Touch The Sky

stories about Defiant HOPE

recent posts

about

  • Thank You for Teaching Me How to Wait

    Waiting on answers from God can be hard.

    We pray. We believe. We search for meaning. We wait for direction, healing, understanding, or the manifestation of a blessing we believe is on the way. Yet sometimes the answer does not come when or how we desired.

    This year, I am learning that waiting is not simply a pause between the prayer and the answer. Waiting is part of the journey. It is often where God grows us, strengthens us, and teaches us to trust Him more deeply.

    I am learning to choose confident trust in God intentionally. I do not want to merely endure difficult seasons. I want to have patient endurance with joy.

    Recently, during some special G-mama time with my granddaughters, God gave me a beautiful picture of what that can look like.

    We were waiting for pancakes, and my youngest granddaughter, Aliyah, and I were coloring together. My oldest granddaughter, Zyla, became frustrated because the food was taking too long, and she told me her tummy was growling and she was hungry.

    She turned her back toward us, crossed her arms, and began to pout.

    I tried a couple of times to encourage her to join us in coloring, but she was not interested. Finally, I gently explained that pouting would not make the pancakes arrive any faster. It would only make the waiting more difficult.

    I told her she had two choices. She could choose to be happy while she waited, join us in coloring, and make the waiting a better experience. Or she could continue pouting and turning away from us, which would make the waiting feel longer, harder, and far less enjoyable.

    Slowly, she turned around and began coloring, and shortly afterward, our food arrived.

    After we finished eating and both girls were nestled into their car seats for the rest of our morning outing, Zyla said something I will never forget:

    “G-mama, thank you for teaching me how to wait for my food.”

    Her sweet words went straight to my heart.

    “Thank you for teaching me how to wait for my food” is where I am with God right now.

    I am waiting to understand why some of the things we have experienced happened. I am waiting for answers to questions that may never be fully answered on this side of heaven. I am waiting to understand why some people face devastating hardships while others seem to move through life untouched by them. I am waiting for promised blessings to become visible and for prayers to be answered.

    Through Zyla, God gently reminded me that I have a choice in how I wait.

    Pouting will not make the answer come any faster. Turning away from God and from the people I love will not shorten the season. It will only make the waiting more difficult.

    Instead, I can choose intentional joy.

    That does not mean pretending everything is okay. It does not mean ignoring grief or denying the pain. It means allowing the joy of the Lord to be my strength in the desert. It means choosing to remain present and grateful, even as I carry unanswered questions.

    Joy and sorrow can exist in the same heart.

    I can be joyful and sorrowful. I can be happy and sad at the same time. Grief may still cast its shadow over our lives, but I do not have to allow that shadow to hide the blessings God has placed before me.

    And even in the waiting, Jesus continues to give us little winks, gentle reminders that He is with us and we are not walking through any of this alone.  Zyla and I were in the backyard watering the plants. It was a hot, muggy day without even a hint of a breeze. Then, suddenly, the smallest breeze came through, just strong enough to make my Tatum wind chimes gently sing. I stopped and whispered, “I hear you, and you are with us for G-mama time too.” In that tender moment, it felt as though heaven had come close enough to remind me that love is still present, God is still near, and Tatum will always be with me until I hold her in my arms again. I chose to rejoice in that moment, for the precious time I had with her.

    Choosing joy allows me to enjoy my family and the gifts God has given me right now. It allows me to color while I wait for the pancakes. It helps me remain engaged with the beautiful life happening around me, even when part of my heart is still aching.

    Patient endurance with joy is not weakness. It is a courageous act of faith.

    It is saying, “God, I do not understand, but I still trust You.”

    It is believing that God is still good when life does not feel good. It is remaining confident in His character when we cannot see His plan. It is choosing to keep living, loving, serving, and believing while we wait.

    One of the most important parts of the family legacy my husband and I pray for, fight for, and live for is the hope that one day our entire family, our children and our grandchildren, will all be together in heaven for eternity, and that’s what the gentle windchime sound reminded me of.

    I do not want to spend the waiting season with my arms crossed and my back turned toward the blessings God has placed around me. I want to turn toward Him. I want to join my family at the table. I want to color, laugh, love, and remain fully present while trusting that what God is preparing will arrive at the right time and knowing that we will all be reunited again in His timing.

    One of the lessons I’m learning while waiting is that the answer is important, but so is who we become while we wait.

    So today, my prayer is simple:

    “God, thank You for teaching me how to wait. Teach me to trust You confidently, endure patiently, and choose joy intentionally. Help me enjoy the blessings in front of me while I wait for the answers I cannot yet see.”

    The waiting season is still hard, but with God, it does not have to be wasted.

  • As Long as There Is Life, There Is Hope

    “As long as I have breath, I will praise Him.”

    As I’ve been reflecting recently,  those words kept coming back to me.

    There have been days when sorrow has rolled over me like mighty ocean waves crashing against the shore, causing me to wonder how I will make it another day, and then there are other days when grief is more like a quiet babbling creek. It is still there, still flowing beneath the surface, but it isn’t consuming me, and I realize that I can overcome the heaviness of that moment.  

    Grief doesn’t disappear. It changes.  It changes me, it changes those around me, because I’m changed. They will never get the old version of me because the impact of the grief has changed my soul.

    The waves come and go. But one thing has remained constant.

    Defiant Hope.

    As our family experienced the loss of our sweet baby, Tatum. Her little life forever changed ours. Her life was brief, but her impact was immeasurable.  

    While the pain of missing her is real, I know exactly where she is. She is with Jesus. There is no suffering, no fear, no pain. She is whole, loved beyond measure, and experiencing a joy we can only imagine.

    That truth doesn’t erase my grief, but it gives it perspective.

