The Mastro House

04/10/2026

Nobody wants to hang their dirty laundry out on the line.
We’d rather keep it tucked away—washed, folded, presentable.
We want the stains gone before anybody sees them.
That’s just human nature, I suppose…
to hide what didn’t come out clean.

I’ve always been a word person.
The kind who lingered over Scrabble tiles a little too long…
the kind who thought a dictionary was less of a book and more of a place to wander. I learned early on that words aren’t just words.
They carry things.
Weight. Memory. Meaning.
One word can hold a whole story if you let it.
Like how a simple sentence can take you back—to a childhood book, a worn-out porch, a quiet afternoon with nothing but time and imagination. (Beatrix Potter knew a thing or two about that.)

Words can do that.
They can make you laugh until your ribs ache…
or sit real still with tears you didn’t see coming.
And if I’m honest, I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately—
about the way words don’t just pass through the air…
they settle somewhere.
They take up space.

So let me ask you something—
and I want you to really picture it.
What if every word you’ve spoken this week
became something you could see?
Not just hear… but see.
Every sentence to your children.
Every sigh under your breath.
Every sharp reply.
Every quiet prayer.
Every “I’m fine” that wasn’t fine.
Imagine they all turned into something physical
and filled your house.
Go ahead… close your eyes for a second.

What does it look like?

Is it a place you’d want to sit down in?

A place that feels like rest? Like refuge?

Or does it feel a little cluttered…

a little heavy…

maybe even hard to breathe in?

I’ll tell you the truth—if you walked through my house some days,
you’d find a few stains. Because words don’t just disappear once they’re spoken. They land somewhere.

Scripture says it plain—
that from the same mouth can come blessing and cursing (James 3:10)…that life and death sit right there on the tip of the tongue (Proverbs 18:21).

That means every word we speak is taking up space....whether we see it yet or not. So the question isn’t if your words are shaping your home—it’s what they’re shaping it into.

Are they building something?
Or are they tearing something down?
Because in the end…
those are the only two things words ever do.

03/27/2026

The afternoon had already worn in a little by the time I made it out to the porch…like the day had been lived in before I ever slowed down enough to notice it.

Our orange tabby, Lazarus, stretched out like he didn’t remember being sick…like healing had come so quietly he never even noticed the moment it arrived.

You’d never know he was knocking on Heaven’s door three weeks ago—except for the gangly limp and the slight tilt of his head.

He doesn’t seem bothered by any of it.

Not the noise.
Not the cars passing by.
Not the people moving through their polished, busy lives.

The songbirds lifted their melodies like southern gospel on the breeze, as if nothing in the world was wrong. And the wind moved across the porch, soft and steady—like a quiet, simple hug from the Creator Himself.

And for a moment—everything around me felt steady…even though life wasn’t.

Quiet is rare these days.
Maybe that’s why I crave it.
It’s the only place I can finally hear what’s been running loud inside me all along.

And sitting there…watching that cat stretch out in the sun
like he’d never been sick a day in his life—I started to wonder…

How he could be so unbothered.

It almost feels silly to ask—
I mean… he’s alive.
He barely clung to life.

And yet here he is—
a living testament to the name he carries…
still walking with the evidence of what he’s been through.

The limp.
The head tilt.
The quiet reminders that something almost took him out.

And it makes me think…

How do we do that?

How do we walk forward with the scars of stories we almost didn’t survive?

Because the truth is—some things don’t just pass through us.

They mark us.
They leave a limp.
A tilt.
A tenderness in places that used to feel strong.

And if we’re honest…we don’t just carry the memory of it—we hold on to it.

We drag it with us.

We call it wisdom…but sometimes it’s just survivalthat never learned how to rest.

And yet—there he is.

Not pretending it didn’t happen.
Not healed without evidence.

But also not living like the worst moment of his life
gets to dictate the rest of it.

He stretches.
He rests.
He lays in the sun unbothered.

And I wonder if that’s the kind of healing Heaven offers.

Not a life without scars—
but a life where the scars don’t get the final word.

Because faith isn’t just believing God saved you back then—
it’s knowing He holds you in His hand today.

Even here,

He walks with me…even with the limp.

