Saltwater & Serenity: Finding Peace in the Storm

It’s no secret—life is changing fast for me right now. And not just one thing… everything. The kind of season where “when it rains, it pours” doesn’t feel like a cliché—it feels like reality. Some of these changes have been expected. Some hit me out of nowhere. And if I’m being honest, it feels like I’m walking through it alone at times. But the truth is—I’m not. I have an incredible support system. People who remind me of who I am when I forget. And even more than that, I have faith. Some days, it feels like faith is the only thing holding me together. With so many options in front of me and no clear path, I’ve had to lean into that faith like never before. I come back to the promise in Deuteronomy 31:8: “The Lord Himself goes before you and will be with you; He will never leave you nor forsake you. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged.” Those words ground me. They remind me that I’m not walking into the unknown—I’m walking into a future He’s already seen. He goes before me. He is ...

Some days, we just don’t want to be seen. We crave quiet. We’d rather blend into the background than interact, speak up, or stand out. Just burrow in the sand. Today feels like one of those days for me—a day when disappearing into the sands sounds more peaceful than pushing past my comfort zone. And honestly? I think I could live like that for a while—hiding in the familiar, avoiding discomfort, staying invisible. But here’s the truth: if we always blend in, we miss out. We miss the moments that stretch us. We miss opportunities for growth, connection, and joy. When we stay hidden with our heads down, we close ourselves off to new experiences, new relationships, and the unexpected paths God may be preparing for us. I’ll admit—stepping out isn’t always easy. There are things I don’t want to do, places I don’t want to go, and people I don’t always feel ready to face. But staying stuck in our comfort zone keeps us small. It keeps us from living the full, bold life we were created for. Sti...

There’s something beautiful about the way geese move whether on the ground or in the sky. They walk in a line, stepping carefully to avoid obstacles and stay together. They fly in a V-formation, not for aesthetics, but for endurance. They take turns leading. When one gets tired, another moves forward.  No ego. No competition. Just trust, rhythm, and shared purpose. What a picture of how we’re called to live in community. Life is full of uneven ground—moments that trip us up, wear us out, slow our stride. We were never meant to navigate it alone. And like the geese, we need people walking ahead of us, beside us, and behind us. People who can step in when we’re tired. People who see obstacles we might miss. People who remind us to keep moving in the right direction. Even more than that—we have a God who does this perfectly. Jesus reminds us in Matthew 6:26: "Look at the birds of the air: they do not sow or reap or gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you n...

I snapped this photo on the side of the interstate in Texas, of all places—stuck in traffic, worried about being late. We weren’t moving, and tension was building. Then I noticed them: these stunning blue-violet wildflowers blooming right in the median. A color I rarely see in flowers, vibrant and alive between the (usually) speeding cars and concrete. They were beautiful even though they didn’t have special care. No perfect soil or curated conditions. Just rain, sun, and a little patch of dirt. And yet—they bloomed. It made me pause. How often have I said, “Once this happens, then I’ll start…” or “When things calm down, I’ll finally make that move…”? I had become comfortable with waiting. Waiting on circumstances. Waiting on someone else. Waiting for everything to feel just right before I acted. But that mindset? It was toxic. It kept me stuck. It would have left me sitting in that same patch of life forever, hoping something would shift on its own. But here's the truth I’ve come ...

Inspired by a photo I took of a quiet lake—and lyrics from a late singer—this reflection has been on my heart. Honestly, I wasn’t even sure I was going to share it. “My pain is self-chosen.” Maybe… sometimes that’s true. Some days, it feels easier to just give up—to stop, to sit in the heaviness. The enemy wants us to believe we’re drowning, that we’ve sunk too far beneath the surface to ever rise again. In our darkest moments, we feel pulled under by doubt, fear, and exhaustion. But even when we don’t feel strong, the strength is still within us. Even when we don’t feel Him, God is still there. We have to trust—trust that He will lift us, guide us, and carry us back to the surface. The enemy would have us settle into pain, believing there’s no way out. But that, my friend, is an illusion. And here’s something beautiful I’ve come to know: Still waters mirror the sky. They reflect what’s above—a peaceful image. Sometimes the chaos around us is nothing more than smoke and mirrors, the en...

