This morning I stepped outside and leaned against the white railing on my back landing. The air was cool and a little damp, just on the edge of being cold. I could hear Route 15 in the distance—steady traffic, the hum of engines, and the faint echo of it all carried through the sound barriers. There was also a low background buzz that blended into the morning in a way you almost stop noticing.
But what I noticed first was a single blackbird.
It was sitting at the very top of a bare winter tree, right out in the open. No cover, no movement—just perched there, still and present. I stood there longer than I meant to, just watching it.
The tree itself still looked like winter. The branches were bare, worn in shades of brown and gray. There were small hints of green starting to show in the distance, signs that spring is on its way, but the branches haven’t quite caught up yet. It’s that in-between season where things are beginning to change, but not fully there yet.
Around the blackbird, other birds were active. Some were flying in pairs, like the cardinals I noticed nearby. Others moved together, part of the rhythm of the morning. But this one bird stayed alone, high up on that branch, not really bothered by any of it.
To me, it stood out as a kind of quiet courage.
I’ve recently come through a season of loss, and in many ways my grief feels similar to that morning air—fresh in its awareness, something I’m still learning to carry each day. It’s not always visible to others, but it’s present for me in the background as I move through life.
Watching that bird made me realize something. It didn’t seem concerned with being part of everything happening around it. It wasn’t hidden, and it wasn’t striving. It simply stayed where it was—present, still, and steady.
That moment reminded me that seasons don’t change all at once. Winter slowly gives way to spring. Growth begins quietly before it’s fully visible. And even in the middle of transition, life keeps moving forward.
Scripture says, “To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven” (Ecclesiastes 3:1). That really resonated with me this morning.
And, “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it” (John 1:5).
Sometimes encouragement doesn’t come in big or obvious ways. Sometimes it comes in a quiet moment—just noticing something simple—reminding you that even in a season that feels unfinished, light is still coming, and life is still unfolding.
Even in grief, there is still movement forward. Even in stillness, there is purpose. And even in what feels bare, there is still something meaningful taking place.
Reflection:
What season are you in right now—and where might you notice quiet signs of light still present, even if they’re small?
Yesterday afternoon, I was standing out on the back porch, just praying and talking to God. It was quiet, a little breezy, and I was carrying this deep sense of gratitude.
I had just read a poem my late paternal grandmother, Marion Riley Brown, wrote years ago. In it, she mentioned me—alongside my cousin Jimmy and my brother Billy. I was only two years old at the time she wrote it, just a baby really. But in three simple sentences, she saw me. She expressed love for me. And she hoped good things for my life.
I’m sixty now. And reading those words—it hit something in me. Something tender. Something I didn’t even realize was still waiting to be healed
So I stood there on the porch, thanking God for letting that poem come into my life at just the right moment. I was crying, yes—but it wasn’t just sadness. It was release. Gratitude. Wonder.
Then something happened that I’ve never experienced before.
As I prayed, I felt this overwhelming sense of presence. I can’t describe it perfectly, but I’ll try. It was like… a knowing. A warmth. A feeling of being completely accepted and safe. Like being wrapped in a hug you didn’t even know you needed.
And then it clicked.
In that moment, God was letting me feel the love of my grandmother. Not just remember it—feel it.
It was so real. So gentle. So familiar. I wasn’t scared. I wasn’t confused. It felt like home. Like something I had always known but had never quite touched.
And I don’t ever want to forget it. That comfort. That sacred kind of peace. That deep, quiet knowing that I am loved—by her, still.
I believe God gave me that moment not just to remember her love, but to experience it. To heal something in me. To remind me that love doesn’t end. It reaches. It lingers. And sometimes—when we need it the most—it finds its way back to us.
This evening, while drying dishes and putting things away in the kitchen, I found myself reflecting in a quiet, almost sacred way. There’s something about the simple act of cleaning that helps clear the mind, too. Each plate I dried felt like a thought I was processing—wiping it down, setting it aside, ready for what comes next.
Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about happiness, contentment, and what those words actually mean in my life. What am I truly searching for? What is the goal now?
In this stillness, I sense God gently opening some truths to me.
After a recent conversation and a new understanding regarding a relationship that’s been central in my life, I felt something I didn’t expect: freedom. The weight of constantly questioning where I stand with someone is gone. And that shift—it’s opening something inside of me.
Now, I find myself wondering: What kind of job would be meaningful for me in this season? What type of life can I build—one that stands on its own, not dependent on the dynamics of that relationship? Who can I grow with? Could there be new friendships, new circles of connection, or new places where I can pour into others and also be poured into?