03/16/2026

03/16/2026

I don’t want a big circle.
I want a solid one.

Maybe that’s something you learn in small Southern towns…
Maybe it’s something you learn sitting in aluminum bleachers at a dusty little baseball field.

Life will teach you some things out there. It’ll teach you that not everybody cheering in the stands will stay when the game gets hard. Some folks are there for the sunshine innings.

But the ones who matter?

They’re still there when the scoreboard isn’t in your favor — the kind who don’t forfeit when things get uncomfortable… the kind who stand for truth even when it costs them something.

I don’t want a crowd. I want the kind of friends who go to war for me in prayer. Who speak life over me when I’m too tired to speak it over myself. Who remind me who I am when the world tries to make me forget.

The kind of people who don’t just show up for the highlights...they show up for the battles too. Because real friendship isn’t just laughing together. It’s fighting for each other when life gets heavy.

And the truth is…

Real life isn’t tidy. It’s dusty, loud, and sometimes held together with duct tape and prayer.

That’s why ball field friends aren’t enough.

Some folks are ball field friends.
They’ll sit with you when life is easy.
They’ll cheer when the sun is shining and the innings are light.

But battlefield friends?
They’re different. They’re the ones who step off the bleachers and onto the field of life with you. They stand beside you when the inning is long, the dust is flying, and the crowd gets quiet.

They don’t pack up and leave when the game gets uncomfortable. They don’t disappear when standing with you might cost them something.

They pray.
They speak truth.
They stand.

And the older you get — especially if you’re someone who refuses to stay silent just to keep everyone comfortable — the smaller that circle becomes.

But that’s not a loss.
That’s refinement.

Because I’d rather have a handful of people who know how to pray, stand, and fight beside me…than a stadium full of people who only show up when the scoreboard looks good.

03/10/2026

This morning on my run, I couldn’t stop thinking about something…

We hear the debate all the time:
Nature vs. nurture.
But what happens when nature is good…yet the environment is not?

What happens when something living is planted in soil that feels contaminated? When the air feels heavy? When the ground feels hard? A tree cannot pack up its roots and move. A flower cannot flee to better soil. So what does creation do… when it cannot escape its environment?

And that’s when the Lord whispered the very theme of this conference back to my heart:
Bloom Where You Are Rooted

Not when everything is perfect.
Not when the soil feels friendly.
Not when the environment finally changes.
But here.
Now.
In this place.

And I thought, “But God… how?”

Did you know that roots grow deeper when the surface is harsh? When soil is dry, roots don’t quit! They reach deeper!

Deeper roots find hidden water.
Deeper roots create stability.
Deeper roots anchor trees in storms.

Hard environments don’t always prevent growth… Sometimes they create depth. Spiritually, when your surroundings feel draining, God often calls you deeper into Him.

“They will be like a tree planted by the water…” — Jeremiah 17:8

Not relocated.
Not rescued.
Planted. Sustained. Rooted.

Just because your environment hasn’t changed doesn’t mean God isn’t working. He is doing deep work beneath the surface. A flower blooming in harsh soil becomes a testimony. It declares: “If beauty can grow here… God must be present.”

Your rootedness becomes witness.
Your endurance becomes ministry.
Your bloom becomes proof of His sustaining power.

Ladies… if your heart feels weary, if you’re fighting battles no one else sees, this conference is for you. God is calling women to rise, to heal, and to bloom right where they are planted.
✨ Spots are limited. Once seats are filled, registration will close.

Don’t wait. Don’t talk yourself out of it. This could be the very moment God meets you. You do NOT want to miss this.

Tickets are available here: https://buytickets.at/rootedinchrist/2004606

03/09/2026

I don’t have a polished testimony. Truthfully, I’m not sure anyone really does. Mine still carries the dust of hard roads walked, tear stains that never fully dried, and prayers whispered so quietly they barely made it past my lips.

There are parts of my story that still feel tender when I touch them. Chapters I once thought would be my ending. Memories that rise up soft but steady, reminding me just how close I came to losing hope.

But somewhere in the middle of the mess — not after it, not once everything was cleaned up — I met a Man who told me everything I had ever done… and loved me anyway. In Him, I found the love my heart had been searching for my whole life. A Savior who meets weary women right where they are, not where they pretend to be.

