Why am I doing this??

Seriously…Why am I even doing this?

As I sit here, trying to capture the thoughts swarming in my head like a bevy of gnats—memories, fears, questions—I feel the weight of everything I want to share.

And the heaviest one? Doubt.

If I write it all down and share it with the world, will it even matter? What if my struggles seem like molehills compared to the mountains others are facing? What if my story doesn’t move anyone at all?

When I voiced these fears to my husband, he answered without hesitation:

“Even if just one person reads this blog and draws closer to God, that would be enough.”

So, I keep writing. Even though part of me hesitates—afraid that someone will read my story and not see how God worked in my life. That they’ll see the miracle in my marriage, my husband’s healing, and the restoration of our family and think, Well, that’s great for her, but God’s not going to show up like that for me.

I don’t want that. But more than that—I don’t want to forget.

Because I do forget. I forget how God has shown up, time and time again, and I don’t want to let that happen.

So that’s why I’m here.

And maybe I’m doing this because writing has always been how I process things. How I connect. How I heal.

My most recent children’s book, Sebi the Colt, is a perfect example. It began when a woman came to me with an idea—but she didn’t have the words. She had just lost her daughter and grandson in a house fire. Unimaginable grief. And somehow, through prayer and pain and surrender, God gave me the words she couldn’t find. I wrote the book for her, and now it’s helping others navigate grief too.

That’s when it really hit me—this gift I have for writing, it’s not just for me. It’s for whoever needs it.

So, I will continue telling the rest of the story of my husband’s breakdown and miraculous restoration. (I wanted to say Swan Dive right there, but if you haven’t been with me from the beginning, I don’t want to lose you just yet. Or at all.)

And yet, right now, I really just want to pluck one of these gnats out of the swarm, close my laptop, wash the dishes staring at me from my peripheral vision, and then avoid adulting for a portion of this Saturday.

But before I do, I have to say this—

IT IS A MIRACLE that my husband is singing in church tomorrow.

Sure, when I met him, he had just hopped off stage after belting out some Lynyrd Skynyrd. Quite well, I might add. But not too long ago, a Saturday morning in our house looked a whole lot different.

We’d be sitting in this same spot, finishing our coffee, and not long after, switching to Bloody Marys. He would have already snuck down to the garage to smoke weed—then lied about it when I confronted him.

That particular ball of gnats is getting shelved for another post. Or two. Or three.

For now, I want to be sure that anyone reading this who wasn’t part of our journey has the full picture. I want you to see it all—to draw your own conclusions, even if they don’t align with mine.

And then there’s this—

I listen to my friends and their struggles, and I can do only that. Listen. I can’t say anything that will change the mind of my friend who doesn’t believe in God.

Even though she’s more of an example of someone with Christlike qualities than anyone I know. But over three decades of friendship, I have yet to “win her to Christ.” Ugh. I don’t even like that phrase—it sounds so Southern Baptist, and I say that as someone who knows how deep that upbringing can run…. I’m pretty sure growing up in a Southern Baptist household is why she feels the way she does.

And yet, I keep writing. Because I know God is in all of it.

I look at the people around me—the ones who have endured divorce, infidelity, breast cancer. A child’s leukemia diagnosis and bone marrow transplant. Another with cerebral palsy and epilepsy.

So, who do I think I am? Why would my story of addiction and recovery matter?

Where is God when a 15-year-old boy with cerebral palsy suddenly develops epilepsy?

Where was God when my friend had to have a double mastectomy—just two years after giving birth to a son with a rare blood disorder, one that robbed him of his thumbs, stunted his growth, and will soon lead him into a battle with leukemia at age nine?

Where was God when, shortly after their wedding, her husband could no longer hide his alcoholism?

I don’t have the answers. But I know this—

God is right in the middle of it all.
Even when I’m side-eying Him like, “Really? This is the plan?

So, I keep writing.