Lately, I’ve been carrying a heavy heart toward my husband. Maybe you’ve been there too. It feels like he gives everything to work and hobbies and leaves little left for me or our children. Meanwhile, I’ve been keeping our home and our little family afloat, but I feel weary. I’ve asked for change, and while maybe there are slow shifts, if I’m honest—I feel numb.
What I’ve realized is this: I am grieving the gap between the husband and father I hoped for and the one I have right now. I am also grieving the weight of (most of the time) being the one to keep everything together. That’s a lot to hold.
But here’s the Truth God whispered to my heart: I don’t have to keep a scoreboard. I don’t have to measure who’s giving more or less. I need to release that—not because my husband has earned it—but because it’s not healthy, and I deserve to cultivate joy. My children deserve a mom who is engaged, energetic, and joy-filled. That’s the kind of mom I long to be.
And I know I don’t have to manufacture that joy on my own. God promises it to me as a gift of His Spirit:
> “The joy of the Lord is your strength.” (Nehemiah 8:10)
> “But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.” (Galatians 5:22-23)
The bible doesn’t say the joy of my husband will be my strength, or the joy of a thriving marriage. It says the joy of the Lord. That means joy is available to me here and now, even in the middle of exhaustion, unmet expectations, and slow change.
I still believe God can transform my marriage. I still pray for my husband to rise up as the servant, leader, and joy-filled father I know he can be. But while I wait, I am choosing not to live bitter and empty. I am choosing to cultivate joy. To play with my kids. To find laughter in small things. To spend time in God’s Word and refill my soul.
If you’re a mom in this same season—feeling tired, stretched thin, maybe even resentful—I want you to know you’re not alone. God sees the weight you carry. And He has more for you than numbness and fatigue.
Friend, you can lay down the scoreboard. You can release the pressure of carrying it all. You can believe for change and still choose joy right now.
Because you and your children deserve a mom who is filled with God’s joy, no matter what season your marriage is in. And that joy is already yours in Christ.
> “Those who look to him are radiant; their faces are never covered with shame.” (Psalm 34:5)
America: One Nation Under God
Today I was listening to a song called The Church, and the theme is unity in God. My heart is heavy with everything happening in our world — the violence, the wars, the division, the loss of innocent lives. It feels like the left points at the right, the right points at the left, and we’re all forgetting this truth: a house divided cannot stand (Matthew 12:25).
If we want to be strong as a nation, as communities, as churches, even in our own family units, we must be unified. When we meet hate with hate, love will never win, and the greatest call on our life is to love God and love each other (Matthew 22:36-40).
Unity doesn’t mean we will always agree. It means we choose to see each other first as people–people with stories, families, hurts, and hopes. It means choosing love over hate, respect over contempt, and remembering that what binds us together is always greater than what tries to tear us apart. Maybe then unity won’t feel so far off. Love has to begin there.
🙏 Prayer
Our Father in heaven, holy is Your name. Today we ask for renewed hope and healing in You. Give us eyes to see one another not as labels or sides, but as people — fathers, mothers, sons, daughters, friends — all made in Your image. Bring unity to our nation, to our politics, to our churches, and to our families. Amen.
Charlie Kirk: Remembering the Human Before the Headlines
In Latin, there is a phrase: dignitas infinita — infinite dignity. It reflects the truth that every human life carries an inherent worth that cannot be taken away. We are created in the image of God, and that identity precedes all titles, positions, and ideologies. Before anything else, we are human.
On September 10th, Charlie Kirk was shot and killed in broad daylight while speaking at Utah Valley University. He entered a college campus with words — and was met with bullets. For days, many of us have woken up asking the same question: Did this really happen, or was it only a bad dream?
In the aftermath, we have seen memorials erected and torn down. We have seen tributes offered and mocked. We have read words from those who say he “deserved it” or celebrate that he is gone. And in those moments, the question only deepens: Is this reality?
It is essential to remember that before Charlie Kirk was a political activist, a debater, or a public figure, he was a human being. And all human beings have the right to life. Unborn children. Foster kids. Orphans. Immigrants. Survivors of abuse. The forgotten. Politicians. Activists on the left and on the right. Whatever category you choose, every person carries the same infinite dignity.