He met me in the ache.
He met me in the questions.
He met me carrying shame I didn’t know how to lay down.
He didn’t rush me.
He didn’t turn away.
He stayed.

And slowly — so gently I almost missed it — He began turning broken places into something beautiful. Shame loosened its grip. Grace took root. And I started to see that my story wasn’t ruined…It was being redeemed.

I think a lot of us know what that feels like — to smile on the outside while quietly fighting battles within, to wonder if our mistakes are writing the ending of our story, to doubt that grace still has a place for us.

But friend… God is still writing your story.
You don’t have to wrestle Him for the pen.
You don’t have to fix every page before you let Him turn it.
Sometimes healing begins when we loosen our grip and trust the Author to finish what He started.

So consider this a phone call from a friend. On March 17th, I’ll be sharing my testimony at Rooted in Christ Women's Outreach — not because I have everything figured out, but because Jesus met me in my real messy life… and I know He will meet you in the middle of your messy life too!

Come have a seat.
Come exhale.
Come hear what God can do with a broken heart fully given.

There’s a seat for you.

And I would truly love to see you there.

-XOXO,
Seagee

03/03/2026

There are wounds you expect in this life —the kind that come from the world being the world. Hardships of life. Flat tires on rainy days. Hard conversations you saw coming. The ordinary kind of hurt that gives you just enough warning to plant your feet, square your shoulders, and steady yourself before it hits. And then there are the other wounds.

The ones that come from the places that were supposed to feel like home. The ones that knock the wind clean out of you because you never thought you’d need armor there. The kind that leave you sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the wall, wondering how something that was supposed to be holy could ache this much. And, if I’m telling the truth — and these days truth feels easier than pretending — my heart has been grappling with this kind of hurt. And, it's growing tired.

Not the “I need to sleep in” kind of tired. The bone-deep, soul-worn, porch-light-left-on kind of tired. Like an old farmhouse that’s weathered one too many storms but still keeps the light on for whoever might need it. The kind of tired where you keep showing up, keep serving, keep smiling, while something inside you slowly fades.

And I hate admitting that.
Because I love Jesus.
I love His people.
I love the Church.

But sometimes church people forget how to love back.
Sometimes we get loud where we should be gentle.
Sometimes we get busy where we should be present.
Sometimes we leave folks bleeding on the side of the road while everybody argues theology in the comment section…. And no, I’m not throwing stones, if anything, I’m just sweeping my own front porch.

And if you’ve been around long enough, you learn a truth nobody prints on the brochures: You can pour your heart out for people and still find yourself sitting alone in the quiet, wondering if anyone noticed you were running on empty. Somewhere along the way your tire went flat and now you’re kneeling in the mud wondering how you got so worn down.

Ministry will wring you out if you let it. Life will wring you out if you let it. People will wring you out if you let them. That’s why it is so important (and such a fine line) to guard your heart and your mind. If we aren’t careful to do that, even good things will take your compassion, your time, your prayers, your late nights, your tears — and put a hole in your spiritual tire. If you’ve walked this road a while, that probably lands somewhere deep…and if it doesn’t, well, I’m glad somebody’s still got a full tank!

But if you’re weary, disillusioned, or just plain run over by the trials of life — hear this: Could it be that you've just been living in the weather a little too long, standing out in storms you were never meant to stay in?

Here’s what I’m learning through this muddy part — Guard your heart, thick skin and a soft heart has been my prayer. Trust God in this muddy season, examine your heart and motives and little by little the road will begin to shift—like clouds thinning after a long rain—the road ahead catches a little light again.

Because somewhere between the sleepless nights and the honest prayers, God starts doing something quiet but powerful.
He begins changing the tire you’ve been riding on — reshaping your thoughts, so He can heal your heart. I’m starting to see why Scripture talks about renewing the mind, because pain has a way of writing loud stories. Stories that say you’re alone. That this is permanent. That you’ll never feel hope again. But the Word of God tells a truer one. It reminds you that wounds don’t get the final say.

You are seen.
Held.
Not forgotten on the side of the road.