    The harder part of this journey hasn’t been wondering about Tatum. It’s been the pain I have for my daughter.

    As a mother, there is no deeper pain than watching your child walk through heartbreak, knowing you cannot carry the burden for them. All I can do is pray, listen, help with life things, and cry in my quiet time.  I celebrate every small victory, every deep breath, every moment she finds the courage to take one more step. And somehow, in the midst of this, I find myself overwhelmed with a pride that words cannot describe. I am in awe of her resilience and the way she continues to cling to God, honestly sharing with Him her anger and disappointment, but her commitment to Him even though…..

    The depth of her faith has been a miracle to watch, an answer to my silent prayers years ago.  

    The ones I prayed when she was a little girl. She was determined, fiercely independent, and wonderfully strong-willed. There were days when that strong will tested every ounce of my patience, and I wondered how she would make it through life because so many were taken aback by her directness and strength. Looking back now, I see those memories through a different lens. Before I ever understood the path God had written for her life, He already knew it. Long before this valley, He was shaping her heart, strengthening her spirit, and preparing her for a journey neither of us could have imagined.

    I think of His promise, “For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord. What once appeared to be a stubborn little girl was, in God’s loving hands, becoming a woman with an unwavering spirit and an anchor firmly planted in Him, for this valley He knew we’d walk through.

    Today, as I watch her trust the Lord through sorrow, I no longer question why God made her that way. Instead, I thank Him. The very strength that once caused me concern has become one of His greatest gifts to all of us who are witnessing His faithfulness through her life.

    Watching my daughter battle through this has changed me in ways I never expected. I’m reflecting on my own life, examining it with fresh eyes. It has caused me to plan how to better steward the life God has given to me with greater intention. To find ways to care for my physical body, to guard my mind against the darkness that tries to accompany sorrow, to step away from toxic situations and people, to spend my days pursuing what truly matters, and above all, to deepen my walk with Him.

    I have come to believe that God often accomplishes His greatest work in the valleys we would have never chosen. Not because He delights in our suffering, but because He loves us too much to leave us where we are. The valley has a way of exposing what the mountaintop can conceal. It reveals where our hope has been anchored and whether our roots run deep enough to withstand the storm.

    When we invite God into our pain instead of pushing Him away, He does something amazing. He doesn’t always remove the storm, but He transforms us within it. He drives our anchor deeper into His unchanging character. Our faith becomes more than words; it becomes steadfast. Slowly, our trust becomes stronger and less dependent on circumstances. We learn to lean not on our own understanding but on His unfailing presence. Deeply understanding now that Christ is not only enough; He is everything.

    In this season to shine my light for Him, I’ve chosen to follow His example in counting it all joy. I have had to go to an even deeper level and be more intentional about counting my blessings and finding the good in every situation.  

    Choosing intentionally to look for God’s goodness in day-to-day life. Making the deliberate decision to find something to be grateful for, even when every emotion tells you otherwise.

    Some days my gratitude is simple. I thank God for the sound of my back porch water fountain and the beautiful sound of my wind chimes, or for another opportunity to hug my family after being away from them, for making it home safely after flying on a crowded plane… for another breath.

    For the joy in watching my grandbabies here with us, laughing, growing, and reminding us that life continues to be a precious gift.

    I find joy in the gift of my oldest daughter’s family, who love us so well.  Wholeheartedly, helping carry this family through one of our darkest seasons. Their presence has drawn us together around dinner tables, at family gatherings, in difficult tasks, in quiet conversations, and through shared tears. God has deepened our relationships.

    And even the quiet joy of hearing my daughter loving and bravely remembering her sweet baby while we watched fireworks, acknowledging that Tatum would have hated the loud noises.  And it’s true she would have, and remembering her little smirk when she didn’t like something brought joy to me in that moment.  Joy to remember her, joy that my daughter could talk about her so lovingly and freely in that moment.

    He is building something beautiful out of this, and I don’t understand it, but I have hope!

    Only by His grace have we made it this far.

    I will continue to believe His words and cling to the promise:

    “I will restore to you the years that the swarming locust has eaten… You shall eat in plenty and be satisfied, and praise the name of the Lord your God, who has dealt wondrously with you.” Joel 2:25-26

    God doesn’t promise to erase our scars. He promises restoration.

    Sometimes restoration looks like peace. Sometimes it looks like purpose.

    Sometimes it looks like simply taking one step after another.

    But one thing I am sure of is that as long as there is life… There is hope.

    And as long as I have breath…

    One day at a time! As long as we have breath!

  • Walking Testimony

    Mother’s Day has carried a deeper weight for me this year.

    My first really close family loss came when I was 52. I feel blessed that I was that old before we had this type of loss. At the time, I thought it was the hardest thing I would ever walk through, standing beside the love of my life as he buried his mother, and then just a couple of years later, his father. Not long after, I lost my own mom.

    Each loss changed me in different ways.

    The days before this Mother’s Day, I’ve spent a lot of time reflecting on the incredible women in my life and the impact they’ve had on my family and me.

    I’ve thought about my mother-in-law and how grateful I am that she raised my husband to be the man he is,  kind, compassionate, steady, and deeply rooted in faith. She raised him in church and introduced him to a relationship with God that has become the tether our family has leaned on so many times through life’s storms.

    I’ve thought about my own mom and the strength it must have taken to raise biological children alongside adopted children, navigating all the layers and challenges that came with that journey. Looking back, I’m so thankful she walked it out with love and perseverance.

    I’ve reflected on my oldest daughter and what an incredible mother she is. The fun activities she creates for her girls, the way she makes meals and snacks, picture-worthy and inviting, how she teaches them to pray and memorize scripture in joyful ways, and how she quietly sacrifices, including staying up late to finish work so she can fully pour into her children during the day. Watching her mother her girls has made me grateful and so proud. Somewhere along the way, I must have done something right.

