Dear Little Girl…The Feeling Isn’t the Problem

Dear Little Girl,

What if the feeling isn’t the problem?

What if it’s the warning light?

I’ve spent a lot of my life trying to change what happens after the fact.

The outburst.
The resentment.
The withdrawal.
The gossip.
The need to fix.
The urge to control.

But lately, I’ve been wondering if I’ve been looking too far down the road.

Because behavior is usually the last link in a much longer chain.

Before the reaction, there was a feeling.

Before the words, something stirred.

Before the spiral, a little light came on somewhere on the dashboard.

And maybe the work isn’t simply learning how to behave better.

Maybe it’s learning how to notice sooner.

I saw something recently in the story of Cain that I had somehow missed all these years.

Cain brings an offering to God. Abel brings one too. Abel’s is received with favor, while Cain’s is not.

And Cain gets angry.

Really angry.

Scripture says his face was downcast.

But before Cain ever hurts his brother, God comes to him.

And God asks a question:

“Why are you angry? Why is your face downcast?” — Genesis 4:6

God notices the emotion before the action.

He doesn’t shame Cain for being angry.

He doesn’t tell him to get over it.

He doesn’t tell him that a faithful person shouldn’t feel that way.

He asks him to notice it.

Why are you angry?

And then God warns him:

“Sin is crouching at your door; it desires to have you, but you must rule over it.” — Genesis 4:7

I’ve always focused on what Cain eventually did.

But this time, I noticed the moment before.

The warning.

The pause.

The space where Cain still had a choice.

And, Dear Little Girl, I think there is so much grace in that space.

Because maybe our emotions aren’t enemies.

Maybe they’re messengers.

Anger might be saying, Something feels unfair.

Fear might be saying, I don’t feel safe.

Jealousy might be whispering, I’m afraid there isn’t enough for me.

Resentment might be covering grief.

Defensiveness might be protecting shame.

Rejection might be poking at an old question about our worth.

The feeling isn't necessarily telling us the truth about the situation.

But it may be telling us that something inside us needs our attention.

And that's where I am learning to pause.

Not fix it.

Not defend it.

Not immediately text someone.

Not call a friend so she can tell me I’m right.

Not build an entire case in my head.

Just pause.

What am I actually feeling?

Why am I feeling it?

And what does this feeling want me to do?

Because feelings can be incredibly persuasive.

They can make urgency feel like wisdom.

They can make retaliation feel like justice.

They can make gossip feel like processing.

They can make control feel like protection.

They can make running away feel like peace.

But a feeling doesn’t have to become an instruction.

James tells us to be “quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry.” — James 1:19

Slow.

There it is again.

Space.

Room for a breath.

Room for awareness.

Room for God.

Maybe that is one of the places freedom actually lives—in those few sacred moments between what I feel and what I choose to do next.

I’m beginning to think God isn’t standing there waiting for me to fail.

He’s meeting me at the warning light.

Amy, what’s happening here?

Why did that hurt so much?

What are you afraid of?

What story are you telling yourself?

Before you respond, can we sit here together for a minute?

That changes everything.

Because I don't have to be ashamed that the light came on.

I just need to be willing to look under the hood.

There have been plenty of lights blinking on my dashboard lately.

Fear.

Resentment.

Scarcity.

Rejection.

The need to control an outcome.

And I'm learning that none of those feelings get to define me.

But they can teach me.

They can show me where something still hurts.

They can expose an old pattern.

They can reveal where I’m trying to find safety somewhere other than God.

And when I notice them early enough, I get a choice.

I can follow the old road.

Or I can pause.

Breathe.

Pull up a chair.

The original prayer chair that planted my seeds….

And ask God:

What is this trying to tell me?

Maybe spiritual maturity isn't never feeling angry.

Maybe it isn't never feeling jealous, scared, rejected, irritated or insecure.

Maybe maturity is recognizing the feeling before it grabs the steering wheel.

Dear Little Girl,

your emotions are messengers, not masters.

