Uncompromised

Joy in Every Season: From Gentle Hills to the Desert Some seasons of life feel like a stroll through a sunlit path, soft hills, gentle breezes, laughter, and answered prayers. Your coffee is hot, the kids are getting along, your church family is kind, and you even had time to sit with your Bible without interruption. These seasons still come with the occasional bump, of course a flat tire or a frustrating day but overall, they’re light. You breathe easier. You smile more. And then there are the desert seasons. Those long stretches where prayers feel like they echo into silence. When you wake up already weary. When the things you used to enjoy feel heavy, and the joy you once had seems like a memory. There’s grief, uncertainty, disappointment, or even just a deep spiritual dryness that lingers longer than you expected. I’ve been talking with a few dear friends this week one facing a devastating diagnosis, another walking through deep, heartbreaking circumstances. I won’t lie some of...

As Mother’s Day approaches, many families are preparing to gather—sharing meals, laughing with loved ones, and honoring the women who’ve shaped their lives. Mothers, grandmothers, great-grandmothers. What a gift it is to see generations together. Truly, it’s a beautiful blessing from the Lord. But I also know this day can feel more like a wound than a celebration. Maybe you’re grieving a mother you lost—recently or long ago. I lost mine not too long ago. She passed just a week before Mother’s Day, and tomorrow marks two years. I’ll be honest: it still hurts. Some days catch me off guard. Grief doesn’t follow a tidy schedule. Maybe you’re mourning a child you never got to hold, or recovering from a miscarriage in silence. I’ve been there too. After a heartbreaking miscarriage, I truly wondered if I’d ever become a mother. Maybe your relationship with your children is broken, and you don’t know how to fix it. Maybe you’re single and longing for a family. Maybe you’re battling infertility...

As the holidays approach, I’ve noticed many posts from dear friends who are missing loved ones—and I’m one of them too. Grief is such a strange thing. It looks different for everyone, comes in waves, and evolves over time. I still remember when my husband buried his mother on December 22nd and then led worship for every Christmas Eve service just days later. With a steadfast heart, he encouraged, loved, and led the congregation to worship Jesus with their whole hearts. That’s what it means to truly belong to the Lord. Anyone else might have been overcome with sorrow, but he stood firm because his eyes were fixed on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith (Hebrews 12:2). This is my second Christmas without my mom, and some days are just plain hard. Even though I know I’ll see her again one day because of the promise we have in Christ, it still hurts. I miss the simple things—calling her to share something silly, asking for her prayers, or just hearing her voice as we talked about l...