Growing up, I dreamed of a house full of life —little feet running down hallways, cousins laughing in the backyard, a kitchen table cluttered with snacks and storybooks.

It wasn’t just a dream of motherhood — it was a dream of belonging.

Years later, when we began looking for a home, I knew exactly what I was searching for —a big dining room to gather around, and a big backyard for adventure.

When we found the house we live in now, it felt like another God wink tucked into our story: a home with a huge dining room where our 10-foot table now stands, and an acre of land for Luci to run free.

In the backyard, a little wooden playhouse built by the previous owners — grandparents who dreamed of joy for their family too — waited for us.

It felt like a whisper from Heaven: "I see you. I remember."

Now, most mornings, I sit at that big dining room table —to write my blog posts, to spend time with Jesus, to pray and dream and wrestle.

And out the window, just beyond the glass, I can see the little wooden playhouse —a quiet reminder that even when dreams feel broken or delayed,

God is still writing stories we can't always see yet.

In my early twenties, I was told I likely wouldn't be able to have children.

The grief of that news ran deep — so deep I almost gave up on the idea of marriage altogether.

I poured myself into my teaching career and tried to build a life that didn’t ache so much.

During my first year of teaching, I met my husband — another piece of God's quiet redemption at work.

We built a life together, and eight years later, God gave us a miracle:

our daughter, Luci — conceived naturally, against every expectation — around the same time my niece was born. My brother now had two little girls and we had Luci.

It felt like another God-wink, a reminder that maybe the dream I thought I had buried wasn't dead after all.

For a while, it truly felt like that dream was alive again —three little girls close in age, growing together, the beginnings of the full, lively family I had once imagined.

But over the last few years, pieces of that dream have started to unravel.

Family fractures. Broken trust. Silent distances. So much hurt.

It’s left me mourning not just the relationships that have changed, but the life I believed we were building together.

In the midst of this, new dreams have stirred quietly in my heart —dreams I often hold close between me and God alone.

I long for our family to grow.

I long to see my husband come to know Jesus personally.

I long to raise Luci in a home overflowing not just with laughter and love — but with faith that roots her deeply for life.

Some days, those dreams feel close enough to touch.

Other days, they feel impossibly far away.

I wrestle often:

Is this longing part of God's promise still unfolding?

Or is it simply the ache of a heart that has known so much loss?

Or maybe it’s the ache of time itself — the slow, heavy grief of waiting while the clock keeps ticking?

Because the truth is —I’m about to turn 40 this year.

And sometimes the weight of that milestone feels almost too much to carry.

It feels like I've been holding this dream for a lifetime — watching the years pass, watching hope stretch thinner, feeling the silent pressure of time whispering, "Is it too late?"

The ache of waiting is heavy.

The sound of the ticking clock is so loud.

But here’s what I’m learning, even here:

God’s timing isn’t bound by my clock.

God’s promises aren’t fragile because of my age.

And God’s goodness isn’t late, even when it feels like my heart has been waiting forever.

Maybe the brokenness I’ve lived through — the longing, the waiting, the unanswered prayers — is not wasted.

Maybe it’s the soil where trust is still being grown.

I am learning (slowly, painfully) that faith is not just about trusting God when life feels good.

Faith is trusting Him especially when we’re standing in the middle of a story that doesn’t look anything like we hoped —and still daring to believe that He is good.

Faith says: "Even if I don’t see the ending yet, I know the Author."

Today, I stand in the middle.

I am holding gratitude for what I have, and grief for what’s still missing.

I am choosing, day by day, to believe that even the unseen parts of my story are being shaped by the goodness of God.

Just yesterday at church, the message was simple but powerful:

God is still good — even in the middle of heartache.

Even when dreams ache.

Even when prayers feel unanswered.

Even when life looks so different from what we hoped.

It felt like another God-wink, another reminder that He sees me.

That He hasn't forgotten the dreams, the waiting, or the tears.

That His goodness isn’t dependent on my circumstances — it is who He is.

So for today, I will do what I can.

I will play in the backyard with my little girl.

I will thank Jesus for the gift of staying home with her.

I will make dinner for my little family.

I will continue to pray — for my husband, for my brothers, for my family, and for each piece of the dream I still carry tucked inside my heart.

Because He is still good.

And the story isn't over yet.

🤍