Dear Little Girl,
Last Saturday I did absolutely nothing. And maybe that’s exactly what my body needed.
I wrote about my feelings on quiet time, and Trey asked me why it bothered me so much. I don’t know if he can fully understand it, but the truth is — quiet time saved me in some of my loneliest, darkest seasons.
Seasons he was part of.
When my mom died, I turned to God because I was angry. Angry that He took her away from me. I didn’t understand death back then. All I knew was that we had a beautiful, loving relationship — and suddenly she was gone.
She was the one I called every day at three o’clock. Always there. Always listening. Never telling me what to do. She didn’t butt in. She just heard me.
God, I miss that.
Then Trey got sick. And I think quiet time gave me endurance. It gave me a clearer picture of Jesus — of what He endured, of what it means to keep showing up when things are hard. It helped me stay strong for my three boys. It helped me pray for guidance, for the right people to surround our family, because addiction and mental health are real — and they are terrifying.
Then it got worse.
My dad died.
And Trey got sicker.
Like, scary sick. Doing scary things.
And then he left.
Physically.
Emotionally.
Financially.
It was dark. A kind of dark I don’t have words for.
But I had a morning routine that had been slowly building since 2018. And by 2023, I was staring down the barrel of a divorce.
And while I never heard God audibly, what I felt was this:
Wait. Don’t talk.
So I didn’t.
I didn’t talk to Trey.
I didn’t talk to my attorneys — not until they forced me to.
I got quiet.
And in that quiet, I think God was working. I can’t explain it. I just know He was.
Because last Saturday, on a snowy morning, I sat typing this while Trey was across the room on the couch watching church.
We’re not divorced.
It feels like a miracle.
Is it rainbows and sunshine? Not even close.
Sometimes it’s still lonely.
Sometimes I wonder if I should have left.
Sometimes I feel angry that I stayed.
Other times I feel deeply grateful.
It’s a wild mix of emotions. Every day brings new joys and new problems. It’s not all smiles and kisses and laughter like Instagram suggests.
But one thing has stayed constant:
God.
And my time with Him.
Whether it’s five seconds of, “Hey God, I’m here but I don’t have time today,”
or hours at this keyboard — He’s there.
Always available.
Wherever I am.
Whenever I need.
And if I ignore Him, get lazy, get mad, or feel really close — He still meets me right where I am, with exactly as much of me as I’m willing to bring.
That’s what I’m thankful for.
That He doesn’t expect flowery words.
That He doesn’t require memorized verses.
That He doesn’t even demand I bring a Bible.
He just wants me.
My heart.
My fears.
My joy.
My dreams.
My pain.
All of me.
And slowly — without pressure — I find myself wanting to know more. Wanting to open Scripture. Wanting to understand who He is. The Father who created me for big things.
And my biggest prayer is simply this:
That I am walking in His will.
Living how He wants me to live.
Of course I still want things.
I want to be the best dance teacher.
I want my MELT business to thrive.
I want to speak. To write. To tell my story.
I want my marriage to feel like a fairy tale.
I want my boys to be healthy and whole and deeply loved.
I want Will to be wildly successful and a man of God who cherishes his family.
I want JP to live out every creative dream in his heart and find someone who loves him and loves God.
I want Graeme to make it through adolescence untouched by addiction, surrounded by good people, rooted in faith, and brave enough to lead.
I pray all of these blessings over my boys.
And Trey…
I leave him at God’s feet. Because I can’t carry him anymore.
But this is what quiet time does for me.
It doesn’t fix everything.
It doesn’t prevent pain.
It doesn’t give me control.
It plants seeds of hope.
And somehow — even on my darkest days — that has been enough to keep me here.
So thank you, God.
For meeting me in the quiet.
For staying when everything else felt like it was falling apart.
For loving me without performance, pressure, or prerequisites.
I love you.
— Worthy 🤍
(Amy)