    In reflection, I realized that both of my daughters’ lives in this season are a part of who I am and my testimony.

    I also realized I was wrong about the hardest loss I had endured. As painful as losing our parents has been, it has not been the hardest thing I’ve ever walked through.

    The hardest thing has been losing my granddaughter and watching my daughter grieve the loss of her baby. A parent should not have to bury a child.

    I have heard that phrase throughout life, but until you experience it firsthand, you cannot fully understand the depth of that pain. As a grandmother, I still can’t fully experience it.

    A recent post reminded me that our loved ones who have gone before us are not lost. We know where they are. They are home.  But knowing Heaven is real does not remove the ache of the empty space left behind here on earth.

    Through this difficult season, I’ve watched my sweet daughter throw her anchor deep into the depths of her faith. I’ve become more thankful we raised our children in a way that was deeply rooted in God and with a relationship with Jesus, because when life completely shatters you, faith becomes the thing that holds you together.

    As hard as this has been, she knows where baby Tatum is. She knows her baby is safe in the arms of Jesus, surrounded by great-grandparents and family members who have gone before her.

    But grief is complicated.

    Sometimes faith feels anchored firmly to the bottom of the sea… and sometimes it feels like you’re still drifting in the middle of the storm, fighting waves of emotion,  trying to trust God before the anchor fully settles. Trying to trust Him while hurting. Trying to trust Him while angry. Trying to trust Him while desperately needing the very peace only He can give.

    And through all of this, I realized who the most inspirational mother in my life is … my shining star … my amazing daughter, Kendria.

    The sacrifices of motherhood are already immense. But when your child has significant physical needs requiring round-the-clock care, those sacrifices multiply beyond what most people ever see.

    Most moms endure sleepless nights. She endured sleepless nights and days.

    Most parents schedule occasional doctor visits. She lived a life filled with 3–4 appointments every week  day.

    Most couples struggle to find time together after having children. But when only 3 people can care for your medically fragile baby for even a short time, every moment becomes a sacrifice.

    She poured out her life for her child.

    She carried the emotional weight of watching her baby fight day and night.

    And after all the love, sacrifice, exhaustion, hope, prayers, and care … her baby went home to be with the Father.

    As her mother, watching her walk through this has been the hardest thing I have ever done.

    I’ve watched moments where the sorrow felt so deep it was difficult for her to breathe. But I also see her fighting her way through it, because I believe sweet Tatum, surrounded by that great cloud of witnesses, would want her mama to keep going and is cheering her on.  Her mama knows this, too, and so she fights daily to move forward, to be big and strong, living out the very meaning of defiant hope.

    I pray for the peace that only Jesus can bring in darkness.

    I see the confidence she carries in knowing that one day she will be reunited with her daughter because of Him. I see her fighting through emotions that can change so quickly from one moment to the next.

    I see her gently smile as well-meaning people, including myself, work to say the right thing and avoid the wrong one.  

    Her bright eyes are a little less bright as she watches from afar others celebrate Mother’s Day, wondering what to say to her, feeling the heaviness of celebrating their own family, and wondering how to be sensitive to and what to say to her, faintly remembering that just 6 months ago, our sweet girl moved to heaven.

    And I see her learning, one day at a time, that eventually the anchor of faith settles deep enough to hold steady even in the waves of grief. I see her walking out a kind of faith that many people only ever read about. I see her choosing hope, choosing love, and holding her family tightly as we together tread the waters of life.

    And I am proud. I am inspired. And I am deeply blessed that she is mine.

    I see her fighting the same way Tatum did. I know the story is not over because so many who have endured the unimaginable loss of a child have eventually found their way into the fullness of peace and joy again … and have received a harvest of healing, purpose, and prosperity in every area of life.

    So today, I honor all moms.

    My mom.

    My mother-in-law.

    My daughter, Cyrae.

    And my walking testimony, Kendria. You are loved.
    You are seen.
    God is with you.
    His presence surrounds you.

    And Mama is here, praying for you, loving you, and continually speaking over you: “Peace of God.”

  • He Has Made Me Glad

    This Easter felt different.

    Not because the message changed but because my heart heard it in a deeper way. After losing my sweet  Tatum Sky, everything about heaven feels closer. More real.

    There are seasons in life where truth becomes more than something we know… it becomes something we cling to. I found myself reflecting on the incredible gift of Jesus in a more personal, more eternal way.

    Grief has a way of reshaping everything, even my understanding of why Jesus chose the cross.

    It wasn’t just for forgiveness, although what a beautiful gift that is.
    It was for restoration and reunion.
    I celebrated the cross and the gift He bought for us, not because life is always easy. Not because every prayer is answered the way I hope, but for the promise that this life is not the end of the story.

    There are days my heart aches in ways words can’t touch.
    But because of what He has already done, and what He has promised in the loss, there is hope for this life and joy for our future reunion.

    Because of Him, death doesn’t get the final word.

    There is a deep comfort in knowing that those we love who have gone before us are not lost… they are with Him.

    And when we look for them, in daily reminders and sweet moments, they are still with us.

    I have a peaceful place on my back patio.  A fountian with quiet flowing water, a sound that has also calmed my soul no matter where I am, a view of the backyard and pool that God blessed us with, a couple years ago, a dream I’ve had my entire life, and a reminder that God does answer prayers, not always in the moment or the way we want Him to but He does, and the soft clinging of the beautiful wind chimes that were given to us for a gentle reminder of Tatum when they ring. All of these special things together make for a special place for me.  And when I can, I go out and enjoy my space.  

