Thoughts from my current journal entries: July 9–14, 2025
Five days since the flood.
Five days since our community was shattered.
Six little girls gone—three of them my students. Over a hundred lives lost across the region. The grief is thick and muddy, like wading through sorrow that clings to your skin and weighs down your steps.
And tomorrow, we have Janie’s service.
There’s no script for how to do this.
I’ve walked through a lot of pain before, but this feels different. The ache of watching little ones go is unbearable. And trying to teach joy—trying to be light and strength for others—feels like dancing through fog. It’s disorienting. Raw. And so very real.
Our pastor said that anger is part of grief. I didn’t feel angry—not in the shouting sense. But I did go silent. I shut God out, not in rage but in numbness. I couldn’t hear Him over the buzzing of fear, the loop of “why, why, why” that played on repeat in my soul.
And still, He was there.
I started noticing the signs:
💐 A neighbor I barely know bringing flowers.
🎀 A handmade sash from someone who cared.
🍪 Cookies made in silence, shared in community.
🌈 A rainbow arched over the elementary schools—days after the flood.
Was it a coincidence? Or was it God whispering, “I’m here. I still bring beauty from ashes. I still keep my promises.”
I thought about Noah. How did he learn to appreciate rain again after watching the world drown? How did he not tremble at the sound of thunder? Maybe it was the dove. Maybe it was the rainbow. Maybe it was just waking up to a second chance.
And that’s what I’m clinging to now—a mustard seed of hope. That healing can happen. That joy can return. That camp will be holy ground for Graeme. That showing up to teach littles today—ironically in a camp called “Taste the Rainbow”—isn’t just a coincidence. It’s a nudge from Heaven.
Because rainbows don’t erase the storm.
They just remind us it’s over.
And that there’s still a future.
So today, I will show up again.
I’ll teach. I’ll cry. I’ll dance with toddlers and hug moms and lead a MELT class with eyes that might still be puffy. I’ll attend Janie’s funeral and try not to crumble when they talk about her smile, her light, and the way she danced through life.
And I’ll keep choosing surrender over understanding.
Because I don’t understand.
But I believe God is still here.
Even when the rain triggers fear.
Even when joy feels far away.
Even when the chair beside me felt empty for days.
He's showing up again. And so am I.
If you’re grieving too—
You don’t have to be okay.
You don’t have to call it acceptance.
You just have to keep showing up.
Let that be enough.
Remember this:
"The most underrated skill in life: The ability to show up, even when you don’t feel like it.” —Lewis Howes
Thoughts for you to Journal on:
What’s one small way you can show up for your life today—even if you’re in the middle of the storm?
