Tag: Encouragement

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The Exhaustion of Almost

unrecognizable female traveler strolling on path towards ocean

There’s a strange kind of exhaustion that happens in the last mile.

Not the dramatic beginning where everything falls apart. Not the messy middle where adrenaline and caffeine carry you through while you pretend you’re “fine” and accidentally use dry shampoo as a personality trait.

No, I’m talking about the last stretch.

The part where the rainbow is finally visible, but your legs suddenly feel heavier than ever.

That’s where I’ve been lately.

Back in January, I started writing another book. It pulls from real-life emotions and situations that hit close enough to home that sometimes the lines between fiction and reality blur a little more than I expected.

And somewhere along the way… I got stuck.

Not because life is bad. Ironically, life is actually good.

Work is good.
My kids are good.
My friends are incredible.
I’m healthy.
I laugh a lot.
There’s love in my life.
Peace, even.

Which honestly feels suspicious sometimes because I spent years functioning like a woman emotionally trained by plot twists.

This summer, another book I co-authored with Paul Aubin called The Family Secret comes out in August, and I’m genuinely excited about it. It’s currently in final proofing and typesetting with the publisher which sounds very glamorous until you realize it mostly involves staring at commas and wondering why chapter headers suddenly feel deeply personal.

I think this new project was my attempt to keep the momentum going. Keep producing. Keep building. Keep creating.

Because when you’re a writer, there’s this weird pressure to always have “the next thing” cooking.

Like sourdough moms.
But emotionally unstable.

But maybe what I actually needed wasn’t more momentum.

Maybe I needed a breath.

An emotional tune-up.
A rebuilding season.
A quieter pace without guilt attached to it.

After sixteen years of writing books, blogs, articles, and stories, I’ve learned something important:

Sometimes creative burnout isn’t about failure.
Sometimes it’s about emotional saturation.

Sometimes you’ve simply lived too much of the story while trying to write it.

And maybe that’s where I’ve been.

I think for years I created from adrenaline:
heartbreak,
reinvention,
survival mode,
stress,
hope,
grit,
coffee.

Definitely coffee.

But peace is quieter.

Peace doesn’t bang pots and pans demanding to become art immediately. Peace just sits softly in the room waiting for your nervous system to stop pacing long enough to notice it.

And maybe that changes creativity too.

Maybe the spark doesn’t disappear forever.
Maybe it just gets tired.
Maybe it needs rest instead of pressure.
Maybe it comes back slower, steadier, healthier.

I’m beginning to think maybe peace plus a tiny spark is actually enough fuel for the next chapter.

Not frantic striving.
Not proving.
Not forcing.

Just a little hope.
A little rest.
A little curiosity returning.

Maybe creativity comes back the same way healing does:
quietly…
gradually…
without announcing itself first.

And maybe the last mile feels the hardest because deep down, somewhere underneath the weariness, you already know you’re going to make it.

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Is Working From Home ‘Career Suicide’… or Just Motherhood

light blinding woman driving car

The Truth About Working From Home (No One Talks About)

I read an article about Emma Grede from Skims saying working from home is basically “career suicide.”

And I get what she’s saying.

But also… I don’t.

Because here’s the part no one puts in the headline:

Working from home can be a little lonely.

Yes, I have client meetings. Zoom calls. A few in-persons sprinkled throughout the week.
But there are days I realize I haven’t really interacted with another human in hours.

I find myself living for the gym—just to be around people.
Craving the end of the day when my girls walks through the door.
Missing the easy camaraderie of workplace friendships… the “grab a coffee and vent for five minutes” kind of connection.

That part? It’s real.

But here’s the other truth…

I only have two more years with my youngest at home.

And for the past two years, I’ve spent about three hours a day driving her around.

Yes. Three hours.

Was it inconvenient? Absolutely.
Did it interfere with work? Definitely.
Would I have been able to do that from an office?

Not even close.

And would I trade it?

Not for one second.

Because those car rides?
They weren’t just car rides.

They were conversations.
They were laughter.
They were the quiet, unplanned moments where your child opens up about things they wouldn’t say across a dinner table.

Moments I would have missed.

The Part We Don’t Say Out Loud

Emma Grede talks about being a “three-hour mom” on the weekends to her four kids.

And I thought—that’s interesting.