    Recently, the sun was shining, and it was a calm, beautiful Sunday afternoon.  I chose to read and work out on the patio while enjoying my special place.  There was a grounding I needed from some particularly active days, and in that moment, all was well with the world we have now.

    Every so often, I would remember sweet baby Tatum as the chimes gently rang, and I’d remember a precious moment I had with her.  About an hour later, one of our neighbors started playing loud music.  Not just from a radio, but in a band, in person, with drums banging and guitars blaring.  Not only was it loud, but it was grinding rock music; besides not being a genre I listen to, it was obvious the practice was needed.  It was a screeching noise that, to me, sounded like nails on a chalkboard, and my peaceful sanctuary was immediately gone.  

    I sat trying to decide if I should pick up my things and go inside, but was lingering in hopes it would be a short practice, I let out a sigh and then all of a sudden a hard gust of wind came through the patio clanging the chimes in a loud manner and all of a sudden I saw Tatum’s little face when she got frustrated or angry.  I chuckled and said, ” You tell them, Tatum Sky!”  I smiled, then was reminded of last Easter and the Easter Egg Hunt we had for all the grandbabies.  Zyla, at 2 years old, was the only one who enjoyed it; Aliyah, barely 2 months old, just enjoyed being held; and Tatum, at 6 months, made that little face I remembered.  She wasn’t feeling Gmama trying to include her in the egg hunt at all.  It brought a smile to my heart to be reminded of that moment.

    It’s in those moments that bring the blended feelings that loss so often brings, the sadness of missing, the frustration of unanswered questions, and the peace of knowing she’s alive and fully enjoying life, and yes, it brings joy that one day we will be reunited.

    That truth changes everything.

    Grief and joy can live in the same place, if we’re brave enough to embrace them both.

    There are moments where I miss deeply, where my heart aches for what once was. But woven into that ache is something steady and unshakable, hope.

    Not wishful thinking.
    Not “maybe someday.”
    But a confident trust knowing that because of Jesus, there will be a reunion.

    And that… that is what makes my heart glad.

    Until that day, here I am.  And how I live matters.

    We are called to live lives that reflect His grace and His glory, not perfectly, but faithfully. Lives that point others toward the same defiant hope we hold onto.

    Our lives can be the invitation that some people need to receive the truth of Jesus that we have.

    Through kindness.
    Through love.
    Through simply showing up and living differently.

    So during this season, I was deeply reminded that our story doesn’t end here.

    That the cross was not the end, it was the beginning.
    The empty tomb means fullness of life.
    That heaven is real, and reunion is coming.

    And until then, I will work to live in a way that reflects that truth.

    With hope.
    With joy.
    With peace.

    And with purpose rooted in His promises.

    Because He has made me glad.

  • When the Storm Comes Without Warning

    Lately, the weather has been… unpredictable.
    One day, it’s 92 degrees, the sun is hot, and I’ve shed my jacket by mid-morning.  And the same day, the wind rushes in without warning, the temperature drops to 40, and everything shifts.

    It feels chaotic; the weather can’t make up its mind.

    And grief …  feels the same way.

    After a deep loss, emotions don’t follow a schedule. They don’t ask permission. They don’t gently arrive.

    They rush in like the gushing wind of the confused weather.

    One moment, I’m steady, smiling, working, moving forward.
    And the next… a memory, a song, a quiet pause, a picture I didn’t expect to see, and suddenly the winds of emotion pick up. A storm rolls through my heart without warning.

    Up and down.  Hot and cold.  Happy and sad.  Joyful and mad. Windy and still.  Overwhelming and then… peace.

    Even the fiercest storm doesn’t last forever. There is a calm that follows.

    For years, I’ve loved “It is Well”. I hear it periodically, and sometimes in the quiet of my car while I drive longer distances for work, it would drop into my mind.  

    I sang it on the way to the hospital when I visited both my mom and baby Tatum.   There was a level of comfort it brought me during both of those difficult times.

    Other times, when life seems good, it would drop into my heart, and I would acknowledge the words, think of the author’s story, and the loss of his family.  Often, I would wonder how someone could lose so much and still stand strong in faith, and I admired his faith and his ability to trust God and allow His presence to bring wellness to his soul.

    But the words ring truer now than ever and I had no idea that one day the meaning of the song, the grasping for faith that the author must have felt, would be a testimony to me and bring a deeper level of comfort.

    It starts off with, “when peace like a river attends my way.”

    That kind of peace doesn’t come from perfect circumstances. It comes from something deeper… something anchored.

    Because even after the storm, even after the tears, even after the anger, peace comes.

    Not all at once. Not always loud. Sometimes it’s quiet. Trickling, like a river that keeps flowing, steady and sure.

    Today, my pastor’s message hit my heart in a way I didn’t expect. His title is “The Power of 24 Hours.”

    He shared multiple scriptures that talk about God’s promise to be with us daily, to give us our daily bread, and to meet all our needs. He went on to share examples of how God has shown Himself true and faithful.

    He encouraged us to live 24 hours at a time and to understand that our destiny is fulfilled by our daily decisions.  

    Focus on today, this hour, this moment … just today.

    The truth is, I can’t control the future. I can’t stop the storms from coming.

    But I can choose what I do in the moment when the gushing wind of emotion surprises.

    I choose to take a moment, to stop, breathe, and sit with God.  To intentionally remember not just the loss… but also the beauty.

    The laughter.
    The strength.
    The love that was so real and that so powerfully changed us.

    I can remind myself how BIG Tatum lived.
    How strong she was. How deeply she loved through her sweet eyes and intentional snuggles. I touch her picture if it’s nearby, and whisper, “I love you, baby Tatum, give Jesus hugs for me!”

    And then… I can move forward.

    Not by forgetting, but by honoring. Honoring her life in the way I live mine.

