Don't Take Ownership of Other People's Dust

I didn't understand the story of the donkey in the well when I first heard it.

Years later, I would.

There's an old story about a donkey that falls into a well. The farmer decides the donkey is too out of reach to save and begins filling the well with dirt. At first, the donkey is frightened. But then something changes.

With every shovel of dirt that lands on his back, he shakes it off and steps up onto it.

More dirt. Shake it off. Step up.

More dirt. Shake it off. Step up.

Eventually, the donkey uses all that dirt to climb out of the very well that had trapped him.

The usual lesson is simple: when life throws dirt on you, shake it off and keep moving upward.

I used to think that was a nice little motivational message.

I didn't understand that sometimes the dirt hurts.

Sometimes it's personal.

Sometimes the dirt isn't a difficult circumstance or an unexpected setback.

Sometimes the dirt is someone's words about you.

Someone misunderstands you.

Someone questions your motives.

Someone judges your character.

Someone tells a story about you that isn't true.

Someone wants to keep you knocked down and out of reach.

And suddenly you're standing in a well, looking up, wondering how in the world you got there.

That's what happened to me.

The First Shovel of Dirt

I was working for a small company where employee morale was at an all-time low. There wasn't a human resources department, and I had recently graduated with my bachelor's degree in Psychology of Organizational Development (aka human resource management).

One Monday, a friend who worked for a large company sent me a motivational story that her CFO had shared with their employees for "Motivational Monday."

It was the story of the donkey in the well.

I thought it was encouraging, so I decided to pass it along to my fellow employees and my boss. My intention was simple: maybe it would give everyone a little encouragement on a difficult Monday.

Most people responded positively and appreciatively.

But not everyone.

Two employees told me they never wanted to receive emails like that from me again. They said they only wanted emails about God. They accused me of being "New Age."

I remember thinking, Whoa, whoa, whoa.

This was a motivational story. It wasn't a religious message. I certainly wasn't trying to introduce some New Age philosophy into the workplace. Plus, I sincerely didn't even know what ‘New Age’ meant!

I apologized for unknowingly and unintentionally offending them.

They didn't accept my apology.

They didn't believe my intentions were innocent.

And then things became much worse.

I was accused of stealing from the company by these two colleagues. They led the owner to believe I was going to sue the company.

Huh?

The dirt was coming fast and hard.

I was stunned.

How do you defend yourself against something you didn't do?

How do you prove the motives of your own heart?

What do you say when someone has already decided who you are?

I left that day.

I was angry. I was hurt. I was bewildered.

And I resigned effective immediately.

Later, the owner learned the truth from the other employees. He asked me to stay.

But there had been no accountability for what had happened, and I decided that I couldn't go back.

At the time, I didn't think of myself as the donkey in that story.

I felt like the donkey buried underneath the dirt, unable to shake it off, unable to step up and out.

And I didn't understand yet that this would become a lesson I would revisit many times.

The Dirt Hurts

I think I've sometimes misunderstood what it means to "shake it off."

It doesn't mean the dirt didn't hurt.

It doesn't mean I wasn't angry.

It doesn't mean I wasn't devastated.

It doesn't mean I shouldn't have needed help.

Sometimes the dirt hurts so badly that you have to stop climbing for a while.

You have to cry.

You have to grieve.

You have to admit that you're angry.

You may need a counselor.

You may need your husband to hold your hand.

You may need your children to remind you of who you are.

You may need people who love you to sit beside you while you try to make sense of something that doesn't make sense.

And you may need God.

Not the God standing over us saying, "Come on. Get over it. Shake it off."

But the God who is willing to sit with us in the bottom of the well.

The God who hears us when we're angry.

The God who knows when we're hurt.

The God who knows our intentions even when other people don't.

The God who can handle our questions, our tears, our disappointment, and even our anger.

Maybe "shaking it off" isn't about pretending the dirt didn't happen.

Maybe it is about refusing to let the dirt become part of our identity.

I can acknowledge that it hurt without allowing it to define me.

I can grieve what happened without living there forever.

I can forgive without pretending I wasn't wounded.

I can learn without believing every accusation.

I can return without pretending everything is exactly as it was.

And I can keep climbing.

I wish I could say I learned all of this from that first experience.

I didn't.

The Letter

Four years later, I found myself in another situation where I was deeply misunderstood.

This time, it was at my church, where my family and I had been members since I was four years old.

I had been selected as the director of a women's retreat, and a year later, I was selected as a spiritual companion for a teen retreat. I loved serving in those ways. I wanted to encourage people in their faith and help create a safe place for them to grow.

There had been some tensions surrounding the women's retreat that carried over into the teen retreat. But the teen retreat itself ended up being amazing and full of God's wonders. The entire group was on a retreat high!

Our oldest son and daughter served as team members on the retreat. A week before the retreat, the adult leaders of the retreat asked my husband if he would join our team to help serve primarily for a teen retreatant who had special physical and medical needs. My husband was essential that weekend in helping to carry the teenager up and down the stairs of the retreat center.

It truly had been a beautiful weekend.

My family and I returned home to my parents, who had been taking care of our home while we were away that weekend.

My parents had brought in our mail and placed it on the kitchen counter.

There, among the ordinary mail, was an envelope with no return address.

I remember noticing the handwriting on the outside.

It looked almost like a child had written our address.

There was nothing else handwritten inside. The letter itself was typed.

I opened it.

I didn't make it past the first few sentences.

I dropped the letter and ran to our bedroom.

I was overwhelmed with sorrow.

I sobbed.

From our bedroom, I could hear my family quietly reading the entire letter.

Then my husband came running to me.

The letter contained accusations and words about me that were devastating. I was called vindictive, malicious, and other things that were almost impossible for me to comprehend.

And then there was the signature:

"The entire church community."

I remember asking my husband to get something we had received at the retreat—something I could hold onto.

I needed something tangible.

Something that reminded me of the blessings of that weekend.

I asked him to hold my other hand.

And together we prayed.

I prayed for the person or persons who had written the letter.

I asked God to bless them.

I asked God to forgive them.

And I asked God to forgive me if I had unintentionally hurt them in some way that had contributed to such hatred.

I was heartbroken, but I didn't want my heartbreak to become hatred.

While we were praying, my mom called our priest.

He arrived at our home a few hours later.

He took the letter with him and arranged for me to meet with the church counselor the following day.

The priest then told me that he was scared by the situation, too.

I remember thinking, Well, that's comforting.

Even now, I can laugh a little about that.

But at the time, there wasn't much that felt funny.

The counselor told me that I had every right to feel angry. It was a natural response.

Angry.

That word stayed with me.

Because the counselor helped me realize something about myself.

I don't deal with anger very well.

My instinct is to turn it into something positive as quickly as possible.

Find the lesson.

Find the silver lining.

Forgive.

Move on.

Be gracious.

Be spiritual.

Shake it off.

Or stuff it away and out of sight.

But sometimes that's not what we need first.

Sometimes we need to acknowledge that something hurt.

Sometimes we need to be angry before we can let the anger go.

Sometimes we need to grieve.

Sometimes we need help.

And sometimes the most spiritual thing we can do is admit:

"This really hurt me."

When the Well Becomes Somewhere You Don't Want to Go

The aftermath of that experience was significant.

I stopped going to church for about six months.

That is difficult for me to admit because church had always been such an important part of my life.

But I couldn't simply pretend that nothing had happened.

I didn't trust the same way.

I didn't feel safe in the same way.

And I wasn't sure how to reconcile my love for God with the hurt I had experienced from people within His church.

Then one day I heard my children expressing negative remarks about church.

And something shifted.

I realized that my pain wasn't only affecting me.

If I stayed away because I was hurt, what were my children learning about their faith?

Was I unintentionally teaching them that when people hurt us, we walk away from God?

That wasn't what I wanted for them or any of my loved ones.

So, I went back to Mass.

I returned.

But I want to be honest about something:

It was never quite the same for me.

Trust had been damaged.

I had a complicated relationship with church after that.

Sometimes I still do.

I can love the church and struggle with the church.

I can love God and be wounded by God's people.

I can want to serve and still be afraid of being misunderstood.

Maybe that's one reason this spiritual writing feels so important to me now.

I'm not writing because I've figured it all out.

I'm writing because I'm still learning.

Don't Take Ownership of Other People's Dust

Jesus tells His disciples to shake the dust from your feet when they are not received or listened to (Matthew 10:14).

I have always found that image powerful.

Shake the dust off.

Don't carry it with you.

Don't let it become part of you.

Don't take ownership of someone else's dust.

Of course, there are times when criticism is deserved.

There are times when God uses another person to reveal something in us that needs to change.

We should be humble enough to listen.

We should apologize when we're wrong.

We should be willing to grow.

But not every accusation is a revelation of our character.

Not every rejection is God's verdict.

Not every person's opinion of us deserves a permanent place in our hearts.

There comes a point when we have to say:

That belongs to you. I don't have to carry it.

My husband has reminded me of this over and over through the years.

Focus on the many people who love you.

Focus on the people who support you.

Focus on the people who know you and see you as you really are.

Don't allow a few people who don't become louder in your mind than all the people who do.

It's good advice.

I wish it were easy.

I like people.

I want everyone to like me.

I want to be understood.

I want my intentions to be seen as good.

I want to get along with everyone.

But I know that's not realistic.

We're not going to be everyone's cup of tea.

And, honestly, not everyone is going to be ours.

That's part of being human.

Do It Anyway

I've always loved the message behind Kent M. Keith's The Paradoxical Commandments. The words are often associated with Saint Teresa of Calcutta because she displayed them at her children's home in Calcutta. The message encourages us to act with integrity and compassion regardless of how others respond.

Do the right thing anyway.

Be kind anyway.

Tell the truth anyway.

Love anyway.

Serve anyway.

Forgive anyway.

Not because everyone will appreciate it.

Not because everyone will understand.

Not because you'll always be treated fairly.

But because who you are isn’t ultimately determined by how someone else responds to you.

That's where my faith becomes so important to me.

If my identity depends on whether everyone approves of me, I am going to spend my life chasing something I can never have.

But if my identity is rooted in Christ, I don't have to win every argument about who I am.

I don't have to convince everyone.

I don't have to make everyone like me.

I don't have to carry every accusation.

I can listen.

I can learn.

I can apologize when I'm wrong.

I can forgive.

I can set boundaries.

I can walk away.

And I can leave the dust behind.

