The Little Girl Who Remembered Her Way Home
​
Something that you don't see every day
A little girl who found her way
Through a world that's designed to break
All of your dreams --Free Me by Joss Stone

These lyrics have lived in me since the moment I heard them many years ago. But when I think of them now, they hit differently than they did when I was 39. Little did I know that even just one year later, a shift would begin to take place that would change everything.
A shift that was, at times, dark and isolating, yet nonetheless one that moved me in ways I couldn’t imagine at the time.
When I look back at who I was then, I see a woman managing her life, holding it all together, doing what needed to be done.
But in all that managing…
there was a slow, quiet deterioration of my soul.
At 40, the wake-up calls began to come.
And I handled those too.
But if I’m being honest, I wasn’t really paying attention.
My life had become a series of quiet negotiations:
If I can just get past this…
If I can just fix this…
If I can just make it through this…
Work.
Finances.
Family.
Health.
Marriage.
I was determined to handle it all like a true FIO.
Oh yes, I prayed, but honestly, I don’t think I truly gave it over to God.
So when, at age 50, I left my marriage with very little to my name after dropping to my knees and asking for courage, I truly gave it over.
And that was the beginning of becoming Untucked.
It was through healing a lifetime of tucking myself away that I began to reconnect with my soul.
The deepest place within me.
My truest self.
And I won’t pretend otherwise, this work is lonely.
No one else can do it for you.
There is no checklist.
No timeline.
Only the willingness to meet yourself there.
And so today, as I continue this return,
I find myself asking:
How do we come home to ourselves, not by going backward,
but by remembering forward?
How do we shed what was never ours to reclaim what always was?
There comes a moment when you realize you have stepped outside the story you were taught to live.
And what remains…
is her.
The little girl
who felt the Divine not as something to reach for,
but something she lived within.
Like a seed buried deep in darkness, what is most true about us sometimes disappears for a time,
not lost, just waiting.
Waiting for the right breaking open.
Waiting for the light.
The world has a way of making us feel the
“shoulds” one quiet compromise after another
until we forget the sound of our own soul.
And yet…
nothing is ever wasted.
Every detour, every misstep, every moment of misalignment
becomes part of the path that leads us back.
Even the shame
It was placed gently, sometimes unconsciously,
into hands too small to understand it.
“You are not enough.”
“You must be more.”
But none of it was ever true.
And yet, God never left.
Not in the forgetting.
Not in the distance.
Not even in the choices that pulled you further from yourself.
There is a love
that does not keep score,
that does not turn away.
It simply waits with infinite patience for the moment you remember.
And when you do, you begin to see it all differently.
The people who appeared at just the right time.
The moments that shook you awake.
The feeling that something bigger was calling you forward.
It was always leading you here.
Back to her.
Back to truth.
Back to God within you.
You were never meant for the world’s narrow thinking, its shame-based systems, or its quiet insistence that you shrink to belong.
You belong to something far more vast.
Far more loving.
And that joy you feel now, that quiet, rising excitement about what God has placed before you.
That is your compass.
That is your remembering.
That is the little girl,
finally home.

This week, we’ve had several days of rain here in Kansas City. And even though it’s been an overcast week, I notice how vibrant the colors are becoming. Small pockets of green buds now sprinkle the hillside across from my home, a view I’ve held for three years now.
​Just outside my front door, a small nest rests in my wreath. A mother house finch quietly guards five eggs, just as she did this same time last year.
Five eggs then.
Five eggs now.
As part of my morning prayer and meditation, I opened Untucked and landed on Wings of Spring—a reflection I wrote during this very season. At the end, I ask:
What is currently unfolding in your life that you can’t yet see fully formed? Where might you be encouraged to trust your own wings?
I, sitting in a place of wondering what’s next, had to smile. Opening my own book at random brought me an answer. Or at least, a message.
God does not always speak in clarity.
Sometimes He speaks in patterns.
In repetition.
In gentle return.
And here I am again standing in the in-between.
Between ideas and action.
Between what I can plan… and what I must surrender.
All around me, nature is doing what it has always done.
The trees are filling in without strategizing their leaves.
The birds are building and waiting, without publicizing.
The rain is falling without asking permission.
Nothing is rushed or forced.
And nothing is wasted.
Nature reminds me of this often: just be with it, and everything else will follow.
I’ll admit, my habits of accomplishing and achieving run deep. But the more Untucked I live, the more willing I am to loosen my grip.
If it is meant for me, it will not pass me by.
I don’t need to have all the answers right now.
I can follow the quiet wisdom of nature.
As we step into April and the gentle unfolding of Nature Heals, I invite you to look around at what is quietly growing in your own life.
What is forming beneath the surface?
What feels uncertain, yet alive?
You don’t have to force the answers or rush the process.
Just notice.
Just be with it.
And trust… that what is meant to bloom will.
April’s Prayer~
God,
Help me to trust what I cannot yet see.
Remind me that nothing growing is ever wasted.
And guide me gently, in Your time, toward what is mine to become.
Peace be with you,
J~