Because I’m a three-hour mom too.

Just… every day.

In the car.
In the kitchen.
In the in-between moments where she wanders into my “office” (which is really just my bedroom) and flops on the bed to decompress and tell me about her day.

Those moments aren’t scheduled.

They’re not efficient.

They don’t show up on a productivity tracker.

But they are everything.

The Trade-Off No One Wants to Admit

Being a deeply engaged mom—really present—comes with sacrifice.

And if we’re being honest?

It’s usually women making it.

Do men have to make that same trade-off? Not often.
Do their careers take a hit? Rarely.

Has mine?

Probably.

But here’s the thing…

The value of what I’ve gained isn’t measurable in promotions or paychecks.

It’s intrinsic.
It’s eternal.
It’s priceless.

So… Is Working From Home “Career Suicide”?

Maybe.

Or maybe it depends on what you think your life is for.

Do I miss the office sometimes?

Yes.

Do I miss the energy, the people, the structure?

Also yes.

Will I go back one day?

Maybe I’ll open an office again when she graduates.

But right now?

I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.

Soaking up the last of these years.
Being available.
Being present.
Being her mom—not just in title, but in real, everyday life.

And I can say this with absolute certainty:

These years of mothering my three kids…
have been the most precious gift God has ever given me.

-Samantha

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When Relationship Advice Backfires

a couple having breakfast on the floor

It’s funny how the best of intentions can go terribly, hilariously wrong.

I follow this guy on Instagram. Let’s call him Mr. Love.

Mr. Love gives advice to women about how to treat their man. And honestly, most of it is pretty solid. At this stage in my life, I actually go out of my way to love people in their love language. Which means I have to keep up on the latest guy research.

Because apparently men have their own emotional dialect and I’m still a student trying to become fluent.

So Mr. Love posts a reel that immediately grabs my attention.

He says,
“Do you want to know the sexiest text I ever received from a woman?”

I’m like, hell yes I do.

He goes on to explain that he had recently helped a woman he was dating with a business issue. Later she sent him a text that said:

“Thank you. You always take such good care of me, (insert full name).”

Mr. Love went on and on about how appreciated he felt. How respected he felt. How the full name made it land differently.

I’m thinking, Oh wow. Look at this little nugget of relationship wisdom.

Can’t wait to implement this baby.

So a day or two later, my boyfriend does something awesome for me–as usual–and I launch my carefully crafted text.

Thank you. You always take such good care of me, (full name).

Nailed it.

Or so I thought.

About ten minutes later he walks in the door and I can immediately tell something is off.

The vibe is… tense.

Hmmmm.

He casually asks,
“Did I do something wrong? Your text seemed kinda sarcastic.”

I blink.

Confused.

He continues,
“Why did you use my full name? Am I in trouble?”

Oh no.

Abort. Abort.

He adds,
“I liked the part where you said I take care of you. That was nice. But the name part threw me off.”

And suddenly it hits me.

Of course.

When someone uses your full name, it usually means you’re about to get grounded.

Or fired.

Or yelled at by your mother.

Dying inside, I have to confess what happened.

Through flaming cheeks and uncontrollable giggles I try to explain the Instagram relationship experiment I just attempted on him.

I’m laughing so hard I can barely get the words out. Tears streaming. Completely busted trying out my new sexy text method.

I finally hang my head like a sheepish puppy.

He walks over, lifts my chin, and smiles.

“The best part of all this,” he says, “was watching you tell me the truth. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you laugh that hard.”

So maybe the text was a fail.

But his delight was completely genuine.

And honestly?

That might be even better.

And maybe that’s the real takeaway.

Relationships are not an Instagram formula.

You can study all the reels.
Take notes on the experts.
Try out the latest “sexy text strategy.”

But love isn’t a marketing campaign where you plug in the right script and get guaranteed results.

It’s messier than that.

Sometimes the text lands perfectly.
Sometimes it accidentally sounds like you’re about to send someone to their room.

What actually matters isn’t whether you executed the technique flawlessly.

It’s whether you show up honestly.

Because authenticity beats perfectly curated advice every time.

Real connection isn’t built on clever wording.
It’s built on laughing until you cry in the middle of your kitchen while confessing you just tried an Instagram relationship hack on your boyfriend.

And if you’re lucky…

He’ll laugh with you.

