Not Consumed

“Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed, for His compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is Your faithfulness.” — Lamentations 3:22–23

There is a sacred weight that comes with truly loving and serving the Lord.

When you devote yourself to the Church.
When you pour into ministry.
When you show up for people again and again.
When you carry burdens no one else sees.

You strive to serve Him well. You want to be faithful. You want to honor God with your life.

And yet… life can still feel heavy.

Ministry can exhaust you.
Family responsibilities can stretch you thin.
Spiritual battles can drain your strength.
Unanswered prayers can test your endurance.

Sometimes the very ones who serve the most are tempted to be consumed by discouragement.

Jeremiah wrote Lamentations in the middle of devastation. Everything looked ruined. Yet in the center of grief, he declared:

“We are not consumed.”

Not because the chaos stopped.
Not because the future looked promising.
Not because he had answers.

But because of who God is.

The enemy would love to consume you with:

  • Distraction
  • Comparison
  • Offense
  • Fatigue
  • Anxiety about what’s next

He cannot steal your salvation — but he will try to steal your focus.

And here is the truth:
You will be consumed by something.

If we leave our hearts unguarded, the noise of the day will fill the empty spaces.

But Scripture calls us to something different.

Instead of being consumed by chaos, we must consume ourselves with His presence.

Fill the empty spaces with:

  • Worship music playing in your home and car
  • Quiet moments of prayer, even whispered prayers between tasks
  • Reading Scripture before reaching for your phone
  • Sitting still long enough to let His peace settle your spirit

When you fill your atmosphere with His presence, there is no room for bitterness to take root.
When you saturate your mind with His Word, fear has no place to grow.
When you practice worship in the middle of heaviness, discouragement begins to lose its grip.

His mercies are new every morning — but we must step into them.

Faithfulness is not striving harder.
It is surrendering deeper.

It is waking up and saying:

“Lord, this day is Yours.
This ministry is Yours.
These struggles are Yours.
Lead me through what I cannot see.”

We fight the good fight not by controlling outcomes, but by guarding our focus.

When life feels overwhelming, don’t allow the silence to be filled with the enemy’s whispers.
Intentionally fill it with worship.
Fill it with Scripture.
Fill it with prayer.

Because what fills you will shape you.

And when His presence fills you, the distractions that try to consume you simply have no room.

You may still walk through heavy seasons.
You may not yet see the light at the end of the tunnel.
But you will not be consumed.

Not because you are strong —
But because He is faithful.

Great is His faithfulness.
New mercy is waiting for you tomorrow morning.

And when you choose to fill yourself with Him, you will have strength to keep fighting the good fight — steady, surrendered, and unconsumed.

Loneliness

Loneliness is not something we choose. It is not something we crave. It is a dark and tender place we sometimes find ourselves in at the most unexpected moments of life. A place that feels cold. Heavy. Quiet in ways that echo too loudly.

It can feel impossible to carry the burdens we bear when there is no one beside us to help hold them.

In those moments, what we long for is simple—conversation. Connection. The kind of emotional safety that allows us to exhale. The kind of bonding that lets us be fully ourselves without fear of judgment. There is something sacred about genuine conversation. It reaches into the deepest parts of our loneliness. It reminds us we are seen. It can bring light to the worst of days and lift our spirits just enough to keep going.

Sometimes it’s the smallest things—a shared laugh, a thoughtful message, a few minutes of feeling understood. Little bursts of sunshine. Brief reminders that we are alive and that someone notices.

But when that connection fades… when the conversation stops… when what felt like your last lifeline slips away, the grief can take you by surprise.

You find yourself staring into the stillness of the day. Sitting in the car longer than necessary, gathering the strength to step back into normal life. Lying awake at night, alone with thoughts that replay what once was. And in those quiet hours, you feel grief—not only for the person or connection you lost, but for who you were in that season… and for what you hoped it might become.

It is grief for what was.
Grief for what could have been.
Grief for the version of you that felt less alone.

And yet, even there—in the quiet car, in the sleepless night, in the ache you can’t quite name—Scripture whispers something steady and true:

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

Close. Not distant.
Near. Not absent.

When loneliness convinces you that you are unseen, God draws nearer still. When your spirit feels crushed under the weight of loss, He does not turn away from your grief—He moves toward it.

And in those desperate, fragile moments, a question rises in the silence:

How far are you willing to go for connection?
How much of yourself are you willing to trade just to not feel alone?