    Choosing to love people well.
    Choosing to show up daily.
    Choosing to make my life matter because hers mattered.

    Because legacy doesn’t end when someone is gone. It continues in us.

    In how we live.
    In how we love.
    In how we carry their story forward.

    I did this this week without even thinking about it. I spoke at a ladies’ group on behalf of our non-profit, Children Matter, and I ask people, when I’m speaking, to imagine life without one of their loved ones and to think about how the children who have been removed from their families must feel.  And there was a wave of emotions that swept in, it was the first time I’ve spoken since Tatum has been in Heaven.  I stopped for a moment, took a deep breath, whispered “big and strong” and shared how my sweet grandbaby is in Heaven, but it deepens my understanding of how these children removed from their homes must feel, and they are who we have a passion to help.

    On the quiet ride home, God said, Tatum doesn’t feel that way, she’s with ME…. and the wave of peace came.

    A message the next day from one of the ladies was, ” Keep living big and strong, you’re helping all of the rest of us. Tatum must be a special baby.”  I responded, “She is, she’s an angel baby, and we were blessed to care for her while she was here.”  

    My prayer… my purpose… my defiant hope… Is that my life becomes a testimony.

    That others would see not perfection, but faith.

    Not a life without storms, but a life anchored in God through them.

    That even in grief… there is goodness. Even in loss… there is purpose.
    Even in the unexpected storms… there is peace.

    Peace like a river.

    Today, I won’t try to control the forecast of my emotions. I’ll simply live each 24 hours intentionally with defiant hope and moving forward in confident trust, navigating through life storms that may come.

    Because even here…

    It is well with my soul.

  • The Dance

    There is a unique place where joy and sorrow meet. I have written about it before: that place where exuberant joy and immense sadness cross paths. I found myself sitting in that place yesterday, surrounded by music and laughter and the twirl of little dresses, and dancing feet.  Joy and grief collided once again.  I imagine this will be the case for a while.

    The joy of celebrating our 7th Annual Daddy Daughter Dance.  A fundraiser for Children Matter Family Life.  Our non-profit ministry helps foster children and their families.

    My oldest daughter, the event planner, has a gift. A beautiful one. She has the ability to overcome many obstacles and plan a meaningful event in the truest sense, not just in logistics but in love. She pours herself into creating beautiful memories for the families who participate.  And this year, again, in the midst of moving, taking on new job responsibilities, and being a full-time mom, she helped bring to life something extraordinary, our Daddy-Daughter dance. A night to give fathers the opportunity to tattoo memories in the hearts of their little girls, they will carry for their lifetime.  A night built on the foundation of HIS love meant to shine His light.

    I watched it come together as she gave her all, and I was so proud. Proud of her. Proud of what she built with her hands and her heart. Proud of how she guided her family, the staff, and volunteers to create this memorable evening. And then the joy I felt watching my three-year-old granddaughter experience her very first daddy-daughter dance. Her eyes wide, her little dress spinning, her hand holding tight to her daddy’s loving hand. What a special moment for us all.

    I am grateful they live close again.  Allowing us to see them weekly, so I can help when I can, and be woven into the fabric of their everyday lives. What a gift, it is, what joy it brings.

    And yet.

    My youngest daughter wasn’t at the dance this year. The loss of our sweet baby Tatum. Bearing that pain while being present at our event was difficult. And for her, it would have been simply too much. I understood. I understood completely.

    Everything around me was a trigger and a treasure at the same time.

    And then came the first slow dance for the daddy-daughter pairs.

    I watched my sweet granddaughter step onto the floor with her daddy. And the tears came without warning. The kind that don’t ask permission. Happy tears. Aching tears. Both. I was happy, so happy, watching that moment, and I felt such sadness under the weight of who was missing. I couldn’t stop crying.

    I was comforted by my daughter and two dear friends.  My daughter hugged me, and in that moment, I felt guilty for dampening what had been a special moment for her.  I whispered, ” Go enjoy”.  My friend leaned close, put her arm around me, and I said, “It’s hard to understand how I can be this happy and this immensely sad at the exact same time.” And she said, “I believe this is how God feels about the world.”

    I thought about that on the drive home.

    What I felt was a painful aching and beautiful fullness, which must be a small echo of what He carries. He watches His children show love, compassion, and light to the world. He sees daughters with gifts that pour out like water. He sees daddies dancing with their babies. He sees giving people offering  their time and money to help us create something beautiful for girls and their dads. And He rejoices.

    And at the same time, He grieves. He grieves over broken hearts, over babies taken too soon, over accidents and evil, and the hatred that runs deep from one human to another. He grieves over the pain we cause each other. He grieves over loss, and because of it, He deeply understands my pain.

    I sat in the sadness for a few minutes that night. I didn’t rush it. I let the grief be what it was. I whispered, “I love you, baby Tatum,” and then slowly got up.  After a few moments, the fast songs returned. I found my sweet three-year-old, and we danced. While recently spending time with her, I taught her a simple little dance, and when the matching music filled the air, I went and danced with her. As we held hands and twirled around, I relished her smile and giggles and, for a moment, imagined sweet Tatum dancing from heaven with us.  And I rejoiced that in heaven she can dance!

    I watched little girls press into their daddies as they held them close, and I remembered why we host the dance in the first place.  Yes, to raise money, but we chose this way to help others stop life and do the most important thing: spend time together.  Daddies stepping away from life long enough to instill their love for their little girls will be a memory they cherish forever.

    Every year at this event, my heart is touched by the pairs of dads and daughters, and I’ve had moments when I thought to myself. I’m sure this brings God joy because, for that brief moment, we truly see an example of His love for us.  How He cherishes us and longs for us to be with Him in heaven when the time is right. How much He loves those who are there with Him.