Who Gets to Define You?

I think that may be the real question underneath the story of the donkey.

Who gets to define you?

The people who misunderstood you?

The people who judged you?

The people who believed the worst about you?

The people who walked away?

Or the God who knows you completely?

Isaiah 49:16 says: "See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands." (NIV)

Not penciled.

Not written in disappearing ink.

Engraved.

Known.

Remembered.

Loved.

That is where I want my identity to rest.

Not in the dirt someone threw.

Not in the accusations.

Not in the rejection.

Not even in the praise.

But in Christ.

So, when the dirt comes—and sometimes it will—I am learning to do something different.

I don't have to fight every battle.

I don't have to chase every misunderstanding.

I don't have to make everyone understand me.

I don't have to carry what was never mine.

I can acknowledge that it hurt.

I can grieve.

I can get angry.

I can ask for help.

I can pray.

I can forgive.

And eventually, I can shake off the dust.

I can take the next step.

And then another.

And another.

Until one day I realize that the very dirt I thought was going to bury me has become part of the path that led me out.

I was never meant to live in that well.

Neither are you.

So, what are you carrying that was never yours to carry?

Whose words have you allowed to define you?

And what would it look like to shake off the dust, take a step up, and walk free?

Maybe the dirt hurts.

Maybe it always will.

But the dirt doesn't get to have the final word.

God does.

With love and blessings,

Bonnie ❤️

✨ Did this post speak to your heart in some way?

I’d love to stay connected with you through The 4:13 Journal delivered straight to your inbox. It’s my free gift to you — a simple and meaningful space to reflect, reset, and remember the strength we have in Christ.

Feel free to share this post with a friend, too. 🤍

✨ Subscribe here:

I Don’t Know

In college, I took a Sign Language course to fulfill my foreign language requirement. I came into the class knowing a few basic signs, so I thought it would be an easier option than learning a language that was more foreign to me.

I was looking for easier.

Do you ever do that? Look for the shortcut, the bypass, the path of least resistance to avoid something difficult?

I was wrong about sign language being the easier path for me.

I could not get by on my little one-word signs, and I was not grasping the fundamental concepts of communicating complete sentences or stories with my hands. Apparently, knowing a few signs was not the same as actually knowing sign language. Who knew?

When the professor offered some extra credit, I jumped at the chance to raise my sub-par grade.

The extra credit involved attending our local amusement park, which was hosting a local school for the deaf. I was to attend various entertainment shows throughout the park and write an essay about my observations of the interpreters and the interactions of the Deaf community during the event.

Then came the really fun part.

I would have to sign my essay to my class to receive the full extra credit.

I sat in the audience of a Western-themed show, waiting for it to begin. Little did I know that the lady sitting next to me was the interpreter for the show!

She glanced at me and became interested in knowing why I was there. She asked if I was a reporter since I was holding a notepad and pen.

When I told her I was there for extra credit for my college sign language course, she excitedly asked for my assistance.

“Could you sit in the front row right in front of me and sign the songs being played during the show? You will help keep me on pace with what is happening behind me on stage! It is hard for me to hear since the speakers are facing away from me toward the audience. I would greatly appreciate it!”

I began to nervously shake.

Apparently, my nervous shaking looked to her like an enthusiastic nod of acceptance. Before I could clarify that I had absolutely no idea what she was asking me to do, the interpreter jumped up and ran onto the stage to begin her job of interpreting the show for the hearing-impaired people in the audience.

And there I sat.

I could not muster the courage to say, “I don’t know.”

The truth was, I didn’t know enough sign language to be of any help to her.

She looked at me from the stage and smiled.

The music began.

I smiled back with a hesitant, fake smile.

“Fake it until you make it,” is what I heard a voice in my head say.

But my faking did not last long.

I quickly sprang up from my seat and ran out of the show as fast as I could.

Yep.

That was my extra-credit opportunity.

And I ran.

Somewhere along the way, I picked up the trick of “fake it until you make it.” I believed this to be a very wise approach, and one that would get me very far in life.

Maybe, in some situations, it will.

But for the most part, I have not found this approach to be particularly helpful—or wise.

I became very good at acting like I was the “Information Center,” where people could come to me for answers to their questions.

Ask me anything.

I might not actually know the answer but give me thirty seconds and I could probably construct one that sounded convincing.

The problem with being the Information Center is that eventually someone asks a question you cannot answer.

And eventually, someone figures out that you don't know.

The deeper problem was that I believed not knowing meant something about me.

If I didn't know, maybe I wasn't smart enough.

If I didn't know, maybe I wasn't capable enough.

If I didn't know, maybe people wouldn't respect me.

If I didn't know, maybe I wasn't the leader, parent, employee, friend, or Christian they thought I was.

So I faked it.

I rambled.

I gave answers when I should have admitted I didn't have one.

And I was exhausted from holding up the mask that portrayed everything as okay—that I was okay—and that I knew.

Maybe you can relate.

Maybe you're leading a ministry, supervising employees, captaining a team, raising children, or simply trying to be the person others can count on.

People come to us for help.

They come to us for answers.

But what happens when we don't have one?

What about the friend who comes to us with a difficult faith question we aren't sure how to answer?

Do we ramble through an explanation, hoping they'll “buy it”?

Or can we simply say, “I don't know. Let me investigate that.”

“I don't know. Let's see what Scripture says.”

“I don't know. Let me pray about that.”

“I don't know, but I know someone who might.”

“I don't know, but God does.”

There is freedom in those words.

For much of my adult life, I continued to act in defense and became embarrassed to be caught not knowing something—especially if I felt like I should know.

When someone called me out on my rambling or my attempt to fake an answer, I would backpedal into an excuse or place blame on someone or something else.

I didn't like owning my not knowing.

“Well, that's what so-and-so told me!”

By making someone else look worse than me, I was trying to make myself look better.

Or so I thought.

“Well, THEY said.”

My kids would be quick to challenge me with:

“Who’s THEY?”

Good question.

I didn't know.

But I didn't want to say I didn't know.

Silly me.

My ego.

My pride.

“I don't know” can be powerful words.

They can be engaging and empowering words when followed by, “But let's find out.”

“I don't know, but I'll find out.”

“I don't know. What are your thoughts?”

“I don't know, but I will find someone who does.”

“I don't know, but God does.”

Not knowing is not a sign of weakness.

It can be an act of humility—an acknowledgment that only God knows all.

We don't.

And we won't.

But we also don't have to remain in the dark simply because we don't know the answer yet.

We can seek the truth instead of pretending we already possess it.

“I don't know” keeps us learning, growing, receiving, and wanting to know more.

Maybe “I don't know” isn't a dead end after all.

Maybe it is an invitation.

I don't know.

So I'll ask.

I don't know.

So I'll seek.

I don't know.

So I'll knock.

We can go into work, ministry, family life, and relationships with the freedom of not having to know everything—or needing to know everything.

Whew!

What a relief.

I don't have to be the Information Center.

I don't have to have every answer, know every solution, or pretend that I have it all together.

I can simply say, “I don't know.”

And then I can take the next faithful step.

Because not knowing doesn't mean I am lost.

It means I have an opportunity to ask, seek, learn, grow, and trust the One who already knows the way.

I ended up faking my sign language extra-credit essay, and my overall grade reflected my flailing attempt.

In fact, that sign language class was the only class that kept me from graduating with the highest academic honor.

And here's the kicker: the very next semester, I tested out of Spanish by one point.

One.

Point.

Which meant I never actually needed that sign language class in the first place.

Apparently, God had a lesson for me that had nothing to do with my foreign-language requirement.

But that's another story for another day!

I am grateful for the valuable lesson I learned in that sign language class—and especially on that extra-credit day.

I thought I was there to learn how to sign.

Instead, I learned how to say something I would need far more often than I realized:

“I don't know.”

Lord, there are so many things I just don't know.

I don't always know what to say to my children, how to comfort a grieving friend, how to love someone who is difficult to love, or how to navigate the circumstances that leave me searching for answers.

I don't know the answer to every financial worry or health concern. I don't always know how to proclaim my faith in word or action. I don't always know what to say to encourage my spouse, my co-worker, my friend, or even myself.

Help me be okay with not knowing—because You do know.

Help me lay down my pride, my need to appear capable, and my exhausting habit of pretending I have all the answers.

Teach me to ask.

Teach me to seek.

Teach me to knock.

And when I don't know what to do next, remind me that I don't have to know everything to take the next faithful step.

Thank You for placing people, resources, wisdom, and opportunities in my path that help me learn, receive, and grow.

And may Your will be done as You use me to inspire others to do the same.

Amen.

With love and blessings,

Bonnie ❤️

✨ Did this post speak to your heart in some way?

I’d love to stay connected with you through The 4:13 Journal delivered straight to your inbox. It’s my free gift to you — a simple and meaningful space to reflect, reset, and remember the strength we have in Christ.

Feel free to share this post with a friend, too. 🤍

✨ Subscribe here:

While We’re Taking Care of Everyone Else

Over the past week, it seemed the world collectively paused to honor the life of Dolly Parton.

From Nashville to social media feeds around the world, stories have been shared, songs have been played, memories have been told, and tributes have poured in for a woman who somehow felt like she belonged to all of us.

For 80 years, Dolly gave the world far more than music.

She gave us laughter. Inspiration. Generosity. Authenticity. Faith. And a reminder that you can be wildly successful while still being genuinely kind.

She had a way of making people feel seen.

And while the world has been celebrating the extraordinary impact Dolly had on so many lives, there was one article I recently read that stopped me in my tracks.

It wasn't about her music.

It wasn't about her rhinestones, her humor, or even her incredible accomplishments.

It was about something Dolly had openly admitted regarding her own health.

In an article titled “Dolly Parton's health struggle highlights a crisis facing millions of American caregivers,” the writer referenced a video Dolly shared last fall in which she explained that after caring for her husband, Carl, during his illness and following his passing, she realized she had neglected her own health.

She said:

“I didn't take care of myself, so I let a lot of things go that I should have been taking care of.”

When I read those words, I didn't just understand them.

I felt them.

“I'll Reschedule It”

I had a doctor's appointment scheduled.

But then I learned about my dad's health situation.

So, I canceled it.

I'll reschedule, I thought.

But life had other plans.

For the next three weeks, my focus was on helping take care of both of my parents before they were moved into a nursing care facility.

Three weeks later, my father passed away.

Then came the funeral.

Cleaning out their home.

