They say home is where the heart is, but I’ve learned something deeper: I’ve brought my heart into every home I’ve had. And by God’s grace, I've been given the gift of realizing my heart was never bound—it’s kept beating, growing, and moving forward, no matter where I reside. (Romans 7:6 But now, by dying to what once bound us, we have been released from the law so that we serve in the new way of the Spirit, and not in the old way of the written code.)
Years later, I sold everything we owned and moved into an RV—pregnant with my fourth child. It sounds wild, but it was a deliberate choice to embrace uncertainty and follow a deeper call.
And then, during one of the most uncertain seasons of my life, God asked me to do something I didn’t want to do: buy another house. I fought Him on it, unsure, afraid. But this house… this one became something different. It became the place where I began raising four girls on my own. It became holy ground. I embraced what God had given me, and I vowed, I will never sell this home.
But here's what I’ve come to understand: it wasn’t the walls that made each place sacred—it was the people. The community that surrounded me in each of those seasons is what truly turned each space into a haven. The friendships, the support, the shared laughter and tears—those are what etched the deepest memories into the walls. And every time God calls me forward into a new chapter, it’s this—the leaving of community—that becomes the tenderest grief.
And yet—not once has He led me somewhere that didn’t come with provision. In every new place, the community and resources weren’t just replaced—they were matched, even multiplied. Every step of the journey has carried both loss and abundance, and somehow, always, His faithfulness has gone ahead of me.
And here I am. Another season of uncertainty. Another stretch of road that invites me to place my security not in walls or misplaced identity, but in Him. And with mixed emotions, the house where love and a new life were built is for sale. Not out of loss, but as an offering. A trust-fueled yes to whatever He has next.
Because the truth is: home has never been a structure. It's always been the heart. And this heart still beats strong, still trusts deeply, still walks forward in faith—carrying home, and everyone who’s been part of it, wherever God leads.
If there’s something in your life right now providing a sense of security—something you find yourself clinging to, whispering, “As long as I have ____, then it will all be okay”—ask yourself: Is that really the source of your peace?
What shifts when we welcome gifts freely rather than grasping tightly?
What if the truest security isn’t in the job, the relationships, the house, the plans, or the thing that gives you purpose—but in the One who never shifts, even when everything else does? (James 1:17 Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows.)
Faith can look like stillness. Sometimes, it looks like surrender in motion.
In recovery, we say “Act as if”—an invitation to practice the posture of surrender.
It’s choosing to walk in obedience, to loosen your grip, to live like the promise is already true… even if your heart is still catching its breath.
(Romans 4:20-21 Yet he did not waver through unbelief regarding the promise of God, but was strengthened in his faith and gave glory to God, being fully persuaded that God had power to do what he had promised)
Because sometimes the act of surrender comes before the feeling of peace. And faith? Faith often looks like stepping forward with open hands while everything inside you still wants to clench your fists.
A common question I ask myself: What are you afraid of?
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