Since Valentine's and Family day were not that long ago, it seemed like a good time to focus on God’s love and heart for each of us and to remember God’s heart for families. As we sit together at tables as one big VE family to share meals, I'm reminded that God wants us to sit at His table to talk with Him, enjoy His company, and His words. God wants us to have a heart for Him, too, and tells us to seek and find God with all our hearts in Jeremiah 29 verse 13. 

When I watch Law & Order, I notice something curious: so much of the drama revolves around witnesses. Insurance claims, police reports, news stories—someone has to have seen it, said something, been there. Witnesses are vital. Not because they act, not because they fix anything, but because their presence matters.

Anyone can benefit from support in their life. For families raising someone with a disability, this support is both a gift and a necessity. As a mom to a now-adult dependent daughter, support has been an essential part of our journey. Support comes in various shapes: paid and volunteer, intentional and incidental, through families, friends, new connections not yet made and charities/agencies/churches geared to helping people. 

Hope can have an wonderfully powerful effect on our thinking and our actions, but I wonder if we too often underestim-ate the importance of it in our lives, especially when we may be feeling like we are at the end of our rope, the end of our patience, the end of our strength, our motivation, our money or the end of our ability to regulate our emotions. 

It took me a long time to really figure out what I wanted to do with my life. I was always a good writer so I wanted to study journalism in college. I also had a supervisor at a summer job who was a journalist and told me a lot about her college experiences. I was excited to go to college, but never really thought about what kind of job would suit me best. Around the time I graduated, my mother died and I was also dealing with other issues that led me to have a mental health breakdown.

It was a great joy and blessing to serve with Village Eulogia as an intern last summer! For one week, we all packed our bags and willingly surrendered our steady wi-fi connections to camp out together at Riverview. We were removed from the regular rhythms and routines of our daily lives, and invited to recreation, reconnection, and rest for body, mind, and spirit.

Being a mother to children with exceptionalities means I'm constantly reminded of what they struggle with. Their diagnoses carry words like “deficit,” “disorder,” or “delay”— and some days, these labels seem to echo louder than the strengths people remind me are ingrained in them. On those days, it’s like a chorus of restless voices—both in my head and all around me—echoing with what still needs fixing, what’s falling short, what demands more effort. Even when people speak of my children’s unique strengths, what I actually hear is the undertone of deficits, the subtle sighs between their words.

You know what I’m talking about. That deep, gut-wrenching, nerve-wracking, soul-shattering feeling when you learn your child had a distressing moment—and you weren’t there.

Maybe you got a ping in your texts. Maybe your phone rang. The second you see the caller ID, your stomach drops. A cold sweat creeps up your back. Your mind races and assumes something bad happened (because you have been proven right many times): What happened? How bad is it?

As parents, we often find ourselves advocating for our children, especially during their school years. Communicating through emails or messaging systems has become a common part of this advocacy. But, how can we make our communication more effective? Is simply being truthful enough? Can being overly diplomatic risk sounding insincere or even condescending? Striking the right balance is key to ensuring our messages are clear, respectful, and impactful.

My son’s mantra is, “I don’t know what I don’t know.” When he first said it, he was referring to the impossibility of responding to something he had never encountered before. In his neurodivergent mind, the world’s expectations felt overwhelming and, at times, shaming.

A beautiful queen named Esther was used by God to save her nation. She was born orphaned, a woman, and a Jew—three strikes against her. Yet, despite it all, God used her to save her people. It is an inspiring story that moves us to action, and its most famous line, “for such a time as this,” has become synonymous with a call to action for many Christians.

This week, my neurodivergent son wraps up his first semester at university—a milestone for our family. His transition from high school to independence has been a monumental journey for us both. Over the past four years, I navigated Individualized Education Plans (IEPs), therapy, and his triggers, redefining what stability meant. Letting him go was both terrifying and liberating.

That’s how I’ve often felt in my journey. Over the years, I’ve been surprised to discover that when I share my challenges, people often respond with, “Oh, us too.” It’s a bittersweet realization—so many of us experience the ups and downs of life but walk through them alone. We grieve alone, feel overwhelmed alone, and even find resolutions alone.