And little by little — the way rain soaks into stubborn ground — truth starts settling into your thoughts, and your heart begins to loosen in places you thought were hardened. It’s slow work. The kind you barely notice at first. Like roots forming underneath the soil long before anything green pushes through.

Sometimes it looks like catching a hard thought and trading it for what Scripture says instead. Sometimes it’s setting down the weight of what God never told you to carry.

Then almost without realizing it, the ground starts to change. The heart that felt hardened is softened by the storm. The mind that replayed hurt starts remembering hope. That’s how God restores, not by demanding more strength, but by meeting you right there in the muddy parts.

So, if today your heart feels worn, if your soul feels weary, if you feel forgotten, used, used up or lonely — hold onto this:

God is still in the business of making miracles out of mud.
Still restoring joy where sorrow tried to settle.
Still uprooting the thoughts pain tried to sow.
This isn’t the end of your story.

It’s just the stretch of road where you pull over, redirect, wipe the rain from your face, and let God help you change what went flat.

Because the road doesn’t end here — it just slows long enough for grace to catch up with you. And maybe the bravest thing you can do right now is let the truth of His Word sit with you until your heart remembers there are still miles of hope ahead.

02/13/2026

I spent a long time searching for Jesus in religion, denominations, and church buildings. And if I’m being honest, what I kept getting handed was a watered-down Gospel that never touched the places I was hurting.

I was broken. Not the kind you can hide with a smile —
the kind that sits in your chest and makes breathing feel heavy.

Sunday mornings were the hardest.
I can still see it — standing in my bedroom with clothes in my hands, heart already racing before the day even started. The house felt tight, like the walls were listening. Every word, every movement felt like it would set something off if I didn't step just right. I’d rush the kids, forcing a cheerful voice that didn’t match the storm inside me, while my pulse thumped so loud in my ears I could barely think. My cheeks would burn — hot and flushed— not from the rush, but from the stress, from trying to hold everything together with hands that felt like they were slipping.

And I’d step out the door feeling like I’d just run a marathon
before church had even started.

I walked into those sanctuary doors carrying more than just heartache.

I carried exhaustion.
I carried fear.
I carried a quiet desperation I still believe everyone could see.

And I kept hoping — every week — that somewhere in the singing or the sermon or the prayers, that I’d finally find the thing everyone else seemed to have.

But I never did.

People saw me.

They saw the embarrassment flush on my cheeks when my kids got restless. They saw the forced smile. They saw me later in town with a beer in my hand. They waved. They smiled.

And I thought that meant I was okay.

But inside, I was always searching. Always wondering,
“Is this it? Is this all there is?”

And the painful part — the part that still sits heavy when I look back — is that not one person ever loved me enough to say, “You don’t have to live this way.”

So I kept doing what I saw. I kept following the example around me set by church people. And I honestly thought this was normal Christianity.

Half-in. Half-out.

Trying. Failing. Pretending.

Still bound.

Nobody told me following Jesus would require surrender. Nobody told me truth would confront me. Nobody told me freedom would cost me my old life.

So I stayed stuck. Going through motions. Calling it faith.

Still in chains.

Until Jesus met me for real. Not in a church, but broken and falling apart at my kitchen table one morning. Long after I had given up and walked away from church. Jesus found me. Jesus cared enough to come after me and teach me truth.

And that is why I cannot stay silent. That is why I must sound the alarm despite the cost or comfort of silence.

The trouble ain’t that the Gospel lost its power. It’s that we’ve watered it down until it don’t taste like anything anymore.

Jesus said it plain in Matthew 5:13:
“You are the salt of the earth. But if the salt loses its savor, how shall it be salted? It is then good for nothing but to be thrown out and trampled underfoot.”

What good is salt if it’s lost its flavor? What good is a watered-down cup of coffee? That’s about like sweet tea with no sugar — looks right, but something’s missing the second it hits your tongue.

That’s about where we’ve landed, if we’re being honest with ourselves. A faith thinned out so much it doesn’t carry weight anymore —
it doesn’t set captives free,
it doesn’t mend what’s shattered,
it doesn’t change a soul from the inside out.

And it ain’t because Jesus lost His power.
It’s because we keep diluting what He said.

