Writing is a beautiful way to let your pain out. When you share your story, you release it from being trapped within you. It’s as though you’re saying goodbye to a monster that once lived inside — one that fed on silence, shame, or fear. Sandra Marinella wrote: “Writing is a beautiful way to let your pain out. As you share your story, you release it from being stuck inside of you. This can feel like saying goodbye to a monster who has been living in you.” There is truth in those words. Writing doesn’t simply record your pain — it redeems it. Each time you name what once hurt you, you strip it of its power. Every sentence becomes an exhale, every paragraph a small resurrection. Through ink and honesty, you make room for healing. Faith anchors this process. Because when you place your story in God’s hands, it no longer defines you — it refines you. Every scar becomes a testimony of grace, every broken chapter a place where light can enter. For me, writing has always been more than words on a page; it has been a lifeline. It helps me process my thoughts and capture what’s stirring in my heart so I can return to it later, prayerfully and reflectively. I’ve been processing life through writing for decades. In my teenage and young adult years, I found comfort in poetry — raw and unpolished, but honest. Later, I turned to blogs and Facebook posts as places to share what God was teaching me along the way. These days, my This Is My Story page ( https://www.trixiscreations.com/this-is-my-story) has become my sacred outlet — a home for reflection, testimony, and the unfolding beauty of redemption through words. 📖 “Cast all your anxiety on Him, because He cares for you.” — 1 Peter 5:7 (NKJV) When you pour out your heart through words, you are not merely writing — you are releasing. You are no longer carrying the weight alone. The page becomes a sacred meeting place between your wounds and God’s healing touch. May your story become a river, cleansing the hidden corners of your soul. May your words bring release, not just for you, but for those who will one day read them and realise they’re not alone. 💡 Reflection: What story have you been holding inside that still aches to be told? What truth needs to be written so your soul can finally breathe again? 🤔 🎺 Affirmation: My story holds power. As I release my pain through words, I invite God’s healing and turn my wounds into witness. 🙌 Prayer: Lord, thank You for giving me the courage to write what once silenced me. Help me release my pain with honesty and grace, trusting that every word I offer becomes a step toward healing. Let my story bring light to others who walk in similar shadows. In Jesus’ Name, Amen.

There are some friendships that mark your soul like gold lines in broken pottery—subtle yet unbreakable. She was that kind of friend. Not flawless, but faithful. Not loud in her care, but steadfast in her presence. She didn’t need to fix me; she simply stayed. When my laughter thinned into silence, she listened. When my strength faltered, she held space. When others turned away, she remained—proof that real connection still exists. Her friendship became a quiet sanctuary where I could breathe, be seen, and begin again. I only have one, maybe two friends who reach out to me from time to time—just because they thought of me and wanted to know how I’m doing. For most of my life, I’ve been the one reaching out to everyone, carrying the conversations, tending the bonds. Yet now, I’ve learned to focus on those rare few who reciprocate, who reach back with the same gentleness I’ve offered. Those are the friendships that hold steady, the ones that breathe mutual grace and understanding. True friendship isn’t about constant cheer or perfect understanding. It’s about showing up when it’s hardest to do so. It’s about holding loyalty, trust, and grace in the same hand—and offering them freely. 📖 “A friend loves at all times, and a brother is born for adversity.” — Proverbs 17:17 (NKJV) I’ll always be grateful for the kind of love that stays—not because it must, but because it chooses to. 💡Reflection: • Who has stayed beside you through your darkest valley? 🤔 • How might you honour them today with words or actions of gratitude? 🤔 🙌 Prayer: Lord, thank You for friends who remain when life feels uncertain. Thank You for their loyalty, patience, and grace. Help me to love with the same constancy—to be a safe place for others as You are for me. Let every act of friendship reflect Your faithful heart. In Jesus’ Name, Amen.

For most of my life, I tried to be who I thought others wanted or needed me to be, until I had almost forgotten who I truly was. My journey has been as much about rediscovering who God created me to be as it has been about healing my heart. Authenticity builds trust, and trust builds lasting connections. When your heart remains the same in private as it does in public, people glimpse the truth of who you are. Let your actions mirror your values, not the attention you seek. The most respected souls are those who stay genuine, even when no one is there to applaud them. Be the same at church, at work, and at home. True integrity does not shift with setting or audience. It is the quiet strength of a heart anchored in truth — steady, sincere, and unafraid of being known. Heaven honours what the world often overlooks — the quiet obedience of a faithful heart. Your life speaks louder than your words when what you do aligns with who you are. 📖 “The integrity of the upright will guide them, but the perversity of the unfaithful will destroy them.” — Proverbs 11:3 (NKJV) 💡Reflection: Where in your life have you felt the pressure to be someone you are not, and what would it look like to show up as your true, God-created self in that space?🤔 🙌🏻Prayer: Lord, thank You for creating me with purpose and intention. Teach me to walk in integrity and to be the same wherever I am — at home, at work, and in community. Help me to live from the truth of who You created me to be, not from fear or the expectations of others. May my life reflect Your love and truth in all I do. In Jesus’ Name, Amen.