And that’s a lot sexier than the full name text anyway.

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The Power of Surrender in Healing

person with white flag standing on rock near nevado de toluca in mexico

I love a good plan.
A timeline.
A tidy little beginning–middle–end story arc where everything heals on schedule and I get to feel productive about it.

This season did not RSVP to that plan.

I’m dealing with autoimmune issues right now, most likely thanks to taking round after round of antibiotics for an infection I never even had. Fun twist: turns out I didn’t have an infection at all — I just bruised my kidneys in a car accident. So yes, misdiagnosis, medicine overload, and now my immune system is out here freelancing.

10/10 experience. Would not recommend.

My body hurts. Everything I eat inflames me. And there is no button to push that says “expedite healing, please.” No hack. No shortcut. No cute productivity system.

Just… time.

Which is rude.

And the truth is, worrying about it doesn’t help. Overthinking it doesn’t heal me faster. Spiraling about timelines doesn’t magically regenerate organs. It just steals joy from today — quietly, efficiently, and without asking permission.

And I’m done donating joy to anxiety.

Katherine Mansfield said it perfectly:
“Everything in life that we really accept undergoes a change.”

Not what we fight.
Not what we resent.
Not what we obsess over.
What we accept.

So today, I’m practicing surrender.

Not the dramatic kind.
Not the “give up on life and lie on the floor” kind.
The soft kind.
The holy kind.
The quiet kind.

The kind that says:
Okay. This is what is.
This is the body I’m in today.
This is the season I’m walking through.
This is the pace of healing.

And I stop trying to argue with reality.

Spiritually, it looks like this:

Hands up.
Control down.
Ego seated.
Expectations released.

“You are enough, God.
This thorn I carry is mine.
Okay. Here I am, Lord.
Use me.”

Not when I’m better.
Not when I’m stronger.
Not when I’m fixed.
Not when the story is prettier.

Now.

Because surrender isn’t quitting — it’s trusting.
Acceptance isn’t weakness — it’s wisdom.
And healing doesn’t start when the situation changes…
it starts when the posture does.

So today, I’m letting go of the struggle.
Letting the healing process begin.
Letting God hold what I keep trying to micromanage.

And choosing peace over panic.
Presence over pressure.
Faith over force.

Soft. Surrendered.
Still standing. Still believing. Still becoming.

–Sam

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Gracefully Removing Yourself from a Dumpster Fire: How-to

a hand holding a mug near the wooden table with letter board

There comes a moment in most women’s lives, usually somewhere between the group text meltdown and post-dance mom competition, when it hits you:
“Wait… are we just… gossiping right now?”

And then there’s the slow horror of knowing it’s your turn to say something. Or not.
You feel it in your stomach. Your conscience is squirming. Your inner people-pleaser is sweating bullets.
You want to shut it down.
You also want to avoid sounding like a total jerk.

Because let’s be honest:
Most of us don’t want to be that girl.
(You know, the one who starts quoting Proverbs mid-convo while everyone’s still passing guac and chips.)

But you also don’t want to sit there and give approval while someone verbally sets fire to another human being’s reputation.

So what’s a grown ass woman, with decent boundaries and a heart for Jesus, supposed to do?

First off: It’s going to feel weird, and that’s okay.

Standing up to gossip feels uncomfortable. Especially when it’s subtle. When it’s dressed up in concern. Or half-whispers. Or Christianese.

No one hands you a script. No angel shows up and says, “Speak now, O daughter of the King!”
It’s just you, your conscience, and your internal dialogue freaking out:
“Do I say something? Do I fake a bathroom emergency? Do I order another drink and hope this goes away?”

Here’s the good news: you don’t have to make it awkward. You just have to make a choice.

Here are my 5 Favorite Ways to Shut It Down

1. The Casual Pivot

“Oh wow. Hey, have you tried that new taco place by Target? So yummy.”

This is your smooth redirection, like you used to do with your toddlers when they wouldn’t give up a friend’s toy. Your emergency exit. Bonus points if it’s a totally unrelated topic like gluten-free muffins or microblading your eyebrows. No one will know what hit them.

2. The Unexpected Compliment (my personal favorite)

“You know, I’ve actually seen her handle that really well. She’s been through a lot.”

