As we celebrate America’s 250th anniversary, we should remember and honor the courageous and faithful women who made a difference. These include women who went undercover as spies at the peril of their lives and those who supplied funds, cared for soldiers, defended their homes, and ones who communicated to help shape public opinion.
While researching for my historical romance The Christmas Cherub, I discovered doctors in World War II used “battle fatigue” for what is now called post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). The latter may be the proper medical term, but I relate to the older term, especially fatigue.
A surprising number of people are afraid to pray. They love God, but when it comes to talking to him, they freeze. They worry about praying “wrong,” stepping outside his will, or somehow offending him—as though God is scoring their performance. Out of fear, they offer him something he never asked for: prayerlessness. But prayerlessness is its own kind of silent treatment...
God gently interrupted me with a question that pierced deeper than the pain. “Why do you do what you do?” The question stayed with me for weeks. But the Lord was inviting me to something greater. He wanted me to understand that ministry isn’t just built on gifts, platforms, or conferences. It’s built on loving his people.
Here’s the thing: I almost gave up. Not because I didn’t know what I wanted to say, but because I got stuck between wanting to be teachable and knowing I had a mission that didn’t fit the template. It felt like sinking into a mud bath—uncomfortable, a little dirty, and I wasn’t sure if I was being cleansed or suffocated. But I had to sit there. I had to type out the conversations in my head. I had to let the discomfort do its work.
Piecrust on the ceiling? I stood there staring at the clumps of dough now clinging to the ceiling above me. Having arrived there by accident, the clumps clung tightly out of place. They told the story of ingredients, stirred over and over, creating the perfect mashup of loss, tragedy, and loneliness.
Just as I was finishing up my book signing at the International Christian Retail Show 25 years ago, I locked eyes with a woman waiting at the edge of the Guideposts booth. She’d been there for quite some time. I wondered why she hadn’t moved into my line to get a signed copy of my latest children’s book ... but she hadn’t. “We just ran out of books,” I explained, as I walked over to her, “but I’d be happy to mail you a copy from my personal stash at home.” “Oh, that’s OK. I’m not here for a book,” she said. “I just want to talk to you.”
“I think I’m—” Overcome with emotion, my voice broke before I managed, “pregnant.” My 17-year-old boyfriend released my hand, then raked fingers through his hair. The quiet space between us was weighty, my words seeming to work their way to cognition. After a beat of silence, Bill’s one-word response: “No.”
We know firsts; we do not usually know lasts. I knew this would be my last time with Becky. She spoke. I wrote. Her words were filled with love, grace, and hope. Together we created five precious notes in all: one to her husband, one to each daughter and one for both of her grandchildren. “When do you want me to deliver these letters?” “After ...”
I let go of the empty thing I was chasing and embraced the better thing God had for me. Saying no wasn’t failure; it was surrender.