Loneliness can tempt us to reach for anything that promises relief. But not every connection is healthy. Not every conversation is safe. Not every lifeline leads to life.

Sometimes the bravest thing we can do in our loneliness is pause. To remember that our longing for connection was placed in us by God—not to drive us toward desperation, but toward healthy, life-giving relationships. Toward Him first. Toward people who reflect His heart.

You are not weak for feeling lonely.
You are human.

And even in the quiet, unseen places, you are not abandoned. He is close.

Boundaries

Every wife must set boundaries.

PTSD introduces unique and heavy challenges into a marriage—challenges that can leave a woman feeling alone, neglected, unheard, unseen, unappreciated, and, at times, deeply unloved. But at no point should this become your new normal. Nor should it be allowed to define your marriage or your identity.

Scripture is clear about God’s design for marriage. Ephesians 5 paints a picture of love that is sacrificial, honoring, and protective—a love in which a husband is called to love his wife as Christ loves the Church. PTSD does not exempt a marriage from God’s design, nor does it excuse behavior that wounds, diminishes, or devalues.

Your worth is not determined by your spouse’s capacity or condition. Your worth comes from the Father. When the weight feels unbearable, you must press into Him—seeking His will, His strength, and His truth—to walk this journey and fight these battles with wisdom and courage.

Boundaries are not punishment. They are protection. They define what is acceptable and what is not. And when boundaries are crossed, action must follow. Accountability is necessary. Consistency matters. Boundaries that are not enforced eventually become suggestions.

If we are willing to draw permanent boundary lines against the enemy to keep him out of our homes and hearts, why would we not do the same within our marriages to guard against what seeks to steal, kill, and destroy?

Set boundaries. Keep them. Let them define you—not fear, not guilt, not someone else’s brokenness.

“Above all else, guard your heart, for everything you do flows from it.” — Proverbs 4:23

The Friend in My Pocket

Oftentimes, I find myself in a place of confusion. A place where my own words echo in an empty room, never to be heard. A place where conversation feels as though it never truly existed. A place where companionship, touch, intimacy—and simply living—have quietly vanished.

It takes me back to when I was a small child with an imaginary friend who somehow satisfied the loneliness in my mind. Every thought, every emotion, every moment of every day was spent knowing that if I just said their name, I would suddenly be in the presence of company again.

It sounds silly as an adult, but children possess an imagination that gently carries them through the roughest seasons of life—simply by creating an image, giving it a name, a home, and calling it a very best friend.

Somewhere along the years, I lost my imaginary friend. And in moments like these, I find myself longing to be a child again.

To have a friend in my pocket—to bring joy to my sorrow, ease to my pain, a bit of laughter when the days feel too heavy—feels like a gift I deeply miss. Most of all, I long for the comfort of an unbiased conversation, one that asks nothing and judges nothing.

A simple smile to help me conquer the hardest days. And the greatest comfort of all would be knowing I had a friend in my pocket—one who would never leave my side.

Maybe growing up isn’t about losing imaginary friends—maybe it’s about learning how deeply we still need one.

Boundaries

Boundaries are the invisible lines we place in our relationships to protect our character, guard our hearts, preserve self-respect, and uphold our dignity. They are not walls meant to shut people out, but safeguards that keep us whole.

But what happens when those boundaries begin to blur for the sake of a partner?

Too often, we overgive, overlove, and overextend ourselves until there is nothing left. We pour from an empty cup, believing sacrifice equals love, while slowly losing pieces of who we are. Boundaries were never meant to create conflict or push people away—they are necessary to allow us to be the healthiest version of ourselves without being taken for granted, walked over, mistreated, or devalued simply because our limits make someone uncomfortable.

When hate, rudeness, selfishness, sinful habits, or addiction begin to erode those boundaries, love does not mean silence. Love means pushing back—with truth, grace, and firmness—and enforcing what protects both your heart and your calling.

When boundaries are abandoned in marriage, the result is not unity but division. Not intimacy, but dependency. Not peace, but exhaustion. And over time, the slow erosion of boundaries often leads to the complete loss of what once was.

Healthy boundaries don’t destroy relationships—they reveal whether a relationship is healthy enough to survive. And sometimes, the most loving thing you can do is refuse to lose yourself in the process of loving someone else.

“Above all else, guard your heart, for everything you do flows from it.”
— Proverbs 4:23

Boundaries are not a lack of love—they are wisdom in action. Guarding your heart honors the life God has entrusted to you and preserves the love He intends to flow through you. When boundaries are upheld with truth and grace, they become an act of obedience, not rejection—an invitation to walk in health, wholeness, and lasting love.

