Finding Freedom in Surrender

“For whoever would save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for my sake will find it.”  Matthew 16:25

I used to read that and think I understood it. I thought it meant something bold and dramatic—like dying for your faith, being a martyr, giving everything in one defining moment. But the truth is, I didn’t understand it at all.

Not until something cracked open in me.

I was watching Like Dandelion Dust, and for whatever reason, that verse didn’t feel distant anymore. It felt personal. It felt like it was reaching right into my life and gently—but firmly—asking:

What are you holding onto that’s costing you everything?  That question undid me.

If I’m being honest, before my walk with the Lord, I wasn’t really living—I was performing. Chasing. Grasping. Constantly trying to prove that I was worthy of being seen, loved, admired.

Most people would have said I was a good person. Maybe by the world’s standards, I checked the boxes. But inside,  I was tangled up in sin that looked a lot like insecurity, pride, and desperation for approval.

I lived for the world.

I found value in the cars, the houses, the people I knew, anything that could reflect back to me that I mattered. My identity was fragile, constantly shifting depending on who affirmed me that day.

One moment I felt untouchable… like I was shining so brightly no one could look away. And the next, I felt so small I didn’t even think I deserved to exist in the same space as others.

It was exhausting.

And it led me down roads I’m not proud of, places where I had no boundaries, where I let people take advantage of my need to be wanted. And when those situations left me feeling empty or ashamed, I didn’t stop. I spiraled.

Because shame doesn’t quiet you, it chases you.

Somehow, even in the middle of all that, I still managed to look like I had it all together on the outside. Strong, confident, the one who didn’t need anyone. But I needed everyone.

I remember someone once told me I was like the sun, that they lived just to bask in my light.  I held onto that like it was truth, like it defined me. I thought, this is it, this is who I am. But that kind of identity is a trap. Because when you believe you need to be someone’s sun, you also believe you’ll disappear when they stop looking for your light. Qhen that happened, I fell hard.

Looking back now, I don’t feel disgust as much as I feel grief. Grief for the version of me who thought she had to be everything to everyone just to feel like she was something. Grief for the girl who kept saying, “I just need to find a soft place to land,” not realizing how heavy that ask really was, because no human being was ever meant to carry that.

And then, slowly, gently, God showed me something different. I don’t need to find a soft place to land. I already have one, in Him, and it changed everything. Not overnight, not perfectly but deeply.

Now, about the dandelions…

Most people see them as weeds, something unwanted, something to pull out and throw away. But they’re resilient. Purposeful, beautiful in a way that’s easy to miss if you’re not really looking, because when a dandelion reaches the end of its life, it doesn’t just disappear.

It releases. It lets go of everything it was holding onto and trusts the wind. In that surrender, it multiplies.

That’s what this verse means.

“Losing your life” isn’t about one big, heroic moment, it’s about a thousand quiet surrenders. It’s about laying down your ego, your pride, your need to control, your craving for approval, over and over again. It’s about dying to the version of yourself that the world built and allowing God to rebuild you into something real. Something rooted, something free.

I won’t pretend it’s easy. Some days it’s a moment-by-moment choice. Some days that old voice is loud. The one that says, you need to be seen, you need to be validated, you need to be more.

But then I remember:

“My yoke is easy and my burden is light.” — Matthew 11:30

 I feel the difference, because the life I was carrying before was crushing me.  This new life is full.  I don’t wake up wondering who will make me feel worthy. I wake up asking how I can love someone well. I don’t search for comfort in people. I rest in the One who never leaves. I don’t need to be the sun, I just need to reflect His light.

And the joy in that… it’s hard to even put into words. It’s steady. It’s deep. It doesn’t disappear the moment someone looks away.

So yes… I finally understand.

To lose your life is to let go of everything that was never truly life to begin with. It’s to trust that in the letting go, God will do something far more beautiful than anything you could have held onto.

I am a dandelion.

Still learning. Still surrendering. Still being carried.

And for the first time in my life…

I’m not afraid of where the wind might take me. 🌼

Hearing Him In the Quiet

During my journey with the Lord, I’ve come to realize something deeply personal—He speaks to each of us differently.

If I’m being honest, there was a time I felt a quiet kind of jealousy watching my husband’s relationship with God. The Lord speaks to him so clearly, so boldly. There’s no question when it happens.

And then there was me… waiting, wondering, straining to hear anything at all.

I started to question myself.
Was I doing something wrong?
Was I not praying enough? Not praying the “right” way?
Why did it feel like everyone else could hear him… but me?

But God, in his gentle and patient way, showed me something I’ll never forget:
Just like any loving Father, he speaks to his children in different ways.

That truth didn’t come to me in a quiet, peaceful moment.
It came in the middle of grief.

In the days following the loss of my friend Beth, I felt like I was unraveling. Her passing shook me in a way I wasn’t prepared for. Truthfully, I haven’t experienced much loss in my life, and the previous  times I did, I avoided it completely. I buried it in work, distraction—anything to not feel it.

And I was ready to do that again.

I had volunteered to help set up for a big church event that day. I remember walking in, focused on the task, already trying to outrun what I didn’t want to face. I was looking for one of the women from Bible study, but instead I found Pastor Rick.