Somewhere along the way, we got scared of words like holiness.
Scared of sanctification. Scared of stepping on toes — when, last I checked, the Word of God has always had steel in it.

The Bible isn’t a butter knife.
It’s a two-edged sword.
It’s supposed to cut.

The honest heart of it… you can’t teach or preach a holiness you ain’t living. Ooof. That one’ll rub you raw like wet jeans on bare legs in the middle of a July afternoon. You can’t call folks to die to their flesh if you’re still feeding yours. It’s easier to soften the message than to surrender to it.

So we trimmed it.
Smoothed it out.
Took the sharp corners off.

And now we’ve got broken people — truly broken — walking into churches and gatherings and concerts, looking for a Savior who still heals, still delivers, still transforms. And instead of power, they get a version of the Gospel that leaves them the same.
Instead of repentance, they get words that soothe but never set free. Instead of a cross, they get comfort that costs them nothing. But chains don’t fall off because somebody said something nice. Strongholds don’t loosen their grip just because we softened the message. And addiction doesn’t bow to a Gospel softened to make it easier to hear.

Did you know the demons believe in Jesus too?
They believe. They recognize Him. They even tremble.
But and hear me here— belief isn’t surrender. Belief isn’t repentance. And darkness doesn’t pack its bags because somebody tipped their hat to Jesus.

If what I’m saying steps on your toes, maybe that’s the point.
The Word of God is offensive to the flesh. Always has been.
And that sting you feel? That might just be the Spirit putting His finger on something that needs to die so something better can live.

We absolutely need grace. Lord knows we do. But grace without truth ain’t grace — it ain’t kindness, and it ain’t love either. It’s compromise dressed up real nice.

Somebody in this generation has to stand on the Word of God without trimming it down to fit the culture. Because there are people out here who need real freedom. Hear me — freedom does not come from a Gospel we edit to make it comfortable.
It comes from the whole truth — the kind that confronts, calls, and changes you.

Half a Gospel doesn't heal a whole wound — it leaves it festering.
Half-truths don’t break full chains — they just teach folks to live with the weight. This world ain’t bruised — it’s broken wide open.
Addicted. Confused. Running on empty and calling it living.

Only truth can heal the hurting, save the lost, and deliver the oppressed. The whole truth. Not the trimmed-down, dressed-up, don’t-rock-the-boat version.

The kind that cuts first.
The kind that stings before it heals.
The kind that doesn’t come watered down so it’s easier to swallow.

We are called to preach the Word, to be ready in season and out of season, to reprove, rebuke, and exhort —with patience, with love, and with sound doctrine (see 2 Tim. 4:2–4).

And that, my friend, is what the undiluted Gospel looks like.

02/09/2026

I don’t know about you, but I didn’t find God in a moment of peace.

I didn’t meet Him in the hush of a sanctuary or with a steady heart and a quiet mind. I met Him on the floor of a life that had finally given way—when everything I had leaned on buckled beneath me.

I didn’t stumble into Him with my life neatly folded, Scriptures memorized, and answered prayers already waiting. I found Him when I was broken beyond belief—when hope had run out, when the pit was deep enough that even my own voice didn’t echo back, when the quiet made me wonder if God even knew my name. When everything I had trusted failed me.

That’s where Jesus stepped in.

Maybe that’s not your story. Maybe you’ve walked with Jesus all your days—faithful, steady, hand-in-hand since childhood. If so, God bless you. I wish that were my story too. But it isn’t.

Mine came covered in dirt and shame. Full of brokenness and mess. And if I’m honest, some of the pages still have soil on them—creased and worn, corners bent from being folded and unfolded too many times, pages stuck together from tears and time and trying again.

This week being one of those pages.

I’ve found that the most worn pages are the seasons we obeyed.
The ones where we sat with the Bible open and our hands shaking, trying to talk ourselves out of what we already knew God said. The ones where the “yes” felt like loss, and obedience came with a limp.

The ones where we kept turning the same page—hoping for a different word, a different assignment, but we keep returning because we want to be faithful.

I’ve limped into this season. Weak. Wounded. Bruised by friends and family. And somewhere in the middle of all that limping and bruising, one word keeps rising to the surface.