It lands softly, but it hits hard. You just quietly reminded everyone there’s a whole human behind the tea.

3. The “It’s Me, Not You” Move

“I’m working on not repeating stuff I didn’t hear firsthand. Could we change the subject?”

It’s the modern vibe of “Girl, you do you, and I’ll do me.” You’re not calling them out. You’re owning your own growth. No shame. Just a quick shift of gears with a side of maturity.

4. Poof! Gone

“Be right back!”
(This is where you hide in the bathroom)

You’re allowed to leave the conversation. Even mid-sentence. Even if it’s your mom group, small group, or carpool crew.

5. Stop and Pray

“Let’s pray for her.”

Depending on your audience, this may bring things to a halt. Or it may get awkward. Real awkward. But hey, sometimes, doing the right thing isn’t easy. At the very least, it plants a seed and shifts the topic.

The Harsh Truth

“A gossip betrays a confidence; so avoid anyone who talks too much.”
— Proverbs 20:19

Look. This doesn’t mean ghost your friend for life because she shared something she shouldn’t have.
It just means, don’t match her energy.
Don’t pick up what’s not yours to carry.
Don’t toss logs on a fire you weren’t called to ignite.

A Few Reminders

  • You can be wise and warm.
  • You can protect peace without preaching a 3-point sermon.
  • You can excuse yourself from the table without making a scene.

This isn’t about shutting people down. It’s about not letting someone else’s verbal diarrhea suck you in.

You’re not the gossip police.
You’re just trying to honor truth more than drama…and that is more aligned with the heart of Jesus.

Reflect

  • When was the last time I sat in a gossip-y conversation and said nothing, but felt awful?
  • What would it look like to leave one of those moments with quiet dignity instead of regret?
  • What phrase should I keep in my back pocket to pull out for next time? And I promise you, there will be a next time. With women…there always is.

Keep fighting the good fight.

—Sam

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Holy Hush: Silence Is a Spiritual Practice

A minimalist beige graphic with the title "Holy Hush: Silence Is a Spiritual Practice" in bold black serif font. Below the title is a simple black line drawing of a teacup with steam rising. At the bottom, it reads, "Day 2 of the Gossip Detox Series" in warm brown text.

 (aka: When in doubt, don’t blurt it out.)

There’s this thing I’m learning–slowly, stubbornly–that silence can actually be holy. Not awkward. Not passive. Not weak. Just… quietly powerful.

And I’ll be honest with you: I haven’t always been great at it.

Ever let an errant thought slip out that you immediately wanted to reel back in like a rogue balloon at a toddler’s birthday party? Yeah. Same.

I’d love to say I’ve never entertained less-than-charitable thoughts about people–but that would be dishonest. Shocker: I’m human. People can irritate me or get on my nerves and sometimes I don’t even know why? (but that’s a whole different blog)

But what I’ve realized over time is this:
-Not every thought needs to be shared.
-Not every person is a safe person to share it with.
-And not clapping back? Sometimes it’s a spiritual discipline–not just a social one.

Let me explain..

🥴 The Drunk Neighbor and the Moment of Clarity

A while back, I was at a party at a close friend’s house. You know, a casual backyard thing–easy vibes, lots of laughter. I felt relatively safe there. I’d shared a lot of my life with this friend. As in, deep-heart felt stuff. The kind of stuff you don’t throw around lightly. 

Thoughts. Dreams. Fears. 

And then one of her neighbors sat down next to me. Let’s just say she was… a little past tipsy. (Okay, she was hammered.)

And right there, in the middle of the party, she started giving me unsolicited relationship advice–based on every personal detail I’d ever told my friend. Not vague stuff. She knew things. Things I’d never said out loud to anyone but my friend.

Cue that sick to your stomach stomach feeling.

In one sad, uncomfortable moment, it all clicked:
-My friend wasn’t a safe space.
-My story had become someone else’s narrative.
-And gossip? Yeah–it doesn’t need a microphone to burn everything down.

🕊️ Jesus Didn’t Always Use Words

One of the most powerful examples of holy silence in the Bible? Jesus before Pilate.

“But Jesus made no reply, not even to a single charge–to the great amazement of the governor.”
 – Matthew 27:14

He was accused. Mocked. Misunderstood.
He had every right to speak up, to defend Himself, to lay it all out.
And He chose silence.