Neglect does not always bruise the skin, but it always bruises the soul. It looks like a child whose laughter fades into silence because no one ever leaned in to listen. It sounds like a tiny heart learning that tears are inconvenient and joy must earn its place. It feels like the emptiness that lingers when love was present in duty but absent in delight. Lack of nurture, unspoken affirmations, and blessings withheld leave an emptiness they'll spend a lifetime trying to fill. That child grows up. Now they are the adult who flinches at kindness, who struggles to trust, who long to be held yet fear being seen. Their wounds whisper through generations, not because they are wicked, but because pain unhealed finds another vessel to inhabit. Broken homes shape broken hearts. Broken hearts shape broken worlds. Every “I’ll do it later,” Every “Stop bothering me,” Every time we choose our phones over their stories, we teach them that connection is not worth fighting for. If we long to heal a generation, we must begin by seeing — truly seeing — the one before us. Listen when they speak. Hold them when they tremble. Say sorry when you fall short. Be the safe place you once needed. Love is not convenient. Love costs time, attention, humility, and grace. Yet only love has the power to break the curse of neglect. 📖 "Above all things — have fervent love for one another, for ‘love will cover a multitude of sins.’" — 1 Peter 4:8 (NKJV) 💡Reflection: Whose voice in your life might need to be heard today — a child, a friend, or perhaps your younger self?🤔 How can you embody love that listens, heals, and restores rather than reacts or withdraws?🤔 What does being present look like for you this week?🤔 🙌🏻 Prayer: Lord Jesus, Teach me to see as You see. Open my heart to the quiet cries I’ve overlooked and the little ones — young or grown — still longing to be known. Help me to love without haste, to listen without defence, and to bring Your healing presence into every place I dwell. May the curse of neglect end with me, and may Your love write a new story through my life. In Jesus’ Name, Amen.

Too often, we say, “That’s just who I am!” because we’re afraid or ashamed to face the deeper issues. Those words can become walls — self-protective defences that keep us from healing. They might sound harmless, even self-accepting, but beneath them often lies a silent agreement with pain, fear, or sin. Most recently, I realised that shyness is just fear masquerading as personality. I wasn’t always shy. Shyness was a trauma response — a shield of self-protection formed by years of neglect, betrayal, bullying, and mockery. It became a way to stay safe, unseen, and unhurt. Yet God wouldn’t command us to be bold and courageous if He had created some to be shy. He calls us to step out of hiding and into His light, to trade fear for faith and timidity for trust. I used to think I was just an introvert, but now I believe we often become introverted because we fear rejection. Most people will naturally be more open, expressive, and even extroverted when placed in an environment where they feel safe and supported. Safety births authenticity; love makes room for freedom. Over the past five years, I’ve been unravelling layer upon layer of bitter expectancies, judgments, inner vows, and foundational lies I came to believe through trauma — not only my own but that which has filtered down through generations. Each layer has required courage to face, truth to expose, and grace to heal. It’s been humbling work — not the kind that earns applause, but the kind that rewrites a legacy. 📖 “If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.” — 1 John 1:9 (NKJV) Every time I’ve brought a hidden wound or wrong belief to Jesus, He’s met me with mercy. His truth has untangled lies, His love has softened my defences, and His blood has silenced the generational echoes of shame and fear. What I once accepted as “just who I am” is being transformed into who I was always meant to be — whole, free, and anchored in Christ. 💡 Reflection: What phrases or self-definitions have you used to protect unhealed pain?🤔 Which generational patterns might God be inviting you to confront with His truth?🤔 What would freedom look and feel like if those layers were lifted?🤔 🙌Prayer Jesus, thank You for patiently uncovering the layers of pain, pride, and fear that have shaped me. I surrender every inner vow, judgment, and lie that has bound me to the past. Replace them with Your truth, Lord — truth that heals, restores, and renews. May my freedom become a testimony that sets others free. In Jesus’ Name, Amen.

There’s a quiet grief that lives in families — the unseen weight passed from one generation to the next. It’s heartbreaking how many children grow up carrying the burden of their parents’ unhealed pain, mistaking it for their own. When we become parents, the responsibility shifts. It’s no longer about what we didn’t receive; it’s about what we now choose to give. Our children deserve love, stability, and peace — not the echoes of our past pain. Pain that’s buried alive doesn’t disappear. It festers beneath the surface, eventually spilling out sideways — through anger, silence, or control — and we bleed all over those we hold most dear. The only way to stop the cycle is to bring it into the light of Christ, where confession and repentance break the power of generational curses. 📖 “Therefore if the Son makes you free, you shall be free indeed.” — John 8:36 (NKJV) The truth is, we are shaped not only by our parents’ genes but also by their wounds. They, too, were doing the best they could with unhealed hearts. I’ve been doing the deep heart work with Jesus — layer by layer — to let His love and truth rewrite my story, so that my boys and their children may walk in freedom. Healing yourself is one of the greatest gifts you can give your child. Every surrendered tear, every honest prayer, every moment you choose forgiveness over bitterness — it all becomes a seed of generational blessing. 📖 “He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.” — Psalm 147:3 (NKJV) May we be the ones who choose to stop the cycle, to stand in the gap, and to let mercy flow through us like gold in the cracks of a family restored. Reflection Questions: What generational patterns or wounds have you recognised in your family line?🤔 How has God invited you to respond — through forgiveness, confession, or prayer?🤔 What legacy of blessing do you want to leave for the generations after you?🤔 🙌Prayer: Lord Jesus, thank You that through Your Cross, the power of every generational curse is broken. Teach me to walk in humility and repentance, bringing every inherited pain to You. Heal my heart so that my children may inherit freedom, not fear. Let Your mercy rewrite our family story from generation to generation. In Jesus’ Name, Amen.

