Blog
From and about women who love Jesus and want to share His message through Scripture, everyday inspirations, and relatable stories.
Growing up, I had a hamster named Frisky. Frisky got his name from the fact that he jumped on his hamster wheel the moment we placed him in his Habitrail—you know, one of those cages with little tubes and tunnels to scurry through.
We have a counter in our home covered in a strange, ugly, tan, bumpy tile. It’s been there since we moved in almost twenty years ago, but it’s just one of those things we live with, because what do you do with ugly tile?
We asked our team to give us their favorite song of the season and why. Below is a list of folks from the God Hears Her team and their songs. We hope that you will enjoy them as much as we have.
Music blared through the sound system. My husband, oldest daughter, youngest son, and I all huddled in prayer. The announcer reminded us (and the thousands of other runners) that we only had five more minutes to find our assigned corrals. We gave each other one last hug then divided to find our places.
How are you feeling? No really? Are you worried about anything? Anxious? Sad? Angry? Or maybe just have that underlying feeling of being overwhelmed? April flowers are supposed to bring May flowers, but what if your May looks gray, withered, or dark? What if you’re experiencing stress, anxiety, grief, worry, or depression? What if you’re just feeling restless or on edge?
The siren signaling the start of the second half of my daughter’s college soccer game sounds exactly like the sirens in Pac-Man. You know the ones: woo woo woo.
“New year. New you!” The headlines of all the ads and stories and articles in my feed read . . . and then proceed to show me a fifteen-minute workout that will jumpstart my mornings, five ways to be more productive in 2025, and one simple trick to do each night to get younger looking skin. Wait! Should I be using that cream? Infusing more flax seed into my diet? Switch detergents?
I’m a runner. Actually, I was a runner until my left knee got mad at me a few years ago. Tightening up. Aching when I’d get out of a chair. Then it got downright angry. Buckling during a run, refusing to jog another step. I finally went to see an orthopedic doctor, hoping he could snap his fingers and let me run again. Apparently not.
The afternoon sunshine streamed through the family room window while my daughters—then just two and four years old—were playing independently, sitting amidst the many small toys strewn on the carpet all around them. They were each enraptured in their own play, virtually silent; I lounged alongside them, reading quietly.