Not because He was weak. But because He focused on  the end game and a higher goal. His silence wasn’t passive–it was intentional.

And if Jesus could stay quiet in the face of false accusations… maybe I can hold my tongue when I’m tempted to vent in the group chat.

 Why We Always Feel the Need to Fill the Space

If you’re anything like me, silence can feel… uncomfortable. Like you’re letting something slide or giving up ground. But most of the time, when we feel like we have to speak, it’s coming from a place of:

  • Wanting to be understood
  • Wanting to be right
  • Wanting to protect our image
  • Feeling awkward
  • Or just needing to fill the space

But the older I get, the more I’m learning this:
Just because you can say something doesn’t mean you should.

🧠 A Simple Challenge for Today: The 3-Second Rule

Before you respond–pause for 3 full seconds.

Ask yourself:

  • Is this true?
  • Is it necessary?
  • Is it kind?
  • Will I regret saying this later?
  • Would I want this shared at a party by a tipsy neighbor?

If you’re unsure? Choose the hush. Let the Holy Spirit say what you almost did.

🙏 A Prayer for Day 2

Lord, teach me the beauty of silence.
Remind me that wisdom doesn’t always need words.
Help me to resist the urge to explain, defend, or control how I’m perceived.
Give me discernment to know when to speak–and grace to stay silent when silence is sacred.
Heal the places in me that feel like I have to say something to prove I matter.
I want to be known for peace, not noise.
Amen.

💡 Reflect & Reset

  • Has silence ever saved you from regret?
  • Who are your safe people–the ones you can actually trust with your story?
  • Have you ever gone public with something that maybe… should’ve stayed sacred?

Coming Up: Day 3 – “The Mouth Mirrors the Heart”
 (It’s not just about words–it’s about what’s simmering under the surface.)

Subscribe to get the rest of the Gossip Detox Series

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The Problem With Marriage

wedding kissI have found the paradox, that if you love until it hurts, there can be no more hurt, only more love.

–Mother Teresa

Our marriage is probably like many of yours—sometimes effortless and occasionally the hardest work I’ve ever done.

I’ve been married for eight years now. The first six flew by in a breeze. We didn’t have to make it work because it wasn’t that difficult. There were romantic getaways and shared dreams, giggles and tickle fights and a growing family. We started a church and had a baby; we bought a home and moved to suburbia. Life was abundant with service and ministry and blessings. Sure, certain obstacles came our way, but our confidence in each other was high.

And then REAL life hit.

Tragedy and drama and human weakness at it’s finest.  Our fragile foundation rocked and rolled like the San Andreas fault.  My parents were suddenly both taken by fatal disease, Tim injured his back and faced permanent nerve damage and partial paralysis , there was spinal surgery, a long and painful recovery, and our constant battle with infertility that wove itself through every story—miscarriage after miscarriage. Add in a blended family and teenagers in to the mix and for two years we fought to keep our heads above water.

Maybe marriage wasn’t so easy.

Maybe it took work. Hard work.

Fortunately, I married a persistent man who never, ever, gives up. Week after week he showed up at the counselor by my side ready to tackle the broken parts of him and us and me. And even when I was drowning in sorrow and weary, he never let go of my hand.

While I wish certain outcomes were different, because I sure miss my mom and dad (and all the babies I won’t meet until eternity), I don’t regret the journey it’s forced us to travel. Pain brings out our best and worst traits. My husband has seen me unraveled and paralyzed with fear and yet he continues to love me. I have seen him blustering and red in frustration and yet I get up and choose only him every day.

So many people avoid pain. They run, they hide, they cope. I was a master at this.

But with a 72% divorce rate in Orange County, I don’t really think this strategy is working out too well for most of us.

If I learned anything from years of therapy it’s this…don’t avoid the pain–do the opposite–lean in.

Pain has made our marriage better. Adversity overcome together creates the glue of relationship. Pain forced us to restructure our boundaries, to surrender to one another sacrificially and to leave our selfish natures behind for something better—a relationship built on rock and not sand.

Every day we can either deposit love or steal life from one another. It’s a choice we are all given.

Today I sit here and write after another failed pregnancy, and a heartbeat that slipped away, with tears and sadness, and a surgery to remove the remains of another sweet baby. One more soul added to our little tribe in heaven.