Charlie Kirk was first a son — to his mother and father, and ultimately to God, in whose image he was made. He was a brother to his sister, a husband to his wife, and a father to two young children who desperately need him. He was a grandson, a nephew, a cousin, a friend, and a neighbor. These are the most important titles he ever held — human titles, relational titles.
As a human being, he did not deserve to be murdered. Not for his opinions, not for his ideology, not for his words. The greatness of America lies in the freedom to exchange ideas, to disagree, and to wrestle with difficult questions openly. Violence silences that freedom.
If we believe that a man — a husband, a father, a son — deserved death because of his politics, then we have lost sight of something essential. Disagreement is inevitable in every relationship, but the call is to navigate those differences with kindness, patience, and respect.
Scripture
“The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit.” — Psalm 34:18
Prayer
Heavenly Father, we entrust the Kirk family to Your care. Bring peace to his wife and children, and comfort to his parents, his sister, and all who mourn. Surround them with Your presence, and hold them close in their grief. We pray for our nation, Lord — soften hardened hearts, restore compassion where there is hatred, and remind us that every life bears infinite dignity. In Jesus’ name, Amen.
Also, if you want to support the Kirk family and legacy, there are ways to donate at Turning Point USA
A Tribute to Charlie Kirk
I did not know Charlie Kirk personally, yet his life and sudden death have left a deep mark on my heart. I admired his courage, his conviction, and his devotion to God, to his wife, to his children, and to the youth of America. The senseless violence that took his life is horrific and heartbreaking, but I believe his story does not end here. I felt compelled to write this tribute, not because I knew him, but because I believe his legacy deserves to be honored and remembered — and because in Christ, even in death, there is hope.
Charlie, my heart breaks — it shatters — for what happened to you. You are a son of God, made in His image, and you deserved so much more than a senseless act of violence. The heavens weep with us. What happened to you mirrors what happened to Jesus and His disciples — persecution, suffering, and loss in the face of truth and faith.
But you were not only God’s son. You were also the son of a beautiful mother and father who raised you well. I can only imagine the joy your parents felt when they learned they were expecting a baby boy — the late nights rocking you, feeding you, caring for you, praying over you. The sports games, the sacrifices, the lessons, the love. To be a mother and lose her son in such a horrific way is unimaginable. My heart aches for them in ways words cannot hold.
And then there is your wife — the woman you loved, cherished, and chose to spend forever with. You lived out your calling as a husband by protecting, providing, and honoring her. I admired how you encouraged men to rise to responsibility — to work hard, to lead with strength, so their wives could have the sacred choice to raise children at home if they desired. That vision is noble, courageous, and beautiful. You lived it. I can only imagine the devastation, the shock, and the heartbreak your wife is facing now.
And your children. Your precious daughter and son. They will never again feel the warmth of your embrace on this earth — the security of your arms to pick them up when they fall, the laughter of a dad cheering at Little League games, or the proud steps of you walking your daughter down the aisle someday. The world tried to steal those moments. But it cannot.
“Better is one day in your courts than a thousand elsewhere.” (Psalm 84:10)
My prayer is that heaven feels like this for you, Charlie: you went to sleep in Utah, your heart longing for home. And when you opened your eyes, you were greeted first by the open arms of your Savior, and then by the sweet embrace of your wife, your three-year-old daughter, and your one-year-old son. Not grown, not distant, not strangers — but the same little ones who need you, who love you, who want to be held by you. You are able to scoop them up, hug them close, and step right back into these precious moments. This world tried to cut short and take them away, but Heaven redeems what is stolen. Heaven redeems time and all that evil tries to steal away. In Christ, these joys are eternal.
Rest now, good sir. Your life has purpose, your words carry weight, your faith bears fruit, and your legacy will echo through this world long after. Your death is not in vain. The truth you spoke, the love you poured into your family, and the passion you gave to the youth of America will continue to shine like a torch in the darkness.
Until we meet again, well done, Charlie. Well done.
Closing Prayer
Father in heaven,
We come before You in grief, but also in hope. Your Word tells us that to be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord, and we cling to that truth. We thank You that Charlie now rests in the arms of his Savior, where there is fullness of joy and pleasures forevermore.