Obedience.

That word rolls off the tongue easily, doesn’t it? We expect it in society. Teach it to our children. Assume it comes with age and maturity. But obedience—real obedience—is not easy. It is costly. It is weighty. It may be one of the heaviest words in all of Scripture.

Jesus was obedient even unto death.

Even. Unto. Death.

And obedience still asks for that kind of dying. It asks us to die to our flesh. To be set apart from the world. To walk into wilderness seasons we didn’t choose. To lay beloved things on altars we hoped would never be built. To stand before giants we didn’t go looking for.

Obedience is what led our Lord to the cross—and He went willingly.

So when the Lord speaks, we don’t get to negotiate the cost. We don’t get to edit the assignment. We follow the same way Jesus did—open-handed, surrendered, resolved.

Obedience doesn’t usually arrive wrapped in clarity. It settles heavy on the chest. It asks for surrender before it offers understanding. And more often than not, it requires us to release things we were sure God would let us keep.

Sometimes obedience costs comfort. Sometimes it costs reputation. Sometimes it reaches into relationships we were certain would be spared.

Obedience asks us to place what we love—not just what we fear—into His hands and trust that He is still good when the letting go feels like loss.

That was my wrestle this week.

I was asked to speak a hard truth to someone I love deeply. I tried to pray my way out of it. Asked God to send someone else. Waited for the conviction to lift—but it didn’t. It only grew clearer, heavier, more insistent.

So I obeyed.

And it hurt more than I expected.

And it widened a space I am still asking God, in His mercy, to one day close.

But obedience to God had to outweigh my fear of losing people or being misunderstood. Because obedience has a way of showing who really holds the reins.

It tells the truth about who—and what—we actually serve. And if that truth hits like stubbing your toe on the coffee table in the dark…you’re not alone. It stubbed my toes, too!

And Joshua knew this.

“Now therefore fear the Lord and serve Him in sincerity and in faithfulness. Put away the gods that your fathers served beyond the River and in Egypt, and serve the Lord. And if it is evil in your eyes to serve the Lord, choose this day whom you will serve, whether the gods your fathers served in the region beyond the River, or the gods of the Amorites in whose land you dwell. But as for me and my house, we will serve the Lord.” — Joshua 24:14–15

He didn’t soften his words to keep the peace. He didn’t smooth the edges to make the room more comfortable.

He stood in Joshua 24 and asked for something plain and costly—a decision that couldn’t be dressed up or danced around.

Just a quiet moment with consequences—the kind that leaves a mark, like falling out of a tree and carrying the scar long after.

Joshua wasn’t offering poetry for the fridge door. He was asking for a decision. Not halfway. Not with fingers crossed behind your back.

You don’t get to keep one foot in darkness and one in the light and call it faithful.

You don’t get to haul old gods along like heirlooms—wrapped up and tucked away for a rainy day.

You don’t get to inherit someone else’s belief and call it surrender.

“Fear the Lord and serve Him in sincerity and in faithfulness.”
Faithfulness means staying put when it costs you—when it’s quiet, when it’s lonely, when nobody’s clapping.

And then Joshua tells them to choose:

“If it is evil in your eyes to serve the Lord, choose this day whom you will serve.”

God doesn’t force Himself into a crowded heart. He doesn’t beg for space beside idols we refuse to lay down.

Joshua is saying: Call it what it is. Name it. Decide it. Own it.

And then—without polling the room, without checking who’s with him, without waiting for agreement—Joshua draws the line for his own life.

“But as for me and my house, we will serve the Lord.”

That’s leadership.

That’s clarity.

He’s saying: I can’t control the nation. I can’t compel hearts. But I can consecrate my house. And that’s where obedience always lands—personal, costly, and sometimes painfully lonely.

Because obedience is always a choice.

And sometimes, it’s the loneliest one we will ever make.

The most worn pages in our stories aren’t the seasons we celebrated—but the seasons we obeyed. The ones marked by surrender instead of certainty. By faith instead of clarity.
And still—those are the pages God seems to linger over most.

So as for me and my house—bruised, limping, learning—we will serve the Lord.

Even when obedience costs more than we expected. Even when the page turns are slow and heavy in our hands.