But I am content. Not because it doesn’t hurt—oh boy it does, but because I’m facing the pain with my best friend at my side. The friend I have fought for and who fights  for me on a daily basis.

I am what we call in our family “happy/sad.” The sad is obvious, but the happy is because I have fallen in love with my husband all over again through this yucky experience. I am crazy about this man who shares his whole heart unabashedly and shines his light so bright it makes the dark not so scary for me. He holds my hand and whispers prayers when I need encouragement, he points me back to God when my faith wavers, and he makes me laugh through my tears.  I can only hope I will choose to fall in love over and over with this same man for the rest of my life.  I want more than anything to focus on the good and not dwell on the bad, celebrating the smallest victories and offering forgiveness quickly.

The problem with marriage is that it’s not easy.

We have to choose one another every day in spite of the pain and the brokenness of our humanity.

I’m so glad we didn’t give up on the mountain of hard, because the greatest joy was reached only by cresting this summit together.

–Samantha

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Peep Roast

FullSizeRenderIt was a simple command, really, but I suffered a mini-meltdown in my seat.

“Think of one friend you know that you can invite to the Peep Roast and send them this card.”

I looked down at the ground, I casually glanced around at everyone else thinking and writing and I choked in the death pause of uncertainty.

I couldn’t think of one person.

The truth hit me hard, painfully hard and it ached in places I didn’t know I could ache.

Here is my reality right now, I live in a Christian bubble.

No one put me here, it just happened because I let myself get comfortable.

And it’s revolting to me. It’s against everything I believe to be true about the gospel.

My kids go to Christian school. My neighborhood all goes to the church we helped start in our local area. I see the same people day in and day out. And I love this community with all my heart, but sometimes I need to get out of it a little too.

How can you invite new peeps to the Peeps Roast when you don’t know any?

When your husband is a pastor and you are a Christian writer, every conversation begins with, “Come check out our church.”

But I invite people so casually, I don’t even think about it anymore. It’s like “How are you?”–or some other greeting I drop like I don’t really mean.  It’s just a rote expression I do by routine.

When did I stop being intentional about meeting new people that are different from me?

………………….

I will never forget the night Tim when asked me where I wanted to go to dinner and I replied “Mutt Lynches.”

He looked at me like I was cray-cray, because Mutts is a rowdy bar on the boardwalk of Balboa Penninsula.  I was pregnant at the time and could barely stomach the smell of beer, barf, or people in general.

But I nodded yes vehemently because my intuition or (prompt from God) was powerful.

That night we met a group of guys and one in particular we connected with. Over too many beers on his part, he confided that his wife had filed for divorce and served him papers that day. He had come home to an empty house void of his little ones and all he held dear.

He started to tear up as he shared that he deserved it. He had put his family’s needs below his quest for success and climbing the corporate ladder. He had erroneously believed they would always be there until they weren’t.

His friends had taken him out to tie one on. But it wasn’t helping. It just magnified the pain. His friends were stunned at his admission but too drunk to know what to do.

Then he jumped up and ran out the bar.

Tim and I huddled up and decided that Tim would go after him and I would stay with all my sweet drunk friends who would protect me or vice versa.

Tim found the guy walking towards the water’s edge.

Tim walked up and asked if he could pray with him and the guy collapsed on the beach weeping.

“I was ready to kill myself,”he confessed. I was going towards the water to drown myself. I cried out to God, “If you are real, give me one sign that you love me.”

“And you found me.”

They spent a long time on the sand simply crying out to God together and lifting heavy hearts, as the waves crashed and I played beer pong with iced tea back in the bar with the guys.

We later heard from the guy that he was working hard to repair his family. He thanked us over and over.

But the gift of that evening was just as profound for us as it was for him.

I, we, want to be available when God is moving. I want to get my hands dirty and wipe the tears of the broken and spiritually wounded.

And I don’t think staying comfortable is helping.

It’s probably time to start venturing out and hanging out with some rowdy folks again. Maybe you need to get your hands a little dirty again too?

–Samantha

 

Maybe no one has invited you to an Easter service this year?  Can I?

Saturday March 26th at 5:00pm

Easter Service at Mariners Mission Viejo (with our annual Peep Roast following the service)

26862 Crown Valley Parkway, Mission Viejo

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Throwing Stones

girl-sad-101artsSqueals erupt from the playground as a pack of pint sized girls tackle the monkey bars. The moms gather close, gobbling up grown-up time like precious pearls.

