My mom decided a long time ago that I was Lucy van Pelt. What started as a childhood label became a family tradition—and eventually made me wonder what our favorite Peanuts characters might reveal about how we see ourselves and one another.
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I got sent to the principal’s office because of my face. What happened next—and a lesson I had learned from one of my own students—changed the way I handled conflict.
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When a friend's husband was dying of a brain tumor, there was nothing I could do to fix what mattered most. But sometimes friendship isn't about fixing the impossible. Sometimes you simply do the next thing that needs to be done.
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Every teacher has stared at a class roster hoping to get every name right. A humorous comedy sketch, an embarrassing first-grade memory, and one unforgettable student reminded me why a person's name deserves our very best effort.
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A simple coffee stop led to a question: "Are you doing anything fun today?" It reminded me of one of the greatest joys of the Christian life—watching God's people rally around a family in need.
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Every school has that classroom—the one that's too hot, too cold, or plagued by mysterious problems. Mine had a smell so awful it made students' eyes water and left me feeling nauseated. What began as a humorous classroom story became a reminder that teachers often know first when something isn't right—and schools should listen.
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For years, I thought my greatest education came from classrooms, graduate school, and earning advanced degrees. Then one student taught me a lesson no textbook ever could—a lesson about compassion, trust, and the choice to keep loving others after your heart has been broken.
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Three ladies. That's how Women in the Word began. Five years later, hundreds of women have gathered around God's Word, forming lifelong friendships, growing in faith, and witnessing His faithfulness every step of the way. This is the story of an ordinary promise, an extraordinary God, and the ministry He built.
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We gathered before sunrise, breath visible in the cold air, rain tapping steadily against poster board signs. The cardboard softened as the morning wore on, ink bleeding at the edges, but nobody left.
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Every choice I make is an opportunity to walk out this exchanged life. Whether it's responding kindly when I'm wronged, giving generously, or simply choosing gratitude over complaint, it all comes back to this new reality: I no longer live, but Christ lives in me.