I was five years old, standing on the bench seat of my dad’s pickup truck, looking out the back window, when a song came on the radio.
I didn’t understand everything about life yet, but I understood the story and it made me cry.
That song was "Wildfire" by Michael Martin Murphey, and ever since, music has been the place where words have found me first.
I think of my life as a soundtrack. Certain songs relate to specific seasons of my life, but more often, a specific lyric speaks to me. A lyric that, when heard, travels deep to my soul and lives there forever.
This project has been on my mind for several years now. I thought it would be fun to highlight specific lyrics from songs that touch my soul. I decided to take it a step further and shape those lines into a poem; into a story.
I pulled out my collection of records, CDs, and downloads and started going through the songs, deciding which lyrics I would begin with. That turned out to be quite a task. There are so many songs that I love and so many lyrics that live in me.
For example, Prince and The Doors are two of my favorites, yet I didn’t include either. I could have easily chosen lyrics from their songs, but what I was really looking for were the lines that connect on a deeper level. The lyrics that hit me and stay, repeating in my mind like an earworm long after the song ends.
After weeks of combing my music library I landed on 75 songs and about 1,600 words and began organizing them into categories. In the end, I was left with 45 songs and 708 words shaped into a poem. Meant to be read out loud. 
The Soundtrack to My Life.
This project was deeply personal to me. While the lyrics may not make sense to you, I hope it inspires you to think about how certain words shape your own life, whether they are spoken to you or discovered in a song.
Words matter.
Choose them wisely.
 
The Soundtrack to My Life
The Questioning:
Life is a waterfall
We're one in the river
And one again after the fall.
Open me up and you will see
I'm a gallery of broken hearts.
I'm beyond repair, let me be
Crawling in my skin
These wounds, they will not heal.
Darkness has a hunger that's insatiable
And lightness has a call that's hard to hear
And I wrap my fear around me like a blanket
What the hell am I doing here
I wanna be somewhere else
Normal and free, like I used to be
She looks just like me, but I don't recognize her
She's got the same eyes, but they're heavy and tired.
When did I start to forget
How did I start to believe
You weren't sufficient for me?

The Ache:
I'm not anything like I used to be
Although it's true
I still remember that girl
I know the pieces fit
'Cause I watched them tumble down
No fault, none to blame
It doesn't mean I don't desire
To point the finger, blame the other
Birthright, I'm standing in silence
Holding on for dear life
Ignorant to my compliance
You don't need to bother
I don't need to be
What I really meant to say
Is I'm sorry for the way I am
I wrapped your love around me like a chain
 
The Turning:
There is a balance between two worlds
One with an arrow and one with a cross
Maybe my heart's trying to give me a hint
Maybe it's time I start listening in
One more time around (I might make it)
The day I tried to live
So when weakness turns my ego up
Bring me to life
I've been livin' a lie
Bittersweet summer rain
I'm born again
All my broken pieces

The Fight:
I am realizin'
That everybody's lost their simple ways
And now that it's here, I see it, oh, so clearly
I've come face to face with the enemy
I have had enough
Walk away before I finish what you started
Face to face, I will push you in your place
And yet I find, and yet I find
Repeating in my head
Fear, he is a liar
He will take your breath
God only knows what you've been through
But there's a kind of love that God only knows
Made my skin a little bit thicker
Makes me that much stronger
Makes me that much wiser