There is a line between anger that wounds and anger that heals — and Thomas Aquinas understood it well. He wrote, "He who is not angry when there is just cause for anger is immoral. Why? Because anger looks to the good of justice, and if you can live amid injustice without anger, you are immoral as well as unjust." Those words stir something deep in me. For years, I was afraid of anger, equating it with sin or loss of control. Yet Aquinas reminds us that there is such a thing as righteous anger — the kind that flows not from pride, but from love. It is love's protective flame, a fire that refuses to let injustice, cruelty, or deception go unchallenged. When I see someone mistreated or truth distorted, that ache I feel is not hate — it is the echo of God's own heart for righteousness. To remain silent in such moments would be to betray the very values I hold dear: love, courage, and compassion. Even Jesus displayed holy anger when He drove the money changers from the temple. His zeal was not violence; it was love defending what was sacred. He overturned tables not to destroy, but to restore purity to His Father’s house. 📖 "Be angry, and do not sin; do not let the sun go down on your wrath." — Ephesians 4:26 (NKJV) There are times when we, as followers of Christ, will be called upon to stand up with a holy 'NO!' in the face of evil and injustice. We are called to be obedient to Truth, not compliant to lies. • Silence in the face of evil is in itself evil. • God will not hold us guiltless. • Not to speak is to speak. • Not to act is to act. As Archbishop Desmond Tutu said: "If you are neutral in situations of injustice, you have chosen the side of the oppressor. If an elephant has its foot on the tail of a mouse, and you say that you are neutral, the mouse will not appreciate your neutrality."  — Desmond Tutu We are called to the same holy balance: to let anger serve justice, not self. To let it kindle action, not bitterness. When anger aligns with love, it becomes courage in motion — the boldness to stand up for the broken, to speak truth when silence feels safer. So today, if your heart burns at the sight of injustice, do not rush to extinguish that flame. Bring it to God. Let Him purify it, shape it, and send it forth as light rather than heat. Because when love burns for what is right, anger becomes holy. 💡Reflection: When have I witnessed injustice or wrongdoing and chosen silence over action?🤔 What held me back?🤔 How can I discern when anger is rooted in love rather than pride or hurt?🤔 What might righteous anger look like in my life today — where is God calling me to speak or act with courage?🤔 How can I bring my emotions before God and let Him purify them into compassion-driven courage?🤔 '🙌🏻Prayer: Lord, teach me the difference between destructive anger and righteous zeal. Help me to feel deeply without losing peace, to act justly without harming others, and to let my emotions reflect Your holy heart. Let my anger be a servant of love, never its master.

All too often, we judge ourselves by our intentions but others by their actions. We may think our intentions allow us to say or do certain things, yet God sees beyond the surface — He looks straight into our hearts. Our true intentions always reveal themselves in the fruit of what we do. If our words or actions cause harm, destroy trust, or fracture community, it’s time to pause and look honestly within. Good intentions don’t excuse painful impact. When someone tells us they’re hurt — or when people walk away wounded by something we said or did — love doesn’t defend itself. Love listens, apologises, and learns. God doesn’t call us to be perfect; He calls us to be humble. To repent quickly, forgive freely, and walk gently with one another. True love is never careless. It is intentional about not wounding others. It seeks to restore, not to destroy; to build bridges, not walls. 📖 “You will know them by their fruits.” — Matthew 7:16 (NKJV) 📖 “Be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, just as God in Christ forgave you.” — Ephesians 4:32 (NKJV) 📖 “You shall love your neighbour as yourself.” — Matthew 22:39 (NKJV) This is especially true for the church and body of Christ. God commands His blessing where there is UNITY — when hearts are humble, love leads, and forgiveness flows freely. Where unity dwells, His presence and favour abide. Where unity dwells, His presence and favour abide. God will also hold the shepherds accountable when the sheep are scattered by their actions, for His heart is for unity, healing, and restoration among His people. May our hearts be so aligned with His that our intentions and our impact bear the same fruit — love, joy, peace, and healing. 💡 Reflection: Where in your life have you caused someone to walk away wounded by something you said or did?🤔 Are there relationships or communities where your words or actions have left division or broken trust?🤔 How can you invite God to reveal the intentions of your heart and align them with His love?🤔 What step of repentance or reconciliation might the Holy Spirit be inviting you to take today?🤔 What does the fruit of your life currently reveal about the condition of your heart?🤔

🎵 “I will not be afraid of ten thousand foes, though I’m surrounded on every side, for You alone are my Protector — in You my soul will hide.” 🎶 This morning’s wake-up song became a quiet declaration over my soul. Life will be hard sometimes, and the enemy will still try to take me out — yet God remains my Defender. His presence surrounds me like a shield, His peace anchors me when everything else trembles. Today, the heaviness that’s lingered for weeks has lifted. Someone recently said that funerals and memorials bring closure — they allow us to honour, to pay tribute, and to say our final goodbyes. I haven’t had that for any of my distant losses — those already lost to distance long before they were lost to death. Yet even without closure, I woke today with gratitude. A new dawn. New mercies. Life goes on, and I want to live mine as Mom did — loving people back to life. Unlike her, I wasn’t raised or trained in God’s ways, so I must be intentional not to fall back into my old patterns of withdrawal or disconnection. Healing is rarely a single moment; it’s a continual returning — to love, to hope, to the One who covers me with grace until the ache softens into peace. 📖 “He shall cover you with His feathers, and under His wings you shall take refuge; His truth shall be your shield and buckler.” — Psalm 91:4 (NKJV) I rest in this promise today — that the One who began a good work in me will complete it. 📖 “Being confident of this very thing, that He who has begun a good work in you will complete it until the day of Jesus Christ.” — Philippians 1:6 (NKJV) 💗 Prayer: Father, thank You for being my Protector and my peace. Thank You for lifting the weight of sorrow and wrapping me once more in Your presence. Teach me to rest beneath Your covering when the world feels unsteady, and to keep loving others with the same grace that You’ve poured into me. In Jesus’ Name, Amen.