These thoughts don’t scare me—they feel like possibility. And they feel like faith.
“Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid or discouraged, for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go.”
– Joshua 1:9
Even still, I have to say it: I love this person. Maybe that won’t make sense to everyone. Maybe it sounds naive. But for me, love isn’t just an emotion. It’s a decision. A commitment. A deeper kind of choice that remains through the hard seasons—through frustration, disappointment, even heartache.
I’ve learned that love doesn’t always look the same. It shifts, reshapes, grows, and sometimes contracts. People are either evolving or retreating. And that—that—is the heart of what we often promise when we say “for better or worse.”
“Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins.”
– 1 Peter 4:8
We choose love. That doesn’t mean staying in unsafe or unwise situations, but it means honoring love’s depth, complexity, and long-suffering nature. Real love can be both a sacrifice and a source of liberation. Choosing to love—even in release—can set us free. Sometimes letting go is an act of love.
Tonight, as I placed the last clean dish on the rack and wiped down the counter, I felt a quiet sense of peace settle over me. That’s all I really want in this season—peace. Security. And the ability to trust that God is leading, even when the road ahead is still forming.
To anyone else walking through separation, divorce, or difficulty in a relationship: you’re not alone. These seasons can feel like you’re standing still in the ruins of what used to be. But God meets us in the quiet aftermath and gently reminds us, “This is not the end of your story.”
You are strong, even when you feel broken. You are loved, even in the middle of loss. And you are being led—even when the map feels blank.
Keep going. Peace is not far from you—it may be closer than you think.
This morning, I woke up to the sound of rain and distant sirens. The air was damp and chilly—one of those mornings that invites reflection. And so, I found myself thinking, not in a way that brought sadness, but in a way that helped me learn.
Lately, I’ve been revisiting my past, not to dwell on it, but to understand it—to recognize patterns, appreciate what served me well, and let go of what no longer fits. Today, my thoughts wandered to the many relationships I’ve experienced, and how they evolve over time. In the midst of that reflection, I was reminded of Jeremiah 31:3:
“I have loved you with an everlasting love; I have drawn you with unfailing kindness.”
God’s love is unwavering. It doesn’t depend on circumstances or the passage of time, and it offers a powerful reminder that love, when seen through His lens, isn’t confined by the past—it can evolve and still hold profound meaning.
I recalled one particularly memorable conversation from years ago. In that moment, when everything felt both fragile and full of possibility, the other person softly admitted, “I wish I had been more patient back then.” I remember nodding, feeling the weight of those words as if they were my own. That exchange wasn’t about rewriting history; it was about understanding it and learning from every shared regret and joy. We forgave not out of obligation, but because we chose to let those moments teach us how to move forward.
Protecting my peace isn’t selfish—it’s essential. Recently, when planning a meeting with someone from my past, I deliberately chose a neutral space where I could feel safe, free from the weight of old emotions. This morning, when I saw the rain, my instinct whispered, Maybe today isn’t the right day for this conversation. And rather than push ahead, I listened. Timing isn’t just about schedules—it’s about emotional readiness.
Love in its truest form isn’t about keeping score; it’s about choosing grace and allowing healing to take root. 1 Peter 4:8 reminds us, “Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins.” In every relationship—be it with family, friends, or past partners—love has the power to mend, transform, and endure, even as circumstances change.
So today, instead of forcing an outcome, I’m sitting with these reflections. I don’t have all the answers, but I do know this: growth often comes from seeing things differently, and sometimes, love means letting go with grace. God’s love remains, as steady as the rain and as constant as the changing seasons of our lives.
I invite you to join me in this reflection. Have you ever had a conversation that reshaped your understanding of love? Is there a moment in your past that, in hindsight, taught you an unexpected lesson? I’d love to hear your thoughts and experiences as we journey together toward healing and growth.
During one of my hardest seasons, when I felt lost and overwhelmed, a close friend from church reminded me that my worth isn’t measured by my struggles but by God’s love for me. After a Sunday service, she looked me in the eyes and said, “You are deeply loved, chosen, and seen by God, even when you don’t feel it.” In that moment, I felt a weight lift off my heart. It was exactly what I needed to hear.
Soon after, another friend from church showed up unexpectedly at my front door. She shared that she had felt an urging to come see me. Little did she know how lonely and isolated I had been feeling. Her visit wasn’t just a coincidence—it was God’s way of reminding me that I wasn’t forgotten. That simple act of showing up renewed my sense of hope and reminded me that even in my hardest moments, God sees me, loves me, and sends people to remind me of His presence.
