “Look, the calf’s mother is right there. She knows her calf is in trouble. Cattle are worth a great deal of money, and the rancher will see her standing by the fence watching. He will know the calf needs to be brought back to the other side.”

By then, we had already passed the calf. I protested, half serious and half joking, “What if the calf wanders into the road and gets hit by a car? We should turn around, put it in the back, and take it home.”

Luke replied, “Did you notice how close the calf was staying to the fence? It wants to get back to its mom. Don’t worry. It will be okay. And besides, if we did take it home, you would be arrested as a cattle rustler.”

As we drove farther away, I knew he was right. The rancher would see the calf. And I really did not want a criminal record for cattle rustling.

That was when it occurred to me that I could pray. Even though I could not physically help that calf, praying and surrendering the situation to God was the best thing I could do.

Just as I cannot help every animal in need, I cannot help every person in need. There are limits to what I can do, but there are no limits to what God can do. When I surrender the people I love so deeply to Him and ask Him to step in, my prayers are not a last resort. They are the most powerful act of care I can offer, because I am asking the God of all creation to intervene.

When we ask God to help others, or even ourselves, He hears us because He loves us deeply. And are we not worth far more to Him than a little calf, which according to my husband, Luke, is worth a great deal of money?

So if God gives me the opportunity to help, even when it is inconvenient and pouring rain is soaking me to the bone, I will thank Him for the chance to bless someone, and often be blessed myself in the process. And if circumstances do not allow me to help in the way I wish I could, I will surrender the situation to God and thank Him for being present, faithful, and always listening when I pray.

From broken branches to new blooms,
Ally

Author’s Note

For privacy and personal reasons, I write under the name Ally. The stories and reflections I share here are true, drawn from my life and faith journey. I have also changed the names of friends and relatives to protect their privacy.

In past posts, I have written about growing up in a Filipino family with a narcissistic father. For most of my life, I believed that keeping the peace and hiding my dad’s poor choices from my mom was the best way to protect her from being hurt. I told myself that silence was love.

I looked the other way as my dad belittled my mom, my sister, and me through emotional abuse. It always angered me when he tried to make my mom sound foolish just to make himself appear smarter than everyone else in the room. Still, I convinced myself that absorbing the discomfort was easier than speaking the truth. I thought honoring a parent meant letting things slide again and again. I believed that if I kept the peace, we could be a happy family.

Recently, something inside me finally shifted.

It happened the night my dad sent a group text to our entire extended family. In the message, he implied that the younger person with the most children should take on the responsibility of organizing our family holiday gatherings. Everyone in our family knew exactly who that described. My cousin Kelly is a mother of four who works full time, juggles sports schedules, helps with homework, and shows up for her kids every single day. When I read the text, my heart sank.

I wanted to believe I had misunderstood. But the next morning, Kelly sent private messages asking the same question I was already asking myself. Was he talking about her?

I was not alone in my interpretation. And the hurt was not mine alone.

As I sat with it, I realized this was not an isolated moment. It was part of a long pattern. A history of words and actions that caused embarrassment, confusion, and pain. A slow erosion of peace that I had ignored for far too long.

So I did something I had never done before.

I set a boundary.

I sat down and wrote my dad an email. In it, I named the harm his words had caused Kelly over the past six months. I also referenced a public Facebook post he had written to a friend in the Philippines about how much better his life would have been if he had married a former girlfriend. I am not on Facebook, but friends saw it and told me. I felt deeply humiliated. I did not tell my mom at the time. I carried that secret alone.

That was not the only secret I carried.

When I was in junior high, my mom discovered my dad’s affair, and he promised to end it. Weeks later, I overheard him on a long phone call with another woman. The call ended with, “I love you too.” I knew it was not my mom. She was at work. I did not tell her because I did not want to see her hurt all over again.

These are only two examples of many moments I kept hidden because I believed I was protecting my mom. What I did not realize was the toll those secrets were taking on my emotional health. They tainted the time I spent with my mom and my sister. They weighed on me quietly and constantly.