The Becoming:
This opportunity comes once in a lifetime
There's so much left to learn, and no one left to fight
Can the child within my heart rise above?
Can I handle the seasons of my life?
Something that you don't see every day
A little girl who found her way
Through a world that's designed to break
All of your dreams
And I'm, coming back to who I am
Feelin' like a ten, the best I've ever been
Oh, there's a river that winds on forever
I'm gonna see where it leads
Oh, there's a mountain that no man has mounted
I'm gonna stand on the peak
There's so much I wanna say
So much I wanted you to know
When I finally make it home
I've still got joy in chaos
I've got peace that makes no sense
Love reign o'er me, rain on me, rain on me
When you're my age
You'll still be full of questions
But I bet love will still be making the world go round
And I have felt the pain of losing who you are
And I have died so many times, but I am still alive
This is not the end of me, this is the beginning
 
Freedom:
I’m not afraid
Everything is Holy Now
So why would I make a bed in my shame
When a fountain of grace is running my way
I just want to celebrate another day of livin'
I just want to celebrate another day of life
Lift me up so high
That I cannot fall
Lift me up when I'm falling
Lift me up and keep me from drowning again
To hear my quiet voice, just be still and know
In every sacred silence I’m only a whisper away
A new song for me to sing
Tell the world how I feel inside
Even though it might cost me everything
 
Credits:
The preceding words are not my words. They come from the songs/artists listed in order:
The Questioning:
Aerial—System Of A Down
Be Okay—Ingrid Michaelson
Crawling—Linkin Park
Closer to Fine—Indigo Girls
Creep—RadioHead
Big White Room—Jessie J
Girl In the Mirror—Megan Moroney
More Than Able—Elavation Worship
The Ache:
She Used to Be Mine—Sarah Bareilles
Schism—Tool
Clouds—Jordan Rakei
Bother—Stone Sour
Cold—Crossfade (I used the acoustic version by Crispin Earl)
The Eye—Brandi Carlile
The Turning:
Cumbersome—Seven Mary Three
Bridges Burn—Paul Otten
The Day I Tried to Live—Soundgarden
Dig—Incubus
Bring Me to Life—Evanescence
Bittersweet—Lianne La Havas
The Fight:
The Enemy—Godsmack
Stand Up—Trapt
Nutshell—Alice In Chains
Fear Is A Liar—Zach Williams
God Only Knows—for King & Country
Fighter—Christina Aguilera
The Becoming:
Lose Yourself—Eminem
Broken—Seether (featuring Amy Lee)
Landslide—Fleetwood Mac
Free Me—Joss Stone
Coming Back—Mitch King
Sorry Not Sorry—Demi Lovato
Ends of the Earth—Lord Huron
Finally Home—MercyMe
Firm Foundation—Cody Carnes
Love, Reign O’er Me—The Who
When You’re My Age—Lori McKenna
I Believe—Christina Perri
Freedom:
Not Afraid—Eminem
Holy Now—Peter Mayer
Made for More—Josh Baldwin
I Just Want to Celebrate—Rare Earth
Flood—Jars of Clay
Lean Into Me—Stefan Mitchell
Alive—P.O.D.