If you’re struggling to see your worth, I understand—I’ve been there too. There were times when I felt unseen, isolated, and questioned whether I mattered. But God met me in those moments, sometimes through an unexpected visit, a kind word, or a quiet reassurance in my spirit. And I want you to know the same is true for you: you are not alone, and your value has never been in question. God created you with purpose, and nothing you’ve been through—no loss, no hardship, no mistake—can change how much He loves you. You don’t have to earn His love—it’s already yours.
I know how hard it can be to hold onto that truth when life feels heavy. But even when you don’t feel it, remember that you are deeply loved, chosen, and seen by God. He has never forgotten you. As Jeremiah 31:3 says, “I have loved you with an everlasting love; I have drawn you with unfailing kindness.” And in Romans 5:8, “But God shows His love for us in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” His love is constant, unchanging, and fully yours.
Just like He sent people to remind me of His love when I needed it most, I want to be that reminder for you. I’m here for you, and more importantly, He is too.
Grief isn’t just about death. It’s about change about endings we didn’t choose or expect, about the deep ache of something once cherished slipping away.
This time, my grief is for a relationship that once felt like home, for dreams that no longer have a place in my future, for a version of myself, who I used to be but can no longer remain. It is different, yet familiar; the same gut-wrenching sorrow, the waves of longing and regret that crash in uninvited, the same struggle to accept what is.
Losing my son is a wound that will never fully heal, a pain that reshaped me in ways I never expected. That kind of grief is raw, untouchable, eternal. Even Jesus, knowing the power of resurrection, wept at the loss of His beloved friend. Jesus wept (John 11:35). If the Son of God Himself felt the weight of sorrow, how much more will we feel it when love and loss collide?
But this grief the kind of letting go that happens while the other person is still alive is a quiet, complicated sorrow. No one brings casseroles for this kind of grief. It lingers in the unspoken moments, in the memories that surface when I least expect them, in the realization that love alone isn’t always enough to hold something together. And yet, I am reminded to trust in the Lord with all my heart and lean not on my own understanding; in all my ways submit to Him, and He will make my paths straight (Proverbs 3:5-6). Even when the path is unclear, even when letting go feels impossible, He is guiding me forward.
I have learned that grief demands to be felt. It will not be rushed or reasoned away. It arrives in different forms, in different seasons, and it teaches us who we are when we have to start over. But I hold on to the promise that weeping may stay for the night, but rejoicing comes in the morning (Psalm 30:5). Night always feels long, but morning always comes.
My commitment was simple: I always gave my best. Even when my best led to my worst moments, I left everything on the field -win or lose-turning every leaf until there were none left to turn. ~P. Brown 3/1/25
Some days, the smallest things feel like the final straw. You know what I mean—the tiny, insignificant moment that somehow sends you over the edge.
For me, it was laundry day. I was just trying to get one simple task done when I managed to spill a handful of Downy fabric softener beads all over the floor. Ever tried cleaning those things up? They roll, bounce, and scatter like they have a personal vendetta against you. I swear some of them are still hiding under my washing machine, plotting their next move.
In the grand scheme of life, this should’ve been no big deal. But in that moment? Catastrophe. The beads might as well have been tiny landmines, each one setting off a fresh wave of frustration.
It reminded me of the childhood game Don’t Break the Ice—one more crack, and the whole thing crumbles. Some days, life is just like that. No matter how much effort I put in, no matter how well I try to plan, it still feels like everything is falling apart.
And lately, that feeling has been all too familiar.
My 84-year-old mother, who we lovingly call Nona, recently moved into a personal care community. We had planned, prepared, and prayed for a smooth transition. But after just 10 days, it became clear that this wasn’t the right fit for her. So, we had to start all over again—packing, moving, adjusting.
At that point, I was beginning to wonder if I had somehow offended the Lord Himself. I mean, I was really trying here, doing my best, checking all the boxes, and yet, nothing seemed to be going the way I needed it to. I was tired, frustrated, and beginning to lose hope that we’d ever find a place where she would be comfortable and cared for.
Ever been there? Staring at your life, arms crossed, saying, Really, God?
It’s in these moments that I have to remind myself of Romans 8:28:
“And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love Him, who have been called according to His purpose.”
I expect good results from my effort. But God’s “good” is different from mine. I often expect His blessings to be instant, comfortable, and exactly how I envisioned them. But sometimes, His good comes through struggle, refinement, and learning to trust Him in the unknown.
The Bible gives us a great example of this in Genesis 50:20, where Joseph tells his brothers:
“You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good.”
