Author: Shayna

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As a Mother Loves, So the Father Loves

There are days I still feel like a little girl trying to carry grown things with trembling hands.
Days I smile at everyone in the room while silently praying nobody notices how tired my heart really is.

And maybe that’s why I love God the way I do.
Not because I have always been strong in faith,
but because He has been gentle with me when life was not.

Because somehow, the God who hung the stars in the sky still bends low enough to hold the ache inside a human heart.

“As a mother comforts her child, so will I comfort you.” Isaiah 66:13

I think sometimes we forget that God’s love is not cold. It is not distant. It is not rules and fear and trying harder.

His love nurtures. It stays. It listens to the crying we never say out loud.

Like the nights we lay awake worrying about our children, our marriages, our loneliness, our futures.
The prayers we whisper while folding laundry,
driving home exhausted, or standing in the kitchen trying not to fall apart.

And still—He remains.

“The Lord is compassionate and gracious, slow to anger, abounding in love.” Psalm 103:8

I have spent so much of my life trying to earn peace. Trying to prove I was worthy of love. Trying to become “enough” before coming to God.

But Jesus has never asked me to clean myself up before reaching for Him.

He simply says:
“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.” Matthew 11:28

And maybe that is what I want all of us to remember tonight.

That we need Him. Not just on the hard days.
Not just when tragedy strikes. Not just when our prayers are desperate.

We need Him in the ordinary moments too.

Because without Him:
I become anxious trying to control everything.
I become empty from pouring without being filled.
I become someone constantly searching for validation that only God can truly give.

But with Him:
There is rest for my soul.
There is identity beyond performance.
There is love that does not leave when I fail, doubt, or break.

What kind of love is that?

A love that stays even when we wander.
A love that feeds us spiritually when we are starving emotionally.
A love that covers us softly like a blanket on the nights we don’t feel strong anymore.

Sometimes I think God mothers our hearts in ways we don’t even notice.

In conviction that protects us.
In mercy that meets us.
In provision we almost overlooked.
In the quiet strength He gives us to get up one more day.

And maybe being a woman of God is not about pretending we have it all together.

Maybe it is simply this:
Coming undone in His presence and letting Him love us there.

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” Psalm 34:18

So tonight, for every mother, every exhausted heart, every friend silently carrying grief, every soul trying so hard to be strong—
I pray we remember that God never intended for us to do this life alone.

He is our comfort. Our shelter. Our daily bread.
Our safe place. Our Father with the tenderness of a mother’s embrace.

And honestly, I do not know where I would be without Him.

Because when the world felt loud, He stayed gentle.
When I felt unlovable, He stayed faithful.
When I lost pieces of myself, He kept calling me “daughter.”

“See what great love the Father has lavished on us, that we should be called children of God!” 1 John 3:1

And that kind of love changes everything.

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He Is Risen… And So Are You

This Easter found me in the in-between: Not who I used to be, not quite who I’m becoming yet.

Somewhere between letting go and learning how to hold joy again, between prayers I’ve seen answered and the ones I’m still laying down at His feet, again… and again… and again.

If I’m honest, this season has stretched me.

There were days I didn’t recognize myself.

Days I felt strong in the morning and undone by the night.

Days I questioned, days I wrestled, 

days I wondered if healing was really happening

or if I was just learning how to carry the weight better.

But this is where He met me.

Not in the version of me that had it all together, 

not in the “I’m fine” I gave everyone else, but in the quiet moments, the tired prayers, 

the honest ones that sounded more like 

“God, I don’t understand… but I’m still here.”

And He stayed.

He didn’t rush me.

He didn’t shame me for the process.

He didn’t ask me to clean myself up first.

He just… stayed.

And isn’t that what Easter really is?

Not just a celebration of a moment in history,

but an invitation.

An invitation to bring our real selves, our worn-out hearts, our questions, our grief, our hope

and lay it all down at an empty tomb.

Because the stone wasn’t just rolled away so Jesus could rise;

it was rolled away so we could finally breathe.

So we could step out of the things that tried to bury us—fear, shame, heartbreak, disappointment, 

old versions of ourselves we’ve outgrown.

So to my friends. My safe place. My family.

I see you.

I see the way you keep showing up, even when it’s hard.

I see the quiet strength it takes to keep choosing faith when life doesn’t look how you thought it would.

I see the prayers you don’t always say out loud, 

the tears you wipe before anyone notices, the battles you’re fighting that no one fully understands.

And I just want you to know: This day is for you too.

For the ones who feel like they’re behind.

For the ones who feel like they should be further along by now.

For the ones who are tired of starting over.

For the ones learning how to trust again—

God, themselves, and even other people.

Resurrection doesn’t always look like a miracle overnight.

Sometimes it looks like staying.

Sometimes it looks like choosing not to give up.

Sometimes it looks like letting God love you

in the middle of your mess instead of waiting until you feel “fixed.”

Sometimes it looks like sitting in a room like this, 

with people who don’t expect perfection—just presence.