As I reflect on this final Sunday Reflection for March, wrapping up our month of Sacred Belonging, I am prompted to explore moments when I feel…
alone.
Not lonely.
Just aware that nobody is beside me.
There is a strange in-between here.
between being alone and still desiring connection.
I’ve noticed what appears to be two ends of a spectrum: those who thrive on constant connection and those who feel most at home alone.
And somewhere in this reflection, I ask myself:
Where am I?
Because while I enjoy people, especially my circle, I have grown deeply fond of my alone time. Sometimes I wonder if, when left to my own devices, I would choose solitude over connection more often than I should.
And I see the other side as well. The full calendars. The constant hustle. The exhaustion that results from always being “on.”
I remember those days.
When I set myself on fire for everything and everyone.
Family. Career. Social obligations.
Never leaving space for my SELF.
I wore that identity with pride. Overachiever. People pleaser. Always there for others.
Now I catch myself wondering…
Have I gone too far in the other direction?
​
This question becomes even more relevant when I consider partnership.
Because while I value my independence, I still long for a partner, if I’m honest.
Since becoming single, I’ve done the work. I’ve healed old wounds. I’ve built a life that reflects my values. I’ve taken long walks with God where I’ve untangled what wasn’t true and returned to what is.
I know who I am in a way I didn’t before.
And yet, I sometimes wonder...
Am I meant to have this kind of love?
This is vulnerable to admit.
But if I’ve had the thought, I have to believe I’m not the only one.
Did I miss it?
Did I choose wrong too many times?
Did I accept versions of love before I understood my own worth, and in doing so somehow disqualify myself?
It’s a quiet thought.
But it lingers.
And when I trace it back, I can see where it comes from.
I was shaped by environments where love was conditional, where approval could be earned or withheld based on my performance.
So, of course, part of me learned to believe that love works that way, that if I had done everything right, maybe I would have it by now.
And here in Act III of my life, I can honestly say I haven’t yet experienced the kind of love where I felt fully chosen, deeply loved, and protected.
But then truth arrives.
God chooses me.
God protects me.
God loves me.
And that truth interrupts everything I thought I knew.
So how do I hold both?
This human longing for connection…
and the spiritual truth that I am already loved?
Because I truly believe we are meant for connection.
From the very beginning, we weren't meant to navigate this life completely alone.
We are wired to be seen, known, and held in a way that reflects something sacred back to us.
And yet, our culture sends such mixed messages.
If you are single too long, something must be wrong with you.
If you desire partnership, you’re told not to need it too much or try too hard.
If you choose to be single, you must be avoiding something.
Somewhere in that noise, it's easy to question yourself and wonder if your longing is a flaw.
But I believe that longing reveals the truth. We all want to feel chosen and loved without conditions.

I was reading a blog post from my IFS coach about how choosing the right rooms attracts the right people into your life. To meet high-caliber people, you need to be in the rooms with those individuals. Makes sense, right?
And I caught myself thinking:
I don’t think I’m in the wrong room…
I’m not in any room.
My life has become quiet and grounded.
And perhaps that’s part of this feeling.
But I also wonder if this could be a room, too.
A sacred one.
A room where I have been learning to sit with myself, to understand who I am, and to become someone who no longer abandons herself just to be chosen.
A room where my life has become fulfilling in ways that aren’t always visible to others.
I don’t see this season as a punishment.
But I’m not going to rush to label it something neat and resolved either.
It is what it is. And if you know me, you know I dislike that phrase, but it works here.
It is…
A space where I am still becoming.
A space where I am learning to trust that I will not miss what is meant for me.
I believe God sees me.
I believe God knows the desires of my heart.
And I believe that love—real, steady, safe love—is not something I have disqualified myself from.
So for now, I will continue living my life.
I will keep showing up.
Maybe even step into a few new rooms when the time feels right.
But I will not shrink my longing.
And I will not turn it into a story of punishment.
I’m still here, Untucking…
And I trust that I will not be overlooked.

Prompt:
Where in your life have you learned that love must be earned or performed for, and how might you begin to let go of that pattern?
Peace be with you.
J~