    Once again, I was reminded to live my life in a way that brings Him joy. To share compassion. To do good work that honors Him. And in doing so, I will honor my sweet baby Tatum.  Carrying her memory forward in love, keeping her legacy alive in the light I choose to share.

    I believe with everything in me that living fully is how our family in heaven would want us to live. Not performing joy, not suppressing grief, but letting both be true. Weeping as Jesus did when weeping is what is needed. And then rising, dancing, rejoicing because life, even broken life, is still a gift.

    Deep down, I know this world is not our home. We are just passing through. And one day we will all move back to be with our heavenly Daddy.  Every tear wiped away, and exuberant joy as we are reconnected to Him and our precious family.  

    We will definitely dance.

    Until then I will feel both. The happy and the sad were never meant to be enemies. They are simply the full measure of a heart that loves deeply.

    And that is okay. Because He does too.

  • 🎈 The Gift of a Birthday

    Birthdays are a celebration of life.

    But I have found that they are also invitations to reflect.

    Another year.
    Another chapter.
    Another opportunity to look back at what was and to look forward to what still can be.

    This year, my birthday feels different.

    It carries both intense gratitude and immense sadness.

    And I am learning that the two can live together.

    I vividly remember my 20th birthday. I was single, living by myself with no connection to family or my then fiancée, who was away at college, and I would not see him. I didn’t have anyone to celebrate with that day, nor the money to do anything.  I was sitting on a bench at the mall because my car was in the shop, and I had walked there while I waited for it to be repaired.  

    Circumstances were bleak.

    But it was one of the best birthdays of my life because I was one month into my newly founded Christian life, and I was excited to celebrate my new love for God and His unconditional love for me.  

    In that moment on the bench, something extraordinary happened. I realized I had the richest life I had ever known.

    Not because of money.
    Not because of people.
    Not because everything was going well.

    Because of Jesus.

    I felt peace that didn’t make sense and joy that I never experienced before.

    This year, my birthday falls in the midst of immense sadness.

    The loss of baby Tatum and the life I knew caring for her, spending time with her, and my daughter.

    Grief changes you.

    There is an ache that doesn’t leave.
    A quiet that feels louder than noise.
    Moments where you feel the absence so strongly it takes your breath away.

    But in my reflection, here is what God is showing me.

    I can be greatly sad… and deeply happy at the same time.

    Jesus endured the cross “for the joy set before Him.” In the midst of betrayal, suffering, and a horrific death, He saw beyond it and allowed the joy for what he would gain to help him endure the cross.

    He saw eternity. He saw redemption. He saw us.

    And because of that truth, I have the promise that one day I will join baby Tatum, my Mom, and other loved ones in heaven.

    But while I am here on this earth, I am also called to enjoy the family God has placed with me right now.

    My beautiful daughter is back, living 6 minutes from us and even less to her sister. My family is near. And that is a gift to be celebrated.

    Not only is it my birthday, but also my youngest granddaughter’s 1st, and a hard truth is that we’re celebrating our special days without our 1-year-old Tatum being with us, which is where the great reflection was born. The ability to be simultaneously overwhelmed by sadness and deeply happy.

    If Tatum were here, I imagine she would find a way, even with her physical challenges, to enjoy the day. I know this because of her sweet countenance, regardless of how hard the battle in front of her was.  I imagine her being BIG and STRONG, soaking in the joy of her cousin’s birthday, and mine, excited about her family moving close, wrapping herself in our laughter and love.

    So for her, we celebrate.

    We celebrate family.
    We celebrate love.
    We celebrate life.
    We celebrate knowing she is safe with Jesus.

    The other day, I watched a small sparkle return to my daughter’s eyes because of her new little puppy, Lady Mae.

    Nothing replaces those we have lost.
    No animal.
    No person.
    No new joy.

    But God, in His kindness, allows new glimmers of light to break through.

    The sparkle doesn’t erase the tears.
    But it reminds us that our hearts are still capable of joy.

    The birthday gift I gave myself, with God’s help, is permission.

    Permission to grieve deeply and laugh freely.
    To cry and celebrate.
    To miss what was and embrace what is.

    I do not have to choose between sadness and joy. I can carry both.

    And in that tension lives DEFIANT HOPE.

    Birthdays are not just about growing older.
    They are about growing deeper.

    Deeper in gratitude.
    Deeper in perspective.
    Deeper in faith.

    Twenty-year-old me learned that joy doesn’t come from circumstances.

    This birthday, I am learning that joy can coexist with grief.

    Because Jesus is still faithful.
    God is still good.
    He is WITH me in broken-down cars, hospital rooms, and empty spaces at our birthday tables.
    And He is still writing my story.

    So today, I celebrate.

    I celebrate life.
    I celebrate love.
    I celebrate family.
    I celebrate the promise of eternity with my heavenly family because of Him!

    And I choose defiant hope.

    Happy Birthday to Aliyah Jade and me!

    And welcome to the family, Lady Mae!

  • Tis so Sweet To Trust in Jesus

    There is a slow, persistent lesson growing in my heart: learning to let my trust speak louder than my trauma. I am discovering that true strength isn’t always found in striving, but in waiting for the promise, and that confidence comes from the steady, unchanging character of God, not my circumstances.

    Defiant hope and trust are contagious, but sometimes only forged in the darkness, while sitting in ashes.

    In the past few years, I have gained a deeper understanding and comfort in the scripture, “When I am weak, then He is strong,” but this comfort comes at a cost because it requires weakness, yep it means to receive that supernatural grace, His strength, His ability to do what I can’t do, I have to be in a place of weakness a place of vunerable admission that I can’t take the next step on my own, or I can’t trust Him in this moment without His help to do so.  