Listen to them.

Get curious about them.

Bring them into the light.

Bring them to God.

But you don't have to hand them the keys.

There is still time to choose.

There is still room to respond differently.

There is still grace at the door.

A Question to Journal On

What warning light has been showing up on your emotional dashboard lately?

Before you try to make it disappear, ask yourself:

What might this feeling be trying to tell me—and what would it look like to bring it to God before I act on it?

A Prayer for the Pause

Dear God,

Thank You for meeting me before the reaction.

Help me notice what is stirring inside me before my feelings become actions I regret.

Teach me not to shame my emotions or be ruled by them, but to bring them honestly to You.

When anger rises, help me pause.

When fear starts telling stories, help me pause.

When rejection hurts, help me pause.

When resentment begins building its case, help me pause.

Give me wisdom in that sacred space between feeling and action.

Help me remember that I still have a choice.

And when the warning lights come on, remind me that You are not waiting for me to fail.

You are already there, inviting me to sit with You.

Amen.

With hope and healing,
Worthy

Dear Little Girl…Your Limp Is Proof You’ve Been With God

Genesis 32

Dear Little Girl,

Maybe you've been apologizing for the way you walk.

Maybe you've spent years wishing you could go back to who you were before the heartbreak… before the grief… before the betrayal… before the disappointment.

You keep asking God to take away the limp.

But what if the limp isn't proof that you're broken?

What if it's proof you've been with Him?

When Jacob wrestled with God, he didn't walk away unchanged.

He walked away with a limp.

For years, I thought healing meant walking as if nothing had ever happened.

I thought one day my mom's death wouldn't catch in my throat.

That birthdays wouldn't ache.

That I wouldn't instinctively reach for the phone to tell her something wonderful.

I thought healing meant the limp would disappear.

But that's not what God has done.

Instead...

He taught me how to walk differently.

And maybe that's the greater miracle.

My grief is still real.

I still miss my mom.

I probably always will.

But the limp no longer tells me only what I've lost.

It reminds me of Who carried me through it.

I've noticed another limp too.

There was a time in my life when I needed everyone to like me.

I became a chameleon.

I would change who I was depending on who stood in front of me.

I said yes when I wanted to say no.

I laughed when something wasn't funny.

I drank because I wanted to belong.

I even made choices that weren't true to who God created me to be because I was afraid of being left out.

I was constantly chasing acceptance.

Today...

I don't do that anymore.

I don't chase.

I don't change myself to fit the room.

Not because I've become hard.

Because God has made me secure.

That doesn't mean everyone understands me.

It doesn't mean everyone agrees with me.

It doesn't even mean everyone likes me.

It simply means I know whose I am.

And that changes the way I walk.

Jacob's limp wasn't a punishment.

It was a reminder.

Every step he took whispered,

"I met God there."

Maybe your limp looks different than mine.

Maybe it's grief.

Maybe it's betrayal.

Maybe it's illness.

Maybe it's the child you're praying for.

Maybe it's the marriage you're fighting to rebuild.

Maybe it's a dream that never came true.

Whatever it is...

Don't be ashamed of the places life changed the way you walk.

Those very places may be where God met you most deeply.

Sweet girl,

Some people will only see your limp.

God sees the woman who refused to let go.

The woman He carried.

The woman He changed.

And one day, when you look back, you'll realize something beautiful.

You aren't walking like you used to.

Not because life didn't leave its mark.

But because God did.

Prayer

Father,

Thank You for meeting me in the places I never would have chosen to go.

Thank You for carrying me through grief, disappointment, and seasons that changed me forever.

When I'm tempted to hide my limp or wish it away, remind me that You are often doing Your deepest work in the places that still feel tender.

Help me stop chasing acceptance and start resting in the security of being Yours.

Teach me to walk with confidence—not because my life has been easy, but because You have been faithful.

Amen.

Journal Prompt

Where has life changed the way you walk?

