My son’s nervous system disability is preventing him from participating in typical 7-year old things right now. Even the most basic parts of daily life are too taxing right now.

I sent our hairstylist an SOS message this week, promising to comb out the matted mess on the back of his head before we came for a “no grooming required” cut. She gave me a speedy trim while my son warmed up to the environment with headphones on

A poor subject asked Alexander the Great for a small financial gift. Alexander gave him a large city. When the poor benefactor insisted the gift too great, Alexander responded, “The business is not what thou are fit to receive, but what it becometh me to give.”

I read this account in a Biblical commentary, paralleling the extravagant gift to God’s lavish supply of wisdom for those who ask. (James 1:5.) Upon further investigation, I learned Alexander the Great most often gave for self-glorification. The large gifts were cruel burdens for those not equipped to bear the responsibility.

Have you ever sat down for “quiet time” with the Lord, but your thoughts were too loud? Or determined to “get back on track” after wandering off the narrow path but didn’t know how to find it? A relationship with God can feel intangible and hard to grasp, at the current speed of life.

Recently, after a whole lot of life left my head spinning, I sat in front of my Bible blankly. I wondered if ancient words would land on present turmoil. I turned to the Psalms, knowing the authors poured out unfiltered emotions and messy life in those pages. I found relief in Psalm 105. The first five verses actioned specific ways to turn toward God while life rocked, rolled and roared.

One week ago, I was boarding the last flight home from our two-month USA trip. I enlisted USA’s Transport Security Administration’s (TSA) support service for each flight because my autistic son struggled tremendously in transit. “TSA Cares” provides a Passenger Support Specialist to get you through security and to your gate.

Our last flight departed from “the world’s busiest airport”. I had been warned repeatedly that support was dependent on availability, and they were “very understaffed”.

My youngest sons and I are traveling through America. The boys have loved meeting family and learning their heritage. My 7-year old son has complex special needs, and the travel has been overwhelmingly difficult for him. We have canceled flights, changed plans, and seen less people than we’d like to accommodate.

Last week, we took a long flight from Houston to Los Angeles to submit South African visa applications. The airport, flight, LA traffic, hotel stay, and waiting in a big office was more than my son could handle. My mom was with us, and we’d planned on staying with her from that point. But her home was three hours away. My son just couldn’t. We sat on the floor of a train station in LA, completely exasperated…

Yesterday was a “get through it” day. The needs of my 7-year old autistic son, Benjamin, trumped the plans and preferences of everyone else. On those kind of days, I choke back parenting principles to let safety and regulation be the priority.

Wyatt, his 4-year old brother, tried to process the long, hard day at bedtime. With tears streaming on his pillow, he said he didn’t want his brother to have hard days. Wyatt confessed he had disobeyed because his brother was disobeying, and he wanted to have the same kind of day as his brother. Wyatt loves his brother fiercely. He does everything he can to stay in close proximity “to make sure he’s ok” and puts Benjamin’s needs above his own.

My youngest sons and I are one month into our USA trip, with at least one month to go while paperwork clears. We’re currently in my hometown, staying with a woman who’s like a second mom to me. My mom drove 24 hours from the west coast to be here in Texas with us.

Right now, my boys and I are struggling with allergies and bad coughs. My autistic son’s autoimmune condition is activated, making regulation impossible. There’s a whole lot of coughing, crying, and “body alarms going off”. Still, the admin has to get done. Passports, social security cards, drivers license renewals… lots of uncomfortable government waiting rooms.

I’m writing this 10,000 feet above ground, from an airplane somewhere between Tennessee and Texas. My youngest sons and I have been away from “home” for almost four weeks to renew necessary documents for life abroad.

When we arrived a few weeks ago, the twangy accents caught me off guard. My kids are being raised in a country with 12 national languages, so they just assumed people were speaking other languages!

Have you ever wondered why it’s called “Good Friday”?

Today we remember the Son of Man, the Word made flesh, crucified on the cross. (John 1:14) He left heaven for earth to walk with us and talk with us. On Thursday, Jesus was betrayed. On “Good Friday”, He was “pierced for our transgressions” and “crushed for our iniquities”. (Isaiah 53:5) The crowd cursed Jesus while He prayed for their forgiveness. For our forgiveness. (Luke 22:34) Nothing could have seemed good on that Friday.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer said, "The cross is not the terrible end to an otherwise godfearing and happy life, but it meets us at the beginning of our communion with Christ.”

Last week, my youngest sons, mom and I flew from Cape Town to Atlanta. We had no idea how my autistic son would handle the long trip. The kids didn’t sleep, but we stumbled through Atlanta’s airport with joy. One last security gate to go before a deep breath and a six hour layover.

