Just Show Up

Over the past several months, I’ve found myself in countless moments where I wanted to write—to capture the swirl of thoughts and emotions flooding my heart. But before I could sit with them, life would come crashing in again, throwing me headfirst into another battle. Some battles leave me more weary, others oddly refreshed. But one thing remains constant: the battle belongs to God.

We are in a season of shaking and stirring.

A season marked by medical unpredictability.
Frustration.
Tears.
Anguish.
Praise.
Joy.
Peace.
Stillness.

The only thing I know for sure is this: God is faithful, even when I can’t feel it, even when the fog is too thick to see it.

That’s the lesson He’s teaching us right now.

We’ve lived through so much trauma in such a short span of time that sometimes I look back in awe—how did we survive that? And then I look forward, wondering, how will we keep surviving this? How do we endure the storm still raging?

I look at my son—just 15—and marvel at what he’s had to endure. More than most grown adults ever will. Yet, I believe with all my heart that there is glory in what is to come, and for that, I hold fast.

When Living Water was born, it came from my trauma. I dreamed of a space for women to heal. I had visions of what it would be. But they were my visions—not His.

It took my son getting desperately sick—and our world being turned upside down—to begin to understand that God’s vision was always bigger. His heart wasn’t just for women, but for families.

Because when one person in a family is sick, it touches everyone.

And “sick” isn’t just a diagnosis.
It’s addiction.
It’s mental illness.
It’s trauma.
It’s dysfunction.
It’s absence of faith.
It’s chaos without a cornerstone.

Dis-ease doesn’t discriminate.

I’ve long known how much Logan’s illness has impacted us all.

For Logan, it’s been obvious—physically, mentally, emotionally.
For me, it’s been a slow unraveling until my body gave out. My spiritual strength was reduced to a mustard seed. I was angry. Tired. Carrying trauma, guilt, and grief. I missed my husband. I saw the toll it took on Addie and Jax.

Andrew held down the fort. He supported, loved, prayed. But he missed me. He worried for me. And he watched, helpless, as I navigated a broken system alone.

Addie felt forgotten. She was angry. She resented the constant attention Logan needed—even if she wouldn’t wish it on anyone. It hurt.

And then there’s Jax.
My sweet little monkey who has known only COVID and a sick big brother.

This week, when I told him we had to go to CHOP for an appointment, he asked, “When are you coming home?” I said we’d be back by dinner, but he didn’t believe me.

His fear said everything.
He cries every time I leave with Logan.
And the truth is—I don’t know when I’m coming home.

As we sit on the edge of yet another possible admission, I ache for him. It’s summer, but it doesn’t feel like it. We haven’t had the chance to breathe.

I crave stability.
Less chaos.
Just one grounding moment a day.

So today, we began a new rhythm.
A new week. A new try.
Not for perfection—just presence.

We’re starting the 40/40 Challenge:
40 days through the Book of John.
And 1 mile or 20 minutes of movement each day.

The only goal?
To do it together.
To show up—intentionally, imperfectly—as a family.

Today, it was just me, Andrew, and Jax.
Logan stayed home, too weak to go.
Addie was with her church friends.
The skies opened up with a storm, cutting our walk short.
But we walked. Heavy-hearted. In thick air. One foot in front of the other.

It felt like a metaphor—grateful for movement, but trudging through emotional quicksand.

Back home, I climbed into my cold plunge. Forty-degree water that resets my nervous system within seconds. Jax stood by, waiting for his turn. I watched him breathe, squirm, giggle, and do the hard thing.

He showed up.
He did what he thought he couldn’t.
And he was proud.

Maybe that’s the whole point.

Maybe the greatest act of faith is just showing up.
Not polished.
Not perfect.
Not pretending.
Just as you are.

For the next 40 days, that’s what we’ll do.
Messy. Complicated. Exhausted. Uncertain.

We’ll show up because Jesus did first.

We’ll grow together.
We’ll let God meet us where we are.
We’ll let Him carry what we were never meant to hold.
We’ll praise Him in the darkness.
And we’ll show up—again and again.