Sacred Ground: Finding Wildflowers in the Wreckage

Hey y’all. It’s me again. As they say, the Lord giveth, the Lord taketh away, and sometimes the Lord burns everything down…just to build it back up sevenfold. Life’s changes, and God’s plan, don’t ask permission…sometimes it feels like they burn everything down at once like a fire. The suddenness and violence of change never cease to surprise me. But that’s when God hands you a broom and says, “Start sweeping. There’s beauty under the ashes.” To me, sweeping up the ashes bespeaks something sacred. Something unadulterated and holy. And somewhere between the smoke and ash sweeping of this past year, I stopped grieving and started noticing everything that He’s done for me. That’s the moral of today’s post: how there’s a strange freedom and quiet mercy in life’s ruins, and how once the dust settles…ashes start to look a lot like fresh soil.

When Grace Plants Wildflowers 

I used to think my identity and life’s beauty lived in milestones: weddings, degrees, houses, children, perfectly posed Christmas cards. I used to think holiness was the result of ceremony and perfection. I yearned and strove for those things in my life. But this past year has proven me wrong in the most beautifully humbling way.

When the doors closed and the walls caved in, and they did, loudly…I discovered that God isn’t afraid of wreckage. He isn’t intimidated by broken fragments. He isn’t repelled by ruin; He wades right into the mess with us, unbothered by our weakness, and starts planting wildflowers where the walls once stood…because what’s His, He restores.

This year, my heart broke when I learned an ugly truth: not everyone who vows to love you actually will, or even knows how. I learned that some physical trials, like a simple surgery, have the potential to rearrange your hopes, dreams and even your very soul. And I learned that when you spend too long trying to save someone else, you lose yourself in the process. But grace? Stubborn, radiant grace kept showing up anyway. Not in the ways I asked for, but in the ways God knew I needed. He may have taken away, but He saved me from a life of misery, pain, and betrayal. What He takes, He promises to replace sevenfold. I’ve seen that promise come true in rich, mind-boggling ways over the last year.

The Lesson of the Mug

There’s a coffee mug I use exclusively for work. It was an old wedding present from someone I love and respect very much. It’s blue and white pottery, inscribed with, “What is done in love is done well.” Despite its mixed history, I still use this mug religiously and it remains one of my favorites. Why? After all, it is chipped on one side, and no amount of scrubbing can erase the old price tag residue on the bottom. After the Lord closed the door of marriage in my life, at least for now, at first I wanted to throw the mug away…as I did most things that reminded me of the past. But for some reason I didn’t. Somehow it became my work mug. One morning last week, I noticed how the sunlight sparkled off of the natural minerals displayed in that little chip in the pottery. Then I noticed how the steam of my homemade matcha latte curled out the top it like an unruly ribbon. And suddenly it hit me: I’m starting to notice the simple beauty of everything around me again. I haven’t done that in years. I haven’t been able to. The last few years were consumed with empty striving, endless worry, and emotionless connection. I became so accustomed to a sorry excuse for a life that, like most of humanity, I grew outwardly focused on the milestones. Ceremonies, degrees, children, promotions, accolades, accomplishments and the tangible things that came with it all. In that quiet moment studying my coffee mug, I realized that maybe I never needed new things. Maybe I just needed new eyes.

“He restores my soul; He leads me in paths of righteousness for His name’s sake.” 

- Psalm 23:3

The Lesson of the Drive

I’ve started rolling down my windows and listening to my favorite music in the car again. Letting the wind destroy my hair while an elite playlist blares through the speakers is reminiscent of something from high school. Maybe it’s juvenile. But it’s one small thing I’ve caught myself enjoying again. An outward expression of my newfound spiritual and personal freedom: not the glamorous kind, but the earned kind. The kind that costs you your pride but gives you peace in return.

“Do not be anxious about tomorrow, for tomorrow will be anxious for itself.”

- Matthew 6:34

The Lesson in Quietness and Solitude 

I used to dread silence. I’ve written about this before. Coming from a big family, quiet not only felt foreign and unsettling, it felt like punishment. In my marriage, silence was used as a weapon to hurt, worry and scare me. I have a complicated relationship with silence. Immediately after my separation, the quiet felt like a reminder that no one was texting, calling, or choosing me. Somewhere along the way, somehow I began to recognize quiet and solitude as an invitation. I began to cherish how silence whispers, “You survived. You can rest now.” I also struggled with being alone for the first time in years. It created fear and uncertainty for me at first. But, much like silence, I became okay with being alone. I grew to genuinely enjoy and embrace it. After all, God speaks loudest when everyone else has exited the stage. He is jealous for our hearts and time…and I am so glad He is  

“Be still, and know that I am God.” 

- Psalm 46:10

The Lesson of the Mirror

Healing is strange. We don’t give our bodies and brains enough credit for the work they do while healing. One day you’re pale, hollow-eyed, and carrying the weight of such darkness that it shows in your countenance, weight, health and appearance. Next thing you know, people start saying you look “different.” Brighter. Lighter. “You’re glowing.”  Eventually your skin clears, the weight lifts (literally and spiritually), your smile becomes a bit more genuine again, and laughter sneaks back into the corners of your face. That’s what happens when sin and sorrow lose their seat at your table. Sometimes, when we won’t walk away from sin and darkness ourselves, God removes what was poisoning us. And it shows in the mirror. Somewhere between the exhaustion and the glow-up, He rebuilds you: not as who you wanted to be, but as who you were meant to be…healthy, radiant, and finally at peace.

“And I will give you a new heart and a new spirit I will put within you.” 

- Ezekiel 36:26

Wildflowers in the Ordinary

It turns out that the sacred hides in plain sight: in laughter that finally comes easy again, in the familiar weight of cracking open the good book, in the smell of clean laundry in your very own untainted home, in the short drives home from your new job that you love. I used to chase romanticization over miracles; now I notice miracles all around me. No romanticizing necessary. Losing everything I thought I wanted stripped me of my illusions, but it also made room for something better: clarity and peace. I no longer pray for a life that looks or feels perfect. I pray for a life that feels authentically me…even if it’s a little messy and different than I originally planned. 

And maybe that’s the point. Maybe God’s greatest miracles aren’t the things we have or acquire, but the peace we find when living without them. There is a certain reverence in clinging to Him and only Him.

So here’s to chipped mugs, unplanned detours, and the soft, deeply-rooted, authentic joy that sneaks up on you when you least expect it. If this year taught me anything, it’s that grace and hope were never waiting somewhere in the distance, the future or the unknown. They’ve been here all along: quiet, steady, waiting patiently through every new sunrise. Hope lingers in the small mercies of each morning, in peace that overflows, and never forsakes us. I used to think I had to reach it, earn it, or find the great secret surrounding it. I used to think hope and joy would be found at the next milestone. But no, because of the turbulence and uncertainty that I stubbornly fought this entire year, I can now see that hope , grace and joy were always here, waiting for me to slow down and be broken enough to experience them.