The other day I found myself reflecting on life, business, and all the things Matt and I have spent way too much time analyzing over the years. Somewhere in the middle of that rabbit trail, I said: “I think my MO is simply to walk through the next door.” The funny thing is, I didn’t think much of it at the time. But the more I’ve sat with it, the more I think that little sentence explains a lot of my life. Which is funny, because if you’ve ever watched me make a major life decision, you’ve probably witnessed me researching it to death, talking it over with Matt seventeen times, making a pros and cons list, praying about it, and then wondering if I missed something important anyway. These days, I crave certainty. Or at least I think I do. The funny thing is that I wasn’t always this way. There was a time in my life when I was much more spontaneous. Much more likely to jump first and figure it out later. Somewhere along the way, life got more… nuanced. Marriage. Kids. Bills. A business. Medical decisions. Responsibilities. Suddenly every choice felt a little heavier than it used to. When you’re responsible for more than just yourself, it makes sense to want a roadmap. A timeline. A guarantee that things will work out. If I’m honest, I’d really prefer if God would hand me the entire plan upfront. Maybe a budget while He’s at it. 😅 But that’s not usually how it happens. Instead, it feels like He gives me enough light for the next step. Not the next five years. Not even the next five months. Just enough for the next step. And I don’t always love that. Especially when life feels uncertain. Especially when there are big decisions to make. Especially when I’m tired of researching, tired of waiting, and tired of feeling like I should have everything figured out before moving forward. A few days before this realization, I told Matt I was tired. Not tired because life is bad. Not tired because I don’t love my family. Not tired because I don’t enjoy what I do. Just tired of analyzing. Tired of researching. Tired of trying to make sure we don’t miss something important. Sometimes I just want to make a decision and move on with life. And maybe that’s why this idea hit me so hard. Because when I look back, many of the best things in my life didn’t begin with certainty. They began with a simple step. Starting a candle business. Homeschooling our kids. Applying to a market. Sending a message to another small business owner. Saying yes to an opportunity I wasn’t sure I was ready for. Taking a chance. Walking through a door without knowing exactly where it would lead. Somewhere along the way, I realized this whole thing sounds a lot like Psalm 119:105: “Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light to my path.” It’s a verse that’s quoted so often it’s almost become background noise. But when you stop and think about it, a lamp isn’t a floodlight. It doesn’t show you the next five years. It doesn’t answer every question. It doesn’t reveal every twist and turn ahead. It just gives enough light for the next step. And maybe that’s exactly how God intended it. The more I think about it, the more I realize that my life hasn’t been built by having all the answers. It’s been built by walking through the next door. One conversation. One candle order. One doctor’s appointment. One opportunity. One scary decision. One door. Maybe that’s why I was so surprised by the realization in the first place. From my side of things, it often feels like I’m constantly questioning myself. Constantly researching. Constantly wondering if I’m making the right choice. But maybe other people aren’t seeing the questions. Maybe they’re seeing the steps. Because when I look back, that’s where I can see God’s faithfulness most clearly. Not because He handed me the whole map. But because He was there at every step along the way. The path almost always makes more sense looking backward than it does looking forward. The opportunities I thought would change everything sometimes didn’t. The things I never saw coming often did. And the doors that seemed insignificant at the time ended up leading somewhere beautiful. So these days, I’m trying to spend less time demanding a roadmap and more time paying attention to the next door in front of me. Because maybe that’s all we’re meant to see. Not the whole path. Just enough light for the next step. And then the next one after that.

Ten years. Ten years since I kissed her sweet little face that I loved so dearly. Ten years since I did one of the hardest things I’ve ever done - laying my four-month-old baby in the arms of a stranger and watching them walk away. Ten years since seeing my sweet little girl for a second first time… and falling in love with her new smile while my heart quietly mourned her original one at the same time. Before that day, I had already kissed that tiny face thousands of times. I had memorized every curve of her little smile - the one that would only be mine for four short months. Life was busy back then. My husband was serving in a line unit in the Army, which meant our days could swing between incredibly boring and incredibly stressful (if you know, you know). Most of my days were spent chasing a very energetic toddler who loved life with his whole heart. And then one day, I just knew - I was pregnant again. My first baby was only fourteen months old, and I wasn’t exactly planning to add another little blessing so soon. In fact, my husband had hoped we might wait until we were out of the Army before growing our family again. But God had other plans. Looking back now, I can see they were very good plans. The first half of the pregnancy was a little rough, mostly because slowing down wasn’t really an option with a toddler running around. But we managed, and eventually the day came for our 20-week anatomy scan. I was nervous and excited all at once. The technician took all the measurements and then told us the news - it was a girl. I was thrilled. A boy and a girl felt like the perfect little pair. Later that same day we headed to a mandatory “fun day” with my husband’s unit. Life felt normal. A week later, just a couple of hours before my husband was due home, I got a call from my OB. She had news about my baby girl. I don’t remember every detail of that conversation, but I remember the moment she told me that our daughter would be born with a cleft lip - and possibly a cleft palate. My world stopped. What did this mean? Would she be able to eat? Would we be able to breastfeed? Would she be healthy? Fear rushed in faster than answers. I remember calling my mom, completely overwhelmed and not knowing what to do. I wondered if I had done something wrong - or failed to do something I should have. I felt like I was spiraling. When my husband finally got home that evening, I broke the news to him. From that point forward, the rest of the pregnancy carried a weight of unknowns we had never expected. During my third trimester, my husband began the process of leaving the Army. We decided to move back to Conroe so we could be close to Texas Children’s Hospital in the Houston Medical Center. Texas Children’s is world-renowned, and we wanted the best possible care for our little girl. So late