The cynic never tastes the fruit of God’s goodness, but withers in a desert of unbelief.

When Israel was starving during a great famine, and the king went to kill Elisha for not intervening, the prophet gave him a startling prophecy: “By this time tomorrow,” he said, “food will be flowing freely through the gates of the city.” But the officer on whom the king leaned scoffed: “Even if the windows of heaven were opened, could this thing really be?”

Elisha replied, “You will see it with your eyes, but you will not eat of it.”

And that’s exactly what happened. The next day, the miracle came. The siege was broken. The famine ended. Food poured into the city in abundance. But that man—the one who had scoffed—was trampled in the gate by the crowd and died. He saw what God could do . . . but he did not partake of the blessing.

His cynicism cost him everything.

The Scripture says, “Cursed is the one who trusts in man, who draws strength from mere flesh and whose heart turns away from the LORD. That person will be like a bush in the wastelands; they will not see prosperity when it comes. They will dwell in the parched places of the desert, in a salt land where no one lives. But blessed is the man who trusts in the Lord, whose confidence is in Him. He will be like a tree planted by the water. . . . It does not fear when heat comes; its leaves are always green” (Jer. 17:5–8).

Trust, not suspicion, is the soil in which life and love grow.

When we draw strength only from our own flesh, we begin to wither inside. Suspicion drains the life from our relationships; self-reliance hardens the heart until it can no longer feel the gentle rain of grace. But the one who lifts their eyes in hope, who leans on the Lord and believes that He will bring goodness in His time, becomes like that tree by the water: steadfast, fruitful, and unafraid when the heat of testing comes. Their roots sink deep into the soil of God’s goodness.

Trust is a core element in a godly marriage. And yes—it takes risk to trust. We risk ourselves again and again if we are truly going to live. It was a risk to fall in love. A risk to marry. It’s a risk to have a child. To start a new job. To open our hearts. Something could always go wrong. But life without risk is no life at all.

What matters is not avoiding risk, but choosing the right people to risk with. Because when one falls, the other can lift him up. So you must have trust. And I don’t mean trust in the fallibility of human flesh—I mean trust in the design—the design God created for relationships. For marriage. For family. For church. For community.

It is not the perfection of people that gives us confidence, but the perfect wisdom of God’s structure. We trust that He designed a net to catch us when we fall, if we will stay in it. And as much as the individuals within that design cling to it, and to Christ, we can trust them, too, fallible as they are. We can trust that they are being changed from day to day, from faith to faith, from glory to glory, just as we are.

The world does everything it can to destroy this trust. It feeds us cynicism. Suspicion. Irony. As an adult encountering so much of the world’s literature, entertainment, and media, I’ve often marveled at how steeped it all is in mistrust. It constantly follows the same storyline: the protective father is revealed as the abuser. The noble pastor turns out to be a hypocrite. The sanctuary of church ends up as a cover for crime. The nurturing mother is really just a cold machine. Becoming a traditional wife is a gateway to dangerous alt right cults. And on and on.

Why? Because Satan is the accuser of the brethren. He wants to prove that love can’t be trusted, that human failure will triumph over the power of God. And the world plays along, not just telling true stories of failure, but reinforcing the lie that this is always how it goes. That no one is trustworthy. That no one truly changes.

But I have seen otherwise.

I once met a woman visiting our church. She spoke of the struggles in her marriage—her husband’s weaknesses—and then said, with a shrug, “But we’ll stick with it. All men have skeletons in their closets.”

I found her words deeply saddening.

Because I knew it wasn’t true.

My husband didn’t have a skeleton in his closet. My father didn’t. Many men I love and admire do not. And even among those who once did (including women, by the way), I have seen the old man put to death and a new man rise—transformed by Christ. The past buried. A new life born.

But cynicism is like a film over the eyes. It keeps us from seeing the truth of what God is doing—or what He can do. That woman’s marriage could never flourish while she lived under the lie that trust was impossible. She had no vision for transformation. No faith in redemption. Her cynicism had closed the windows of heaven.

The Lord said through Malachi, “Test Me in this, and see if I will not open the windows of heaven and pour out so much blessing that there will not be room enough to store it” (Mal. 3:10).

But unbelief, like the king’s servant, will always stand outside the gate, missing out on the blessing that could have been.

So I urge you: keep those windows open.

If your husband loves God and is committed to His ways, then believe in God’s work in him. Honor and trust not only the man he is today, but the man you believe God is shaping him to be. See with the eyes of faith.