Seeing the Pieces
I tend to find symbolism in everything. It’s something I’ve always done. Honestly, it’s probably a part of me that I exiled because it was different. I have a curious mind and often question things and people, but at a young age, that kind of curiosity got me into trouble. So instead of asking questions out loud, I decided to just try to figure things out on my own.
And at the exact moment of writing this, a random memory from third grade comes to mind. So, I’m going to trust that it is meant to be placed right here.
In third grade, our class was divided into reading groups based on ability. I was placed in the larger group with most of the other kids, but according to my teacher, I was a slow reader. That day, we were working on spelling words together. When it was my turn, the word she wrote on the board was cupboard.
I looked at it and said the only thing that made sense to me.
“Cup Board.”
The teacher shook her head and told me to try again.
‘Cup…board?’ as if questioning.
Again, she said no, and I could feel her rolling her eyes in frustration.
The group had to stay there until I got it right. Everyone was already thinking about recess. I could hear the moaning and snickering around me, especially from two boys who made their disgust very obvious.
But the truth is, I honestly didn’t understand what she was asking me to say. The word on the board clearly had two parts. My mind saw them separately: cup and board. I wasn’t trying to be difficult; I was simply reading what I saw.
It’s strange how memories work. Even forty-seven years later, I can still feel the heat of that moment and the shame of being the reason everyone was late for recess. It’s like my brain was wired wrong.
On one of my report cards, the teacher wrote: Jeannine is slow to complete her work. She does not make wise use of her time.
Slow.
That word stayed with me for a long time. It shaped me into an overachieving FIO! (FIO is the title I gave to my Figure It Out part.)
But what I understand now is something that a little girl in a third-grade classroom couldn't yet know.
Sometimes, what the world calls slow is just the mind taking its time to notice what others rush by.
Where the teacher saw a mistake, my mind was simply noticing the pieces.
Cup.
Board.
Two things joined together to make something new.
And as I remember this memory, I can’t help but smile at the subtle symbolism of it all.
Maybe that's exactly what I've been doing my whole life.
Seeing the pieces.
Holding them long enough to understand them.
And then discovering how they fit together.
There are so many gifts I want to nurture in this little girl now: her curiosity, her imagination, her wit, and, yes, her ability to see things differently.
Part of living Untucked is embracing that girl for who she is, just as God created her to be.
Last year, while walking the Camino in Spain, I kept hearing a quiet phrase in my heart:
Bridge the gap.
At the time, I didn’t completely understand what that meant. Honestly, I still don’t.
Since then, I’ve repeatedly tried to define what “bridging the gap” means. I thought it might be about connecting faith and philosophy or bringing together different perspectives on life. But the more I tried to define it, the more elusive it became.
Now, as I recall that third-grade classroom, I wonder if the answer was there all along.
Maybe bridging the gap just means doing what I've always done, seeing the pieces and helping others understand how they fit together through writing about them. And in seeing the pieces, maybe I’m not meant to be the one who has the meaning or even the answer.
It is simply about allowing God to work through the life I have lived and the words that seem to come when I sit quietly enough to listen, noticing what they reveal about grace, healing, and the subtle ways God moves through ordinary lives.
For most of my life, I believed my job was to figure everything out. After all, that is what my little FIO part learned to do so well.
But faith is asking something different.
It's more about letting things happen than figuring them out.
Perhaps the path we surrender becomes the very place where our calling grows.
Now, looking back, I see that little girl in the third-grade classroom differently.
She wasn’t slow.
She was simply taking the time to see the pieces.
And it makes me wonder…
Where in your life might you be invited to slow down and surrender, so you can begin to see the pieces?
Peace be with you.
J~
Note: This reflection wasn’t what I originally intended to write today. The memory appeared unexpectedly while I was sitting quietly, and something about it felt important enough to follow. Sometimes the stories that surface on their own are the ones that still have something to teach us.

I no longer live in urgency.
I live in presence.

I do not confuse control with care.
I trust what unfolds.

I let my brain offer its plans
and my heart decides the pace.
I honor both, but I follow peace.

I no longer perfect myself to survive.
I survived.
Now I get to live.

I allow things to be messy, human, unfinished.
Truth does not require polish.
Love does not require performance.

I release outcomes
I show up fully
and let God handle the rest.

I belong to my body again.
I sing.
I laugh.
I dance.
I look at the moon and feel small in the best way.

I return to tradition in devotion
I pray without fear.
I hold faith without fences.

I let joy and grief sit at the same table.

I trust thresholds.
I honor endings.

I live untucked.
Nothing hidden for approval.
Nothing softened for safety.

I am not here to convince.
I am here to witness.
​
This is healed life.
This is consciousness.
This is home.