02/05/2026

In the Old Testament, the Lord told His people to set up waymarkers—real, stack‑of‑stones kind of reminders—so nobody could pretend they forgot where He had met them. Stones stacked along the road. Memorials planted in the dirt of real places. Not because God needed remembering, but because we do.

Those markers told stories. They whispered, This is where God came through. This is where He made a way. This is where we thought we wouldn’t survive—but we did. They stood as evidence for the people who lived it and as testimony for the children who would come after them.

That’s what this blog is for me.

It’s my waymarker highway.

Not polished. Not tidy. Just honest.

A trail of moments where the Lord met me, walked with me, steadied me, rescued me, and carried me through things I couldn’t have navigated on my own. These words are stones stacked in remembrance—so I don’t forget what He’s done when the road ahead feels long.

I want to encourage you to set up your own waymarkers too. However that looks for you—private journaling, a blog, sketching, painting, photographing, voice notes, scraps of paper tucked into a Bible margin—you truly can’t do it wrong. Just be sure you’re doing it.

Because if the Old Testament teaches us anything, it’s how easily we forget.

They walked through parted waters.
They ate bread that fell from heaven.
They drank water pulled from rocks.
And still—they forgot yesterday’s miracle, yesterday’s provision, yesterday’s deliverance.

So set up waymarkers, my friends.

And today, I want to share one of mine.

If you’ve been following along, you may know that this week I’ve been in the book of Joshua. Even that feels like a waymarker in itself—God has a way of meeting us exactly where we are. Yesterday morning, I pulled a chair up to my kitchen table—the same one that’s seen cold coffee, unfinished prayers, and a whole lot of life—opened my Bible, and asked the Lord to speak to me again. Clearly. Just as clearly as He had in the days before.

Joshua 3:5 dropped into my spirit.

But here’s the thing—I had already read Joshua 3:5 the day before. And I reminded the Lord of that. “Lord, I’ve already read Joshua 3:5.”

I didn’t fully understand what He was saying to me in that moment, but I obeyed anyway. I read it. I re‑read it. I highlighted it and sat with it, even when the meaning felt just out of reach.

“Joshua said unto the people, Sanctify yourselves: for to morrow the LORD will do wonders among you."(Joshua 3:5)

At the time, I wasn’t sure what the Lord was pressing into my heart with that verse. So I kept reading, moving on to the story of the Gibeonites—which, by the way, is wild and worth the read if you haven’t spent time there yet. God’s faithfulness shows up in the most unexpected ways.

If I’m being honest, though, I’ve realized lately that I’m sometimes guilty of asking God to speak—and then rushing past what He’s saying. That conviction landed gently but firmly. I’m learning to slow down. To sit. To meditate. To let His Word do the deep work it’s meant to do.

Maybe that resonates with you too.
Maybe you’ve been listening—but not lingering.

That evening, I headed out the door to a Wednesday night service. The plan was a Bible study through the book of Ephesians, which I’d been attending for a few weeks and absolutely loving.

After worship, the pastor stepped up—but instead of opening to Ephesians, he paused. He shared that while sitting on the front pew, preparing to teach, the Lord had interrupted him with a different scripture. He said he felt led to be obedient to the Spirit.

Y’all… I couldn’t make this up if I tried.

He opened his Bible and said, Joshua 3:5.

My throat tightened. Tears filled my eyes. Fire stirred in my bones.

Of all the chapters. Of all the verses. Of all the nights.

The very Scripture the Lord had spoken to me that morning was now being spoken again—this time from the pulpit—explained, unfolded, and applied exactly the way my heart needed to hear it.

He didn’t just whisper to me in the quiet of my kitchen. He confirmed it publicly. Clearly. Lovingly. In a small Southern church full of Holy Ghost fire.

And if He cares enough to meet this tired, imperfect woman like that, I want you to hear me when I say—He cares that much for you too.

So if you feel unseen…
If you feel like you’re wandering through a wilderness season…
If you feel like you’re sitting under a juniper tree wondering how you got here…

Set up waymarkers.

Write them down. Capture them. Remember them.

So when the road gets hard, you can look back and say with confidence:

I have seen the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living.