What if, instead of seeing that place as evidence that you're broken, you began seeing it as evidence that God has been faithfully walking beside you all along?

Dear Little Girl…The Chair Before Mine

Dear Little Girl,

Before there were Two Chairs...there was one.

Today would have been my mom’s 90th birthday.

For My Mom on What Would Have Been Her 90th Birthday

And today, I finally understood where my own chair began.

Ninety Years Old!

How has it been almost ten years since we said goodbye?

Some days it feels like a lifetime ago.

Other days, I still find myself reaching for the phone at three o'clock.

Because for years, that's when we talked.

Almost every day.

You would be sitting in your prayer chair, rosary in hand, looking out the window at the children walking home from school. You loved watching them. You prayed for them, even if you didn't know their names.

I can still picture you there.

My Mom’s Prayer Chair….legacy of faith.

And I don't think there's been a single day since you've been gone that you haven't crossed my mind.

They say time heals.

I think time softens.

The ache isn't as sharp as it once was, but love has a way of leaving fingerprints that never disappear.

Maybe that's why the saying is true...

The greater the grief, the greater the love story was.

And ours was a beautiful one.

Today is another beautiful day in our family.

It's Alex Foley's wedding.

On your birthday.

He didn't even realize it until I told him.

He smiled the biggest smile.

And all I could think was...

Mom would have loved this.

Yesterday I found myself wondering...

What if God let you come to the wedding for just five minutes?

I can see it so clearly.

You'd walk in wearing that dress you loved so much—the one you wore to Robin's wedding.

Your beautiful red hair.

Your rosy cheeks.

Your little nose.

Your pink lipstick.

Those sparkling blue eyes that somehow smiled before the rest of your face did.

I miss this little firecracker!

You wouldn't rush.

You'd simply stand there for a moment...

taking all of us in.

Then I think you'd smile and say,

"Heaven is more beautiful than you can possibly imagine."

"Trust Him."

“Keep Praying…”

You always trusted Him.

Every single day.

You sat in your prayer chair with that worn prayer pad—yes, I still have it—and faithfully prayed through every name on your list.

People counted on your prayers.

Dad used to laugh and say,

"Your mom has the direct connection."

I believed him.

I still do.

One of the last conversations we had was in the ICU.

I asked if you were scared.

You folded your hands in your lap, looked at me, and quietly said,

"Sure...but we all have to do it."

At the time, that answer unsettled me.

I didn't want my mom to be afraid.

But today...

I think if you could speak to me now, you'd smile and say,

"Don't be afraid, my angel."

That's what you always called me.

Your angel.

I miss hearing that.

I miss your blue eyes.

Sometimes I catch a glimpse of them in Graeme's face, and for just a second...

it's like seeing you again.

I see you in other places too.

I see you in my heart for forgiveness.

In my love for people.

In my compassion.

In my desire to pray before I panic.

And then, as I sat here writing this letter...

I realized something that stopped me in my tracks.

You had a prayer chair…

I have Two Chairs…

I always thought…my Two Chairs were born out of my own heartbreak.

Out of losing you.

Out of losing my marriage.

Out of learning to trust God in the hardest seasons of my life.

But maybe...

they began long before that.

Maybe they began with a little girl watching her mother faithfully return to the same chair every day to meet with God.

You planted seeds you never got to see bloom.

Those seeds carried me through your death.

They carried me through betrayal.

They carried me through grief.

They carried me back to hope.

And now they are carrying other people too.

You never knew your faithful prayers would become someone else's healing.

That's your legacy.

Not because you wrote a book.

Not because you stood on stages.

Not because the world knew your name.

Because you quietly showed up to meet with God every single day.

And a little girl was watching.

Mom...

You taught me about prayer.

You taught me about forgiveness.

You taught me about serving others.

You taught me what compassion looks like.

You taught me to keep showing up when life hurts.

You taught me that faith isn't built in extraordinary moments.

It's built in ordinary, faithful ones.