A small voice shrieks, “Mommy, sister said she hates me.” Tears fall.  A little sister sobs in frustration–she just wants to hang with the older girls. Be cool like them.

The lovely young mother administers a hug and kisses to her four-year-old, then calls the five-year-old over for a reckoning.

I watch the other girls stop their play. Somehow the word “hate” shocks us all out of our reverie. It get’s very quiet.

(When you play at the church school playground, it’s like God is watching)

I walk over and kneel down. A storm is brewing over their tiny countenance.

The girls are looking to lay blame.

“She said she hated her sister,” points out one little pig-tailed cutie. “That’s a bad word.”

I nod yes. “That’s true. But are you always nice to your little brother?” I probe, ever so gently.

A guilty smile sneaks out of the corner of her mouth. “No, she whispers.”

I turn to little Kolby. “Sometimes you and your sister fight, right?”

Kolby agrees sheepishly.

And suddenly they realize the “bad word” is in them too.

“Sometimes I say awful things I wish I could take back.” I confess.

I think of me sitting in the counselor’s office telling my husband his pride is an issue–as if I am somehow exempt from the very same malaise. 

And we all look down at our feet and the focus shifts off the bad child to the bad in us.

The next day the mom tells me her older daughter shared with her how she fears her friends like her little sister more than her.

In all truth, her little sister is a bit of a tot-sized hottie. She is vibrant and gorgeous with long golden hair and a winsome personality. She will probably be cheer captain and princess of everything.  I’d probably want to punch her in the face a few times if she were my sister too.  “Marcia, Marcia, Marcia ..”

Who wants to live up to that?

(I’m sure Jesus’ siblings struggled a bit too)

And then the mom laughs and said my little Kolby tried to empathize with her older daughter. Her daughter apologized for the bad choice of words and my Kolby explained that she too battles with jealousy towards her older sister Faith.

Kolby patted her on the back. “It’s tough, I know.”

The two hugged–closer now because of the rupture and the restoration.

I shook my head in disbelief. These are kindergartners–not thirty-five year old women. And yet somehow they are learning to self-identify and give grace and empathy to one another, not in spite of their brokenness but because if it.

I’ve learned down the long and bumpy road of life (and with a billion hours of therapy) that our broken pieces heal ONLY in relationship.

What a gift we give our children when we teach them to look within before casting stones and to share their hurt instead of bottling it up inside to fester and grow darker.

The mom and I hugged too–closer now because of the shared journey of parenting our girls together.

And I am grateful for friendship, forgiveness, and the sweet gift of grace we all desperately need.

–Samantha

 

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Secrets of the Father

Secrets ImageIt took me a year–365 days of scratching out words and finding precious minutes to squirrel away and become someone else on paper.

But for Paul Aubin, it took a lifetime to write this story.

Many days I felt like a voyeur–like I woke up in the morning and put on a strange pair of pants. It’s probably what an actor feels taking on the nuances of a character. At times it was a little creepy. Paul and I would sit down together poring over the manuscript and he would say, “Let me tell you about this and that, or so and so…”

And I would interrupt, “Yeah, I know Paul.  I know all about you.” (cue eerie music)

His cheeks would flush.  And I would move my chair a few more inches away–because internalizing a person is just plain awkward.

But the truth is, on some level, I was a priest and I was Paul the little boy and the grown man too. Every day, I racked my head to think, emote and respond like two very different men. I sat in Starbucks and wept at times as the words tumbled out.  I railed at the injustice of a religious system built on a house of cards and I put myself in this heartbreaking love story destined to fail.

And over the course of that year, I fell in love with this beautiful and tragic tale of loss and redemption.

Paul’s story is the classic hero’s journey.  The life he once knew crashed and burned as he is confronted with a serious health crisis. Now with a ticking clock, he is forced to search for the parent’s who abandoned him and in the process discovers a scandalous cover-up within the Catholic church in a small New England town.

This is the astonishing and true story of a man who uncovered a thirty-five-year-old secret–and only he was the missing evidence.

I encourage you to discover it for yourself.

Click here to buy the Kindle version

Paperback now available to order.

–Samantha



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