Since Aunty Delice passed away, I found myself trying to bury the ache beneath work. Much like with my miscarriages, responses like "She’s in a better place" translated to "Swallow your tears, girl, be happy for her new life with Christ." and have therefore made me feel my feelings are not valid. This morning, at The Crate, I was burying a wave of grief beneath my work when Dean walked in. “Hello, bringer of joy,” he said warmly, wrapping me in a tight hug. “I’m sorry,” I whispered fighting back the tears, “my bringer of joy is broken at the moment.” He didn’t try to fix it. He just held me tighter and stayed a few moments longer. That simple act of presence, without a single word, reached places that condolences could not touch. In that embrace, I felt something holy — grace holding space for my tears. That silent hug did more for me than all the well-intentioned words since Aunty Delice passed away two weeks ago. Few people know how to simply sit beside sorrow—to hold space for holy tears and weep with those who weep and to recognise that presence itself can be prayer. 📖 “Rejoice with those who rejoice, and weep with those who weep.” — Romans 12:15 (NKJV) Sometimes the deepest comfort is not found in eloquent words but in quiet compassion — in the stillness of a heart that chooses to stay. There’s a quiet ache that comes from living far away from those you love — an ache that deepens in moments of grief. It’s not only the loss that hurts, but the distance that keeps you from being near when hearts break, when candles are lit, and when laughter mingles with tears in remembrance. Sometimes, grief feels heavier because you can’t show up with flowers, can’t hold a trembling hand, or whisper comfort face to face. You learn to grieve through screens and prayers, to love across miles that cannot be crossed.Yet even in this distance, love does not fade. Love stretches, adapts, and finds ways to reach the heart — it travels in whispered prayers, in quiet remembrance, in the faithful knowing that connection is never truly severed. Love doesn’t need to be begged for; it simply shows up. It shows up in a warm coffee placed beside you, in a message that says, “I’m thinking of you,” in a hug that lingers longer than words allow. Tonight, as we joined the memorial live-stream to celebrate Mom’s life, I realised this is the first time since moving to New Zealand that I could be part of a farewell, even from afar. Though my heart still aches, I’m deeply grateful for the time and heritage that Mom shared — and for the love that continues to bridge the distance between earth and eternity. The hardest part of grieving across oceans is feeling like an outsider looking in. You watch sacred moments unfold through a screen — the tributes, the tears, the embraces — and your heart aches to reach through and hold someone close. You can’t offer comfort in person; you mourn alone, unseen yet deeply connected. 📖 “The Lord is near to those who have a broken heart, and saves such as have a contrite spirit.” — Psalm 34:18 (NKJV)

"Courage isn’t always loud; sometimes it's the woman who chooses stillness and listens. She listens to her body when it says rest, to her boundaries when they say enough, to the quiet truth inside that has been right all along… strength gathers—patient, grounded, unshakeable—the kind of thunder that does not need to shout to be believed." — Steve De’lano Garcia There is a kind of courage that doesn’t roar. It doesn’t arrive with fanfare or applause, nor does it need to prove itself through action. It moves quietly, like breath through the trees, or the steady rhythm of waves upon the shore. A few years ago, I heard the Lord whisper, “Courage and confidence will follow obedience.” Those words have never left me. True courage is not born in moments of adrenaline or public victory, but in the quiet “yes” to God when no one else sees. It grows with each step of obedience—each moment we trust His voice over our fear, His truth over our own understanding. Courage increases when we walk in alignment with what He’s asked of us, even when the path feels uncertain. It’s choosing stillness when the world demands hustle. It’s saying no to what drains your peace, and yes to what nourishes your soul. It’s unclenching your jaw, breathing all the way to the bottom of your lungs, and meeting fear with presence instead of panic. This courage is gentle yet resolute, quiet yet fierce. It is not the absence of fear but the decision to move with faith regardless of it. It is the strength that comes from abiding in the One who never leaves, who calls us not to perform but to rest in obedience. 📖 “In returning and rest you shall be saved; in quietness and confidence shall be your strength.” — Isaiah 30:15 (NKJV) May we be women who walk in this quiet kind of courage — whose confidence is not in the noise of achievement but in the steady heartbeat of obedience. For every small step taken with God builds a faith too deep to be shaken and a peace too profound to be stolen. 🙌Prayer: 🕊️ Holy Spirit, teach me to listen — to my body, to my boundaries, and most of all, to Your still, small voice. Let obedience become my courage, and peace my confidence. In Jesus’ Name, Amen.

