Dear Little Girl…Be Where Your Feet Are

Dear Little Girl,

You keep looking over the horizon. You want to know when the next chapter will begin.
When the next blessing will arrive.
When you'll finally feel settled.
When everything will make sense.

If I'm being honest, I caught myself doing the very same thing.

I was sitting on a beach in Mexico wondering when I would get to come back.

Isn't that funny?

I was already worrying about the next paradise while sitting in one.

“This is the day the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.”

— Psalm 118:24

God gently whispered to my heart, Amy...you're missing today.

That same week, I found a heart-shaped shell.

Heart Sea Shell found in Huatulco, Mexico

A little later, I found a butterfly resting alongside the path. It stayed with me for hours, quietly opening and closing its wings as if it had nowhere else it needed to be.

Then it hit me.

Months ago, I chose those very symbols for my tattoo.

The heart.

The butterfly.

Love.

Freedom.

I smiled because it felt like God was reminding me that the things I keep asking Him for aren't always waiting somewhere in my future.

Sometimes they're already surrounding me.

Maybe that's true for you too.

Maybe today holds more beauty than you've noticed.

Maybe God has scattered little treasures all along your path—not to answer every question about tomorrow, but to remind you that He is already here.

Dear Little Girl,

Be where your feet are…

God already is.

“Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.”

— Matthew 6:34

With love, 🩵

Amy

Dear Little Girl…Rest in Hope

Dear Little Girl,

You like answers.

You like to know what is going to happen next.

You like plans and timelines and reassurance that everything will be okay.

You want to know the test results before the doctor calls.

You want to know the marriage will stay steady.

You want to know the kids will make good choices.

You want to know the money will stretch far enough.

You want to know the people you love will be safe.

And when you don't know, you start working.

You think about it.
Pray about it.
Research it.
Plan for it.
Prepare for every possible outcome.

As if enough effort could somehow create certainty.

But lately God has been teaching you something different.

Not through answers.

Through peace.

The kind of peace that shows up before the situation changes.

The kind that arrives when there are still questions on the table.

The kind that whispers, "You don't need to know everything. You just need to know Me."

In Acts 2, Peter stood before the crowd and quoted David's words:

"My body also will rest in hope."

Rest in hope.

Not rest in certainty.

Not rest in guarantees.

Hope.

Because hope is not confidence in an outcome.

Hope is confidence in God's presence.

It means trusting that even if the path twists in ways you didn't expect, you will not walk it alone.

So, dear little girl, stop striving for certainty.

Stop demanding tomorrow's answers before you've lived today.

The Spirit of God is already with you.

The same Spirit that raised Christ from the dead lives in you.

And maybe the miracle isn't finally getting the answer you've been waiting for.

Maybe the miracle is discovering you can rest before it arrives.

Rest in hope.

Not because you know what happens next.

Because you know Who goes with you.

Dear Little Girl…You Don’t Have To Chase God

Dear Little Girl,

The busy season is ending.

The performances have happened.
The schedules are shifting.
The deadlines that felt so urgent are beginning to loosen their grip.

And yet...

You still find yourself carrying things.

The questions.
The worries.
The hopes you have for people you love.

You thought peace would arrive when life finally settled down.

But peace was never waiting on a clear calendar.

Peace has always been a Person.

You keep thinking you'll meet God in the next season.

After the trip.
After the decision.
After the answer arrives.
After everyone is okay.

But what if He wants to meet you here?

Not in the finished version of the story.

Not after you've figured it out.

Here.

In the ordinary summer morning.
In the quiet cup of coffee.
In the walk around the neighborhood.
In the empty chair waiting for you to sit down.

You don't have to create a spiritual breakthrough.

You don't have to chase a feeling.

You don't have to prove your faithfulness.

Simply show up.

The same God who met Jacob while he was running.
The same God who met Hagar in the wilderness.
The same God who met the disciples in their fear.

He still meets people right where they are.

And He will meet you too.

Not because you've earned it.

Not because you've finally gotten everything right.

But because He loves being with you.

So take a breath today.

Let the pressure leave your shoulders.

You do not have to force the next chapter.

You only have to take the next step.

God is already there.

Waiting.

Love,
God

Dear Little Girl…For the Baby I Never Held

Seventeen years.

Seventeen years since I said hello and goodbye in the same season.

Every year around this time, I find myself sitting in the strange collision of two sentences:

Happy Birthday.

And Happy Death Day.

What a strange place to visit year after year.

A place where love and grief sit side by side.

A place where I celebrate a life I never got to hold and mourn a child I never got to know.

It's also a place that can be hard to explain.

Unless you've walked this road, it's difficult to understand. There is a sacred sisterhood made up of women who carried babies they never got to raise. It is a club none of us wanted to join, yet somehow the women in it understand one another without many words.

We know what it means to love someone we barely met.

We know what it means to miss someone whose face we never saw.

And we know what it means to carry both grief and hope in the same heart.

I still don't know if you were a boy or a girl.

And if I'm being honest, I still wonder.

Would you have had blue eyes like your daddy?