That security line was like a scene from a horror movie. Hoards of Spring Breakers flights had been cancelled at the same time as a partial government shutdown. We walked into a huge room of at least 1,000 people, almost no employees, and immeasurable chaos. People were screaming, pushing, shoving - tired travelers and unpaid employees alike. By this time, we were in a medical emergency. My son was not coping well. Disgruntled employees said no one would help me.

Lately, I feel like I’ve exhausted my own exhaustion. I am preparing to travel overseas with young children, organizing documents in two continents for visa applications, and handing over responsibilities in our very new church. My brain and body are desperately looking for signs of the “finish line”… maybe when the to-do’s are done, when we make it to the airport, get off the last plane, or finally submit that visa application. It’s like I’m a dehydrated runner, looking for the water station in a marathon.day

I’m resharing a post from last year as I prepare to take my first trip back to the USA in over 10 years. My two youngest sons will come along for their first time in America!

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My neurodivergent six-year old is into creating nonsensical trivia. A recent car ride went something like this...

Him: "What color is an oval?"

Me: "Green."

Him: "NO! PINK! How many bricks are in a wall?"

Me: "Probably 96."

Him: "You were SO CLOSE. But sorry, it's 89."

I publicly lamented in last week’s call to worship. I disclosed (what feels like) longsuffering with our family’s visas and ability to travel. I was astounded by the feedback - a good indicator I’d lost hope. So many were praying, encouraging, and holding up my arms when I was too tired to do it myself. (Read Exodus 17:11-13.)

That same day… The same day you responded, prayed, and hoped when I could not… Everything changed. Our immigraion lawyer responded with two clear options:

I sent an overwhelmed email to our immigration lawyer this week. We’ve lived a decade of life and produced a new generation since we’ve visited our family in America - mostly because of government documentation issues. My email felt like an SOS signal… “Have we been forgotten?” “Are we stuck not belonging anywhere forever?”

Not everyone struggles with visa stamps in their passports, but we’ve all some form of SOS from our wildernesses. God’s people were exilec for many years - their history, homes, families and place of worship were ruthlessly destroyed. They cried SOS too. “Zion says, ‘The Lord has abandoned me: The Lord has forgotten me!” (Isaiah 49:14)

Several years ago, I spent an afternoon with a pastor's wife who was far ahead of me in experience and wisdom. She casually shared, "I've decided I'm never going to eat candy again." It totally blew my mind, and I don't even like candy. I'd never heard someone, just another normal person like me, pre-decide for freedom like that. I don't think she was in bondage to M&M's, but this woman had goals for her future. She could taste and see that the smallest measure of freedom had a lot more to offer than the finest confection.

Has someone ever tried to encourage you in a hard time with a well-meaning, "God won't give you more than you can handle"? The motives are pure, but the theology doesn't line up.

Wednesday was more than my family could handle this week.

I send the Friday Call to Worship out via WhatsApp every Friday morning at 6am. This self-inflicted deadline has nothing to do with the receivers, but it's part of a deal - a holy handshake of sorts. The deal: "God, I'll show up because I know you will." I'm not trying to manipulate God with time-bound transactions. It's more of a "dealing with myself" deal. I cannot write until He deposits something in me - often a subtle, internal stirring during the week's events, Scripture, song, or phrase.

This is a rare week when I've shown up to my keyboard at 4:30am on Friday morning with a blank screen before me.

I had an encounter with my pride this week.

I was born with a fierce stubbornness that's helped me jump in, without looking back, to what God has called me to. I drove a U-haul from my small hometown in Texas on my 22nd birthday. I moved to Los Angeles to start work and seminary in a city where I didn't know a soul. I moved to Africa on my own at 25 and became a mom. Somehow though... Even though I've lived on donations for 16 years...

I asked my three-year old son, Wyatt, what I should write the call to worship about. He replied without hesitation, "You should write about everything because I just love my family so much."

Context makes that statement so profound. We've just finished a long, hard school holiday. Our six-year old son, Benjamin, struggled at the edge of autistic burnout. There were few peaceful moments and many meltdowns. Little Wyatt adores his brothers and has a special connection to Benjamin. We've watched Wyatt's love for Benjamin grow exponentially in the last months, even while Benjamin lashed out against him and dominated the attention of the household.

It's 2026! Some are working out new year's resolutions, while others are still shaking the dust off of 2025. I tuned in (a week late, as usual) to a raw WhatsApp conversation about the new year in my neurodivergent parent support group. Weary parents disclosed visceral reactions to the social standard of dreaming big for the year ahead or even celebrating it as they stagger across the finish line of 2025. They found solace in relatable stories and sentiments, and then resolved together to take one day at a time. I was too late to join the conversation, but I related deeply as I read it.