Fifty years from now, I hope people remember you as the redhead with the faithful prayer chair.

The woman who believed God heard every prayer she whispered.

The prayer warrior.

Her final prayer list…..

The cook who made everyone feel at home.

The mom whose greatest sermon wasn't something she preached...

It was the life she lived.

And today, on your birthday in Heaven, I hope you're celebrating with Dad.

With your family.

And if you're with my baby...

Would you hold that little one close for me?

Tell them how deeply they are loved.

Tell them their mama thinks about them often.

And one day...

We'll all be together again.

Until then...

Know this.

Because you loved me...

I am okay.

I am better than okay.

I am whole.

Love,

The little girl who finally realized her faith began in the chair before hers.

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 Can Trust Without Overworking

Dear Little Girl,

For a long time, you believed safety was something you had to earn.

If you worked hard enough.
Planned well enough.
Saved enough.
Prepared enough.

Then maybe you could finally relax.

But lately, God has been gently showing you a different way.

The truth is, fear has a sneaky way of disguising itself as responsibility.

It tells you to work a little harder.
Plan a little more.
Carry a little extra.

It whispers that if you let your guard down, everything might fall apart.

And if you're honest, there are still moments when you believe it.

Moments when you worry about the future.
About your family.
About your business.
About whether you'll be able to carry what tomorrow brings.

But fear doesn't get to lead anymore.

In Genesis 35, God called Jacob back to Bethel—the place where he first encountered Him while running for his life.

This time, however, God wasn't calling Jacob to run.

He was calling him to return.

To settle.

To trust.

Before he left, Jacob buried the idols he had been carrying and set out in obedience. He didn't have all the answers. He didn't have guarantees. He simply trusted the God who had been faithful before.

That part stops me every time.

God didn't need Jacob to be perfect.

He needed him to show up.

Maybe that's what God is asking of us too.

To bury the idols we've built out of control, striving, money, productivity, and self-reliance.

To stop believing that our safety depends on how much we can carry.

To trust that God's provision is bigger than our plans.

Because God's provision is not a paycheck.

It's His presence.

It's His promises.

It's His peace.

For years, I thought I had to prove my worth.

To earn love.
To earn rest.
To earn safety.

But that isn't the Gospel.

I am worthy because He says I am.

You are worthy because He says you are.

Not because of what you produce.
Not because of what you achieve.
Not because of how much you carry.

Just because you belong to Him.

So today, dear girl, you can loosen your grip.

You don't have to earn your safety.

You don't have to overwork to be protected.

You don't have to carry tomorrow before it arrives.

God is already there.

And He is with you here, too.

Love,

Amy

Dear Little Girl…Put Down the Bricks

Dear Little Girl,

You've always wanted to get it right.

To make sure everyone is okay.
To keep the peace.
To solve the problem before it becomes a crisis.
To build something strong enough that nothing can fall apart.

So you pick up another brick.

A brick of responsibility.
A brick of worry.
A brick of control.
A brick of "what if."

And before you know it, you're carrying a tower God never asked you to build.

In Genesis, the people of Babel gathered with one goal: to build a tower high enough to secure their future and make a name for themselves.

Brick by brick, they trusted their own plans more than God's purpose.

But then we reach Pentecost.

Again, people gathered.
Again, many languages.
Again, uncertainty about what would come next.

But this time, they didn't build.

They waited.

They prayed.

They trusted.

And when the Spirit moved, what human effort could never accomplish, God did.

Do you see the difference, Little Girl?

One group tried to force the future.

The other trusted God with it.

Maybe that's the invitation for you too.

In your parenting.
In your marriage.
In your healing.
In your business.
In the questions you keep carrying around long after you've handed them to God.

Put down the bricks.

You don't have to manage every outcome.
You don't have to fix every problem.
You don't have to carry responsibilities that belong to God.

You don't have to build the tower.

You simply have to stay close to the One who already sees the whole picture.

The same Spirit who filled that upper room is alive and at work today.

He's not asking you to strive harder.