Joseph went through betrayal, slavery, and imprisonment before he ever saw how God was working things out. And let’s be real—if Joseph were anything like me, he probably spent a lot of time thinking, Well, this is just great. My life is a disaster.
But God had a plan. And even though Joseph couldn’t see it at the time, every detour, every hardship, was leading him exactly where he needed to be.
Now, if you know me, you know I can’t resist a good joke. Humor is my survival tool—it’s what gets me through the tough seasons. And sometimes, even in the middle of frustration, God gives us a reason to laugh.
Like the night my mom moved into her new retirement community. She was adjusting her electric recliner and, well… let’s just say things didn’t go as planned. She pressed the wrong button, and before she knew it, she was reclined all the way back, legs straight up in the air, like a stranded turtle.
Who did she call for help? My brother. In Florida. From Pennsylvania.
I can just imagine her frantically telling him, “Come get me down!” Meanwhile, I’m sure he was thinking, Mom, I love you, but unless I suddenly develop teleportation skills, you might have to call someone closer.
That moment—though probably not funny to her at the time—became one of those stories we’ll laugh about for years. And it’s a reminder for me: Sometimes I get myself into a mess and believe I’m completely defeated, but I don’t see the whole picture. I forget that I’m not the one in control.
God is.
If I’ve learned anything lately, it’s that I need to lean into my faith and surrender my plans. I need to trust that even when things don’t go my way—even when the Downy beads scatter, or life feels like it’s cracking beneath me—God is still working.
So, if you’re feeling overwhelmed today, remember this: God isn’t wasting this season. He is using it, shaping you, and working for your good.
And in the meantime? Find something to laugh about. It might just be the thing that gets you through.
When I look into the mirror, I see more than just my reflection—I see my story.
Some days, I see the eyes of a little girl—hopeful, but also lonely and unsure. She longs for someone to listen, to laugh with her, to simply say, “You are loved.” I remember her well. She still lives within me, reminding me how important kindness and connection truly are.
Other times, I see a woman who has known deep hurt. Her heart has carried sadness, confusion, and disappointment. Life has not always been easy, and there are wounds that still feel tender. But through every difficult chapter, I know I was never alone. God was there—guiding me, comforting me, and helping me find my way forward.
Then there are moments when I see a strong, determined woman. I see someone who has overcome challenges that once felt impossible. Life has tested me, but it has also shaped me. And with God’s steady hand holding mine, I’ve been able to keep going.
And now, I see the woman I am today—60 years of life, learning, and growing. I see someone who has been through a lot, but who is still standing, still hoping, and still believing in what’s possible. I see a woman whose faith is deeper than it has ever been. I’ve loved Jesus my whole life, but now I’m walking with Him more closely, trusting Him not just with my past but also with my future.
I hold on to His promises, like the words in Isaiah 41:10, where He says, “Do not fear, for I am with you… I will strengthen you and help you.” Those words have been true for me—through every joy and every hardship.
When life felt heavy, I’ve leaned on His grace. When I felt lost, He was my guide. When I felt unseen, I remembered that He knows me fully and loves me deeply. And even now, He continues to write my story.
So when I look in the mirror today, I see more than a reflection—I see resilience, hope, and faith. I see a woman who is still becoming, still believing, and still trusting that God’s best chapters are yet to come.
I wanted to share a little of my story with you not because I think I’m particularly fascinating, but because I believe in the power of redemption. And if my life proves anything, it’s that God is in the business of taking the broken and making it whole.
I was born in the early 1960s, a time when my parents were neither hippies nor political activists. They were just two people with their own baggage, trying to make life work. My father is second-generation Scottish on his dad’s side and English on his mom’s, while my mother is second-generation Italian on both sides (which meant food was a love language and emotions were never subtle). Their marriage didn’t last, and by the time I was five, they had separated permanently.
I don’t remember much about my parents being together, but what I do remember clearly and fondly is the love and stability I found with my maternal grandparents, Frank and Josie. They were my safe harbor.
My grandfather had a way of making life feel light, even when it wasn’t. He’d take my brother and me on little adventures, always finding a way to turn an ordinary day into something special. My grandmother, on the other hand, was the queen of structure; tough but loving, and the reason I never went to bed hungry.
When I was born, I had two grandmothers and three great-grandmothers, a whole council of wise, strong women keeping an eye on me. Only one lived to see me into adulthood, but their influence shaped me in ways I still carry today.