There’s a quiet ache that comes from living far away from those you love — an ache that deepens in moments of grief. It’s not only the loss of a loved one that hurts, but the distance that keeps you from being near when hearts break, when candles are lit, or when laughter echoes in remembrance. The hardest part of grieving across the distance via live streams is feeling like an outsider looking in. You watch sacred moments unfold through a screen — the tributes, the tears, the embraces — and your heart longs to reach through and hold someone close. You can’t afford comfort to the mourners, and you mourn alone. Sometimes, grief feels heavier because you can’t show up — can’t bring the flowers, hold the hand, or whisper comfort face to face. You miss milestones, funerals, gatherings where stories are shared, and tears are met with embraces. You learn to grieve through screens and prayers, to love across miles that cannot be crossed. Yet even in this distance, love does not diminish. Love stretches, adapts, and reaches in ways unseen. It travels in whispered prayers, in handwritten notes, in the quiet knowing that connection is never completely severed. 📖 “The Lord is near to those who have a broken heart, and saves such as have a contrite spirit.” — Psalm 34:18 (NKJV) Though oceans separate us, the same God who holds their tides also holds our hearts together. His presence bridges the miles, wrapping comfort around the spaces we cannot fill ourselves. So, when you feel the sting of absence, remember — love is not limited by geography or death. It lives on in memory, in faith, and in the eternal arms of God, where distance dissolves and reunion is promised. 🙌Prayer: Lord, comfort the ones who grieve from afar. Help us rest in the assurance that You are present where we cannot be, that Your love carries what our hands cannot hold, and that one day, all distance will fade in the light of Your glory. In Jesus’ Name, Amen.

When you truly matter to someone, time is not a wall — it’s a door they open for you, even with tired hands and crowded hours. Love doesn’t need to be begged for or chased down; it simply shows up. It shows up in the text that says, “I’m thinking of you,” in the coffee that’s still warm when life feels cold, in the listening that lingers longer than convenience allows. I used to mistake tolerance for love — the kind that endures you rather than delights in you. It leaves you walking on eggshells, apologising for needing space at the table. Yet love — true love — doesn’t just include you; it considers you. It bends calendars, shortens miles, and lays out small sacred moments like fresh bread with your name written across it. 📖 “Let love be without hypocrisy. Abhor what is evil. Cling to what is good. Be kindly affectionate to one another with brotherly love, in honour giving preference to one another.” — Romans 12:9–10 (NKJV) There comes a point in the healing journey where you stop knocking on closed doors. You stop shrinking to fit someone else’s comfort zone and begin walking toward the places where your heart is welcomed, not weighed down. To go where you are loved, not tolerated, isn’t pride — it’s stewardship. It’s choosing to nurture the soil that bears good fruit and release what withers your peace. Presence is love’s purest proof. It doesn’t subcontract its heart to excuses or let its vows unravel in the rain. It keeps showing up — even in the storm — until truth becomes the light and faith becomes the bridge you can cross in the dark. 📖 “Love never fails.” — 1 Corinthians 13:8 (NKJV) Finding Home AgainNot feeling at home has been with me for as long as I can remember. “I’m a mistake” and “I shouldn’t be here” were the strongest foundational lies beneath my story. They built invisible walls around my heart long before I had the words to name them.Yet, throughout my life, a rare few have made me feel at home — people whose love carried no conditions, no performance, no pretense. Their kindness was a glimpse of heaven’s hospitality, a reminder that God never intended me to wander through life feeling like an afterthought. Recently, I realised that the very thing I never received growing up — time — the one I vowed never to need, is actually my love language. There’s never a moment I hesitate when someone I care about needs my time. It’s my way of saying, “You matter. You’re not an inconvenience.” Because I know what it feels like to be overlooked, I make time as an offering of love — a reflection of the Father’s heart that always has time for His children. 📖 “Before I formed you in the womb I knew you; before you were born I sanctified you.” — Jeremiah 1:5 (NKJV) Those moments of being seen and welcomed were God’s gentle way of rewriting my foundation. Every embrace, every word of affirmation, every sacred space of belonging whispered: You were never a mistake. You were chosen. You belong.Now, I understand that home isn’t a place — it’s a Presence. It’s found in the quiet knowing that I am loved, wanted, and delighted in by the One who called me His own. I am learning, slowly and surely, to rest there. To stop searching for belonging in fragile places and dwell instead in the love that never moves away. 📖 “The eternal God is your refuge, and underneath are the everlasting arms.” — Deuteronomy 33:27 (NKJV) 💡Prayer: Heavenly Father, Thank You for teaching me the difference between being accepted and being adored by Your kind of love — one that never grows weary, never withdraws its affection. Thank You for the rare few who carried Your heart and reminded me I belong. Help me to rest in the truth that You are my home, my refuge, my unshakable place of belonging.May I carry that same love to others — the kind that makes time, keeps promises, and holds space like home. Help me recognise where Your love flows freely and have the courage to walk toward it. May I give the same steadfast love to others — the kind that makes time, keeps promises, and holds space like home. In Jesus’ Name, Amen.