I had to learn this while raising teenage sons as well. I remember thinking during hard seasons, How do I speak respectfully to him when he’s acting like this? How do I show honor when I feel frustration? And the Lord showed me: respect the man you believe he is becoming. Speak to that future. Call it forth. Treat him as if it’s already becoming real—because it is.

We must do this with our children, our spouses—anyone we love. See what God is doing. Speak to it. Believe in it. Respect it. That kind of trust opens the door wide for transformation.

But cynicism—just like the officer whom the king leaned on —stands at the gate and scoffs. And in the end, it may see the miracle . . . but will not taste it. “Take care, brothers,” the scripture warns, “lest there be in any of you an evil, unbelieving heart, leading you to fall away from the living God” (Heb. 3:12).

The cynic will always lie trampled in the gates of victory.

But I hope for more for you. I want you to taste it. I want you to feast on the goodness of God in your marriage, in your children, in your church, and in your life. Shut the door to suspicion, and open the door to trust.

Believe in God. Believe in His design. Believe that the love He plants can grow, even in the parched soil of our human weakness—if we keep watering it with trust.

With all my love,

Mom

There is a counterfeit of submission that’s important to see clearly, because it often disguises itself as obedience. It’s called capitulation.

In the military, capitulation refers to what happens in a battle when the weaker side admits that a particular skirmish has been lost. The enemy was stronger or smarter in that moment, and so the fight is conceded. But the war itself is not over. Capitulation is not surrender of the heart—it is only a reluctant nod to the immediate outcome, while still holding on to one’s own lordship. This will ultimately lead to guerrilla warfare.

True surrender is different. In surrender, a nation lays down its arms and confesses that it has been conquered. No longer fighting under its own banner, it comes under the government and authority of a new king. That’s what real submission looks like—not just losing arguments or conceding battles, but acknowledging that Jesus Christ is Lord over your whole life, and that His kingdom is now your country.

Capitulation in the relationships of God’s design, however, is an insidious form of rebellion. It looks harmless, but it hides self-rule. Think of a nation that signs a peace treaty but secretly hides weapons in barns and cellars, ready to rise up again when the moment is right. On the outside, they look like they’ve submitted. In reality, they are only waiting for their chance to resist again.

Or imagine a child or wife who avoids doing the one thing their parent or husband asks by filling the day with ten other “good” tasks. Outwardly she looks busy and devoted, but in truth she has resisted the one obedience that mattered in that moment. That is capitulation disguised as diligence or sacrifice. And the nature of this type of “guerrilla warfare” is that it nibbles away at God’s purpose and every relationship He would build.

The Lord has already spoken about this kind of heart: “Hypocrites! Well did Isaiah prophesy about you, saying: ‘These people draw near to Me with their mouth, and honor Me with their lips, but their heart is far from Me’” (Matt. 15:7-8). He does not want mere outward compliance, but a heart bowed to Him in sincere love.

Jesus showed us the opposite. He did not merely concede a skirmish. He laid aside His glory, stepped into our weakness and mortality, and surrendered Himself fully to the Father’s will—even to the point of the cross. His submission was not begrudging; it was the ultimate expression of love.

You will have opportunities every day to decide whether you are merely conceding a moment or truly surrendering to the King. Capitulation clings to self and wears the mask of obedience. True submission bows the heart, lays down every hidden weapon, and says, “Not my will, but Yours be done.”

With all my love,

Mom

When it comes to women’s roles, especially in marriage, few words carry more discomfort in today’s world than the word, submission (Eph. 5:22; Col. 3:18; 1 Pet. 3:1). I understand why. The fear is that submission means giving up your dignity, your voice, or perhaps even your safety. But in the kingdom of God, submission is none of the above. It’s not oppression—it is liberation. It is not weakness; it is strength channeled into God’s purposes.

Submission, as God designed it, is death only to the flesh, but it is life to the Spirit. Imagine the flow of water through a hose: narrowing the aperture doesn’t diminish the power—it concentrates it. In the same way, submission doesn’t silence who we are in God; it focuses the flow of His Spirit through us. It places us under the mission of Christ.

Throughout history, and especially in the modern era, this word has been twisted into something sinister. The world has crafted counterfeits, versions of submission rooted in fear, domination, or force. But that is not the way of Jesus. His authority flows only through love, never coercion. Jesus said, “If you love Me, you will keep My commandments” (John 14:15). Even in His greatest act of submission—laying down His life—He did so not because He was forced, but because He loved.