Preparing it to be turned over to its new owners.

Continuing to take my mother to doctor appointments.

Spending a week in the hospital with her while she was in the ICU following a procedure.

Visiting her daily for the first three months and then three to five times a week after that.

For eight months, working almost daily on Medicaid applications. Three submissions. Countless phone calls. And eventually, the help of my cousin and a senator before we finally got her qualified.

There were financial matters to manage.

Accounts to take care of.

Quarterly meetings with medical and social work staff.

And when I wasn't physically at the nursing home visiting my mom?

She called.

At least ten times a day.

There were forms.

Phone calls.

Doctor appointments.

Hospital stays.

Financial decisions.

Medicaid applications.

Meetings.

More phone calls.

Add the parenting tasks of a high school child preparing for college,

The roles of a wife, mom and grandmother, and…

Somewhere in the middle of all of it...

There was me.

Or rather, there wasn't.

The Appointment I Never Rescheduled

Exactly one year after canceling that doctor's appointment, things finally seemed to calm down enough for me to think about rescheduling it.

By then, I wasn't feeling particularly well.

I had gained weight.

Leg injuries had kept me from playing tennis and working out like I once had.

After long and exhausting days, I was eating at all hours of the night.

I wasn’t sleeping well.

I felt stressed.

I knew I wasn't taking care of myself.

But I don't think I realized just how much I had neglected my own health.

When I finally went to that appointment I had intended to have a year earlier, I learned my blood pressure had been out of control.

So had my cholesterol numbers.

Other health issues needed attention too.

After an echocardiogram and a calcium scan of my heart, I learned there were calcifications in one of my coronary arteries.

Enough that I was now considered to have coronary artery disease.

Medications were added to hopefully keep things from progressing.

And so was another doctor to my growing list of appointments.

A cardiologist.

I had spent so much time making sure everyone else got the care they needed...

that I hadn't realized how badly I needed care too.

The Caregiver Nobody Sees

This is the thing about caregivers.

We don't usually wake up one morning and decide we're no longer going to take care of ourselves.

It happens slowly.

One canceled appointment.

One missed workout.

One meal grabbed on the run.

One prescription forgotten.

One sleepless night.

One more thing added to the list.

Until one day, you look up and realize everyone else has been receiving your care...

except you.

Caregiving is an act of love.

But love can be exhausting.

It can be physically demanding.

Emotionally draining.

Financially stressful.

And often incredibly lonely.

Because while everyone sees the person receiving care, the caregiver can become almost invisible.

They're the ones sitting in waiting rooms.

Making the calls.

Filling out the forms.

Managing the medications.

Keeping up with appointments.

Making difficult decisions.

Advocating.

Worrying.

Losing sleep.

Trying to hold everything together.

And often doing it all while convincing everyone around them...

"I'm fine."

But sometimes we're not fine.

And sometimes we don't even realize how not fine we are until our own bodies finally demand our attention.

Even Elijah Needed Rest

There is a story in the Bible that came to mind as I reflected on this.

In 1 Kings 19, Elijah was exhausted.

He had been through an emotionally and physically draining season and had reached a point where he simply had nothing left to give.

And I love what God did.

Before giving Elijah another assignment...

He let him rest.

He fed him.

He cared for him.

Sometimes we think strength means continuing to push through.

Keep going.

Don't stop.

Everyone is depending on us.

But perhaps real strength also means recognizing when we need to pause.

To rest.

To make the appointment.

To accept help.

To nourish our bodies.

To care for the person God entrusted to us too.

Ourselves.

Because taking care of yourself isn't selfish.

It's necessary.

A Reminder from Dolly

I don't know if Dolly ever imagined that one honest statement about her own health would resonate with so many people.

But it did with me.

Because even someone as strong, successful, and surrounded by people as Dolly Parton could find herself so focused on caring for someone she loved that her own needs were pushed aside.

And if it can happen to Dolly...

It can happen to any of us.

Maybe one of the greatest gifts we can give caregivers is permission to remember this:

You are allowed to rest.

You are allowed to ask for help.

You are allowed to say, “I can't do this all by myself.”

You are allowed to take care of your health.

You are allowed to keep your doctor's appointment.

You are allowed to take a walk.

You are allowed to have lunch with a friend.

You are allowed to take a break without feeling guilty.

Because caring for yourself doesn't mean you love the person you're caring for any less.

You can care deeply for someone else without disappearing in the process.

It simply means you recognize that you matter too.

A Prayer for the Caregiver

Heavenly Father,

Today I pray for the caregivers.

The ones who are tired but keep going.

The ones sitting in doctor's offices, hospital rooms, nursing homes, and waiting rooms.

The ones making phone calls, filling out paperwork, managing medications, handling finances, and making difficult decisions.

I pray for the ones who haven't slept well in weeks.

The ones who have postponed their own appointments.

The ones who can't remember the last time they did something just for themselves without feeling guilty.

Lord, remind them that caring for themselves is not selfish.

Remind them that they, too, are worthy of rest, attention, healing, and care.

Give them permission to pause.

Give them courage to ask for help.

Give them wisdom to recognize when their own bodies and hearts are asking for attention.

And when they feel they don't have the strength for another day, remind them that they don't have to carry everything alone.

Be their strength when they are weary.

Be their peace when decisions feel overwhelming.

Be their comfort when their hearts are hurting.

And Lord, please...

Send someone to care for the caregiver.

Amen.

Caregivers, if you are reading this, please hear me:

Thank you!

Thank you for all you have done and continue to do for others.

All you have done and continue to do matters.

You matter too.

Your health matters.

Your heart matters.

Your rest matters.

And sometimes the strongest thing you can do is make sure you're still taking care of the person doing all the caring.

While we're taking care of everyone else, let's not forget about ourselves.

With love and blessings,

Bonnie ❤️

✨ Did this post speak to your heart in some way?

I’d love to stay connected with you through The 4:13 Journal delivered straight to your inbox. It’s my free gift to you — a simple and meaningful space to reflect, reset, and remember the strength we have in Christ.

Feel free to share this post with a friend, too. 🤍

✨ Subscribe here:

When God Changes the Plan

Finding the Blessings in Unexpected Beginnings

“Mooov-In Day.” Three words that can make a college parent simultaneously excited, exhausted, nostalgic, and just a little bit weepy. And if your student attends college for four years and lives in a different dorm or apartment each year, you may only get four Mooov-In Days.

Four. That's it.

Maybe that's why this particular day feels so big.

This past week, we moved our almost 20-year-old son, Tyler, into an apartment with three friends to start his sophomore year at The University of Texas in Austin.

Mooov-In Day —yes, that’s how we UT Longhorns say it—is a special day for students moving into a dorm on campus or a nearby apartment. For weeks prior, students and parents have been coordinating all the necessities (and a few extras) needed to get off to a great start for the new school year. Checklists are made. Shopping. Packing and loading. Unloading and unpacking.

But as I watched my son carry bags and boxes into his new home, I couldn't help but think about another new beginning—one that happened nearly twenty years ago.

As an owner of a gift shop for four years, six days a week, without a vacation or extra day off, I welcomed my family’s discussions to plan some family vacations to celebrate upcoming high school graduations for our two children, Steven and Ashley. We had our sights set on dreamy travel destinations!

A few days later, like a record needle scratching a music album, those plans came to a halt when I started to feel different. I had felt this way before. Twice before.

I was going to be 40 years old, my husband 43 and Steven was going to be 18 and Ashley 15.

No, can't be, I thought.

Remember George Banks in "Father of the Bride, Part II" learning of their unexpected pregnancy? He began accusing Nina of having an affair to then being reminded of the moment it could have happened. My husband and I had a similar moment of questioning the possibility then remembering Valentine's Day. Yup, that was the time.

I was emotionally in shock when the nurse confirmed the results. I was stoic, unlike my first two reactions of jubilant shrieks of gratefulness. I knew my heart would eventually catch up to this gratitude, but at that very moment, I was simply hoping the movie reel playing in my mind was not visible to others as I saw the travel, retirement, and empty nest plans fizzle into a dream sequence. The real-life script was now titled, "Starting Over With A Baby.”

It is amazing how 15 years can pass and how much you remember...and how much more you don't.

It's even more amazing how much your body can age in 15 years, especially when you take it for granted.

I was scared.

I became even more scared when the doctor ran several tests due to my being classified as an at-risk patient because of my advancing age. My blood pressure also became an issue as it climbed to match the increasing anxiety within my heart.

I questioned my ability to continue to run a store where I was the sole employee.

The test results indicated that our child could possibly be born with deficiencies.  We began to get ready for the life God wanted to give us. More importantly than preparing a room for our child, we prepared our hearts. I worked on turning my fears and doubts into willingness, openness, and gratitude.

We felt it was best to close the store. After I placed the vacancy sign in the window and turned away from locking the door for the last time, I found myself unable to step foot into another gift shop without being overwhelmed with emotion and quickly running out.

Trust. Trust. Trust. This word became my mantra for this new beginning.

Trust in the Lord with all your heart and do not lean on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge Him, And He will make your paths straight. - Proverbs 3:5-6

On October 23, 2006, our son, Tyler, was born perfectly healthy. He did, however, come into this world with a bang! Literally. Even though I was not to feel anything from my waist down with the epidural, his entrance took my breath away. It wasn’t until the epidural wore off, and I tried to get up, that I truly felt it. A physical pain I had never experienced before.

My pelvis was broken.

I left the hospital with a walker, a commode chair...and Tyler.

Nights were my worst. When my husband and two older children would go to sleep for their busy school and workdays, I felt so alone. I felt inadequate and depressed. It was to be such a happy time to welcome a baby home, and I found myself crying more than smiling. I was emotionally in distress, and so was my body. I was not healing well from the broken pelvis.

God is our refuge and our strength, an ever-present help in distress. - Psalm 46:2

It took two years of doctor visits, tests, and spiritual guidance for me to experience the intense gratitude my heart so longed to feel about our surprise blessing and understand why I was struggling from the onset. I was diagnosed with Sjögren syndrome. The birth of my son and the breaking of my pelvis helped to reveal a health spiraling out of control.

My son’s birth also helped to reveal other things out of control in my life. Before Tyler, I spent time with friends gossiping about other parents. I was also not a good caretaker for me and my family. I would overfill my plate with too many activities. I took life for granted. I took people for granted, especially my family.