Lord, comfort his wife, his children, his parents, his loved ones, and all who mourn him. Remind them that this story does not end in death. You promise that death is swallowed up in victory, that one day You will wipe away every tear, and that mourning, crying, and pain will be no more.
We long for the day when You will return, when the dead in Christ will rise, and when families will be reunited — whole, restored, redeemed. We trust that Charlie will see his children again, not as strangers but as beloved son and daughter, embraced in the joy of eternity. Thank You that heaven does not erase time but redeems it, restoring what was broken and stolen in this world.
Give us strength to live with the same courage, faith, and conviction that he carried. May his life and legacy echo in the generations to come, pointing many to Jesus.
Until that day, Lord, we say with confidence:
“O death, where is your victory? O death, where is your sting?”
For in Christ, death has been defeated, and eternal life has been secured.
In Jesus’ name, Amen.
Unless the Lord Builds the House
When my husband and I moved from Reno, Nevada, we carried with us more than boxes and furniture. We carried grief. We carried the weight of closed doors, unmet expectations, and the heaviness that comes when life feels more confusing than clear. With two little boys in tow, we entered a season that left us mentally, emotionally, and spiritually drained.
My husband even spent a short season believing the heaviness was caused by the kids. But before we had kids—back when we were praying desperately to have them—he clung to Psalm 127:3-5
“Sons are a heritage from the Lord, the fruit of the womb a reward. Like arrows in the hand of a warrior are the sons of one’s youth. Blessed is the man who fills his quiver with them! He shall not be put to shame.”
Back then, this verse gave us hope. It reminded us that children are not a burden but a reward, a blessing from the Lord Himself. But somewhere along the way—between the sleepless nights, the tantrums, and the exhaustion—we lost sight of that truth.
Having a four-year-old and a one-year-old is hard. Really hard. There are moments of joy, yes, but there are also countless moments of disobedience, frustration, and endless needs. It can be easy to slip into thinking, this is too much, or this is the reason we feel so low. But that’s not the whole story.
This morning, as I sat down with a long list of tasks—200 things I felt I needed to do to get our house in order—I felt a nudge in my spirit: Go meet with the Lord first. So I opened the book of Psalms, and my eyes fell right onto Psalm 127:1:
“Unless the Lord builds the house, those who build it labor in vain.”
It stopped me in my tracks. Here I was, striving to get every detail of our house settled, organizing, arranging, cleaning—when the truth is, none of it matters unless God is at the center. I can labor and toil until I am exhausted, but if I’m not inviting God into my home, into my parenting, into my marriage—then I am only filling my life with anxiety and emptiness.
And in the same Psalm, God gently reminded me of something I know but forget so quickly: my sons are not interruptions to my productivity; they are the reward. They are not obstacles to building a home; they are the blessings handed to us by God himself
I want to invite God back into every corner of our life—not just into Sunday mornings, not just into our prayers before meals, but into the chaos of raising toddlers, into the daily grind of marriage, into the way we build this home together. Because only then will our work, our parenting, and even our tiredness carry eternal meaning.
So today, I’m choosing to praise God not only for what He has given us, but for who He is. And I want to remind my husband—and anyone else walking through a weary season—your children are not the reason you’re overwhelmed. They are the blessing in the middle of it. Your house won’t be built on your effort alone, but on the foundation of God’s presence.
Let’s not labor in vain. Let’s invite Him in.
When Is There?
When will I arrive?
I’ve asked myself this question so many times. I thought when we moved to Minnesota we would finally “arrive”—but we didn’t. Then I thought maybe it would come when we bought a house and felt settled. But we bought the house, and the unsettled feeling lingered. I thought perhaps it was just a matter of getting organized, putting things in their place, creating order out of the chaos. Yet even then, the arrival never came.
Every time I get to where I think I’m going, the destination shifts. The goalpost moves. What I thought would bring peace doesn’t. And I’m left chasing again.
It feels like living in constant motion, always reaching, never resting. The striving leaves me weary, and worst of all, I realize I’m missing life while waiting to arrive at some elusive place called there.
But maybe “there” isn’t a place at all. Maybe “there” isn’t about a house, or a city, or an organized life. Maybe arriving is not a where but a who.
Jesus says, “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light” (Matthew 11:28–30).
Maybe true arrival is found not in finally getting the house perfect, or the career established, or the kids on the right schedule. True arrival is found when I come to Jesus. When I rest in Him.