True submission is always born out of love. It is choosing to come under the same mission as another: first Christ, and then those we walk beside in family and community. In the kingdom, every person has a place of submission. God wasn’t singling out women; He was building a body where no flesh could glory, where egos and agendas dissolve into the love of Christ.

I know the question that lingers in many hearts: “But what if I submit, and the one I submit to misuses their authority?” This is why God created a design in which all are accountable in submission. Individuals are placed in families, families in the church of which Christ is the head. Each relationship of submission is orchestrated to connect all to that head—that lordship of Jesus. So as long as we stay connected to the whole, God can reach us and those we are submitted to with His love and guidance.

I’m often asked, “If Scripture tells me to obey and submit to my husband, does that mean I must trust that everything he says is God’s perfect will—even when I don’t feel it is?”

No. Your husband is human, just as you are, and not every word he speaks will always perfectly reflect God’s will. Submission is not about assuming who is most accurate; it is about whether both of you are seeking to fit into God’s design.

There will be times when mistakes are made. Yet as long as you’re not being asked to sin against the Lord or another person, you can submit in faith, trusting that in the larger picture God sees and guides all things.

What we ultimately trust is not a man, but God and God’s design. We trust our husbands insofar as they too are submitted to that design, but we submit to them because it aligns us in obedience to God. Ultimately our full surrender and obedience belong to God, who knows all things. And trust between husband and wife deepens as both grow in their own submission to Him and to those He sends to each.

Jesus said, “The greatest among you must be the servant of all.” (Mark 10:43–45) In God’s order, the one entrusted with authority also bears the greatest responsibility to serve, to lay down their life in love. And each, in His design, must have a place to submit, to be guided.

So when we ask, “Are men and women equal?”—we must be careful which measuring stick we use. The world measures greatness by control. The kingdom measures greatness by love and the service it produces. Paul reminds us: “There is neither Jew nor Gentile, slave nor free, male nor female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus.” (Gal. 3:28)

Do you remember the story of the Roman centurion in Luke 7? He told Jesus, “I myself am a man under authority, with soldiers under me.” He recognized something profound: his strength to lead came from his willingness to be not inauthority, but under authority. And he saw that same truth in Jesus, authority flowing out of His submission to the Father.

So, submission in God’s kingdom is not weakness. It is the conduit of divine strength. When you choose biblical submission—whether in marriage or in the church—you are not stepping beneath an oppressive shadow. You are stepping into the divine order of the kingdom, saying with trust, “I believe in God’s design.” And in His design, no one carries the burden of submission alone. We are all submitted—to Christ, and to one another. Your submission positions you as a direct channel of God’s divine power. You come under His mission, as He reigns in dominion over one more sphere of life.

With all my love,

Mom

How do we calm our anxious, restless hearts and enter into the peace that makes us children of God? How does one climb out of the downward spiral of worthlessness, depression, anxiety, and loneliness that so many fall into during seasons of life? Scripture points the way:

“And do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind, that you may prove what is that good and acceptable and perfect will of God.” (Romans 12:2)

So learning how to renew our minds is a key.

Our society is experiencing an unprecedented rise in depression, anxiety, loneliness, and fear. And sadly, the church has not been spared. These battles seem to press particularly hard on women. If the renewal of our how minds is the answer, how do we truly do that?

Did you know that our minds are connected to every cell in our bodies? Because of the brain’s incredible plasticity, we actually have the capacity to redirect our physical, emotional, and spiritual wellbeing through our thoughts and attitudes. The mindset with which we meet any circumstance sends signals that tell our very cells how to respond—what hormones to release, what proteins to create. In short, our thoughts and perspectives literally become a physical part of who we are!

Dr. Caroline Leaf, a neuroscientist, has studied this extensively, and I have enjoyed reading some of her work. She explains that as much as 85% of disease is stress-related, and that negative emotions can actually twist and constrict DNA, shutting down healthy cell function. But she also found that joy, gratitude, love, and appreciation reverse the effect, restoring health—even increasing resistance to disease by hundreds of thousands of times! Science has simply proven what Scripture has declared all along: “Perfect love casts out fear.” (1 John 4:18)

Some of you remember when your autistic brother Christopher was small and so easily overwhelmed. The smallest thing could send him into a storm of tears and fear. There were days when nothing seemed to reach him. But slowly we learned to notice early on the little signs that told us when a storm was coming. And when we saw them, we’d gently gather him up and carry him into a new space. Because he loved water, we gave him little missions: filling glasses at the table, watering the plants, splashing the ducks, filling the dog bowls, turning on the garden sprinkler. Something about those small acts calmed him. What began as panic slowly turned into peace, even delight.