He's asking you to trust deeper.

So breathe.

Put down the bricks.

Step away from the tower.

And listen for the whisper.

You are loved.
You are seen.
And you never had to build the tower to prove your worth.

Love,

Your Older, Wiser Self

(The one still learning to put down the bricks too.)

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…He Trusts You With His Sheep

Dear Little Girl,

You’re going to make mistakes.

You’ll say yes when you should’ve said no.
You’ll lose patience.
You’ll look back and wish you slowed down.
You’ll second guess yourself and wonder if you’re really equipped for all of this.

Motherhood.
Marriage.
Leadership.
People trusting you with tender things.

But listen closely…

He knew all of that before He ever chose you.

And He still trusted you.

To raise those boys.
To love people well.
To teach.
To nurture.
To lead.
To shepherd hearts.

You were never chosen because you would do it perfectly.

You were chosen because you would keep showing up with love.

Yes, there will be hard conversations.
There will be seasons where your heart aches watching your babies grow faster than you’re ready for.
There will be tension, hormones, fear, unknowns, and late-night Google searches trying to make sense of it all.

But you are not doing this alone.

You sit with the Shepherd.

And He is guiding you as you guide them.

You do not need to have all the answers.
You do not need to carry every outcome.
You do not need to parent from fear.

You simply need to stay close enough to hear His voice.

Because women were never created to be small.

Women were trusted to carry life.
To nurture faith.
To show up first at the empty tomb.
To carry hope back into the world.

And you, Little Girl, are still being trusted too.

Even when your voice shakes.
Even when you’re uncertain.
Even when you wish you were doing better.

You are still the one He chose for this season.
For these people.
For this life.

So breathe.

Sit in the chair again.
Open your heart again.
Ask again.
Trust again.

He will speak.

He always does.

🩷

Dear Little Girl…God Is in the Ordinary (Easter Edition)

Dear Little Girl,

You thought resurrection would feel bigger.

Louder.
Clearer.
More obvious.

But here you are…
on Easter morning, a little tired, a little foggy,
trying to find your footing after a full few days.

And I want you to notice something.

You’re still here.
Still talking to Me.
Still soft.
Still open.

That is resurrection too.

You stood this past week and honored someone you loved.

You showed up when it mattered.
You spoke the words.
You felt the weight of it… and the beauty.

And then…

You laughed with your sister.
You saw her differently.
You softened toward her in a way you hadn’t before.

That shift?

That is Me.

Not just in the prayer you spoke…
but in the way your heart changed afterward.

You are beginning to understand something that will set you free:

Not everything is yours to carry.

Not every situation is yours to fix.
Not every storm is yours to step into.

You can love…
without losing yourself.

You can care…
without controlling the outcome.

You can say,
“This is not mine to solve,”
and still be deeply compassionate.

That is growth.
That is healing.
That is Me in you.

And today…

You feel a little off.

Maybe it’s the emotions.
Maybe it’s the exhaustion.
Maybe it’s Will leaving for the summer.

But you wonder quietly,
“Where are You in this?”

I’m right here.

In the quiet drive.
In the studio.
In the little ones running toward you.

In the laughter around your table.
In the memories that still take your breath away.

Those moments?

They are not random.

They are reminders of My goodness.

You read it this morning and it stayed with you:

Celebration at its very best is a response to God’s goodness… not a reward for our own.

Yes.

That feeling when your dancers move closer and closer to you…
That moment when your boys are all together, laughing, alive, home…

You didn’t earn that.

That is My goodness.

And today, we celebrate Easter.

Not just that I died.
Not just that I rose.

But that I am still rising.

In you.

In your softened heart.
In your new perspective.
In your ability to see differently today than you did yesterday.

Resurrection is not just a moment in history.

It is happening in your life.

Right now.

So don’t miss it.

Don’t rush past it.

Don’t wait for something bigger to believe I’m here.

The ordinary moments that take your breath away…

That’s where I live.

Love,
God