​Lately, I have been sitting with the question:
Where can I arrive as I am and not disappear?
It is a simple question, yet it carries a lifetime of longing. And it takes a lot of honesty to contemplate.
Looking at the year so far, I have noticed something unfolding. The reflections I’ve written have naturally followed the same rhythm as the sections of Untucked. January echoed the spirit of Stillness Speaks, February mirrored The Courage to Rise, and now, as we step into March, I find myself leaning into the theme of the book’s third section: Sacred Belonging.
This wasn’t planned. But now that I see it, I feel called to follow it. If the rhythm continues, April will turn toward Nature Heals, which feels especially fitting as the earth begins to awaken again.
But for now, I find myself sitting with this deeper exploration of belonging, not belonging as fitting in, but belonging that grows from the sacred relationship we cultivate with the God of our understanding, the presence that lives within us and within all beings.
For much of my life, belonging meant molding myself to fit. Like many of us, I tucked parts of myself away, sometimes consciously, sometimes without realizing it, because the human longing to belong is powerful.
Unfortunately, in doing so, I slowly moved further away from my true self. And when I drifted from my true self, I also drifted from the sacred connection I have with God.
What is being spoken to me now is something both simple and profound:
I have a responsibility. I have been given one body and one soul to care for. When I step back and honestly reflect on how I have lived at times, I can see the many ways I allowed myself to move away from where I truly belong just to fit in.
So a deeper question comes to mind: Where can I arrive as I am without disappearing?
Over the past few years, I have spent more time in real solitude. In that quiet space, I have discovered something sacred waiting there.
In solitude, there is nothing to prove.
There is no label to carry.
There is only presence.
In that stillness, I meet God.
And in that same stillness, I begin to meet my truest self again.
Henri Nouwen writes that solitude must come before community. Because if we have not learned to sit comfortably with ourselves, we often enter community looking for validation, reassurance, or a role that proves we matter. Without realizing it, we begin asking others to fill a space within us.
Take a moment to reflect on the “rooms” that you enter. Do you notice when people feel the need to be the loudest voice, the fixer, the doer, the one who takes charge? Is that person you?
Sometimes we step forward quickly because being needed feels like belonging. We fill the silence with activity, leadership, or responsibility, hoping it will quiet the deeper question within us. Do I belong?
I know this pattern because I have lived it.
As I have slowly untucked myself, it has become clear that striving to be needed is not the same as belonging. True belonging does not require us to perform a role or prove our worth. It asks something much quieter of us: the courage to simply arrive as we are.
Only then can we step into a relationship without disappearing inside it.
Sacred Belonging asks of us:
Where can I arrive as I am and not disappear?
And just as importantly:
How can I offer others that same sacred space?
I invite you to take a few quiet moments today and return to the question:
Where in my life do I feel most able to arrive as I am, without disappearing?
Notice what comes to mind.
Notice where your spirit softens.
Notice where you feel at home.
Sacred belonging rarely begins in the crowd.
It begins in the quiet places where we remember who we are and discover that God has been there all along.
Peace be with you,
J~

Many of us quietly carry the belief that the patterns or circumstances we grew up with are the ones we are destined to repeat.
There is a voice that whispers, This is just who you are. 
But there is a deeper voice, patient and loving, that says something entirely different:
You are not finished. You are not defined by your past.
We are not meant to remain forever in the shadows of old pain. We are not required to carry forward every inherited pattern. The cycle can stop with us.
But breaking it takes courage.
It means looking honestly at the choices we've made. It means acknowledging the impact of what others have done to us. It means facing how the world has shaped us and consciously choosing to respond differently.
It is slow and sacred work.
For me, I know I could not have done it alone. I have experienced Love that meets me in my most tucked-away places and calls me forward.
Whether you call that Love God, grace, truth, healing, or something else entirely… it is real. And it does not define you by your worst moment or your oldest wound.
It invites you into something new.
And so today I share this prayer with you from Fr. John Burns. It weaves together Scripture in a way that feels warm and deep to my soul.
“My beloved one, before I formed you in the womb, I knew you. I drew you with human cords, with bands of love. I fostered you like one who raises an infant to his cheeks. Yes, you are my beloved child, and in you I am well pleased. I have chosen you and not cast you away. Your name shall be my delight, for I delight in you, as the bridegroom rejoices over the bride. And even though the mountains may fall away and the hills may be shaken, my love will never fall away from you. I have loved you with an everlasting love. Therefore, I have continued my faithfulness to you. Do you not perceive it? For I know well the plans I have in mind for you, plans for your welfare and not for your woe, so that I can give you a future full of hope. When you call me, I will listen to you. When you seek me with all your heart, I will let you find me, for I am with you. I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you, I will fight for you, and I will not withdraw my merciful love from you. And so, my beloved one, let me see your face, let me hear your voice, come to me, return to me with all your heart, for Behold, I am always with you. Do not be afraid. I have called you by name and you are mine. You are precious in my eyes and honored. And I love you. You are precious in my eyes. You are honored. And I love you. You are precious in my eyes, and you are honored, and I love you.”