Growing Up: Hard Lessons and New Struggles
If my childhood had some bright spots, my adolescence was, let’s call it complicated. My mother remarried when I was eight years old, not because she was swept off her feet, but because family expectations nudged her into it. That marriage was, to put it mildly, disastrous. My stepfather was an alcoholic with a troubled past, and our home became a place of fear and instability. I won’t dwell on the details, but let’s just say I learned early on that life doesn’t always play fair.
By 14, I had dropped out of high school, convinced that education wasn’t for me. (Spoilers alert: I would later change my mind.) At 19, I did what a lot of young people do when they want to escape a difficult home life, I got married. My husband was ten years older than me, and I thought marriage would be my ticket to stability and love. Together, we had four children; our first son, followed 15 months later by identical twin daughters (yes, you read that correctly), and then another son two years after that. Life was busy, chaotic, and often exhausting.
Because I had no diploma, my job options were limited, so I worked a string of low-paying jobs to help make ends meet. My husband also struggled to find steady work, and financial struggles defined much of our marriage. Looking back, we were two people with our own childhood wounds, trying to build something stable without the tools to do so.
Despite everything, our marriage lasted 23 years. There was genuine love, fondness, and compassion between us. But love alone doesn’t heal old wounds, and neither of us was truly equipped for the weight of marriage.
A New Chapter: Remarriage and Personal Growth
After our marriage ended, I eventually remarried. This second marriage has lasted 18 years though I’d be lying if I said it’s been smooth sailing. Marriage, no matter how much love is there, takes work, patience, and a whole lot of prayer. (And sometimes, a well-timed snack can prevent an unnecessary argument.) But through every high and low, I see God’s hand at work.
Somewhere along the way, I also decided to go back to school and further my education. Maybe it was stubbornness, maybe it was determination, or maybe it was just wanting to prove to myself that I could. But I did it. And while it was intimidating to sit in a classroom later in life, I can honestly say it was one of the best decisions I ever made.
Heartache and Healing: The Loss of My Son
Then, five years ago, my life was shaken to its core. My oldest son, Aaron, died suddenly. There is no pain like the loss of a child. It’s a grief that reaches down into the deepest part of your soul and tries to convince you that you will never feel whole again. There were days I didn’t think I’d survive it. Days I didn’t want to. The world kept spinning, but mine had stopped.
I don’t share this for sympathy I share it because grief is a road so many walk, and I want to testify to the only thing that has carried me through: God’s grace.
There are still moments when the weight of Aaron’s absence feels unbearable. But I have come to trust that God is still good, even in this. His presence is what allows me to keep moving forward. His promises are what remind me that this life is not the end of the story.
The Transforming Power of Faith
Now, I don’t share all of this to play the world’s smallest violin for myself. I share it because if you had told me years ago that at 60, my life would be taking a turn for the better, I might have laughed (or cried, depending on the day). And yet, here I am.
And I can tell you it’s not because I found a guru, started meditating, or read a life-changing self-help book (though I have nothing against deep breathing and good advice). The reason my life is changing, the reason I have more clarity, the reason I’m learning to regulate my emotions and act with wisdom, the reason I have hope is….GOD.
My testimony is this: life has not been perfect. It hasn’t been as hard as some people’s, but it certainly hasn’t been easy. And yet, despite everything, I love a God who has allowed me to endure trials. That confuses some people. They ask, What kind of loving Father lets His child suffer? That’s the question so many use to justify not believing in God. But here’s what I’ve come to understand. God never promised us a life without pain. He promised to walk with us through it.
When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you. When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned; the flames will not set you ablaze. Isaiah 43:2
Looking Forward: A Life of Purpose
Looking back, I see now that God was with me in every season, even when I didn’t recognize it. He took a broken, directionless girl and shaped her into someone who finally understands peace, not because life magically got easier, but because I finally surrendered my life to Him.
This is my testimony: I was lost, but now I am found. I was broken, but now I am whole. I was drowning, and He pulled me up.
There are people who have known me through my messiest years. People who could testify against me if they wanted to and let’s be real, some probably would). But here’s the thing: even they can’t deny that I’m different now. I have peace. I have joy. I am healthier not just physically, but emotionally and spiritually.
If anyone from my past wants to come forward and air out my mistakes, I say go for it! Because every failure, every flaw, every poor decision I’ve made only highlights the power of God.
And for that, I will never stop giving Him praise.
Oh, and one more thing, both of my parents are still with us, now 84 years old. If you had asked me as a child what life would look like at this stage, I never would have guessed we’d all still be here, still figuring things out, still walking this journey. But God’s timing is His own, and I am grateful for every extra day we have.
Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; the old has gone, the new is here! Corinthians 5:17
Brown Study and Wool-Gathering 