Would you have loved sports like Graeme?

Would you have been creative like JP?

Would you have been driven like Will?

Would you have loved dance like me?

Would you have had my laugh? My stubborn streak? My tender heart?

Or would you have marched to the beat of your own drum and surprised all of us?

Sometimes I imagine a little girl in a tiny tutu twirling through heaven.

Other times I picture a little boy running through fields, laughing and exploring.

The truth is, I don't know.

But I love you all the same.

I think that's one of the hardest things for people to understand about losing a baby.

Love doesn't wait for a birth certificate.

It doesn't wait for first words or first steps.

Love began the moment those two pink lines appeared.

And seventeen years later, that love remains.

I remember the day I found out you were gone.

Some memories fade with time.

That one never has.

I remember driving to the hospital.

I remember exiting Walnut Hill.

I remember riding the elevator.

I remember the ultrasound technician smiling.

And I remember watching that smile disappear.

"I am so sorry," she said. "There is no heartbeat."

Those words changed everything.

I remember tears streaming down my face.

I remember mascara streaked across my cheeks.

I remember walking through a world that suddenly looked exactly the same while feeling completely different.

I remember hoping they were wrong.

Praying they were wrong.

Believing a miracle might happen.

I didn't want to let you go.

I wanted one more chance.

One more heartbeat.

One more sonogram.

One more miracle.

But it never came.

And so I joined a club I never wanted to belong to.

The club of mothers whose babies live in heaven.

Years later, I learned my Grandma Foley belonged to that club too.

Nobody really talked about it.

I don't even know if all of my siblings know.

By the time I lost you, she was already gone, and I felt very alone.

Because here's what people don't always understand:

I knew you.

I carried you.

I heard your heartbeat.

You heard my voice.

You were real.

And you still are.

If you're reading this and you're part of that club too, I want you to hear me:

You are still a mother.

From conception to death, you are still a mother.

Even if you never held your baby.

Even if you never got pictures.

Even if nobody else remembers.

You are still a mother.

And I am still your mama.

One of my favorite memories happened after you were gone.

Your brother JP was sitting on the top bunk one night and decided you needed a name.

"Trece," he said.

Number three.

The third child.

I don't know if I would've chosen that name myself, but I loved the heart behind it.

I loved that your brother already loved you enough to name you.

And somehow that small moment has stayed with me for seventeen years.

Today, I still wonder about you.

I wonder if you've met my mom and dad.

I wonder if you've met Grandma Foley and the baby she never got to raise.

I wonder what your laugh sounds like.

I wonder what it would feel like to hold you.

I wonder what you smell like.

I wonder if you know how often I still think about you.

I wonder if you know that every June, I remember.

I remember the loss.

But I also remember the love.

And maybe that's what healing really is.

Not forgetting.

Not moving on.

Not pretending it didn't matter.

Maybe healing is learning how to carry both.

The grief.

And the gratitude.

The ache.

And the hope.

Because after all these years, that's what I feel most.

Hope.

Not the desperate hope that asks God to change the past.

But the quiet hope that trusts He is holding what I cannot.

The hope that believes heaven is real.

The hope that believes I will know you when I see you.

The hope that believes love does not end at death.

So today, Baby Berry, I want you to know something.

I never forgot you.

Not for one year.

Not for one day.

Not for one moment.

You are still part of our story.

You are still part of our family.

And you are still deeply loved.

I loved you the moment those two pink lines appeared.

And seventeen years later, I love you still.

Wildly.

Always have.

Always will.

Love,

Your Mama on Earth

Christmas Wish

It’s Christmas Eve and I am pondering on the idea of Christmas wishes……Isn’t it funny how when we get older our Christmas list becomes smaller, maybe even non existent. I mean we are adults and we can just go out and buy what we want if we really want it. True story.

This Christmas season as I was working on the boys list and things to get the older people in my life I realized somethings just can’t be bought. They just can’t. Love, Hope, Joy, Peace, Worthiness…..These gifts cannot be bought. If we are being honest these gifts are the greatest gifts of all. Not the diamond necklace, the x box, the clothes, the whatever, but the gifts of Love, Hope, Joy, Peace…..and Worthiness. This is my Christmas Wish!

My wish for all of you this year is my wish for myself and my family. My wish is that we all would reflect tomorrow, Christmas morning, on the simple fact that we were given those precious gifts…..many, many, many, many, years ago when a baby was born in a manger. He is the gift of Hope. Hope that we will see our loved ones that have gone before us. Joy in the present moment with our loved ones present. Peace in this world that has so much evil and hatred and Worthiness in knowing we are worthy. He came to make sure we knew we are Worthy and we are Loved. He came to give us Hope. He came to bring us Joy. He came to bring Peace upon this unsettled world. All you have to do is have a little faith in that which is unseen.

So this Christmas may we all put on a new pair of lenes. The lenses of faith to see Christ and to know Him. To feel his love so that in good times and in bad times we know we are Worthy and we are Loved. You are Worthy my friend and I am so grateful for you!

Merry Christmas!

XO,

Amy

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