    Even in those places, I know now, God is okay with that, He’s not mad, or afraid that I’m weak, in fact, to openly confess that, I’m following Christ. While in the garden, He admitted to feeling forsaken, even to the place of sweating blood.  He showed me that our Father isn’t intimidated by my questions, my grief, my exhaustion, or my anger. He is comfortable with me in those dark places because it is often there that I learn what it means to trust Him for daily living. Not for the future but for now, not even for next month, but for this very day.

    Days before I know what I need, He is already providing it. That is grace; His unconditional love, mercy, and forgiveness, but also His help when I need it, to do what I can’t do. Like trust in the darkness.  

    It’s easy to trust God when everything is going well, when blessings flow, and victories come daily… during daylight. Most can do that. But what about the dark times? What about when the outcome is unknown, when prayers seem unanswered, when the loss is heavy and personal?

    During my life, I have gone through struggles and trials, but I have never known tragedy as I have in these last two years. The passing of my mother. An ankle injury that left me slowed and dependent. A real estate market that seemed to stall. The loss of funding for our nonprofit. A grandbaby in the NICU for sixty-three days. Constant concern and the desire to help my daughter and granddaughter after the hospital because of the lack of nursing care, and she and her husband were literally exhausted, living on minutes of sleep. She experienced mental and physical exhaustion from insurance battles, the baby’s care needs, and financial strain. My mother’s heart ached to figure out how to help her while keeping my life intact.  My other daughter and her family far away, walking through life’s battles as well, and being so far away, I can’t help. The strain on relationships, friendships, my husband, teammates, and family as I press to maintain a work-life balance. And finally, the unthinkable: the passing of my grandbaby, and the shattering of my daughter’s heart. It may not be Job’s story, but to me, it feels like it.

    For years, while in ministry, it was easy to say I trusted God. That was part of my job description, after all. But in the midst of deep loss, could I still walk by faith? Could I still know deep in my heart that He loved me, and boldly say, “I trust You?”

    Every day while my sweet grandbaby was in the hospital, I visited her, and we sat together for hours each day. We had a special routine: “Hi, sweet baby, it’s Gmama” and then I would sing our  “Cuppy Cake” song, I could feel her little body snuggle in best as she could, and then I would pray our special prayers and scriptures, and then at the suggestion of the Dr. I would just sing, whatever I could think of, mostly what been playing in the car on the way there.  For some reason, every day, I found myself humming the same hymn. It wasn’t a song I had any special attachment to; I couldn’t even remember the name, and I didn’t know all the words. But one line played again and again in my spirit: “Oh, for grace to trust You more.” At the time, I thought that the trust I needed was for her healing, for business to recover, for stability to return. But I didn’t realize the trust being rooted in my heart was actually for now.

    And once again, Jesus ever so sweetly taught me the lesson.  Last week, while listening to a message on trust, the pastor shared a story that pierced me. A family was enjoying a perfect day at the beach when suddenly, a little boy screamed for help from the water. The husband ran in, saved the child, but drowned himself. In a moment, a beautiful day became a tragedy, a wife became a widow, a daughter became fatherless. Out of that devastation, the woman wrote a hymn: “’Tis so sweet to trust in Jesus” and there it was! The song that I had been singing in the hospital.  “

    ‘Tis so sweet to trust in Jesus,
    Just to take Him at His Word;
    Just to rest upon His promise,
    Just to know, “Thus saith the Lord!”

    Jesus, Jesus, how I trust Him!
    How I’ve proved Him o’er and o’er;
    Jesus, Jesus, precious Jesus!
    Oh, for grace to trust Him more!

    Oh, for grace to trust Him more.” When I heard that story, tears flowed from my eyes, tears of sadness, tears of gratitude, and tears of deep revelation. It was the first time I was reminded of the song God had placed on my heart in the hospital. And what deeply moved me is that it wasn’t written by someone offering polite encouragement in my darkness, but by someone who knew darkness, loss, and pain. Years later, thousands are still blessed by her trust, passed down through generations in a song.

    And this is what I want: For my trust to be louder than my tragedy. For the message that it is possible, however difficult it may be, to be BIG and STRONG in every moment as we slowly but confidently MOVE FORWARD in life.

    The core foundation is that in the midst of all of this, my citizenship is in heaven. One day, I will be called home not because I was strong, but because He was faithful.

    My trust is being rooted to deeper levels than ever before. This is the legacy I hope to leave behind: trust that stands, faith that remains, hope that refuses to be silent: a defiant hope, anchored in Jesus.

    I want my trust to speak louder than my trauma, for my strength to be found not in striving, but in waiting on the promise.

    I want to live out a confident trust that’s anchored in His grace, not in the circumstances of this life. And to trust always in the consistent, unchanging character of God.

    At the end of the day, it’s the ONLY unchanging thing there is.

    Oh, for GRACE to trust HIM more.  

  • Carry Me With You, as Move Forward

    Honoring the parents of an Angel

    There aren’t many words to describe how proud I am of Josh and Kendria for their courage as parents to Tatum.  Their faith, perseverance, and endurance are inspirational. They came together in unity and love, which fashioned a strength beyond what I believe they even realize. Even now, day by day, they are BIG and STRONG. So, in honor of my beautiful daughter and strong son-in-love, a letter from Tatum.

    Mommy and Daddy, thank you. I love you.

    You are courageous parents.

    You are big and strong.

    You taught me to be big and strong.

    Through your love, faith, and perseverance, I learned courage.

    You complemented one another perfectly, working together as a team. Tireless, steady, and united, you made my journey on earth as peaceful as possible.

    You are my amazing parents, and I am glad God chose you to watch over me.