The challenge, though, is not just arriving at Jesus—it’s staying. It’s learning to linger long enough with Him that I stop chasing the world’s approval of my life. Scripture reminds me, “Better is one day in your courts than a thousand elsewhere” (Psalm 84:10). Yet I still find myself wandering, distracted, restless.
The world will always dangle another milestone, another achievement, another “there” just out of reach. But Jesus offers here. His presence, His rest, His peace. “You will keep in perfect peace those whose minds are steadfast, because they trust in you” (Isaiah 26:3).
And maybe that’s the only place I’ll ever truly arrive. Not in a destination I can map, but in a Savior who says, “Be still, and know that I am God” (Psalm 46:10).
A Prayer to Arrive
Lord, I confess that I’m often restless—always looking for the next thing, the next milestone, the next “there.” I confess I am striving so hard to create my heaven on earth instead of your heaven.
Help me to remember that true rest is not found in circumstances but in You. Teach me to come to You daily, to stay with You long enough to let Your peace sink deep into my heart. Free me from chasing the approval of the world, and help me to find joy in simply being with You. You are my arrival. Amen.
Babel
Last week, there was a school shooting at a campus not far from where I live. It was a school I once considered for my four-year-old’s preschool. I didn’t choose it. But even from the outside, it feels unbearably close. Two children—just eight and ten years old—were killed. Twenty more were injured.
That night, the grief pressed in on me. I thought of the parents who kissed their children goodbye that morning, never imagining that would be the last time. I thought of my own son, and how fragile and unpredictable safety feels. And then, quietly, I began to wonder:
Why are we all so anxious? Why are suicide rates the highest they’ve ever been? Why do mass shootings persist?
My sister recently told me about a book she read on anxiety. She recalled the author claiming that anxiety and suicide rates were “up to 100%.” At first I wasn’t sure if that was accurate, so I went looking. The truth is more complicated—and in some ways more devastating. Over the last decade, youth anxiety and depression rates have more than doubled. Among 10- to 14-year-old girls, suicide rates have risen by more than 130%. For teenage boys, nearly 100%. In 2022, the U.S. recorded the highest number of suicides ever in its history.
So while the exact numbers vary, the trend is undeniable: something is deeply broken.
That night I fell asleep, and I dreamed. In the dream, God whispered to me: “Babel, Katie. The story of Babel.”
In Genesis, the people once spoke a single language. With one voice and one purpose, they built a tower to reach heaven itself. They believed if they could stretch high enough, if they could make themselves mighty enough, they would be like God. But God came down, saw what they were building, and scattered them. He confused their language so they could no longer understand each other. Their hyper-connection was undone.
I woke up thinking: We are Babel.
Through cell phones, through social media, through a constant drip of notifications and updates, we are more connected than any generation before us. We are tethered to a tower of our own making, and we keep building it higher—chasing knowledge, status, affirmation, and control. We scroll through wars and weddings in the same breath. We know every detail of global tragedy within minutes, and every comment our friends or strangers make in response. We carry in our pockets the weight of the world.
And yet, though we are “connected,” we are lonely. Though we have more information than ever, we are more confused. Though our tower stretches higher, our foundations feel shakier than ever.
It is Babel, all over again.
Maybe we were never meant to live with this much input, this much noise. Maybe the human soul cannot bear the constant awareness of everything happening everywhere, all at once. Our nervous systems aren’t designed for a 24-hour flood of breaking news, endless comparisons, and the subtle pressure to always be present online.
The children feel it most sharply. Instead of wide stretches of play, face-to-face friendships, and room to grow, they live inside curated feeds and glowing screens. They are drowning in connection, but starving for presence. And their spirits are telling us what their mouths cannot: this is too much.
The shooting near me, like so many others, is one more echo of Babel’s curse. Violence amplified, fear magnified, anxiety multiplied. Each headline pulls us further into despair. Each ping drags our minds from the people right in front of us. And so we live at a constant hum of unease, searching for peace but unable to find it at the top of this tower.
But maybe—just maybe—there is hope in stepping away.
What if the way forward isn’t to keep building, but to put the phone down? To untether from the noise? To give ourselves permission to not know everything, not respond to everything, not absorb everything?