Mooov-In Day is a big day for parents, too. So many emotions. You are in the front row of your teen or young adult’s entrance into a new chapter of their life away from you, the home they’ve comfortably and safely known all their life.

You look at their grown bodies and can’t help but see the baby you rocked to sleep or held to comfort. You replay their firsts…their first steps, their first day of school, their first practice or game, and the first time they learned something.

When I look back now, I can see blessings I couldn't possibly see then. God used Tyler's arrival to...

• Reveal a health condition I didn't know I had. The physical crisis surrounding his birth eventually led to discovering Sjögren syndrome and helped me begin taking my health seriously.

• Teach me to slow down and care differently. I had been filling my life with activities and people while taking my family—and even myself—for granted.

• Make me a kinder, more intentional person. God used that abrupt halt in my life to show me things about myself I needed to change.

• Teach me new dimensions of His love. Motherhood opened my eyes to a kind of love that continually points me back to the Father's love for His children.

• Give me courage to pursue a God-planted dream. The calling to write had been in my heart for more than 20 years, but fear kept me from pursuing it. Tyler's unexpected arrival helped redirect my life—and eventually gave me the courage to write The Love Stairway…and these 4:13 Journal blogs!

Those are just the blessings I can see. I'm sure there are others I still haven't recognized.

Isn't that how God's blessings often work? Sometimes we don't recognize them until we look backward.

What if the interruption you're living through right now is carrying a blessing you haven't recognized yet?

And then there was homeschooling.

I homeschooled Tyler for nine years (K-8th grade).

It was another unexpected blessing.

I taught him.
He taught me.
I thought I was preparing him for life.
God was using him to prepare me for mine.

I had a plan. God interrupted it.
I was afraid. God taught me to trust.
I thought I was losing something when I closed the store. It turned out to be a blessing.

And now, almost twenty years later, that same baby is moving into his sophomore-year apartment.

God isn't finished writing the story of my unexpected beginnings.

And I don't believe He's finished writing yours, either.

Will you join me in praying for all students embarking on this new school year? Whether it is their first day of preschool, elementary school, middle school, high school, or college, or any year in between, let’s bless them with our prayers. Please feel free to use your words or whatever is in your heart!

Let us pray…

Lord,

Please bless our students with courage to love You, others, and themselves. May they have the wisdom to do and say what is pleasing to You, Lord.  Please protect them as they maneuver through their day of learning and living. Give them confidence to be a friend as You also lead them to life-giving friendships of good influences. Inspire them to prayerfully discern what is good and just. We pray these same blessings on their teachers/professors as they empower our students with opportunities to grow. And Father, help our students to believe that their identity isn’t based on grades, popularity, sports or achievements but rather it is in You and Your love for them. May our students grow deeper in love with You, Almighty God, this school year.

In Your name we pray.

Amen.

How about we also pray for the parents of students entering their new school year?

Lord,

Please bless us parents to release what we cannot control and instead trust Your plans. May we always remember that our children are ultimately Yours, Father, and You are always looking out for them and have their best interests at heart. Help us know when to speak and when to be quiet. When to hold on and when to let go. Almighty God, we trust You are working even when we can’t see what You are doing or understand it. We surrender our worries and fears to You, Lord. We place our trust in You as we share our specific intentions for this school year…(insert any intentions you wish to pray for).

We love You, Lord.

Amen.

Trust. Trust. Trust.

We may not know what the next chapter holds. It definitely may not be part of YOUR plans, but we can trust the One who is already there…to help us find the blessings in unexpected beginnings!

Blessings,

Bonnie🤍

✨ Did this post speak to your heart in some way?

I’d love to stay connected with you through The 4:13 Journal delivered straight to your inbox. It’s my free gift to you — a simple and meaningful space to reflect, reset, and remember the strength we have in Christ.

Feel free to share this post with a friend, too. 🤍

✨ Subscribe here:

Keep Looking Up

What 294 Steps Taught Me About Fears, Faith, & the Journey

It was a Friday afternoon. Day 3 of our 6-day family vacation in Boston. We finished up the tour of the USS Constitution and headed back on the Freedom Trail towards the Bunker Hill Monument in Charlestown.

Our vacation was six beautiful days filled with history, delicious food, Red Sox baseball, gorgeous architecture, Boston vernacular (i.e., Green Monsta, the Harbah, Wicked Smart), festivals, a boat parade, unexpected blessings…and one unexpected lesson involving 294 steps that Friday afternoon at the Bunker Hill Monument.

It started at the base of the monument. A park ranger was speaking to a small crowd seated and standing around. We joined to listen to the history of what took place at Bunker Hill.

We then ventured inside the museum building and took in all that it showcased. There was a display that showed the 360-degree views from the top of the monument. We played with that for a while before we followed the flow of the museum crowd and joined a line that appeared to exit through a door to the outside before entering another door to the actual monument. We listened to the people in front of us answer questions of the park ranger manning the door. Once he let the family in front of us leave, he stopped us and chatted with us for a bit.

My husband asked him, “What do we get to see or do in the monument?”

We assumed that it was just a small area we’d be able to enter to maybe see a small part of the inside of the monument. We were confident that no one was allowed to go to the top of it.

“Go to the top!” the park ranger said excitedly.

Before I could process what that meant, the park ranger said, “Okay, y’all can go.”

Off we went, surprised that we were going to go to the top of this monument…whatever that meant.

Our daughter and youngest son, both members of & regular attendees at The Yard Gym, took off first up the steps. It was a spiraling concrete staircase with no real air flow. Although I have never been in a dungeon or castle staircase, this is what I would imagine such a staircase would look and feel like. I lost sight of our kids, but my husband was right behind me.

“Got to the top!”

Isn’t that often how life works? We think we’re just sightseeing. We think we’re just going through an ordinary season. Everything is chill, and then suddenly…BAM…you are thrown into something that looks daunting and gets even more daunting with each step.

Speaking of steps, there was a marking in the concrete indicating how many steps you were at, in increments of 25. At the 25-step mark, I had to take off the backpack I forgot I was carrying.

At the 50-step mark, I handed the backpack to my husband behind me, and I remember saying, “I won’t be able to go on carrying this.” I noticed my husband’s face covered in beads of sweat like mine. It was also at this point that I started to really feel my heart working hard. I wondered if he was feeling his doing that, too. We are both under the care of cardiologists.

“Are we okay to do this?” I thought to myself.

“Of course we are okay,” another thought confidently whispered to me. “Our latest doctor appointments were great, and like our kids, we’ve been working out regularly at our own gym. A few months ago, we might not be able to do this, but today, we are good to go!” I felt my muscles flex in agreement.

I turned back towards the steps and went up to Step 75. I was struggling to catch a breath, so I would stop, gripping the small silver handrail along one side of the winding concrete wall, and try to catch a breath. Sometimes I did, sometimes I didn’t. This was when I also felt anxiety kicking in as well as intrusive thoughts.

“You’re afraid of heights. If you have a medical episode here, no medical assistance will be able to get to you in time. What if something happens to your husband? How will you or anyone be able to help him?” And so on.

“Go ahead of us. We’re going to be a while,” we’d tell people coming up behind us.

But we kept going. At 100 steps, I breathily-and a bit panickily-asked my husband, “How many steps to the top?” He breathily responded, “294.”

I told my husband to give me the backpack. We could take turns. But he would tell me, “No, I’m fine.” I was worried about him, but he was worried about me.

At step 125, I could hear our daughter’s voice from up yonder somewhere, “You’re almost there! Not much further!”

She’s always been a great encourager…and a good liar.

It was at step 150 that both my husband and I wondered if it would be best if we just turned around and called it a day. The funny part is that neither of us outwardly voiced that thought. Maybe because we had stopped talking to keep as much breath as we could from continuing to escape our bodies on this climb. Plus, we probably wouldn’t be able to hear each other over the sound of our pounding heart.

Our daughter had already been to the top and was now making her descent. She met us somewhere between step 150 and 175, and she took the backpack from my husband’s hands.

That helped…a little.

Step 175 was a blur. I think we saw our son also pass us on his descent to join his sister at the bottom and patiently wait for their parents. They were silently worried about us, too.

The other tricky part of this climb is that there are people going up while people are also coming down. So, someone must let go of the rail to let the other person pass up or down. Sometimes, I would let go of the rail and there was nothing to cling to on the other side of this staircase. Plus, the steps get even more shallow on that side. “Don’t get vertigo. Don’t fall.” was another thought that spoke in my head. The thought of falling down the steps brought back that initial thought of “medical assistance wouldn’t be able to get to you in time.”

Step 200. Only 94 to go.

Jokes! Humor! That’s what I need to focus on, I thought! I gave it a try…

“This just might be where you die. Wouldn’t that be funny?”

Nope. Humor was not working.

While trying to be clever with my internal jokes, I missed Step 225 and saw 250!

Okay, now we’re talking! “We can do this, Daddy!” (Yes, I call my husband “Daddy.”) I still don’t think I was verbalizing anything, but I did check to make sure my husband was still behind me.  He was.

We’re either going to do this together or die together! Here we go!

Step 294 brought us to the small room with 4 small windows to look out at the gorgeous views all around Boston. However, we bypassed the views and could only see the bench.

Thank God there was a bench!

We parked ourselves on the bench and breathed in our triumph! Okay, we were basically just trying to breathe in. There was a defibrillator on the wall, so that brought some comfort and confidence I had been lacking the entire climb.

A family entered behind us, and I realized that the more people in this small space, the hotter it was getting, even more so than in the stairwell. I was feeling a bit claustrophobic, and the anxiety started to well up once again. But my focus on me was interrupted by the sweet, honest young boy that entered the small pinnacle space with his family.

“This is IT?” His blunt disappointment at the climax of his journey was relatable.

However, it was then that I realized that with all the internal conversations, the voices I was having on the climb, not once was it with God.

What if something happens?

What if I fall?

What if my husband needs help?

What if I can't do this?

What if medical help can't reach me?

What if I hold up traffic with my pace?

Why weren’t there signs warning climbers with conditions?

What if…what if…what if…why?

But not once was I talking to God.

I didn’t include Him in my self-talk, even though He was right there with me.

So, while at the top of the monument, I stopped focusing so much on me and turned my glance upward, thanking God for the journey, and for the present moment and every step along the way. I also turned my focus towards others in the room like the young family.

“This is IT?” the young boy asked again.

We chuckled at his question, because it was comical—but also profound.

We can spend our entire lives climbing toward something we think will finally satisfy us.