Beyond the Cupboard Doors

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.”
— Matthew 11:28 (NIV)

Loneliness brings with it a longing—for conversation, for connection, for someone who will simply listen. Often, we can be surrounded by people and yet feel completely isolated in the room. It’s in those moments that our thoughts tend to take over. A million things swirl through our minds—things we long to say out loud, hoping someone might care enough to hear them.

And so, we begin to ramble to ourselves.

Washing dishes. Sweeping the floor. Folding socks.
The simplest tasks of life become the closest thing to conversation we have. I found myself there—stuffing blankets into the cupboard, talking out loud, letting random thoughts spill into the air, fully aware that no one was listening. My mind jumped from one thought to the next until I suddenly stood still, suspended in a moment that felt detached from reality.

And then, I imagined walking into the fairytale land of Narnia.

Disappearing into the cupboard that stood before me—its presence faint, almost inviting. We often find ourselves dreaming of a place beyond reality, a place that offers escape from everything we carry inside. A world of redemption waiting just beyond the applewood doors. A life untouched by pain, fear, or disappointment.

If only it were that easy.

The weight of real life presses so heavily on our souls that we begin to create a delusion—believing there must be something better, something lighter, somewhere else. Yet, as we journey through this uncharted land of fantasy, we quickly discover that even it is plagued by an eternal winter. Betrayal comes from those closest to us. Innocence is stripped away by deeper magic. And the escape we longed for becomes nothing more than a reflection of our own broken reality.

And then—we see Aslan.

The creator. The redeemer.
The one who transforms this place of escape into a mirror of truth. Suddenly, it becomes clear: the sinner is desperate—for forgiveness, for redemption, for salvation. Desperate for a Savior willing to lay Himself down, taking on every sin of humanity.

I close the applewood doors.
I snap back to reality.

And in that moment, I realize my burdens were never meant to be carried into another world—they were meant to be laid at the altar. His grace is sufficient for me. Always. Every single day of my life.

Lord,
You see the quiet moments—the cupboards, the silence, the words spoken into empty rooms. You see the longing, the exhaustion, the places we wish we could escape from and the places we wish would save us. Help us to remember that true redemption is not found beyond imaginary doors, but at Your feet. Teach us to lay down what is heavy, to stop carrying what was never ours to hold, and to trust that Your grace is enough—right here, in this life, on this day. Amen.

The Mug

I sat back in my chair, staring at my favorite coffee mug for what felt like an eternity. It was a moment of complete disassociation—lost in silence, resting in a place of nothingness—as the words Stay ROOTED stared back at me.

So many days I’ve looked at that mug and read those words. Some mornings it brought encouragement; other mornings, it brought tears. Yet never had those words pierced me the way they did in that moment of solitude.

It was a moment of revelation. A moment of awe. One that made me feel the weight of my testimony.

A testimony that declares my circumstances have not swayed my faith, my hope, or my love—because they are firmly anchored in Jesus Christ.

As PTSD wives, we tend to question our lives, our thoughts, our faith… and sometimes even our character. When the battles begin to rage, or when we find ourselves lost in a lonely place, everything can feel shaken. Our spiritual stability, trust, faith, and hope—things we often look to our spouse to provide—are the very things we were meant to seek from the Father all along.

That coffee mug is a constant reminder to shift my focus—from my circumstances to God’s unfailing mercies. Staying rooted has drawn me closer to the One who never changes. It reminds me that even when everything around me feels uncertain, He remains steady.

Scripture puts it beautifully:

“Blessed is the one who trusts in the Lord,
whose confidence is in him.
They will be like a tree planted by the water
that sends out its roots by the stream.
It does not fear when heat comes;
its leaves are always green.
It has no worries in a year of drought
and never fails to bear fruit.”
— Jeremiah 17:7–8 (NIV)

Staying rooted doesn’t mean the storms stop coming. It means we are anchored deep enough to withstand them. Like a tree planted by the water, drawing life from a source far greater than the heat, the drought, or the chaos around it.

And sometimes, God uses something as simple as a coffee mug to remind us exactly where our roots belong.

Father,
Help us stay rooted in You when life feels uncertain and heavy.
When the storms come and our hearts feel weary, remind us where our strength comes from.
Teach us to draw from Your living water instead of our circumstances.
Anchor our faith deep in You—steady, unshaken, and secure.
And in the quiet moments, when we feel alone or overwhelmed, gently remind us that You are near, faithful, and unchanging.
Amen.