In my email, I wrote about how my dad’s words affected not just me, but our entire family. I asked him to think carefully before sending family wide messages that created tension and harm. Do I believe he will listen? Probably not. After decades of conversations and arguments, I have no illusion that my words will change him. Narcissism rarely changes unless the person wants to change.

I cannot change my dad, but if it is God’s will, He can draw him to the saving knowledge of Christ. God’s power and love are not limited by narcissism.

I also explained that I needed certain outings to be time spent only with my mom and my husband, Luke. I needed days without worrying that my dad’s mood would overshadow everything, whether through angry words or through a silence so heavy it ruined the moment just the same. My mom is 81 years old. I do not know how many years I have left with her. Every moment with her is precious.

As I typed each sentence of my email, I began to feel guilty.

The little girl inside me whispered, You are not allowed to do this. It is the holidays. You will ruin the peace. You will ruin Christmas. You should just let it go.

But then I remembered what God has been teaching me this past year.

God does not ask me to make myself small to keep others comfortable. God does not call me to pretend things are fine when they are not. God does not command peace at any cost.

Scripture tells me to guard my heart, because everything I do flows from it. Scripture calls me to speak the truth in love. Scripture tells me to pursue peace as far as it depends on me. Scripture shows Jesus withdrawing from people who created chaos and confusion, because His time and His focus mattered.

For the first time in my life, I let those truths guide me.

I realized that setting a boundary is not dishonoring. It is not unloving. It is not sinful. It is healthy. It protects my heart. It protects my home. It protects my time with my mom. It protects what God has entrusted to my care.

And I realized something else.

The guilt I felt was not from God.

Guilt often grows from old family patterns that teach us to stay quiet. Shame tells us our needs are inconvenient. Fear convinces us that the only way to have a happy family is to never rock the boat. For years, I upheld the façade of a happy family while anger toward my dad steadily grew, hidden behind forced smiles and silence. That is not peace. That is not how God calls us to live.

God is not the author of fear or guilt. God leads with truth. God leads with clarity. God leads with love that does not hide.

When I finally clicked send on that email, I knew something had changed. It was the first boundary I had ever set with my dad. It came after decades of carrying emotional abuse while smiling for the outside world. My dad values appearing smart, successful, and admirable. The image of his family had to look perfect so others would believe he was the perfect husband and father.

I do not know what will come next. Boundaries are not magic, and sometimes they reveal truths that have been buried for years. But I do know this. God met me in that moment. He gave me the courage to speak honestly. He reminded me that love and clarity can exist together. He taught me that protecting my heart is not rebellion. It is stewardship.

If you are carrying the weight of a toxic or confusing family dynamic, hear this.

You are not wrong for wanting peace.
You are not wrong for wanting respect.
You are not wrong for setting boundaries that protect the life God has given you.

Sometimes the best thing you can do is say, this can no longer continue.
Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is stop pretending.
Sometimes the most loving thing you can do is tell the truth.
And sometimes the first boundary you set is the one that begins your healing.

I still love my dad, and I pray that he will come to know and accept Christ as his Lord and Savior. There is rarely a perfect time to confront harmful patterns in a family. But healing often begins the moment we choose truth over silence.

Two Bible verses have given me both peace and courage as I set boundaries with my dad. I also want to acknowledge that it is easier for me to take this step because I no longer live with my parents. Right now, I am visiting them for two weeks over Christmas. We arrived at their home yesterday. It feels awkward being around my dad, but I am carrying the peace of Christ with me.

Notice the wording. As far as it depends on you. Peace does not require self sacrifice to the point of harm. You are responsible for your own actions, not for someone else’s refusal to change.

Stepping back is not a lack of faith. It is wisdom.

I am learning that peace rooted in truth is deeper and more lasting than peace built on silence.

From broken branches to new blooms,
Ally

Author’s Note

For privacy and personal reasons, I write under the name Ally. The stories and reflections I share here are true, drawn from my life and faith journey. I have also changed the names of friends and relatives to protect their privacy.