What if healing begins in quiet places—on walks without earbuds, at tables where phones are left in another room, in eye-to-eye conversations instead of comment threads? What if we learned to embrace limits again, and trusted that our worth doesn’t depend on building higher, scrolling longer, or knowing more?
We are the children of Babel. Not condemned, but confused. Scattered across feeds and timelines, speaking but rarely hearing.
And yet, God whispers still. Not in the noise of the tower, but in the silence at its base. Not in the flood of voices, but in the still small voice that says: “Be still, and know that I am God.”
Maybe the tower needs to fall. Maybe our hyper-connection needs to give way to something smaller, slower, simpler. Maybe what our anxious hearts long for isn’t more—but less.
Not Babel. Belonging.
Rape(d)
There’s this deep hope sometimes—almost like a whisper inside—that maybe if we say it enough or don’t say it, write it down, send a letter, go to therapy, cry it out, it’ll loosen its grip. That if we give it a name, if we call it what it was, maybe it’ll shrink. Maybe “raped” will stop feeling like a scarlet letter we wear in secret, and start feeling like just… a word. A thing that happened. Not who we are.
But then we try, and sometimes it still hurts. Or still feels heavy. And it’s so frustrating, because how much more healing are we supposed to do?
You’re not wrong for wanting it to be lighter. You’re not wrong for wanting closure. And you’re absolutely not wrong for not knowing what you need in this moment. This stuff is complicated, messy, layered. It’s okay to want to process and also not want to touch it at all. It’s okay to hope talking will help, even if it doesn’t always feel like it does.
If nothing else, maybe talking about it here lets your heart breathe a little. Even if just for a second. Even if the word “raped” still stings in your chest.
You are allowed to set it down, even for a while. You are allowed to rest.
I’m here when you want to pick it up again—or when you just want to talk about something completely different. You don’t have to earn your healing. You’re already worthy of peace.
Chocolate chip banana bread
Ingredients
for 6 servings
3 ripe bananas
⅓ cup butter, melted
½ cup sugar
1 egg, beaten
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 teaspoon baking soda
salt, to taste
1 ½ cups all-purpose flour
½ cup mini chocolate chips and/or walnuts
Preparation
Preheat oven to 350˚F (180˚C).
In a bowl, add the bananas and mash until smooth. Add in the melted butter and stir until well combined.
Add the sugar, egg, vanilla, baking soda, salt, and flour, and stir until the batter is smooth.
Add in the chocolate chips or walnuts and pour the batter into a greased loaf pan.
Top with additional chocolate chips.
Bake for 45 minutes to an hour, or until a toothpick comes out clean.
Cool completely before serving.
A Curated Image
Little children, let us love, not in word or speech, but in truth and action.
1 John 3:18 NRSV
As I was reading this today, the word truth stood out to me. How do you love in truth? What does that even mean?
I used chat GPT for some inspiration and wrote down: to love in truth means to love sncerely and authentically, without deceit or falsehood, to be honest and transparent with one’s feelings and intent.
This made me think, when are we actually honest and transparent with people around us?
In this life, we learn to hide our imperfections, and nowadays it is so easy to hide with: filters, makeup, wigs, hair extensions, fake lashes, fake tans, tummy tuckers, hair dyes, curated versions of ourselves on social media, surgeries, etc. People can hide affairs, depression, anxiety, addictions, narcissism, disorders, and everything else in between.
People learn how to hide their real life and what the world would call the ‘ugly’ version of themselves at such a young age. Why?
In a world where we’re advertently mandated to hide our real, to only show the sculpted image of ourselves, it’s hard to imagine loving authentically, transparently, openly. Will we even be loved? Is it loving to show our real, our burdens and struggles to others? There may be situations or times where it’s inappropriate, but our struggles are not meant for us alone.
Everyone is struggling; everyone is hurting. Everyone is going through something, and pretending like we’re perfect or flawless or have our lives together or don’t have blemishes and imperfections and fears and anxieties isn’t helping anyone, especially not ourselves. The mask that we hold up, the charade that we have to manage, is too time and energy consuming. (Let’s save that energy for our spouses or children or ourselves!)
I pray that our culture focuses less on youth and beauty and image management and more on an open, honest, transparent, authentic, love and version of ourselves.
Katie's Corner 