in my pregnancy, we packed up our apartment in Colorado. My husband loaded the biggest Penske truck we could rent, my sweet mother-in-love came up to help us move back, and we began the long drive back to Texas. Our plan was simple: get settled, get comfortable, and wait for baby. Of course, life had other plans. At the last minute we learned my husband would have to remain in Colorado for another month before taking terminal leave and joining us in Texas. That was a hard day. Eventually he made it home - and two weeks later, ten days after her due date, Ava made her debut. It was my quickest delivery. My water broke around 7 p.m., and she was born just after 2:30 in the morning. I will never forget the moment they placed her on my chest. I was instantly in love. And her little cleft lip was perfect to me. We came to the hospital prepared with the two bottles most recommended for cleft babies - which turned out to be a very good thing, because the hospital didn’t actually have anything designed for feeding cleft babies. Ava took to the Haberman bottle immediately, and we all began learning together what feeding her would look like. I was determined to give her the best start I could, so I pumped. That journey lasted fifteen months. When we were discharged a few days later, we brought our sweet little girl home to meet her big brother. Life during that season was not easy. My husband was adjusting to civilian life. I was battling postpartum depression. Ava had weekly appointments downtown with the cleft team for her NAM device (Nasoalveolar Molding). We still see that orthodontist today - he’s one of our favorites. And Charlie, our toddler, was simply thrilled to have a new little friend. Eventually the day came for Ava’s first surgery. She was four and a half months old. We arrived early that morning, and she was one of the first surgeries scheduled that day. Waiting for updates felt like torture, but finally the moment came when we were allowed back to see her in recovery. Seeing her face for the first time after surgery was both beautiful and heartbreaking all at once. It’s hard to explain that feeling. Her new little smile was incredible - and I was deeply grateful for the skill of the surgeons who had repaired her lip so beautifully. But there was also a quiet ache in my heart knowing the smile I had kissed every day for four months was gone. We stayed overnight to make sure she could eat - which she did like the absolute champ she is - and the very next day we were able to bring her home. She healed beautifully and quickly began chubbing up even more. There were more surgeries ahead of us in the years that followed. But this first one was the hardest. It was the moment my little girl’s face changed. I am endlessly grateful for the incredible cleft team who cared for Ava and for the beautiful outcome of her lip repair. But if I’m being honest… A small part of me will probably always miss that original smile. Ten years later, that tiny baby girl is now a brave, funny, strong-willed kid who lights up a room with that same smile. Her journey with cleft care isn’t completely finished. There have been more procedures and surgeries along the way, and there will still be a few more ahead of us in the coming years. That’s simply part of the road families like ours walk. But looking back now, I can see so clearly how faithful God has been through every part of it. Through the fear when we first heard the diagnosis. Through the long appointments and waiting rooms. Through the surgeries and recoveries. And through the quiet strength of a little girl who handled it all far better than her parents ever did. Ten years ago today, a surgeon repaired Ava’s lip. But the courage, the resilience, and the joy in that smile… those have always been hers. Happy 10-Year Smileversary, Ava! Your smile has always been worth it.

The last few months have been… a lot. After Ava’s surgery, life didn’t slow down the way I imagined it might. There have been follow-up appointments, healing, and still a few unknowns surrounding her bone graft that we’re waiting to see play out. And while all of that was unfolding, life around us kept moving. Between our family and some close relatives, we found ourselves in the ER three different times in the span of three weeks. Homeschool keeps moving forward, the candle business continues to require attention, and ordinary life somehow keeps threading itself through the middle of it all. Some seasons of life feel steady and predictable. This one does not. Right now, it feels like we’re standing in the middle of a storm of unknowns. Family dynamics, health questions, big life decisions still sitting in the distance without clear answers yet. The kind of season where you can feel the weight of things you can’t fix or control. And if I’m being honest, there have been moments where the chaos is loud, and the storm inside my chest threatens to drown me. But it never fails. In the proverbial eye of the storm, when I feel like I couldn't be any more broken and beaten, God stoops down and whispers to my spirit: “I am still here. I am still God. Just rest.” It's not the kind of rest we plan. It 's not a beachside vacation full of sunshine, no phones, and family (although that would be nice). It's the kind of rest that defies the chaos swirling around. It's the kind of rest that quiets the storm inside my chest even when the storm outside my chest still rages. It doesn't make everything all better, but it anchors me. And the more I sit with that word - rest  - the more I realize that the kind of rest Scripture talks about is very different from what we usually picture. Biblical rest isn’t just about stopping or taking a break. It ’s about the absence of striving . It’s the moment when we stop trying to carry things that were never ours to carry in the first place. It’s laying down the endless mental calculations, the “what ifs,” the attempts to control outcomes we cannot control. It ’s trusting that God is still God even when life feels uncertain. Hebrews talks about entering God’s rest, and the more I think about it, the more it feels like an invitation to loosen our grip on the things we keep trying to hold together. Not because the storm disappears. But because we remember who holds the wind and the waves. There are still unknowns in front of us. There are still things we’re praying through. Still decisions ahead. Still parts of life that feel messy and unresolved. The storm outside hasn’t passed. But I’m slowly learning that biblical rest isn’t the absence of storms. It ’s the absence of striving. It’s the moment where I stop trying to control outcomes I was never meant to control in the first place. It ’s loosening my grip on the endless mental calculations - the “what ifs,” the attempts to fix everything, the pressure to hold everything together. And instead, simply remembering who God is. Not the God of tidy, predictable lives. The God who sits with us right in the middle of the chaos and reminds us that He is still sovereign over all of it. The storm may still rage. But I don’t have to drown in it. Because even here - in the middle of it - God is still God. And for now, that is where my rest lives.