In time, he began to do it himself. When fear rose, he would pour water for the family or go outside to the animals. The meltdowns faded, and the good habit remained. That is the essence of taking thoughts captive—not arguing endlessly with fear, but redirecting it into gratitude, into prayer, into love, into service.

None of us can do this alone. God has placed us in relationship so that our weaknesses can be filled by the strengths of others. If we were able to perfect ourselves alone, would we not be gods?

Your Uncle Asi once gave this picture: when a diabetic suffers an insulin crash, their perception of the world is distorted; they feel panic and despair. But the solution is not to debate those feelings. It is to give insulin. In the same way, when depression or fear clouds our mind, we must not endlessly argue with the dark narrative it presents. Instead, we must receive the equivalent of an “insulin shot”—a word of truth, a perspective outside ourselves, a reminder from someone who sees clearly when we cannot.

So don’t be ashamed of weakness. Weakness is the very place where grace is meant to enter. The hollow spaces in you are designed to be filled with God Himself, and with the love and strength of His people. When you are joined to Him and to His body, your weakness becomes a channel for love to flow like a river, a place for His strength to be made perfect.

“Dear children, let us not love with words or speech but with actions and in truth. This is how we know that we belong to the truth and how we set our hearts at rest in his presence: If our hearts condemn us, we know that God is greater than our hearts, and he knows everything.” (1 John 3:18–20)

So when fear or condemnation try to define you, remember: God is greater than your heart. You are not left alone to battle your thoughts. His Spirit renews your mind, His people strengthen your soul, and His love transforms even your weakness into glory. Turn aside from those nibbling, chewing thoughts, and enter into serving and loving others! Embrace relationships that bring different perspectives than yours, and the big picture of Jesus will come back into view!

With all my love,

Mom

Peace is not merely the absence of noise or conflict. It is the deep tranquility that comes when design is at work—as it is in art or music. Think of a choir where every voice blends, or a symphony where each instrument plays the same piece in tune. In this kind of design, no one is in one corner plunking out “Yankee Doodle” while someone else is singing a heartfelt “How Great Thou Art.” The notes, the rhythm, the harmonies—they come together as one. Design is peace.

Jesus said, “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called sons of God” (Matt. 5:9). This is not a small thing. To be called His children, to truly belong in His house forever, we must learn to make peace. We must walk into every circumstance asking ourselves, how can I bring peace?

I remember a time not long after I married your dad. He was working long hours and pouring himself into a music project for the community fair. I was home with two little ones, feeling weary, and sometimes anxious about how much he was gone. My frustration came out in little questions:

“What’s going on, honey?”

“Did you realize dinner’s getting cold?”

“Did it really take that long?”

Finally, I burst out, “This schedule isn’t sustainable. What’s going to happen when our kids are teenagers?”

Your dad just smiled at our toddlers and said, “Thankfully, that’s a long way off.” I didn’t yet understand times and seasons.

Later, I confided in my friend Angie. I expected commiseration, but she gave me wisdom instead. She said she used to feel the same way when her husband came home tired and distracted. She would pepper him with questions, hoping to draw him out, but it only pushed him further away. Then she said God showed her: “Make an environment of peace when he comes home. Don’t add to the anxiety.”

So she started with small things—quieting the house, preparing a favorite snack, settling the children so they could have story time with Daddy, offering a shoulder rub. She said, “When peace came in, everything I longed for in the relationship began to grow. My own anxiety had been excluding me. Peace drew me in.”

That conversation changed me. I began to make every effort to create a home where peace could rest—not because I wanted to pretend everything was always fine, but because I wanted to be a blessed peacemaker, a true daughter of God. I wanted Daddy to long to come home, because it was home. A haven. A sanctuary.

That made all the difference. And guess what? In the seasons that followed, including your teenage years, there has always been time and grace for the right balance of relationships and tasks in our home. And through it all, I also learned something else: wherever there is strife and anxiety, God does not speak. His voice is heard in the stillness of peace.

The apostle Paul writes, “The fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, longsuffering, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control . . . . If we live in the Spirit, let us also walk in the Spirit. Let us not become conceited, provoking one another, envying one another” (Gal. 5:22–26).

Recognizing the times and seasons, honoring the order of relationships—this brings peace. And peace brings the Father into the home.

So I ask you: let His peace first settle deep within your own hearts, and then let it spill outward into your homes and relationships. Remember, the Father’s song is always being played; our part is to find the rhythm, to fit into the notes, and to live in tune with Him. In this harmony, you will be true peacemakers, and you will know the blessing of being called His beloved children.