Sometimes, I think the Holy Spirit speaks to me in unexpected ways. When visiting our local aquarium, I saw a jellyfish and couldn’t stop thinking about how it moves—not by force, not by flailing or fighting, but by going with the flow of the current. It simply exists in trust, carried by something bigger than itself. Simply memorizing.  And isn’t that what faith often feels like? Life has a way of tossing us around—plans change, people shift, storms come. And in the middle of all of it, our first instinct is usually to tighten our grip, to try to control every wave. But I’m learning that the more I try to control things that are out of my hands, the more exhausted I become physically, mentally, and spiritually.  Jellyfish don’t resist the current—they yields to it. That doesn’t mean it’s powerless; it means it knows the power isn’t in struggling, it’s in surrendering. That’s the kind of faith I want. Faith that flows. Faith that trusts. Faith that says, “Even though I don’t s...

It wasn’t a storm or a crisis that froze me in place—it was a wasp! How do you know it's spring time in the south? Bugs! All kinds! And they are everywhere! There he was,a red wasp, clinging to my windshield. I knew I was safe inside my car. The doors were shut. The glass was thick. But still, I hesitated. Still, I sat there, thinking I'm not moving until he does! That little stinger had power over my day. Funny how something so small can carry such weight. How something that can’t even touch you can stir up fear that sinks in deep. That moment turned into something bigger for me—a lesson. That wasp became a symbol for the fears, doubts, and lies that buzz around in my spirit. The enemy doesn’t always come roaring. Sometimes, it’s just a whisper. Sometimes, it’s a sting we expect to feel, the anticipation. Even if it never lands. That’s how fear works—it gets in your head before it ever touches your life. And often, the enemy uses our own thoughts to keep us from moving forward...

There it is another bridge—steel and concrete suspended over choppy waters below. A bridge to cross. A transition to navigate. A moment where I must place one foot in front of the other without the comfort of seeing what awaits on the opposite end. Knowing once I'm there I must keep going, there's no turning back.  Lately, my life feels like a series of bridges. Pathways that I need to cross but, fearful because I don't know what is on the otherside. Bridges can look menacing sometimes. You're high, you're exposed and you're suspended with nothing but air beneath and the waters far below. The over thinking and anxiety start. What if I fall? What if my car stalls midway? What if the structure isn't as sound as I thought? I cross over many literal bridges. But these days I think how perfectly they mirror my emotional landscape. From where I stand, I can't see what waited on the other side. Morning fog rolls, further obscuring the other side. All that cou...

A Note to All the Moms Moms come in all kinds of variations. Whether you’re celebrating with your kids, your mom, your fur babies, or simply honoring the love you give to others—you deserve to be celebrated! Life isn’t always sunny. Some days feel heavy, gray, and hard to get through. But I’m learning—sometimes the most beautiful rainbows show up even in the middle of the rain. I’ve been blessed with people in my life who have been my light in those cloudy moments—reminders that love, strength, and hope still exist, even when everything else feels uncertain. 🌈 My Mom- She’s been my constant. The one who always shows up. She’s taught me some of life’s biggest lessons—not just with words, but with how she lives.  🌈 My Daughter -She’s the one who made me a mother, mom, momma. The one who taught me what it means to love unconditionally and unselfishly. Through her, I’ve learned patience, resilience, and how to find joy in the simplest things. She is both my reason and my reminder—my ...

Some days, life feels like a quiet beach—soft, still, and easy to rest in. Other days, it’s something I have to actively search amid the noise of life. I’m learning that peace isn’t always big or dramatic—it’s often found hidden in small things, quiet moments. To remind myself that sometimes the darkness helps us appreciate the light, I’ve started a “peace list”—a collection of the little things. The small things that calm my spirit and help me feel grounded when everything else feels like a storm. 🌱My Peace List 🌱Early morning light through the window The gentle reminder that a new day is here, a day of new opportunities. 🌱A song that hits just right Music has a way of settling my heart when words fall short. 🌱The sound of waves (even from a phone speaker) There’s something about the ocean—constant, powerful, but calming. 🌱Journaling with no pressure—just pen, paper, idea, and a prayer Sometimes I just need to pour out what’s swirling inside. 🌱A cup of coffee and five quiet minu...

  The ocean never promises calm waters, some days are double red flags—some days are green flags. The only the certainty is that it eventually returns to stillness. This truth mirrors my own journey, where life's unpredictable tides have taught me that peace isn't found in perfect circumstances, but in anchoring to something deeper. Saltwater & Serenity is my rainbow after the storm, sometimes even in the middle of the storm. Here, I share the raw and beautiful moments that make up a life of faith: the art born from quiet mornings, the words that emerge in both struggle and joy, the unexpected glimpses of grace, and the melodies that have carried me through both the darkest nights and the brightest days. I'm learning—sometimes gracefully, often imperfectly—that serenity comes not from controlling the weather but from dancing in the rain. Not from having all the answers, but from trusting the One who holds the questions. Not from absence of storms, but from presence wit...