    Daddy, thank you for riding with me to the hospital after I was born. I know it was hard for you. Your presence and spirit helped me fight to live. You and Mommy were by my side every day. You whispered prayers and love into my ears. It helped me get through the noises, wires, pokes, and prods from doctors and nurses. No matter where I was moved, you came with me. I felt your loving presence. It was the light that brightened the room, even on cloudy, dreary days.

    Mommy, thank you for whispering prayers for me every day. Your love and deep faith are extraordinary. HE told me you would be my guiding light on my journey.

    Daddy, you worked long hours so I could have a safe car, a home, a beautiful room, and the best care. You made sure I had everything I needed. You were exhausted after your shift but still relieved Mommy, who had been awake with me all night. Daddy, you were the strength we needed to keep going.

    I loved watching football with you. I loved hearing your voice. I loved holding your face. My Heavenly Father chose the right Daddy for me. Through you, I never missed a day of HIS love pouring out over me. Thank you for making my time on earth so special.

    Mommy, I love your beautiful voice. I heard you when you carried me in your womb. I heard you whisper songs in the hospital. In the middle of sleepless nights, you were singing to our Father, and He was there with us. I can still hear you, Mommy. Keep singing to our Father, for me.

    I saw how tired you were, Mommy. You stayed up with me every night. You drove me to appointments every day. You did everything that all mommies do, but at a much deeper level. You were my nurse, giving me medicine day and night, keeping supplies stocked, and calling doctors and insurance companies. That became your full-time job. Mommy, thank you.

    Thank you for helping me do all the things I did.
    I smiled.
    I cooed.
    I rolled over.
    I moved across the floor.
    I heard voices.
    I saw colors.
    I sat up.
    I swallowed.
    I tasted food.
    I held things.

    You had vision, and I did those things. I sat in my high chair. I tasted my birthday cake. Others didn’t think I would. You believed, Mommy. I did it through your faith, prayers, and love.

    On my birthday, all my loved ones—Pop, Glama, G-Daddy, G-Mama, CoCo, my cousins, and Mama Portia—were together in one place to celebrate me. Sharing this day with them filled my heart with happiness.

    My journey was hard.
    It was painful.
    It was a fight.

    But Mommy and Daddy, you always saw the best in me.

    I loved hearing you laugh together.
    I loved our happy home.
    I loved being your bug.
    I loved looking into your eyes.

    Thank you for showing me courage.
    Thank you for showing me faith in our Heavenly Father.
    Thank you for showing me His love.

    Carry me with you as you move forward.
    I am at peace. I am whole. I am held.

    Daddy and Mommy, move forward with your strength, grace, courage, and faith. Because of it, WE WILL be together again.

    Until that day….  May the Lord bless you and keep you and make HIS face shine upon you.

    I love you!

    Bug

    Tatum Sky Kies

    “Do not forget to show hospitality to strangers, for by so doing some people have shown hospitality to angels without knowing it,” Hebrews 13:2 (NIV)

  • Happy New Year… Is It, Though?

    There are seasons that change you quietly.
    And then there are seasons that break you open.

    2025 was not gentle with me.
    It stretched places in my heart I didn’t know could stretch.
    It humbled me in ways I never expected.
    And at times, it broke me in ways I’m still learning how to name.

    This year, I’m honoring my angel baby, Tatum Sky.

    I choose to be big and strong, the way Tatum fought every day.
    She had courage that shone through even the hardest days.
    With determination to overcome each obstacle.
    And she had a joyful strength that defied the limitations of her body and her size.

    I am not “moving on.”
    I am MOVING FORWARD, carrying her with me.

    And this is what I now know, as I’m sitting in the ashes.

    God never abandons what He allows.

    He is present in the silence.
    He is working in the waiting.
    He is shaping me even when I don’t feel Him near.

    But HE is close; I see Him when I choose to acknowledge each victory, no matter how small.

    Touch the Sky was born out of that truth; out of her name, her legacy, and the faith that carried me when my arms felt empty.

    I write this blog for the moments when my faith feels fragile, but I refuse to let go.
    For the days I keep going, not because I feel strong, but because I choose to trust anyway.
    For the quiet, defiant decision to believe God is still good, even when my story doesn’t look the way I thought it would.

    As I step into the new year, I know I am not empty-handed.

    I am carrying wisdom.

    I am carrying resilience.
    I am carrying a faith that survived the storm.

    I have defiant hope.

    None of it was wasted.

    Not the disappointments.
    Not the unanswered prayers.
    Not the tears no one saw.

    And I am carrying deep gratitude.

    I am grateful for my husband, my constant, my strength when I’m down.
    I am grateful for my daughters, my son-in-loves, and my granddaughters. For the life and love they bring into my days.
    I am grateful for family and friends who hold me up, pray when I can’t find words, and stay when there is nothing to fix.

    Heaven keeps record of every moment. The ones where I thought I was falling apart, but God is quietly putting things into place.

    This blog isn’t about pretending the pain didn’t happen.
    It’s about refusing to let pain have the FINAL WORD.

    What’s behind me does not get the last say…. God does.

    As I transition into this year, I am choosing to live with intention.

    I will work to remember that every day is a gift.
    I will say “I love you” more often.
    I will tell the people who matter to me, frequently and without hesitation, how much they mean to me.
    I will hold close what is sacred and loosen my grip on what is not.

    I will remember HIS faithfulness.
    I will breathe deeply and release the weight of yesterday.
    I will tell the truth, gently, bravely, and honestly.
    And, I will keep walking forward with open hands and a steady heart.

    God has a plan.
    God keeps His promises.
    And He is not finished with my story….or hers.

    This is defiant hope.
    The kind that stands even when it trembles.
    The kind that looks heavenward and whispers, I still trust You.

    I am touching the sky for Tatum, with Tatum, and because of Tatum, one faithful step at a time.

    Happy New Year.

    🤍🙏