With all my love,

Mom

Don’t ever let your spirit degenerate into grumbling and complaining. Grumblers are destined to wander, going in circles, repeating the same failures again and again. They may try again, appear to succeed for a while, but soon enough find themselves back where they started. This was the story of the children of Israel.

God had delivered them with mighty works: the Red Sea parted before them, their enemies drowned behind them. He fed them manna from heaven, water from a rock, quail when they hungered for meat. He sheltered them by a cloud in the day and lit their way with fire by night. Yet they chose to murmur. The manna was boring. The water was bitter. The journey was too long. Their leader took too much time.

These are not unfamiliar complaints. Have you heard them in your own heart? My husband can’t make up his mind. Our finances are low. The house renovation drags on year after year. These things are common. But one truth remains: grumbling cannot coexist with gratitude.

The psalmist reminds us: “Enter His gates with thanksgiving and His courts with praise; give thanks to Him and bless Him name” (Psalm 100:4). Every time we yield to a complaining spirit, we step outside His presence and away from His blessings.

Complaining also blinds us. Our eyes fix on what we dislike, what has gone wrong, what feels hard. Meanwhile, the miracles pass us by unseen. We miss the water gushing from the rock, the fire separating us from our enemies, the cloud of glory leading us forward, because our gaze is fixed on moldy manna, clutched one day too soon.

Your father sometimes tells a story about a study conducted: people were asked to count the number of times a ball was passed back and forth in a video. In the middle of the scene, a man dressed as a gorilla wandered in, waved, made faces, and walked out again. Almost no one ever noticed him, because they were so intent on the ball. This is what happens when our eyes are glued to our complaints—we miss the very presence of God moving right in front of us.

Worse still, complaining drains the joy, peace, and laughter from a home. If you complain to your husband, your children will complain to you. They will mirror your attitude, until the whole household is weighed down under the same gray cloud. Even the husband you long to draw near may not feel urgency to return to a house of complaint. God Himself withdrew from Israel when their spirit was one of murmuring.

A friend of mine, whom I greatly respect, once told me a story. She and her husband had a little habit of making the bed together every morning. Standing on either side, snapping the sheets and smoothing the wrinkles, they would talk about the day. She confessed that she realized one morning how she always began by complaining: how little sleep she had gotten, how many times the baby had woken, who wet the bed. But in one of these moments, she felt the Lord convict her: Why don’t you start your day with gratitude instead of complaint?

The next morning she tried. As they tucked the corners and fluffed the pillows, she shared funny things the children had said the day before, progress in the garden, small joys. She told me it utterly changed the atmosphere—not only their relationship, but the whole day that followed. Her gratitude sparked inspiration in her husband, gave him ideas for their children, direction for their family plans. Just that simple choice—to begin the day without complaint, but with thanksgiving—opened the door for guidance, for creativity, for blessing.

Gratitude changes everything. Scripture exhorts us: “Do all things without grumbling or complaining, that you may become blameless and pure, children of God without fault in a crooked and depraved generation, in which you shine like stars in the universe” (Phil. 2:14-15).

So, my dearest daughters, banish grumbling from your lips and hearts. Do not exile yourselves to a lifetime of wandering in circles. Instead, “Rejoice always, pray continually, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus” (1 Thess. 5:16-18). Step up onto the Rock, and with gratitude and praise, climb the mountain into His presence.

With all my love,

Mom

Some people look at the traditional role of a woman, mother, wife, homemaker, and see something small. They feel it must be narrow, like a hallway without windows or a life with too few options. I understand that fear. The world has painted a narrow one-dimensional picture of womanhood. But I want to share something with you that has stayed with me since I was a child, something that returns to me again and again in my sleep.

I’ve had a repeating dream during my adult life of a little house, a house I once lived in as a girl. In the dream, I walk back through its rooms, and they are as tiny as I remember. I trace the walls with my eyes, remembering where the table stood, how the light came through the curtains, what it felt like to belong there. And then, always the same: I open a closet door. At the back of the closet is another door—one I had never noticed before.

When I open that second door, it’s like stepping into a miracle. There is a whole section of the house I didn’t know existed: broad, beautiful, welcoming spaces—well-furnished, full of light. Room after room, stretch far beyond what I lived in as a child. And in the dream, I say, again and again, “How did we not know this was here? Why did we live in only that tiny part of the house when all of this was ours?”