Most of us weren’t raised to live — we were raised to survive. We learned to silence our needs, to over-function when we were exhausted, and to call numbness “strength.” We weren’t taught how to rest without guilt, how to walk away from what harms, or how to say “no” and still believe we’re loved. Instead, we were taught to endure, to fix ourselves quietly, and to find our worth in how much we could carry. Yet Jesus came not so we could merely survive, but so we could live — fully, freely, and faithfully. 📖 “I have come that they may have life, and that they may have it more abundantly.” — John 10:10 (NKJV) Healing, then, becomes an unlearning — a holy undoing of the patterns that kept us safe but small. It’s learning that rest isn’t laziness, that boundaries are sacred, and that peace isn’t the absence of struggle but the presence of Christ within it. It’s the slow, sacred return from striving to simply being — being loved, being whole, being enough. You are not broken. You are a child of God relearning how to breathe again, how to receive grace instead of earning love, and how to walk in freedom instead of fear. Wholeness isn’t perfection; it’s alignment — your heart, mind, and soul resting in the One who makes all things new. 🕊️ Reflection: What survival habits have shaped your life — and which ones is God inviting you to release today?🤔 🕊️ Prayer: Lord Jesus, teach me to live abundantly, not anxiously. Heal the parts of me that confuse exhaustion with worth and busyness with belonging. Show me how to rest in Your love and walk in true freedom. In Jesus’ Name, Amen.

This morning, I woke to the words: 🎼“Oh, I will not fear, I will not fear When the enemy comes near. Oh, on the doorframes of my life Is the blood of Jesus Christ…”🎵🎶 It was the perfect song to rise to — strong, defiant faith echoing through trembling heartbeats. Yet even under that melody, grief rolled in again, steady and deep like waves against the shore. Yesterday went gently enough. Two Encounter Groups filled the studio with prayer and presence. Someone told me, kindly, to stop feeling bad about the mistakes I made during A-School. Apparently, B-School had its fair share of glitches too. That reminder lifted a quiet weight — how often we hold ourselves to impossible standards when grace already covers us. We even trialled having people join via Google Meet, and it worked beautifully. It means we can open our doors wider — for those who live far away, those who long to be part of this journey but can’t always make the distance. Even technology, redeemed, can be a vessel of inclusion. Still, die trane lê weer vlak vandag — the tears sit close today. At The Crate, I busied my hands rolling towels, showing up for the non-negotiable stand-up. But as I worked, heaviness crept back in. The ache wanted solitude; it whispered, “Go home, cry it out.” Yet I had promised Rachel and Dave I’d come to Life Group. Sometimes obedience to community is the very thing that keeps you from collapsing inward. I almost turned the car around — afraid that one look, one kind word, would break the dam. And still, Rachel came. She sought me out mid-conversation with Phil and wrapped me in a hug. For the first time that day, I whispered, “Thank you… I needed that.” During worship, something loosened. Tears didn’t come, but peace did. And by the time lunch rolled around, the heaviness had lifted — not vanished, but softened. Grace lingered long enough for me to stay. 📖 “When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow you.” — Isaiah 43:2 (NKJV) Sometimes God doesn’t still the waves — He steadies the swimmer. His blood on the doorframes of my life still speaks: “You are covered. You are safe. You are Mine.” 💡Reflection: What small act of love or obedience helped you stay grounded when grief or fear tried to isolate you?🤔 🙌🏻Prayer: Lord Jesus, thank You that Your blood still speaks a better word over my life — protection, redemption, peace. Teach me to trust Your covering even when the waters rise. Let me feel Your nearness in the quiet moments, and help me to see grace in the faces that seek me out when I would rather hide. In Jesus’ Name, Amen.

There is a tenderness that lives in stillness, a kind of love that does not rush to fix, explain, or perform. It is the love that simply stays. When someone is walking through a storm, our words may scatter like leaves in the wind, yet our quiet nearness can become a refuge stronger than walls. 📖 “Rejoice with those who rejoice, and weep with those who weep.” — Romans 12:15 (NKJV) "When someone is walking through a storm, let your silent presence be a shelter the wind cannot breach - a steady nearness that says I am here without making their pain perform. Sit beside them the way mountains keep watch over valleys: unwavering, unhurried, unafraid of thunder. Offer ordinary kindness--boil water, hold the umbrella, place a blanket, keep time with their breath- and let the hush between you speak the oldest language of care. Do not rename their clouds or argue with the rain; become warmth, witness and ground. In such gentleness, grief loosens its grip, fear remembers it can exhale, and the heart relearns that it can be both broken and beloved while the sky works out its weather. Your presence, unpolished, consistent, sincere, becomes the anchor under their waves, the small light that makes darkness navigable. And when the storm passes, they will not recall perfect advice; they will remember that you stayed, that your quiet never flinched, and that, without a million empty words, you helped their spirit trust the light again." - Steve De'lano Garcia Don't ever underestimate the gift of the ministry of presense. There is a tenderness that lives in stillness, a kind of love that does not rush to fix, explain, or perform. It is the love that simply stays. When someone is walking through a storm, our words may scatter like leaves in the wind, yet our quiet nearness can become a refuge stronger than walls. 📖 “Rejoice with those who rejoice, and weep with those who weep.” — Romans 12:15 (NKJV) Lately, I have been reminded of how uneasy we are with tears. When grief visits, even the kindest hearts often reach for quick comfort — “She’s in a better place,” “She’s with the Lord now.” Though spoken with good intentions, these words can sometimes brush too lightly over a heart that longs to have its ache acknowledged. They can make us feel guilty for needing to cry and be comforted. Few know how to simply sit in silence beside sorrow, to hold space for holy tears. Grief comes in waves and hospice will tell you it takes as long as it takes. You can’t speed it up or reason it away. Tears and silence make people uncomfortable. Yet Jesus never avoided them. When Jesus stood beside Mary and Martha at Lazarus’ tomb, He did not immediately offer a sermon. He wept. His tears were not weakness; they were divine compassion, the presence of God sharing human grief. That is the heart of true ministry: not to rush someone out of their valley but to sit with them until they remember the Shepherd is still near. The Son of God did not silence their grief with theology; He sanctified it with His presence. That moment still teaches us the sacred art of simply being the ministry of presence. When words fall short, love can still stay Sometimes, all that is required of us is to sit silently with the wounded — to be there, to share Christ’s love and comfort without needing to speak. The ministry of presence is not about perfect words; it is about faithful nearness. It is what happens when we offer warmth, witness, and ground, becoming an anchor under another’s waves. 💡Reflection: Who around you may need the gift of your quiet nearness rather than your answers? 🤔 Can you let your heart be a shelter for another’s tears? 🤔 🎺 Affirmation: My silence can carry Christ’s comfort; my presence can become His embrace. 🙌Prayer: Lord, teach me to bring comfort without rushing to conclusions. Help me to honour another’s pain the way You honoured ours with presence, not performance. Lord, teach me to carry Your peace into other people’s pain. Let my silence be filled with Your presence, my patience with Your compassion and my stillness speak of Your steadfast love. May I become a quiet anchor in someone’s storm, reflecting Your steadfast love. In Jesus’ Name, Amen.