And then we get there and say:

“This is it?”

After chatting a bit with the young family and taking photos of the views, my husband and I were ready to make our way down the stairs!

It was going down that my knees had their own conversation with me. I was so focused on trying to survive the going up that I forgot that I have had knee and leg injuries for the past year that have kept me in the orthopedist and physical therapy offices instead of on the tennis court. My husband has his own knee issues, too. Our legs were wobbly upon stepping off the last step, but from what we could overhear, so were everyone else’s. It was nice not to be alone with our wobbliness!

When we got out of the monument, we strutted towards our kids like the climb was no big thing for us. Piece of cake. We laughed. They looked relieved to see us.

“But they should really have a medical sign of sorts explaining what to expect for those with medical conditions,” I said with concern.

“They did! It was a big sign at the first step. It was the first thing you saw before climbing,” our kids said.

I didn’t see it nor did my husband. Maybe that was a good thing. We probably would’ve excused ourselves. And it was a journey we both ended up needing and enjoying.

Isn’t that just like life sometimes? We forge ahead without paying attention to the signs. I know I do! I’ll plow headfirst into a situation without taking the time to look around, prepare, or simply pay attention. This Bunker Hill journey is a prime example.

However, if you asked the four of us what the journey meant to us, I’m sure you’d get four different answers. That’s typical of any life experience. It’s personal and unique to each of us.

My story of this trek MIGHT be a fishing story in the making where some element may be “growing” or embellished for dramatic or comical purposes. But for now, ladies and gentlemen, the story you have read is true. No names or details have been changed to protect the innocent. (Who remembers the old television show that started each episode with a version of this reference?)

But seriously, I know people have done way harder things. I mean, people have climbed Mount Everest…a heck of a lot more than 294 steps to accomplish that feat. People have endured enormous personal struggles more ominous than 294 steps. Struggles that stop us in our tracks and make us wonder if we should turn back or muster the strength to keep going.

The monument-al climb (see what I did there? LOL!) gave me more than a story to tell. It gave me an opportunity to correlate my personal life steps to those historical concrete steps.

For me, the steps of the BHM taught me the following reminders. I will share in case you need these reminders today, too.

What 294 Steps Taught Me

1. Fear is loud. Faith must speak louder.

2. Resting isn't quitting.

3. My pace is not your pace—and that's okay.

4. We weren't meant to climb alone.

5. Keep looking up.

Maybe that's the funny thing about climbing.

We spend so much energy getting to the top that we assume the top is where the reward will be.

We count the steps. We measure our progress. We compare our pace to the people passing us. We wonder how much farther we must go. We worry about what might happen before we get there.

And sometimes, when we finally arrive, we look around and think, “This is it?”

But maybe the view isn't the reward.

Maybe the reward was every step that got us there.

The people who encouraged us.

The people who waited for us.

The moments we stopped to catch our breath.

The hands that carried what we could no longer carry ourselves.

The courage to keep going when turning around seemed easier.

And, most importantly, the realization that we were never climbing alone.

I spent 294 steps listening to fear.

It wasn't until I reached the top that I remembered to look up.

And maybe that's the lesson I needed to bring home from Boston:

When the climb gets hard, look up.

Because sometimes the greatest view isn't waiting for us at the top.

God was in every step along the way.

And when I can't see what's ahead, I can still take the next step…with Him.

There is one more reason “Keep Looking Up” is especially meaningful to me.

Eleven years ago, after my sister passed away, I had a dream. I didn't see her. There was no image, no conversation, no elaborate scene.

I only heard her voice.

It woke me up.

“Look up.”

Two simple words.

I didn't understand then what those words would mean to me.

But standing at the top of the Bunker Hill Monument, after 294 steps of fear, exhaustion, anxiety and determination, I found myself looking up and thinking of Philippians 4:13.

“All things” is different for each person, and it doesn’t have to mean conquering huge mountains or a monument.

It can mean taking the next step when your legs are shaking.

It can mean resting without quitting.

It can mean accepting help.

It can mean quieting the fear long enough to talk with God…and hear Him.

And it can simply mean looking up.

So that's what I'm going to keep doing.

When I'm afraid.

When I don't know what's ahead.

When the climb feels too hard.

When I can't see the finish line.

When I wonder if the view at the top will be worth all these steps.

Keep looking up.

One step. One breath. One prayer at a time.

And that’s enough for today.

Blessings,
Bonnie🤍

✨ Did this post speak to your heart in some way?

I’d love to stay connected with you through The 4:13 Journal delivered straight to your inbox. It’s my free gift to you — a simple and meaningful space to reflect, reset, and remember the strength we have in Christ.

Feel free to share this post with a friend, too. 🤍

✨ Subscribe here:

When Good Intentions Get Buried

Have you ever climbed into bed full of good intentions?

"Tomorrow will be different."

Tomorrow I'll wake up a little earlier and spend time with God before the day begins.

I'll open my Bible instead of my phone.

I'll check in on that friend who's been sick.

I'll finally clean out that closet and donate clothes to someone who could use them.

I'll be more patient. More generous. More present.

I'll keep snack bags in my car for someone in need.

I'll make time to simply listen when a loved one has had a hard day.

Every night, my heart is full of good intentions.

Maybe yours is, too.

My intentions usually involve giving more, loving more, praying more, and clearing away the unnecessary. They also include taking better care of myself—getting enough sleep, exercising consistently, and eating healthier.

Sound a little like New Year's resolutions?

I have wonderful intentions for those, too!

But today, I'm thinking about something deeper...our holy intentions.

Those quiet nudges God places on our hearts.

The ones that often begin with the best of intentions but somehow get buried beneath the ordinary distractions of life.

I'm not talking about being perfect. None of us are called to be perfect. We're simply called to keep turning our hearts toward God.

And if I'm honest...

Sometimes I drift.

Can you relate?

One quick glance at social media turns into thirty minutes of scrolling through everyone else's lives.

One game of Five Crowns, Word Box, Triple Match, Solitaire, Sudoku, Vita Mahjong...well, you get the picture!

(Side note: They say these games help keep our minds sharp. Please don't ask me who "they" are!)

Then there's that binge-worthy television series that promises, "Just one more episode."

Before I know it,

hours have quietly slipped away.

Here's what I've realized.

It's rarely the big things that pull me away from God.

It's the little distractions.

One notification.

One scroll.

One more game.

One more episode.

One "I'll do it later."

None of those things are bad in themselves. But together, they slowly crowd out the moments I had hoped to spend with Him and for Him, being love in action.

That's why this verse stopped me in my tracks:

But as for you,

be strong and do not slack off,

for there shall be a reward for what you do.

- 2 Chronicles 15:7

The verse isn't meant to heap guilt upon us.

It's an invitation.

An invitation to remain faithful.

To stay strong.

To choose what matters most, one small decision at a time.

If I'm being completely transparent, my phone has become my biggest distraction.

Maybe even my vice.

I reach for it far more often than I should. I'm constantly checking for the latest text, notification, post, email, or headline. Ironically, I don't enjoy the constant noise it creates, yet I also battle that familiar fear of missing out if I don't look.

Can anyone else relate?

The beautiful truth is this...

God isn't standing over us with disappointment every time we get distracted.

He isn't keeping score.

Every morning, His mercies are new.

Every moment is another invitation to turn our attention back toward Him.

We don't have to wait until Monday.

Or next month.

Or January 1st.

We can begin again today!

Before you close this page, I'd like to challenge you to choose just one holy intention.

Not ten.

Just one.

Spend five quiet minutes in prayer.

Read one Psalm.

Send one encouraging text.

Offer one act of kindness.

Put into action ONE of whatever your holy intention looks like.

God doesn't ask us to accomplish everything today.

He simply invites us to take the next faithful step.

A couple of weeks ago, The God Minute shared a beautiful meditation on this very subject. It reminded me that letting go of our distractions isn't about trying harder—it's about surrendering more fully. If you have a few quiet moments, I encourage you to listen. (I'll include the link below.)

I'd like to close with the prayer they pray at the end of each day's meditation. It's a beautiful reminder that our strength doesn't come from our own determination, but from placing ourselves back into God's hands.

Prayer of Letting Go

To you do I belong, O God.

Into your hands I surrender my life.

Pour out Your Spirit upon me

That I may love You perfectly,

And serve You faithfully

Until my soul rests in You.

Amen.

Blessings,

Bonnie

The God Minute Link: No Slacking | Podcasts

✨ Did this post speak to your heart in some way?

I’d love to stay connected with you throughThe 4:13 Journal delivered straight to your inbox. It’s my free gift to you — a simple and meaningful space to reflect, reset, and remember the strength we have in Christ.

Feel free to share this post with a friend, too. 🤍

✨ Subscribe here:

Sticky Notes & Prayers

“Would you keep me in prayer?”

“Please pray for my loved one.”

“I could really use prayers right now.”

Have you ever asked someone to pray for you?

Have you ever asked someone to pray for a loved one?

My mom was the person people asked.

The Gold Velour Chair

When I was little, I could often find my mom sitting in the gold velour chair in our living room…praying.

Sometimes she held a rosary.

Sometimes she held a photo album. (I’ll explain that one in a bit.)

Sometimes she pressed one or both hands against her forehead while she prayed quietly. At the time, I didn’t realize I was witnessing one of the greatest ministries of her life.

Spiritual Companion to Prayer Warrior With a System

When my mom was in her early 70’s, I asked her to serve on a women’s retreat I was directing.

Even though my mom did not have formal training as a Spiritual Director, I knew she would make a wonderful Spiritual Companion with the recommendation, approval, and guidance of our parish priest, Fr. Jack.

Fr. Jack continued to nurture and encourage my mom in this ministry, and she went on to serve on nearly a hundred retreats afterward.

She became known as a Prayer Warrior for not just the retreats, but throughout her communities of church, family, and her grandchildren’s school and sports teams.

No matter where — at a school event, at a doctor’s appointment, a restaurant, or in the church parking lot — people sought my mom out to ask for her prayers.

One day, I had a parishioner tell me how much it meant to her that my mom called her the day of the medical procedure that she had asked my mom to pray about.

“She checked in to see how I was doing, and offered words of encouragement, wisdom, and scripture.”

In awe of my mom’s memory, I finally asked her one day,

“Mom, how do you remember all of this?”

She smiled and said,

“I have a prayer system.”

Then she opened a simple college-ruled spiral notebook.