The life of a woman, the life in God’s design, is not narrow. But it can feel narrow if we never open the hidden or locked doors. The door of deep relationship. The door of true sacrificial love. The door of wisdom and shared sorrows and the kind of selfless care that makes space for others to grow. The door of prayer, where heaven bends low to meet us in our kitchens and bedrooms and laundry rooms.

When we live disconnected, when we don’t truly invest all into those roles that tie us to others, that demand vulnerability, we live only in the smallest corner of the house. But when we throw ourselves fully into the life God gives, investing everything in those relationships and responsibilities, the house opens up. We find that service is not drudgery but abundance, that giving our lives away enlarges them, and that the narrow hallway opens into a great hall where generations may gather and feast at His table.

We find that what looked small was only the entryway. The temple is just beyond.

With all my heart,

Mom

Something my dad once told me has stayed with me for years. He said righteousness is when your thoughts, your words, your actions, and your relationships all line up—with each other, and with God’s purposes. It’s not just about doing the right thing; it’s about being whole.

Righteousness brings peace. It draws the fragmented pieces of our lives together, weaving integrity where there was once inconsistency. It pulls us into integration instead of disintegration—into connection, not conflict. As James wrote, “The fruit of righteousness is sown in peace by those who make peace” (James 3:18).

But this kind of righteousness isn’t automatic. The apostle John said, “He who practices righteousness is righteous, just as He is righteous” (1 John 3:7). Did you catch that? It must be practiced. That means it takes effort. Intention. Deliberate choices, day after day.

It’s easy for a Christian woman to say with her mouth, “I submit to my husband.” But what about her tone? Her timing? Her inner posture? What if her words say yes, but her actions whisper no? That’s not righteousness; that’s pretense. Scripture says, “Let love be without hypocrisy” (Rom. 12:9). So it’s possible to appear loving while withholding true love in the heart.

This dissonance—when our behavior and our inner attitude are out of sync—drains the life from our faith. It may look like submission, but it’s really a subtle rebellion, a kind of guerrilla warfare that plays out in sarcasm, cold silence, or thinly veiled criticism. And over time, it erodes the trust that marriage needs to flourish.

The kingdom of God is not built with bricks and mortar; it’s built with relationships. That means righteousness isn’t just about moral decisions. It’s about being rightly related to others. John says plainly, “Whoever does not practice righteousness is not of God, nor is he who does not love his brother” (1 John 3:10). In the end, we won’t be judged on how many arguments we won, how many facts we got right, or how clever our reasoning was, but on how we loved.

When you stand before the Lord at the end of your life, do you really think He will check whether your scheduling was better than your husband’s? Was this meal more tasty than that? Was this vacation more suited than that? Should we have used this curriculum over that, or even chosen this vocation rather than that? No. He will ask whether your heart was consumed by His love, your mind tempered by His Spirit, your actions guided by His sacrifice. The attitude of the heart is what God is looking at.

Paul says, “The only thing that counts is faith working through love” (Gal. 5:6). So yes, the small things matter—vacation plans, daily routines, parenting decisions—but what matters more is the spirit and attitude we carry into those discussions. Are we building peace? Or are we bulldozing our house to make a point?

“The wise woman builds her house, but the foolish tears it down with her own hands” (Prov. 14:1). I often think about that verse when I feel the urge to “set something straight.” There are ways to speak truth that don’t fracture unity. There are ways to be strong without being hard. And there are ways to suggest adjustments that aren’t manipulative.

Remember, dearest daughters, we’re not just tending our own households—we’re part of something much larger. Scripture says we together are God’s temple, and His Spirit dwells among us. And it gives this sobering warning: “If anyone destroys God’s temple, God will destroy that person” (1 Cor. 3:16-17; Eph. 2:21-22).

That means the way we treat one another—especially those closest to us—is sacred ground. Do not destroy that temple.

Does righteousness mean you can never speak up, never ask questions, never express concern? Of course not. But it does mean asking this: Am I building or am I breaking?

Let me offer a picture. If your cabinet door is crooked, you don’t burn the whole kitchen down. But how many times have we let a minor frustration spiral into something truly destructive? How often has ego demanded the final word when love would’ve chosen meek understanding?

I remember a story about a young couple who lived this out in a beautiful way. They had planned a short trip to visit relatives. The husband chose the timing, but the wife felt uneasy about leaving then because of important community activities at home. She gently suggested waiting, but he was convinced his plan worked best for both family and work. After wrestling in prayer, she felt the Lord whisper, “Let it go. In the bigger scheme, this doesn’t matter. Trust Me.” So she chose to submit cheerfully, planning the trip and enjoying it—though she still suspected they might have chosen the wrong time.