And if all you have today is a flicker instead of a flame, that’s okay.

If your faith feels small, if your heart still feels tender, if you’re still figuring it out—that’s okay.

Because He still rolls stones away.

Even the ones we’ve learned to live with.

Even the ones we’ve convinced ourselves 

are “just how things are.”

He still breathes life into dry places—into weary hearts, into numb places, into dreams we thought were too far gone.

He still calls us by name, not by our past, not by our mistakes, not by our doubts; but by who we are becoming.

And maybe this year, Easter doesn’t mean everything is suddenly okay.

Maybe it means something softer. Something deeper. Something more real.

Maybe it means you’re still here.

Still trying. Still open. Still willing to let God meet you right where you are.

Maybe it means becoming:

Becoming whole. Becoming free.

Becoming the version of you that isn’t defined by what broke you, but by what God is rebuilding in you.

Slowly. Gently. Faithfully.

And you don’t have to rush it.

You don’t have to force it.

You don’t have to be anything other than honest.

Because even here, in the in-between, 

in the healing, in the not-yet: There is life.

And it’s rising in you, too.

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Learning to Live the Kingdom Way

Prayer, for me, has never really been polished.
It’s rarely eloquent.
It doesn’t sound like the kind of prayers
that make people nod or whisper amen under their breath.

Most days, prayer looks like me showing up
half put together, half overwhelmed,
and fully aware that God already sees
the parts of me I’m still trying to hide.

Sometimes prayer is just, “God, I don’t know what I’m doing.”
Sometimes it’s silence. Sometimes it’s tears
that don’t translate into words.

And I cling to the promise that “the Spirit helps us in our weakness and intercedes for us through wordless groans.”

Because if I’m honest, there are days faith feels steady, and there are days faith feels like
choosing to trust while standing in the fog.

Living for Him has looked less like perfection
and more like returning.
Returning after I’ve doubted.
Returning after I’ve failed.
Returning after I’ve tried to carry everything alone
like I forgot He said, “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest”.

And maybe that’s what kingdom living really is –
not never falling apart, but knowing where to fall when we do.

I think loving each other the way Jesus calls us to
is one of the hardest and most beautiful parts of faith.

Because loving people sounds simple until it asks for patience when someone keeps struggling with the same thing.

It sounds beautiful until forgiveness is required before an apology comes.

It sounds inspiring until loving someone
costs comfort, time, or pride.

But Jesus didn’t leave us guessing.
He said, “By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another.”

Not if we’re impressive.
Not if we’re always right.
Not if we look like we have life figured out.

If we love.

And I think sometimes we forget that kingdom love is messy and patient and deeply inconvenient.

It looks like staying at the table during hard conversations.
It looks like praying for each other even when we don’t know how to fix what someone is walking through.
It looks like carrying each other’s burdens
like Galatians tells us to – “Carry each others burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ.”

And if I’m being vulnerable… there are moments I want to isolate instead.
Moments I convince myself I’m easier to love from a distance.
Moments I feel like I have to be stronger, happier,
more put together to deserve community.

But kingdom thinking pulls me back to the truth that we were never meant to do this life alone.

Acts says the early church shared everything –
their meals, their prayers, their struggles, their lives.
They weren’t bonded by perfection.
They were bonded by presence.

And I think that’s what we’re building when we sit together, pray together, laugh, cry, confess, and keep choosing each other anyway.

Because a kingdom mindset slowly shifts the question from “What do I need?” to “How can I reflect Christ here?”

It reminds me that “we do not live for ourselves alone.”

It teaches me that humility isn’t thinking less of myself – it’s remembering we all stand at the same cross needing the same grace.

Philippians says, “Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit. Rather, in humility value others above yourself.”

And if I’m honest, that verse stretches me.
Because loving like Jesus means letting go of pride I didn’t even realize I was holding.

But I’m learning kingdom living isn’t loud or flashy.
It’s quiet transformation.
It’s choosing gentleness when sarcasm would be easier.
Choosing grace when judgment feels justified.
Choosing prayer when control feels safer.

It’s trusting that God is shaping something eternal in us even when growth feels slow and progress feels invisible.

Sometimes I look around this group and I see people who are carrying silent battles, private prayers, unspoken fears, and stubborn hope that keep showing up anyway.

And it reminds me of Hebrews, when it says, “Let us consider how we may spur one another on toward love and good deeds, not giving up meeting together, but encouraging one another.”

Maybe that’s what this is.
Not people who have it together.
Just people who keep choosing Jesus and keep choosing each other.

And maybe the kingdom isn’t something we’re waiting to see someday.
Maybe it’s something God is growing quietly
every time we pray honestly, love imperfectly, forgive slowly, and stay connected when it would be easier to disappear.

I’m still learning how to live this way.
Still learning how to pray without pretending.
Still learning how to love people
the way Christ loves me –
steadily, patiently, without keeping score.

But I’m grateful I don’t have to learn it alone.