There were sticky notes and notebook pages filled with names, dates, and prayer requests.

Next to many names were checkmarks and follow-up notes from after she prayed or checked in with the person.

My mom wanted to make sure things were okay, while also learning if she needed to adjust her prayers with any updates.

The notebook wasn’t the only place holding sticky notes of prayer reminders.

When I had to clean out my parents’ home, I not only found her notebooks, but I also found sticky notes throughout with names, dates, and prayer requests.

My mom had strategically placed pads of sticky notes and pens throughout the house so that at any moment’s notice, she could jot down details of her conversations with people and would then transfer that info into her payer notebook.

But she still held on to the sticky note. She would mostly put them on the refrigerator to serve as a reminder to pray.

The refrigerator became command central for prayer requests.

Love Remembers

My mom continued to serve on women’s retreats as a spiritual companion well into her late 80’s.

She also continued to serve as the church coordinator for flowers, candles, weddings, funeral services, and altar cleaning, even doing some phone work from the nursing home in her final years.

When my mom became blind during the final three years of her life and moved into a nursing home, people still called asking for prayer. She even had her own “Talk Show With JoJo” every other week for the nursing home residents where she presented a meditation, and of course, prayer.

She could no longer see her notebooks or sticky notes, but she still prayed faithfully and followed up with them.

Her ministry didn’t end when her strength faded.

Flowers faded.
Candles burned out.
Retreat weekends eventually ended.

But the legacy of her prayers lives on in the people she loved.

Prayer was one of the greatest ministries my mom lived out.

My mom never made it to her 90th birthday party here on earth, missing it by two and a half months.

But after a lifetime spent carrying so many people in prayer, I can only imagine the welcome party she received in heaven.

And now, whenever someone says,

“Would you keep me in prayer?”

I think of her and her prayer system.

I think my mom understood something I’m still learning:
prayer is one of the quietest ways we can love people well.

And sometimes the smallest acts — a notebook, a follow-up phone call, a name written on a sticky note — become sacred acts of care.

Maybe a sticky note on the refrigerator can become holy ground.

Do you have a prayer system?

In honor of my mom’s legacy, I’m sharing a simple sample prayer system inspired by hers in case it helps you love and remember people, too. Use it as inspiration to create your own!

Just click here to receive yours!

Lastly, I want to also share another little “system” my mom had for her prayer cards.

Today, I’ve seen “Holy Card Prayer Books” sold online, but years ago, when I was a little girl watching my mom pray in that gold velour chair, her prayer book was actually a small photo album. (Once Dollar Tree Stores opened in the neighborhood, she was a regular and these types of photo albums were her constant purchase!)

Instead of photos, though, she filled it with her favorite prayer cards.

She carried an album in her purse and would pull it out while sitting in hospitals or doctor’s offices waiting for a loved one — or even for herself.

To bystanders, it may have looked like she was flipping through family photos, but she was praying.

Another beautiful part of her prayer system.

Friend, thank you for being here today, and thank you for journeying with me remembering my mom’s prayer life! Now, I’d love to know…

Do you have a prayer request that I can pray for you?

Let me get a sticky note & my notebook! (wink!)

Blessings,

Bonnie 🤍

✨ Did this post speak to your heart in some way?

I’d love to stay connected with you throughThe 4:13 Journaldelivered straight to your inbox. It’s my free gift to you — a simple and meaningful space to reflect, reset, and remember the strength we have in Christ.

Feel free to share this post with a friend, too. 🤍

✨ Subscribe here:

The Love Stairway & The Missing Step

What re-reading my own book taught me about love, grief, and waiting.

In 2012, I co-wrote a book called The Love Stairway with a long-distance friend.

At the time, life felt relatively steady for both of us. Peaceful, even.

We wrote about God’s love from a season where “no news is good news” still felt true.

But not long after publishing the book, the waves came.

Death.

Illness.

Estrangement.

Moves.

Counseling.

Divorce.

Caregiving.

Covid.

Loss.

New Beginnings.

One day, when life felt especially heavy, I sat with my priest.

“Have you read your book?” he asked.

“Well, I did write it,” I replied with a slightly sarcastic chuckle.

He didn’t laugh.

Instead, he asked again:
“Have you read it?”

No, I hadn’t.

Have you ever listened to yourself on a recording or seen yourself in a video?

Doing so makes me cringe. I feel awkward and can hardly believe it’s my voice. I also tend to second guess what I share publicly.

“Sheesh! I should have said this or that. I should have done better.”

I’m my own biggest critic.
(Are you yours?)

Thank you, Fr. Jack - now in Heaven - for the homework assignment.

Re-reading The Love Stairway did help.

I had forgotten the subtitle of our book was How to Love Step by Step. We wanted to create an inspirational “how-to” book, and we shared these eight steps to best help to live out love:

1. Receiving

2. Forgiving

3. Accepting

4. Living Gratitude

5. Falling in Love with God

6. Serving

7. Loving Unconditionally

8. Forming Habits

Re-reading The Love Stairway also challenged me to dig deeper while continuing to move forward during rough seas.

Loving during peaceful seasons can feel natural. Easy.

But love during exhaustion?

During grief?

During disagreement?

During caregiving?

During uncertainty?

That kind of love costs something.

Australian conservationist and television personality Robert Irwin said in an interview:

“To love is to grieve.”

That statement has stayed with me, because it’s true.

We grieve because we have loved someone or something that is now gone or changed from what we once knew.

Change is hard.

Even good change can feel stressful.

And so I would add this:

To love is to also wait.

To change.

To grow.

And those things rarely happen in our preferred timing.

That’s okay, though.

God’s timing is always best anyway.

In fact, if I could add a ninth step to The Love Stairway, it would be this:

Waiting

Not passive waiting.

Not hopeless waiting.

But faithfully waiting.

Growing waiting.

Trusting waiting.

In today’s world of instant everything, waiting can feel excruciatingly uncomfortable.

People don’t want to wait.

But impatience can cause us to miss opportunities to be changed by love and to grow through love in profound ways.

There is importance in waiting if we allow ourselves to be still, present, and open.

Have you ever sat in a waiting room at a doctor’s office or hospital?

Waiting to be seen.
Waiting to be examined.
Waiting for results.

Waiting.

Everyone in that waiting room carries some form of baggage.

The weight may differ, but it all weighs something.

And in those waiting spaces, we have opportunities to help each other carry those burdens with kindness, grace, and love.

During a scan appointment for my dad, I stood in line to sign him in and collect the clipboard of paperwork to complete while he patiently waited in one of the chairs nearby.

As I waited in line, I noticed a woman in a wheelchair who had just finished her scan struggling with her caregiver to open the handicap doors to leave.

So, I stepped out of line and opened the doors for them.

They looked relieved.

It had clearly been a long day.

When I finally returned to my seat beside my dad, he leaned over and whispered in my ear:

“That was a good thing you just did for those ladies. Thank you for doing that.”

Leaning toward him, I whispered back:

“I was just doing what you would’ve done. I was doing what you taught me. Thank YOU.”

You see, opening the door for someone was one of the ways my dad served our Lord.

It was love in action.

He didn’t care about your age, your gender, or whether you were already holding the door yourself. He would still reach for the handle and let you enter before him.

It was his quiet way of saying:

“I see you.”

That day, my dad was no longer physically able to open the door for those women himself.

But seeing his love continue through someone else brought him joy and gratitude.

Maybe that’s one of the hidden gifts of waiting.

We begin to notice people more.

We begin to notice the needs around us, not just within us.

We begin to love more gently.

We begin to understand that God wants us to see others the way He sees them.

And slowly, we begin to understand that God sees us too.

“I see you.”

Maybe The Love Stairway was never meant to stop at eight steps.

Maybe love keeps stretching us upward through every season we never expected.

ESPECIALLY the unexpected seasons, when love can feel difficult.

So now I’d love to ask you:

What step would you add to The Love Stairway?

When do you find it most difficult to love?

And as you reflect on waiting, the other steps of The Love Stairway, and the challenges of loving through difficult seasons, can I ask you one more question?

If there were to be a sequel someday, what should it be called?

The Love Stairway: The Second Story

or

The Love Stairway: The Second Floor

I can’t wait to hear your thoughts.

Seeing you & joining you in the waiting…

Blessings,
Bonnie 🤍

✨ Did this post speak to your heart in some way?

I’d love to stay connected with you through The 4:13 Journal delivered straight to your inbox. It’s my free gift to you — a simple and meaningful space to reflect, reset, and remember the strength we have in Christ.

Feel free to share this post with a friend, too. 🤍

✨ Subscribe here:

As I reflected on this post and revisited The Love Stairway, I realized I still have a small number of copies remaining. If this message resonated with you and you’d like a copy, I’d be honored to send one your way for the cost of shipping. Just send me a message below:

Somewhere Between Hair Dye and AC/DC

Somewhere between root touch-up time and an AC/DC song on the radio, I found myself unexpectedly emotional over…bagpipes.

Driving to my overdue hair appointment, the radio DJ began sharing details about the bagpipes featured in the AC/DC song “It’s a Long Way to the Top (If You Wanna Rock ’n’ Roll).” He explained that despite the song’s popularity, the band no longer performs it live out of respect for Bon Scott, the late band member who played the bagpipes in the recording.

Then the song played.

And the moment the bagpipes began, I started getting a little verklempt.

Who gets emotional during a jamming AC/DC song?

Apparently, I do.

Almost instantly, a flood of memories started rolling through my mind like a highlight reel of moments I hadn’t realized were connected until now.

I continued to reflect on the bagpipes throughout my hair appointment.

But it wasn’t just about the bagpipes. It was about what their sounds carried for me.

Bagpipes played as both of my parents’ funeral services came to a close.

Bagpipes echoed through the crowded college football stadium for 4 years as my son and his teammates charged onto the field while fans cheered with anticipation for each game.

Bagpipes led the graduation procession at my own college commencement as we walked toward the ceremony site where loved ones waited proudly for our arrival.

And for years, every afternoon at exactly 3 PM, the sound of bagpipes drifted through our neighborhood as a gentleman a few houses down practiced faithfully, and beautifully, in his backyard.

Then somehow…on a random self-care hair day…an old AC/DC song unexpectedly connected all the dots.

Funny how that happens sometimes, isn’t it?

A song comes on.

A memory surfaces.

One thought led to another.

And suddenly your heart starts connecting pieces of your story you didn’t even realize were woven together.