“A quiet moment, a favorite mug, and a powerful reminder: stay rooted in Him. 🌿 Even in the storms, His mercies never fail. #StayRooted #FaithOverFear #AnchoredInChrist”

Fight Like David


“But I trust in your unfailing love;
my heart rejoices in your salvation.
I will sing the Lord’s praise,
for he has been good to me.” – Psalm 3:5–6 (NIV)

As I sit here enjoying a hot cup of coffee on what might be the largest snowstorm of my lifetime, I find myself thinking about King David. In all of his greatness, he still reached places of abandonment, fear, and deep vulnerability in the eyes of his enemies.

Oh, how I relate to this—knowing the Almighty God walks with me through life, yet often feeling as David did: alone, doubtful, abandoned, and vulnerable to the enemy.

I keep returning to the words David poured out to his God:

“How long, Lord? Will you forget me forever?
How long will you hide your face from me?
How long must I wrestle with my thoughts
and day after day have sorrow in my heart?” – Psalm 13:1-2 (NIV)

I feel David’s cry deep within my soul—that longing to know how long the suffering will last, how long the wrestling within the mind must continue. Sorrow slowly drains joy and opens the door just enough for the enemy to creep in. In those moments, I feel David’s vulnerability at the deepest levels of my being.

Although David was facing a literal army, I am fighting a spiritual warfare far fiercer than we can imagine. Spiritual battles knock at our doors every single day. And it is often in moments of weakness or complete abandonment that I’m reminded David still drew his strength from the Lord. His hope came from the Lord.

It is easy to offer hope and God’s grace to others through my own experiences, yet often nearly impossible to accept that same hope for myself. When my hope runs thin, I write from the trenches—allowing God to use my words to shine light into the lives of others.

But what about me?

I am humbled to realize that it is okay to feel.
To question.
To doubt.
To make mistakes.

It is okay to say:
“I am carrying too much alone.”
“I don’t want to be the strong one today.”
“I don’t want to fight another battle quietly.”
“I don’t want to be the one who always understands.”

I am allowed to feel.
Allowed to be weak.
Allowed to cry out to God, just as David did, in my despair.

And you have permission to do the same.

God longs for us to want Him, need Him, cry out to Him. He doesn’t expect perfection—He expects trust, faith, and vulnerability.

Be a David. Let your true feelings be heard. Speak them out loud to the Father and trust His perfect plan and timing.

Leanna Crawford’s song “Honest” feels especially fitting when entering a posture of worship in the pit of despair—when fear surrounds us and darkness feels heavy. It captures the raw tension of witnessing God’s power, faithfulness, and miracles in others’ lives while still holding onto the promise of our own victory.

Don’t give up.
Be a David.
Remain steadfast, persistent, faithful, honest—
and wake up every day expecting.

Father,
You see the battles we fight out loud and the ones we carry quietly.
You know the weariness, the doubt, the questions we’re afraid to say.
Meet us here—in our honesty, in our weakness, in our longing.
Give us the courage to cry out like David,
and the faith to trust You even when answers feel far away.
Teach us to rest in Your unfailing love
and to believe You are still good, even here.
Amen.

When the Battle Is Over but the War Lingers

“The Lord will fight for you; you need only to be still.” — Exodus 14:14

Is the most difficult part to bear in the midst of the battle, or the silent mental prison that lingers behind? Undoubtedly, it is the aftermath—the chaos, the battle, the struggle, in whatever form it arises. It’s the adrenaline in the moment, the anxiety, the blood boiling, the heavy silence that overtakes every ounce of your being as you whisper, this is not my battle… this is not my battle.

Let’s be honest—it is incredibly difficult to exercise full surrender in the hellish heat of the battle. Every part of our body is screaming to enter fight mode. We want to defend ourselves, lash out, say the harsh words we don’t mean… or maybe the ones we do. Raise our voices louder than we should, sometimes even scream in the face of the one we love most, just to cover the pain.

But it is the self-control and complete confidence we find in our glorious Maker that tames the flesh-driven spirit inside of us. Getting through these battles by allowing God to fight them—that is what makes a true overcomer. There is a quiet sense of victory that follows, a moment where we rest in His peace and hear Him whisper, well done, my child.