Thank you for joining me here today! I hope this speaks to you and that you know you are loved! 

Peace be with you!
J~

As I write this, it is the first Friday of Lent. For some, it may pass quietly. But as I sit down to write the final Sunday reflection of February, I feel invited into a kind of examen for this month.
February has always held weight for me.
It is my birth month. This year, I turned 56. Yet, I can still vividly remember my golden birthday, ten on the tenth, in 1980. I received a ten-speed bike. I can still see the handmade card my mom made: Hold your breath and look inside - You're going for a fantastic ride!  I remember throwing my hands in the air and screaming with excitement.
The limitlessness of life stretched out in front of me.
February is also the month my dad passed away unexpectedly fifteen years ago. I can also transport myself back to that moment instantly. The shock and the strange out-of-body feeling of grief remain with me.
As painful as that season was, I believe his passing set something in motion.
At the time, I started to carry a quiet belief that my dad could somehow see my internal struggle. The parts of my life I kept hidden, the fear and shame I was too afraid to name. His death marked the beginning of an unraveling I could not yet understand.
If I were to map out the last fifteen years, the changes would be undeniable. Sometimes even unbelievable. But what stands out most is not the events, but God's patience.
The end of Act II.
The long Intermission.
And now, stepping into Act III.
I can see clearly now that nothing was wasted. Everything was shaping me for a purpose I couldn’t yet see, and still don’t fully understand. God’s will is funny like that.
This morning I found myself reminded of a simple prayer:
Lord, empty me.
Lord, fill me.
Lord, use me.
When I sit with those words, I realize how deeply they echo my journey and the spirit of Untucked.
Living untucked has felt like dying and being reborn more than once. There were seasons of shedding the false self, the self I tucked, performed, and endured.
Now, choosing to live fully, I understand the paradox because I am no longer willing to shrink to fit someone else’s narrative.
This journey was never about elevating the ego.
It was about dying to it.
To live untucked is not self-indulgence. It is surrender. It is exposure without shame. It is standing fully seen, with nothing left to hide from my father or my Father.
February has been a month of courage.
Courage to rise.
Courage to arrive.
Courage to be seen.
To show up fully in strength and in weakness.
As we continue into this Lenten season and move slowly toward spring, I invite you into the same gentle practice: stillness. True Sabbath rest. An honest reflection of what is being emptied and what is being reborn.
Hold on tight.
You’re going for a fantastic ride!

​J~

“To be fully alive, fully human, and completely awake is to be continually thrown out of the nest.”
— Pema Chödrön
As I sit down to write this week’s reflection, I find myself returning to this quote by Pema Chödrön.
Last spring, I watched baby birds hatch just outside my window. I remember the day they first left the nest. I had grown used to seeing their tiny heads peeking over the edge, their mother returning faithfully with food. The nest felt safe. Contained. Certain.
And then one day, one by one, they were gone.
I remember the moment one of them hesitated at the edge, the runt of the group, small body, uncertain wings… and then he leapt. Even though he may not have been ready, he knew he could not stay. I was so lucky to watch it happen.
Now, as I write this, I think about the many times in my own life when I had to be pushed out of the nest. Times when I was stuck. Comfortable in patterns that no longer fit. Going through life with blinders on.
In February, I’ve been reflecting on the Courage to Rise and what it takes to find it.
But here’s the truth: sometimes you don’t “find” courage at all.
Sometimes you are thrust so abruptly out of the nest that courage grabs hold of you before you even realize it’s there.
That is how courage found me almost seven years ago.
I was on my knees, stuck in fear, trapped in patterns that kept me small. I didn’t feel brave or strong. I felt defeated, yet desperate to believe there had to be something on the other side of fear.
So I asked God for courage.
And then… the message came that shook me so fully awake that courage was the only thing left standing.
There are moments in life when awakening doesn’t feel gentle. It feels like falling. Like losing the safety of what you once called home.
Maybe that’s what Pema means.
To be fully alive is not to remain in the nest.
It is to risk the air.
To feel the wind.
To discover that wings were there all along.
Maybe courage isn’t something we manufacture.
Maybe it’s something that meets us mid-air.