It made me stop and wonder:

Why do certain sounds stay with us?

Why do some sounds instantly transport us to another place, another season, another version of ourselves?

We often don’t realize while we’re living it that ordinary sounds are quietly becoming emotional bookmarks.

Music, especially, seems to bypass logic and head straight for the heart.

For me, bagpipes have somehow become tied to both sorrow and celebration.

They remind me of honoring and letting go.
Of courage and anticipation.
Of achievement and community.
Of love, legacy, home, and hope.

Somehow their haunting, beautiful sound became woven into the soundtrack of my life.

And maybe you have sounds like that too.

Maybe it’s:

• church bells

• cicadas on a summer evening

• rain falling on a tin roof

• an old hymn

• wind chimes on a porch

• the crack of a baseball bat

• a train whistle in the distance

• the melody of an ice cream truck

• or a certain song that instantly brings someone you love to mind

Have you ever noticed how certain sounds become tied to the emotional landmarks of our lives?

How they hold:

• grief

• celebration

• transition

• nostalgia

• longing

• comfort

• sacred moments

Sometimes a single sound can carry an entire lifetime of memories.

And maybe that’s one of the quiet ways God reaches us too.

Through beauty.
Through memory.
Through emotion.
Through unexpected reminders tucked inside ordinary moments.

A sound can comfort.
A sound can inspire.
A sound can remind us of what matters most.

Sometimes a sound invites us to slow down to better notice the beauty around us…and within us.

So, somewhere between hair dye, classic rock, and unexpected tears over bagpipes, I found myself grateful for the soundtrack of the blessings in my life.

Maybe the sounds we carry through life are reminders that God has been present in every season all along.  

And now I’m curious…

What sound tells part of your story?

Blessings…

and Rock On!

Bonnie 🤍

💛 If this post spoke to your heart, I’d love to stay connected with you.

Share your email with me, and I’ll send you The 4:13 Journal straight to your inbox.

✨ Subscribe here!

Additionally, if you’d like a little encouragement in your daily scroll, come say hello on Instagram too. I’d love to connect with you there as well. Follow here on Instagram!

Lastly, if someone came to mind when reading this post, please share it with them and invite them to join us here in The 4:13 Journal, too!

That’s the kindest compliment you could give me! Thank you! 💛

The Women Who Mother the World

Mother’s Day has a way of stirring up so many emotions.

For some, it’s a day filled with flowers, laughter, and handwritten cards.
For others, it’s quieter… heavier somehow. A mix of love, longing, memory, and maybe even a little ache.

Because the truth is—Mother’s Day isn’t one-size-fits-all.

There are women who have carried children.
Women who have lost children.
Women who have longed to become mothers but never did.
Women who chose a different path.
Women who mother in ways the world doesn’t always recognize.

And maybe that’s why this year, I couldn’t stop thinking about this:

What if being a mother isn’t just something you are… but something you do?

The Many Ways We Nurture

When I really sit with it, I see it everywhere.

I see it in the aunt who shows up again and again, steady and present.
In the friend who listens without rushing, who holds space without needing to fix.
In the woman who pours her heart into a business, a ministry, a creative work—bringing something meaningful into the world that didn’t exist before.

I see it in caregivers.
In mentors.
In women who love fiercely, protect gently, and give of themselves in quiet, unseen ways.

Nurturing isn’t always loud.
It doesn’t always get celebrated.
But it is powerful.

And it is everywhere.

My mom on Mother’s Day 2025.

My Mother, My Story

When I think about nurturing, of course, I think about my mom.

She was wonderful… and she was human.

There were things about her that made me feel deeply loved.
And there were things—especially as I stepped into the role of caregiver—that stretched me, frustrated me, and, if I’m honest, sometimes hurt.

With this upcoming first Mother’s Day without my mom, the thought of this day has given me a space to reflect on all of it—the beauty and the brokenness. The laughter and the tension. The memories I cherish and the ones I’ve had to gently lay down.

And somewhere in that reflection, something has softened in me.

I find myself letting go of the need for her to have been more than she was…
and holding tighter to the ways she loved me the best she knew how.

1975 Road Trip Family Vacation

These beautiful women are my sister, grandmother, and mom…Heaven’s Angels.

What We Carry Forward

Because here’s what I’m realizing:

We don’t just remember the women who came before us…
we carry them.

In the way we show up.
In the way we love.

In the way we pray.
In the way we care for others.

And sometimes, in the quietest moments, I catch glimpses of her in me.

A phrase I say.
A way I comfort someone.

A way I want to make someone’s day lighter.
A softness I didn’t always notice before.

Not everything gets carried forward.
We get to choose what continues.

And maybe that’s one of the most sacred parts of it all.

My grandmother holding my mom.

A Gentle Truth

There’s a verse I’ve come back to time and time again. It’s the theme of this site:

“I can do all things through Him who strengthens me.” — Philippians 4:13

For so long, I thought that meant pushing through, staying strong, holding it all together.

But lately, I’m beginning to see it differently.

Maybe that strength looks like:

• choosing grace over resentment

• choosing to forgive, little by little

• choosing to nurture—even when it’s hard

• choosing to love, not perfectly, but faithfully

Because nurturing… real nurturing… requires strength.

The kind that doesn’t always look impressive from the outside,
but is deeply rooted on the inside.

More Than a Mother

So today, whether you are a mother…
miss a mother…
long to be one…
or have never felt called to that role at all—

If you have ever loved someone well…
If you have ever poured into something with care…
If you have ever shown up, stayed, held on, or let go with grace…

You are to be celebrated.

Because the heart of a mother isn’t defined by biology.

It’s revealed in the way we nurture.

And that kind of love?

It leaves a legacy.

Happy Mother’s Day!

Blessings,
Bonnie 🤍

💛 If this post spoke to your heart, I’d love to stay connected with you.

When you subscribe, I’ll send you The 4:13 Journal straight to your inbox—it’s my free gift to you.

It’s a simple, meaningful way to reflect, reset, and remind yourself of the strength you have in Christ.

✨ Subscribe here: Join my newsletter!

And if you’d like a little encouragement in your daily scroll, come say hello on Instagram too. I’d love to connect with you there. Check out my Instagram here!

Finding Traction When Life Feels Stuck

We thought we were just pulling off for a quick stop at the beach.

But within seconds, the tires sank.

Sand everywhere. Wheels spinning. No traction.

My husband tried.

My dad tried.

My mother tried…finding The Turtle Patrol. (My mom and her turtles…that’s another cute story for another time.)

Nothing worked.

It was my turn to give it a go. I was digging sand away from the tires, determined to “fix it.”
Certain that if I just worked a little harder, we’d get unstuck.

It was my turn to give it a go…determined to ‘fix it.’

But the more we tried on our own… the deeper we seemed to sink.

And isn’t that how life feels sometimes?

Spinning your wheels.
Trying harder.
Digging deeper.

And still… stuck.

Sometimes it’s not the situation keeping us stuck…

It’s the “sand” around us.

Comparison that makes us feel behind.
Assumptions that cloud the truth in our thinking.
Old hurts from which we never fully healed or released.
The pressure to keep everyone happy.
Walking on eggshells just to keep the peace.

We keep digging, thinking effort will free us…

But effort alone isn’t always what we need.

Then someone showed up with a simple piece of plywood.

They placed it under the tires…

And suddenly—traction.

Not more digging.
Not more spinning.

Just the right support… at the right time.

That moment happened years ago, but it has stayed with me.

Because maybe getting unstuck in life isn’t about trying harder…

And it’s not about finding ways to avoid the feeling, either.

Maybe it’s about letting God place something solid beneath us.

His truth when our thoughts feel loud.
His peace when our emotions feel overwhelming.
His perspective when we can’t see clearly.

The very things that give us traction when we’ve been spinning in place.

If you’ve been feeling stuck lately…

You’re not alone.

And you’re not without help.

You don’t have to dig your way out by yourself.

Sometimes, the breakthrough comes when you stop striving…
and start receiving the help God is already offering.

What if the thing you need most right now…

isn’t more of the same effort—

but better footing?

Maybe there’s some “sand” in your life right now, too.

The good news?

You don’t have to stay stuck there!

Here’s to a way forward!

Blessings,

Bonnie 🤍

💛If this post spoke to your heart, I’d love to stay connected with you.

When you subscribe, I’ll send you The 4:13 Journal straight to your inbox!

It’s a simple, meaningful way to reflect, reset, and remind yourself of the strength you have in Christ.

✨ Subscribe here:

And if you’d like a little encouragement in your daily scroll, come say hello on Instagram too. I’d love to connect with you there.

I’m Sorry…For Saying I’m Sorry So Much

Learning the Difference Between Humility and Making Myself Small

Have you ever apologized to something…that couldn’t even hear you?

I have.

I’ve said “I’m sorry” after bumping into a wall, asking an employee for a bag at a store, or for winning an award.

For years, “I’m sorry” rolled off my tongue like it was second nature.
I thought I was being polite. I thought it was the right thing to do…the humble thing to do.

But I wasn’t being humble.
I was making myself small.

A Moment I Never Forgot

In high school, I remember being recognized for an award. I was standing alongside three of my friends also up for the award—girls I cared about deeply.

When my name was called, I didn’t celebrate.

I turned to them and quietly said,
“I’m sorry.”

I wasn’t trying to be fake humble.
I genuinely felt bad… like somehow my winning meant their loss more than my blessing.

Later that year, I overheard one of the girls talking to someone else. She said, loud enough for me to hear:

“I really hate it when someone wins something and then turns to the people who didn’t and says they’re sorry.”

My heart sank.

I knew she was talking about me.

I remember feeling misunderstood… but also unsure how to explain myself. I didn’t even fully understand why I had said it to begin with. So, I stayed quiet.

But I never forgot that moment.

What I Learned Without Realizing It

No one ever sat me down and said, “Make yourself small.”

But somewhere along the way… I learned it anyway.

I grew up believing that accepting praise might come across as prideful. That being confident could be mistaken for being conceited. That humility meant deflecting, minimizing, or apologizing.

I carried this quiet belief into adulthood:
It’s better to shrink than to shine.

The Wake-Up Call

Years later, I was at a store with my husband when a cashier asked if I wanted a bag for my items.

My response?

“Yes, I’d like a bag, please. I’m sorry.”

When the employee was out of earshot, my husband looked at me and said,
“Why are you apologizing?”