Sure enough, while they were away, some circumstances made him restless and wishing he were home. She noticed, but she kept silent, trusting God’s order. When they returned, to her surprise, he went to speak with her father about the trip. It was the first time he had ever initiated such a conversation, and it opened the door to a mentoring relationship she had long prayed for.

Had she insisted on her own way, they might have been home for those events and the trip might have been “better timed,” but that deeper bond between her father and her husband may never have formed. What looked like a misstep was, in God’s hands, a step toward something far greater. Only He sees the whole picture. I should know, for I was the wife in this story.

Righteousness never glorifies the self. It seeks peace. It sows gently, waits patiently, and honors God’s design even in the small, hidden moments. This is the gentle, radiant strength of a godly woman.

Let’s keep practicing, my daughters. It won’t always come easily, but it will always be worth it.

With all my love,

Mom

Dearest Daughters,

I’ve often been asked what the purpose of marriage is, and my heart longs to answer in a way that reaches deeper than duty or romance or even companionship. To truly understand marriage, we must begin not with ourselves, but with God and with the purpose for every relationship He has designed.

You see, from the beginning, God was building a house. Not one of stone and timber, but of human souls. His plan was always to dwell with His people. Not just among us, but inside of us. And so, every Christian relationship is meant to become part of that spiritual structure. We are, as Scripture says, “living stones,” carefully placed and shaped, growing together into a temple where God’s presence rests (1 Peter 2:5).

Through this holy dwelling—His Church—God reveals His wisdom not only to the world, but even to principalities of the heavens. Imagine that! Your faithfulness in friendship, in family, and especially in marriage becomes part of an eternal testimony to angels and powers, a declaration that love always wins over fear, over death, over pride, and over every decay that sin has sown into human relationships (Ephesians 3:10–11).

So marriage was never just about finding “the one” who makes only you feel complete. It was never meant to be only about our self-fulfillment or comfort. Marriage was created for God’s glory. It is a sacred context in which we learn to lay down our lives, to submit not merely to one another, but to Christ. It is a place to unlearn self-centeredness and relearn how to love like Jesus does—with humility, grace, and transparency.

The world tells you to ask: What will this relationship do for me?

But the better question is: What is this relationship asking of me? What is God forming through it?

If we want to be part of the spiritual house that He’s building, we must allow Him to dismantle the selfish scaffolding we’ve built around ourselves. That can be uncomfortable. But to the one who longs for Christ to be formed in her, it is holy ground.

Scripture speaks clearly: “Wives, submit yourselves to your own husbands as you do to the Lord. . . . As the church submits to Christ, so also wives should submit to their husbands in everything” (Ephesians 5:22-24). But hear me: this is not about inferiority or blind obedience. It is about coming under God’s mission (submission) and reflecting a transcendent picture: the church responding in love to Christ.

And submission is not reserved for women. All who follow Jesus are called to mutual submission—to live in such a way that Christ is seen in how we yield, how we serve, how we forgive, how we listen.

So ask yourself often: If marriage is a prototype of Christ and His church:

• How would I want my church to relate to Christ, and do I exemplify that in my marriage?
• What does my marriage say about Christ and His church?Does it reflect honor? Loyalty? Trust?
• Does it show how deeply the church loves her Lord?
• Does it echo the unity Christ prayed for when He said, “that they may be one . . . so that the world may know You sent Me”? (John 17:21)

The enemy of your soul will go after that unity. His oldest trick is accusation and suspicion (Revelation 12:10). He knows that if he can divide what God meant to be one, he can distort the very picture of God’s covenant love.

But a marriage that is ordered by God becomes a living parable—a testimony to what real, sacrificial, enduring love looks like, to what Christ looks like. A little piece of heaven on earth. Not because it is perfect, but because it has been surrendered.

That’s why Jesus taught us to pray, “Your kingdom come, Your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.” That’s not just a morning prayer; it’s a daily posture. In your home. In your heart. In your marriage.

Paul said the kingdom of God is “righteousness, peace, and joy in the Holy Spirit” (Romans 14:17). This is not supposed to just be a theory. It’s the blueprint. It’s what the kingdom looks like when it puts on flesh and lives in your home.

So let’s start here:

• What does righteousness look like between husband and wife?
• What does peace look like—not just a “ceasefire,” but a true atmosphere of grace and order?
• What does joy look like—even when the laundry’s piled up, the baby’s crying, and you’re tired to the bone?

