Psalm 25 isn’t a prayer of the put-together, it’s a prayer of the desperate. It’s not glamorous, but it is honest. Sometimes that’s all faith really is — handing over what we can’t carry, and believing God really will.

God isn’t just the Father of fathers — He’s a girl dad. The same God who protected Mary is protecting me. The same God who guarded the Holy Family is guarding mine.

I used to think waiting meant being overlooked. Like maybe I hadn’t prayed hard enough or grown enough or healed enough. But lately, I’ve been wondering if the waiting is actually the blessing. Maybe it’s God’s mercy holding me back from something that would’ve broken me. Maybe it’s not that I’m behind—but that I’m being held.

It kept showing up on my FYP—women writing to their future husbands, journaling for someone they hadn’t even met. I felt too old for it. Too tired. But something in me knew it wasn’t silly. Last night I finally picked up a pen. And what poured out wasn’t desperation—it was love. Deep, grounded, prayed-over love. For the man I haven’t met yet… but already believe is real.

It’s funny until it’s not—and then it circles back to funny again.
I’m allergic to gluten, can’t eat fish, and don’t drink wine… which would’ve made me a bit of a buzzkill at the Last Supper. And yet, here I am—faithful, hungry, still showing up to the table.

I used to feel excluded by what my body couldn’t tolerate. Now I see it: Jesus isn’t just in the bread or the wine or the fish. He’s in the longing. The showing up anyway. The holy ache.

I may not be able to take in the symbols—but I still take in Him.

This weekend wasn’t a breakdown. It was a slow, quiet unraveling. I mowed the lawn, prayed in my storage unit, drove my son around until he fell asleep—and somewhere in all of it, I cried so hard I could finally breathe again. I’m still in the waiting. Still unsure. Still carrying things I wish were already settled. But God was there. And that makes all the difference.