For most of my life, I carried an invisible label: “mistake.” It wasn’t written in ink, but etched deep into my heart. Every failure, rejection, or silence seemed to underline it. I learned to overperform, overgive, and overthink — hoping that if I did enough, maybe I’d finally be enough.  Yet, somewhere in the quiet places where only God could reach, His love began to rewrite the script. He didn’t fix me by force; He healed me with truth. Slowly, tenderly, He began to whisper: “You were never a mistake. You were My idea.” 📖 “Before I formed you in the womb I knew you; before you were born I sanctified you.” — Jeremiah 1:5 (NKJV) There are days when the weight of “not enough” still presses hard — when comparison steals colour and my worth feels blurred at the edges. Yet in those moments, God’s voice comes through the people He’s placed in my life: You are already enough. There are days when the shadows of self-doubt creep in, whispering that you’re not enough, that your worth is somehow diminished. In those moments, pause. Breathe. Remind yourself of the truth that stands like an anchor: you are deeply loved, valued, and seen — not only by the people in your life who cherish you, but by the One who created you. When you feel unseen, know that there are those who see the goodness in you even when you struggle to see it in yourself. They love you, flaws and all. They treasure your kindness, your strength and your ability to bring light to others’ days. They see it, and they hold it dear. You do not have to perform, to strive, or to reach perfection to be worthy of this love. There are hearts that see the goodness in me even when I can’t. They see the quiet strength in perseverance, the warmth carried into every room, and the beauty in loving without fanfare. They see me, just as God does — fully known, fully loved. 📖 “I have loved you with an everlasting love; therefore with lovingkindness I have drawn you.” — Jeremiah 31:3 (NKJV) On the days when your heart feels heavy, or when uncertainty clouds your view, whisper this truth back to yourself: I am loved. I am valued. I am enough. God Himself says so, and the people He has placed in your life echo that truth. Keep going, beloved soul. You matter far more than you know. The Lord delights in you, and His grace is sufficient even on your weakest days. Rest in His unfailing love and the quiet assurance that you’re already enough in His eyes. I don’t need to strive for perfection to be worthy of love. The One who formed me already delights in me. His truth silences every lie that says I must earn what was freely given. 🙌Prayer: Lord, thank You for rewriting the lies that once defined me. Teach me to see myself through Your eyes — chosen, cherished, and enough. When shame tries to speak louder, quiet it with Your truth, Lord, help me rest in the assurance that I am loved beyond measure. In Jesus’ Name, Amen.