The Holy Spirit living within us is what keeps the fight under submission. He restrains what our flesh longs to release. Flight mode, on the other hand, can sometimes get the best of us in the moment. While retreat may feel safer and often produces less immediate damage than fight, it can still carry lasting consequences once the heat dies down. Running doesn’t heal the wound—it only delays the reckoning. Only surrender allows God to fully step in and restore what the battle tried to destroy.

Then… the aftermath comes.
If you’ve been there, you know.

The overwhelming feeling of failure. The self-doubt. The belief that everything that transpired is somehow your fault. It feels like a million demons chasing you as you push through heavy brush, desperately trying to make it to the feet of the Father. The thoughts. The emotions. Or maybe the absence of emotion—which can be an even darker place to sit.

This season feels endless, like a million days rolled into one. We bathe in it, suffer in it, and somehow—only by the grace of God—we function in it. Every single day in this lonely place, we put on a smile and face the world with strength that comes only from our Maker.

Through my belief in the power of Jesus, I have seen time and time again that this place is only a season. Resting in the truth that He will work even this for our good is what carries us through. That belief clears the path through the heavy brush, makes the demons flee, and opens the way to the feet of the Almighty.

That is where we should always strive to be—at the feet of Jesus.

Keeping faith and holding tightly to God’s promises is what brings us through the battles. It carries us through the moments when we feel like our worst selves, reminding us that through Him, we can become the best version of ourselves—regardless of the circumstances. When we listen to that quiet whisper, this is not my battle, we invite God onto the scene to fight for us, and we allow ourselves to rest in His arms through the silent mental war that always follows the storm.

Prayer

Father God,
In the heat of the battle and in the silence that follows, remind us that this is not ours to carry alone. When every part of our body is screaming to fight or run, help us to be still and trust You to move. Quiet our minds, guard our words, and tame the storm inside us with Your Spirit. When the aftermath feels heavy, and the mental weight tries to pull us under, lead us back to Your feet. Fill our lungs with breath, our hearts with peace, and our souls with the assurance that You are fighting for us. Teach us to surrender—not out of weakness, but out of trust. We lay it all down and rest in You.
Amen.

Depths of the Sea

If I make my bed in the depths, You are there.”
— Psalm 139:8 (NIV)

That feeling. That thought. That deep emotion that instantly takes you to your secret place.

The place you go to escape — to not exist, to not feel. The place you only visit in desperate moments, when reality feels heavy, hopeless, breathless. A place that somehow feels both lifeless and powerful as you control each breath, taking in the oxygen your body so desperately craves.

It’s like sitting at the bottom of a vast body of water, drowning out everything in existence except the steady rhythm of your own breathing. Time freezes. The noise you’re escaping slowly fades into the distance while you soak in the silence, the darkness, the serenity of nothingness.

As the oxygen begins to dissipate, everything in you longs to stay there — alone, silent, suspended, lifeless.

Then, in a single moment, comes the gasp. Fresh air floods your lungs. Life rushes back in. Reality hits like a brick.

And it’s in that moment you realize something powerful: you were still in control of your chaos.

That brief glimpse of nothingness — the stillness you longed for — was given for only a moment. And as your lungs refill, you’re reminded of the gift of life… the miracle of breath.

It is in moments like this that I truly appreciate life. The awareness that tomorrow is never promised. The understanding that my time here on earth rests fully in the hands of my Master.

These moments bring clarity — a deep appreciation for breath, for choice, for life itself. Even in the darkest places, God’s mercy and grace never fail. They sustain me. They call me to choose Him. To choose life in the chaos.

And even when it feels like there is no way forward — only the deep darkness of a silent sea — He walks with me through every weary step of my journey. Even in the deepest, darkest waters.

One of my go-to encouragement songs says:

“And I’ll testify of the battles You’ve won,
How You were my portion when there wasn’t enough.
And I’ll testify of the seas that we’ve crossed,
The waters You parted, the waves that I’ve walked.”

In my deepest moments of desperation — at the bottom of what feels like an endless sea — God parts the waters. He gives breath to my lungs and strength to walk the waves once again.

It is only through complete surrender that I release control and hand my battles over to Him.

You will face battles. You will suffer moments of desperation. You may even feel as though your time on this earth should end.

Let this be your reminder: breathe. Just breathe.

There is a God who sees you, hears you, and fights for you. A God who parts waters, restores breath, and gives strength to rise again. Even when you feel buried in the depths of the sea, He fills your lungs and leads you back to the surface.

Put your faith in Him.
Allow Him to be your breath.