The world has at times abused the role of women; sometimes even the “church” has. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. When I was nineteen, I traveled to the Middle East and watched in stunned silence as a woman, strapped to the boom of a rotating irrigation pump, trudged in endless circles to draw water for the family fields. Her husband relaxed in the shade, and nearby, the family donkey rested under a tree. The image never left me.

There will always be people who use their own power to trample others. But that’s not God’s design. Just because there will always be those who caricature God’s order, don’t reject the treasure of godly design and submission just because you’ve seen counterfeits. Submission, rightly understood, does not degrade; it dignifies. It is not a lowering of value; it is a demonstration of trust in the One who laid down His own rights, even His own life.

God’s order is not about showcasing our brilliance. It’s about reflecting His. His kingdom is not a platform for pride but a mirror for glory. And marriage is one of its clearest mirrors.

Submission, when yielded in the Spirit, is offensive only to the flesh. But to the woman who has tasted the sweetness of surrender, it becomes a doorway to peace.

“The wise woman builds her house,” Proverbs says. “But the foolish one tears it down with her own hands” (Prov. 14:1). So ask yourself—what kind of woman am I becoming?

The kingdom will rise or fall in our homes before it ever shows up in our churches or communities. If righteousness, peace, and joy are the fruit of the Spirit, then let them begin in you. Let them take root in the secret places: in your tone, your thoughts, your willingness to forgive. Let them blossom in your daily choices. Let them spread to the children and the man beside you at your table.

Because if His kingdom is ever to come in the earth . . .

It must come first in the heart.

And then, my daughters, in the home.

With all my love,

Mom

Dearest Daughters,

When you hear the word “home,” what rises in your heart?

For me, it’s not just a word; it’s a feeling. A deep, almost painful tug, like something written into our very bones. After a long trip, a hard day, or even a hospital stay, all I can think about is home. There’s something magnetic about it, so powerful that the word “homesick” has been invented just to describe the ache we feel when we’re away from it too long.

We remember the laughter around the dinner table, the comfort of familiar routines, the scent of dinner on the stove, the way the walls hold our stories. Home is where we feel safe. It’s where we belong. It’s where we are most ourselves.

So, my daughters, there is another ache in my heart that I want to describe: If home is such a sacred and vital place, why is the word “homemaker” spoken with so much discomfort, even disdain, in this world around us? This truly grieves to me.

If you say you spend 2,000 hours a year in an office cubicle, staring at spreadsheets, people will nod approvingly. Say you wear a paper cap and rubber gloves to press buttons on an x-ray machine, or clean the teeth of strangers all day, and they’ll commend your discipline and your contribution to society.

But if you say you are a full-time wife and mother? Say you are a keeper of the home? An awkward hush falls. A shadow of pity or confusion flickers across faces. Just a housewife? Only a homemaker?

As if you’ve given up.

Daughters, never forget: you haven’t given up anything! You have taken up something holy.

I don’t say this because I’m bitter that homemaking has been demeaned. I say it because I love being a woman! I love being your mother. I love creating a beautiful space for peace and welcome. I love the behind-the-scenes steady work of nurturing life and light in our home. And I believe, with all my heart, that this work, done in faith and love, is a sacred calling.

Recovering the dignity and mission of womanhood is not drudgery to me. It’s delight.

I truly believe that in the beautiful symphony of life, family, community, and faith, we women have been entrusted with a powerful anthem. We are privileged to bring the Kingdom of Heaven into kitchens, into laundry rooms, into bedtime prayers and warm plates passed around the table. We are honored to keep the flame burning day after faithful day.

You see, the problem is not the calling itself. It’s the caricature. The distortion. The counterfeit that turns biblical submission into subjugation or paints homemaking as small, dull, or regressive. These lies shrink something beautiful into something bitter—and that, my dear ones, is what we must resist.

I pray you will see the home for what it really is: a sanctuary. A garden. A training ground. A holy outpost of heaven in a weary world. And I want you to know that to tend that space with love, wisdom, and joy is no small thing.

It is legacy. It is strength. It is purpose.

Let’s redeem the word “homemaker,” not merely with nostalgia, but with vision! Let’s lift it up where it belongs, not in pride, but in peace. Let’s show the world that a woman who loves her home, who creates beauty, who serves with laughter and tears and open arms is not less. She is more.

More than the world can measure. More than earthly culture will ever understand.

And her joy? Her purpose? It is waiting to be rediscovered. Let that joy shine through you, and let everything you do in and for your home and family be radiant with God’s purpose.

With all my love,

Mom