Grace, Grit and A Prodigal

It was a beautiful, sunny day in October.
I can still feel the wind. I can still feel the warmth of the sun on my skin.

It was a few days before my birthday. A Monday.
Early voting. A small breakfast with my husband. Then back to the house to work.

Nothing remarkable.
Nothing heavy.
Nothing to warn me.

It started as just a normal day.

And then it was one of those moments.

I just KNEW…nothing would ever be the same.

Mom, I want to break up with my boyfriend.

My heart is not in it.

I don’t think I like boys.

WHAT? How? When? Who? Why?

Well the truth is this is not where it began.

This is not the point that it changed.

I think the thing with a prodigal that a parent never realizes is it

starts SMALL, it starts with a step, with a miscue,

with a seemingly meaningless shift.

As you read this, I hope you know my hope is to spare you.

My hope is to show you and point you.

This is not my testimony YET.
But it will be.

This is a story I never wanted to read—
much less live.

Goodness, God… I have tried, haven’t I?

Christian school.
Church.
Camp.
Youth group.

All the right things.
I did everything I was told would work.

And still—I missed it.

Or maybe… YOU are missing it.

The reason for this blog is hope.
Not the shiny kind.
The kind that asks you to turn your thinking.
Turn your heart.
Turn your grip on control.

Because this story—
the prodigal one—
was never about doing all the right things.

It was always about grace.