He didn’t know how close Beth and I were.
He didn’t know what his words would do.

And just like that… everything stopped.

The news hit me harder than I expected, and I didn’t handle it well. My heart broke right there in that moment, and I remember feeling almost embarrassed by how deeply it affected me. I even felt bad for him—for being the one to say it out loud.

But still, I tried to pull it together. I told myself, just keep moving. Stay busy. Don’t feel it. Not now.

And that’s when God stepped in.

“Not today.”

Instead of continuing on with setup, I found myself walking into the Bible Study. I didn’t plan it. I didn’t think about it. I was just… led there.

And within 30 minutes of hearing the news, I was sitting in a circle of women—crying, remembering, sharing stories about Beth. We spoke about her laughter, her kindness, the light she carried so effortlessly into every room.

There was so much pain in that room… but there was also so much love.

And somehow, in the middle of all that heartbreak, I felt held.

I went home that night still grieving, but no longer running from it. There was a peace I couldn’t explain—a quiet steadiness that told me I wasn’t alone in it.

The next morning, my dad sent me a YouTube song like he always does. Usually it’s something from Joe Bonamassa or Eric Clapton. But this time, it was “All My Tears Be Washed Away.”

What made it even more meaningful… he had no idea Beth had passed.

I just sat there, listening, and felt the weight of it. Not overwhelming—but comforting. Like a hand resting gently on my shoulder.

That was Him.

Not loud.
Not overwhelming.
But unmistakably present.

In the days that followed, the Lord didn’t take the grief away—but he walked me through it. He gave me space to feel it, but also surrounded me with exactly what I needed. He led me to Psalm 77, where sorrow and faith sit side by side—where questioning and remembering God’s goodness somehow coexist.

And little by little, I began to see it…

He had been speaking to me all along.

Through people.
Through timing.
Through songs I didn’t expect.
Through Scripture that met me exactly where I was.

As it says:

“My sheep listen to my voice; I know them, and they follow me.” — John 10:27

He is always speaking.

I just wasn’t recognizing his voice because I was expecting it to sound different.

Now I understand—some of his children need the thunder.
Others… need the whisper.

And there is something so tender, so deeply personal, about being spoken to in a whisper.

So if you’re in a season where you feel like you can’t hear him…
maybe he’s not absent.

Maybe he’s just being gentle with you.

Slow down.
Be still.
Let yourself feel, instead of run.

You may find that in the quiet, in the spaces you once tried to avoid…

He’s been there the whole time.

Stepping Into the Sunshine

A couple of weeks ago, we were given a glimpse of something we had almost forgotten.

After a long, cold winter, a few beautiful days arrived like a quiet gift. The kind where you could step outside with just a light jacket—or none at all—and feel completely unencumbered. The air didn’t bite at your skin. The sun didn’t just shine; it warmed you. It felt like it reached all the way through to your bones, waking something up that had been dormant for far too long.

Even the simplest things felt different. Doing chores outside was no longer a battle against the elements. Without bulky coats and stiff gloves, you could move freely. There was ease. There was joy. There was lightness.

And then, just as quickly, the cold came back.

The biting wind returned. The heaviness of layers. The resistance in every movement. Suddenly, everything felt harder again. What had briefly been effortless became a struggle.

And standing there in the cold, I couldn’t help but think—this is exactly what my life used to feel like.

Before I found God, life felt like winter… all the time.

Everything was harder than it needed to be. I felt alone, like I had to fight for every inch of progress. Approval from others became something I chased constantly, hoping it would fill a void I couldn’t quite name. It was exhausting. But at the time, I didn’t know anything different. I thought that was just what life was—heavy, cold, and something to endure rather than enjoy.

Then, everything changed.

Finding Jesus didn’t just shift my perspective—it transformed my entire experience of life. It was like stepping out of that endless winter and into the warmth of the sun for the very first time.

I feel free now in a way I can hardly put into words. The constant striving is gone. The loneliness has been replaced with a deep, steady presence. I no longer look to the world for approval—I look to the Lord, and in Him, I have already found it.

But it didn’t stop there.

Through Him, I came to understand love in a completely new way. Not the conditional, fragile kind I had known before—but a love that is constant, forgiving, and unshakable. A love that doesn’t see me as too broken, too damaged, or too far gone.

For most of my life, I carried the weight of feeling unworthy. Things that had been done to me, and the behaviors that followed, left me believing I had no real value. That I was somehow beyond redemption.

But that is not the truth.

No one is beyond redemption. Not one of us.

God’s love is so immense, so all-encompassing, that He gave His Son so that we could have eternal life. Not because we earned it. Not because we proved ourselves. But simply because we are loved.

There are no impossible barriers. No unreachable standard. We are called to love the Lord and to love each other—and in that, we find everything.

Life without Jesus feels like living in winter without end.

But life with Him?

It’s like stepping into summer.

Warmth replaces cold. Light replaces darkness. Freedom replaces striving. And suddenly, you’re not just surviving—you’re living.

If you’ve been standing in the cold for a long time, believing that’s all there is… I promise you, it’s not.

You don’t have to stay there.

All you have to do is step into the sunshine.