Grief still comes in waves, but not so many tears anymore. I managed to finish Aunty Delice’s tribute video on Friday. Roland had offered to help, but when he saw what I’d created, he said it couldn’t have been done better. It felt more personal because my paintings formed the background — my heart woven through every frame. The overlay of tribute images during the moments I had to compose myself made it all the more authentic. It carried her essence and mine, woven together through brushstrokes and love. That felt like a quiet affirmation from heaven — a nudge that love’s labour, though tender, was enough. I’ve sent it off to Julaine for Friday’s memorial and shared all my photos with Uncle Rodney — a small act of honour that feels like closure. I served at the Restoring Families Seminar at Victory Convention Centre on Friday evening and all of Saturday. I got there early yesterday morning. “You’re the dancer!” the caterer said when she recognised me. “You should have flags — that creates the atmosphere,” she added. “Usually I do,” I replied, “but not all churches welcome them, so I left them in the car.” “We have some for the youth — I’ll get you some,” she said, and off she went, bringing a whole container full for me to use during worship. In that moment, I felt seen, validated in a way that reached deep into old fears of being “too much” or “out of place.” Worship flowed freely, unafraid. There was no guilt in the movement, only gratitude for the One who sets hearts and bodies free to dance before Him. 📖 “Now the Lord is the Spirit; and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty.” — 2 Corinthians 3:17 (NKJV) I loved how the team presented the seminar — not through videos, but through their stories. Honest, redemptive, and real. It was lovely to hear more of their stories — who they are and what they’ve overcome. Their vulnerability made the message feel alive. Each testimony became a thread of healing that wove the message deeper into our hearts. We ended with a joyful team dinner at Grand Harbour Chinese Restaurant, laughter mingling with tired smiles. By the time I got home around 6:45 p.m., my body was weary but my spirit full. I went to bed by 10:30 p.m. At 1.26 a.m. a sharp cramp in my left calf jolted me awake — a strange, painful echo of the tension my body still holds. I rolled around for a while before finally hanging my leg off the side of the bed to ease the pain, praying, and eventually drifting back to sleep. This morning, another weird dream — fragments now lost to the wind. Still, I woke with a sense that the Holy Spirit stirring something new. Today, Clive and I visit Shiloh in our quest to get to know the churches around us. I sense the Lord repositioning us for what’s ahead, gently guiding us toward the next chapter — launching the Nexus Connect Learning & Community Hub in a neutral venue. The vision has never been tied to just one church. Our aim is to reach those who are in the gutters — the ones who won’t step into a church building because they’ve been so wounded by it. We want to create a safe space where people are loved back to life, healed through community and creativity, and then sent into surrounding churches to flourish again. It feels like He’s aligning pieces we can’t yet see, drawing us out of familiar patterns into something new. 📖 “The steps of a good man are ordered by the Lord, and He delights in his way.” — Psalm 37:23 (NKJV) 💡Reflection: Where do you feel the Lord gently repositioning you in this season?🤔 What small moments of validation has He used to remind you that you are seen and free to worship as He created you to?🤔 How might grief be softening you, not breaking you, as He prepares you for what’s next?🤔 Prayer: Lord Jesus, thank You for meeting me in the in-between — between grief and grace, rest and readiness. Thank You for gentle reminders that You see me, You validate the gifts You’ve placed within me, and You are guiding our steps toward new ground. Let Your presence go before us as we seek where to plant, build, and serve. In Jesus’ Name, Amen.

Last night I had another strange dream. I don’t remember all the details, but one part stood out so vividly. I stumbled down a hill and found myself struggling to get back up. Suddenly, I heard a noise behind me. When I looked back, I saw a huge monster truck coming down the road, with crowds of raging people at its sides. The road curved sharply at the bottom, making the truck’s descent feel even more threatening. Fear gripped me as I tried to get back on my feet to move out of the way. I ended up walking on my knees as fast as I could, desperate to find a safe place where I could rise again. Just as I turned the corner at the bottom, I woke up. As I sit with this dream, I sense its weight. Hills so often remind me of struggles or tests — those seasons when the climb feels impossible and my footing slips. The monster truck felt overwhelming, unstoppable, like the pressures and voices that sometimes barrel toward me in life. Yet even on my knees, I was still moving. I was still reaching for safety. I realise that the dream echoes something deeper: when life presses me down, my first posture is kneeling — a posture of humility, of prayer, of surrender. It’s not weakness; it’s strength. It’s the place where I find God’s refuge. 📖 "When I am afraid, I will trust in You." — Psalm 56:3 (NKJV) I love how even my subconscious seems to know: the safest place is with Him. My safe clearing at the bottom of the hill glowed with light. That is where I run into His presence. 💡Reflection: Where in my life right now do I feel like I’m stumbling down a hill?🤔 What “monster trucks” are pressing in, threatening to overwhelm me?🤔 What does my safe space with God look like in this season?🤔 How might my knees — in humility and prayer — actually be the ground where my strength is renewed?🤔 Today, I hold onto the truth that I am never safer than when I kneel in trust before Him. Even when fear looms behind me, His light goes before me. I am seen, carried, and sheltered in His love. 🙌Prayer: Lord, when pressures close in like unstoppable forces, remind me that even on my knees I can keep moving toward You. Teach me to see humility and surrender not as defeat, but as the doorway into safety and strength. Lead me into Your refuge and help me rise again in Your light. In Jesus’ Name, Amen.

As my memorial scrapbook album has steadily grown over the years, I have found myself adding yet another page, another name, another story. Each addition carries weight, but the hardest ones to grieve are those I lost while they were still alive. Relationships that unravelled, hearts that grew distant, people who became unreachable long before death ever arrived. In many ways, death was only the second, more final goodbye. This is a grief not often spoken of: mourning the presence that remained physically but was gone in every other way. It is the sorrow of what could have been, compounded when death seals the unfinished chapters. These are the double griefs — losses that echo twice through the soul. 📖 “The Lord is near to those who have a broken heart, and saves such as have a contrite spirit.” — Psalm 34:18 (NKJV) Yet even here, I sense God’s nearness. He is not afraid of the complicated tears. He gathers both the grief of absence and the grief of unfinished stories into His hands. My scrapbook becomes more than a record of loss; it becomes a testimony of love, of presence once shared, and of His healing touch over my heart. Where grief lingers, His grace lingers longer. 💡Reflection: Which “living losses” still tug at my heart, and how can I bring them into God’s healing light?🤔 How might I use my scrapbook not only to remember, but to release each name into His care?🤔 If you are grieving today, whether the loss of presence through death or through life’s unravelling, know that your sorrow is seen. God does not dismiss the ache of double goodbyes. He draws close, holding both your memories and your heart in His everlasting arms. 🙌🏻Prayer: Father, You see the layers of my grief — the spoken goodbyes and the silent ones. Heal the places in me where I still mourn what was lost before life ended. Help me entrust each story to You, knowing that Your love is greater than death, distance, or brokenness. Thank You for being near to the broken-hearted and for weaving redemption even through my tears. In Jesus’ Name, Amen.