I told him I didn’t want to inconvenience the clerk.

And he gently said,
“But it’s their job.”

Then he added something that stuck with me:

“I’ve noticed you say, ‘I’m sorry’ a lot… even when nothing is your fault.”

And just like that…I started noticing it, too.

He went on to say, “I bet you even apologize when you play tennis.”

He was right. I apologize a lot while on the tennis court. I feel like I am letting my player down with every misstep I make.

Even when my partner apologizes for her error, I’m quick to respond, “No, I’m the one who’s sorry.”

My thoughts spiral from “I’m the one letting us down” to
“I’m not good enough. I don’t belong.”

Tennis, like any sport, is a game of expected runs, or ups and downs.

Just like life.

But for some reason, I believed it was my responsibility to lift others up by shrinking…by playing small.

A Truth That Changed Me

Apologies are sacred.

They were never meant to be scattered over things God never asked us to carry.

There is a time to say “I’m sorry”—when we’ve hurt someone, when repentance is needed, when we need to take responsibility for something that truly is ours.

But I had been using those words for things that didn’t belong to me:

• Taking up space

• Having needs

• Receiving recognition

• Simply existing

That’s not humility.

That’s self-erasure.

And God never asked me to disappear in order to love others well.

He’s not asking you to do so, either.

What God Says About It

For so long, I thought humility meant stepping back, staying quiet, and to avoid appearing confident or prideful…to not show too much enthusiasm for a personal blessing. Don’t jinx it! Be prepared that the blessing may not last. Feel guilty for receiving it when others are without.

But Scripture paints a different picture.

In Matthew 5:16, we’re told to let our light shine before others. Not hide it. Not apologize for it.

And in Psalm 139:14, we’re reminded that we are fearfully and wonderfully made.

Those truths don’t leave room for shrinking.

They call us to live with confidence rooted in Him.

Humility isn’t thinking less of yourself.
It’s thinking of yourself the way God does.

A Small Shift That Changed Everything

Instead of saying “I’m sorry,” I’ve been practicing saying:

• “Thank you for your patience”

• “Thank you so much”

• “I appreciate that”

• “That means a lot to me”

It’s a small shift… but it’s changing the way I see myself and the unnecessary guilt I have carried.

If You’ve Been Saying “I’m Sorry” Too Much…

If you’ve been apologizing for things that were never yours to carry…
this is your gentle reminder:

You are allowed to take up space. You belong.
You are allowed to have needs and ask for help.
You are allowed to celebrate and be celebrated.
You are allowed to simply say, “thank you.”

A Quiet Note From My Heart

To a few girls I went to high school with—

You may never read this… but I’ve thought about that moment more times than you probably know.

Not because I was wrong for feeling compassion…
but because I didn’t yet know how to receive a blessing without apologizing for it.

I’m still learning.
Still catching myself mid-sentence sometimes.

But little by little, I’m trading unnecessary apologies for truth.

And maybe that’s where it starts—
not with perfection,
but with awareness…

and the courage to say
“thank you”
instead of an unwarranted
“I’m sorry.”

Blessings,
Bonnie 🤍

✨ If this post spoke to your heart, I’d love to stay connected with you.

When you subscribe, I’ll send you The 4:13 Journal straight to your inbox—it’s my free gift to you.

It’s a simple, meaningful way to reflect, reset, and remind yourself of the strength you have in Christ.

✨ Subscribe here:

And if you’d like a little encouragement in your daily scroll, come say hello on Instagram too. I’d love to connect with you there:

You’re Worth It

There are moments in life that feel like they’re wrapped in both heartbreak and holiness at the same time.

This is one of mine.

In my dad’s final days of battling Pancreatic cancer—a cruel and aggressive illness that reared its ugly head for only a little over a month even though it had to be doing its devious work behind the scenes long before — he was confined to his palliative care bed, his strength fading more with each passing day.

There was a procedure scheduled that we hoped might help manage his pain.

Because of his condition, medical transportation was arranged to take us to the appointment of this procedure. I rode with him, sitting close, holding onto every moment I could.

But when we arrived, everything changed.

The doctor took one look at my dad and gently, but honestly, told me what I wasn’t ready to hear…
My dad wouldn’t survive the procedure. He may not even make it another few days.

Just three weeks earlier when the doctor scheduled the procedure, my dad had been in a different place. But this disease had moved quickly. Too quickly.

And so, instead of moving forward, we turned around.

We were sent back—back to the nursing home, back to wait, back to cherish what little time we had left.

The Ride That Changed Everything

On the drive back, a young EMT sat with us in the back of the vehicle.

She was kind. Gentle. Talkative in the sweetest way.

She shared that we were her last transport—not just of the day, but of her entire time with that company. She had just accepted a new position at an oncologist’s office, and she felt that meeting my dad that day confirmed she was stepping into exactly where she was meant to be.

We talked about life… about her future… and even about the small things.

At one point, I complimented her eyelashes. They were so pretty.

She smiled and told me where she gets them done, along with a few other self-care things she enjoys. Then she added, almost hesitantly, that she saves little bits here and there to afford those things.

“I probably shouldn’t spend money on it, but…” she said, her voice trailing off.

And then… something sacred happened.

Three Words from a Fading Voice

My dad had been lying there quietly, eyes closed. We thought he was unaware of everything around him.

But in that soft, sacred silence…

He lifted his arm.
Pointed toward her.
And with a weak but certain voice, he said:

“You’re worth it.”

Time stood still.

The EMT and I locked eyes, both of us instantly filled with tears.

Because in that moment, we realized—he was aware.
And more than that… he was still giving.

Still encouraging.
Still seeing people.
Still speaking life.

Three simple words… but they carried the weight of heaven.

A Message That Was Never Meant for Just One

I’ve replayed that moment in my heart more times than I can count.

Because the truth is…
those words weren’t just for her.

They’re for all of us.

How often do we question ourselves?
Second-guess what we’re worth?
Talk ourselves out of care, rest, joy, or even calling?

We say things like:
“I shouldn’t…”
“It’s not necessary…”
“I’m not worth that…”

But God…

He speaks something different.

He whispers it in quiet moments.
He shows it through unexpected people.
He writes it across the pages of our lives again and again:

You’re worth it.

You’re worth His love.
You’re worth His sacrifice.
You’re worth His attention, His care, His grace.

Even in your uncertainty.
Even in your brokenness.
Even in your “not enough” moments.

If You Need to Hear This Today…

Maybe you’re walking through something heavy right now.
Maybe you’re questioning your value, your purpose, or your next step.

Let this be your reminder:

You are seen.
You are known.
You are deeply loved.

And yes…
you are worth it.

My dad may have been nearing the end of his earthly journey…
but in that moment, he left behind a message that continues to live on.

And today, I pass it on to YOU.

You’re worth it.

Blessings,
Bonnie 🤍

Thank you so much for reading!

If this post spoke to your heart, I’d love to stay connected with you and send you my free The 4:13 Journal—a little dose of encouragement straight to your inbox.

Grab yours by sharing your email with me in the boxes below!

And come hang out with me on Instagram for more inspiration, stories, and a peek behind the scenes!

4:13

I still remember the day I received it…

A gift from a friend—a paperweight with this verse engraved on it: “I can do all things through Christ who gives me strength.” I kept it on my desk and looked at it every day.

At the time, I didn’t fully understand its meaning. But in a quiet, steady way, the truth of that verse was beginning to reveal itself to me.

Years later, while working with a direct sales company, I received another gift—this time, a sterling silver bangle bracelet engraved with the same scripture.

I wore that bracelet every day, until I didn’t. I left it in my jewelry box, where it slowly became buried beneath other pieces and forgotten over time.

Then came January 2023.

My father was diagnosed with Stage 4 pancreatic cancer that had spread to his liver. He was given a month and a half to live.

Those days felt heavy and suffocating, especially without any plans in place and facing the reality of losing someone I was so close to.

One day, I opened my jewelry box and found that bracelet again—now tarnished and dim. I polished it until it shined like new, and I placed it back on my wrist.

This bracelet doesn’t just hug my wrist—it hugs my heart.

“It hugs my heart.”

My dad passed away a month and a half after his diagnosis. My mom passed away nine months ago. My sister passed away eleven years ago.

And this Easter Sunday was the first one without all three of them.

The absence felt loud. The silence even louder.

But through it all, I find myself clinging to Philippians 4:13 in a way I never have before. Not just as a verse I’ve known—but as a truth I now depend on.

I’ve come to understand something deeper about these words.

It’s easy to focus on the first part—“I can do all things.” But the true power, the true promise, is found in the second part—“through Christ who gives me strength.”

I can’t do this on my own.

But through Christ, I can.

He provides what I don’t have.
He carries what I can’t hold.
He strengthens me for each step, each day, each moment.

And maybe that’s why this verse has followed me through the years—from a simple paperweight on a desk, to a bracelet rediscovered in a season of grief.

It was never just a verse to remember—it was a promise I would one day need to live.

If you are walking through a season of loss, uncertainty, or quiet heaviness, I want you to know—you are not alone.

Stay a while.
Be refreshed.

And be reminded:

His strength is enough—for you, for today, and for whatever lies ahead.

That’s the place this journal was born from—a desire to hold onto His strength and to share that encouragement with others.

A fun fact: When I began thinking about what to name this space, I found myself sitting in a coffee shop drive-thru, waiting for my order. I happened to glance down at my Philippians 4:13 bracelet—and there it hit me: 4:13.

I started turning the idea over and over in my thoughts, and the more I did, the more excited I became. 4:13 had to be part of the name.

“The 4:13 Journal” came naturally after that. A journal, much like a diary, is a place to gather and reflect—on thoughts, emotions, ideas, dreams, quotes, and the moments that shape us. And that’s exactly what I hope this space will be.

And just when I thought it couldn’t be clearer, I reached for my phone to pay for my coffee—and saw the time displayed across the screen:

4:13.

A quiet confirmation that this was exactly where this blog was meant to begin. So, let’s do just that and begin…

Welcome to The 4:13 Journal! I’m so glad you are here!

If this spoke to you, I’d love for you to stay awhile—because there’s much more to come.

But for today, here’s a gentle reminder, Friend:

You don’t have to carry it all on your own.
You were never meant to.

Instead of trying to hold everything together in your own strength, invite Christ into your ‘things’—and trust His strength for you.

It often shows up in ways we don’t expect…
but it’s always enough.

Blessings,

Bonnie 🤍