He Still Calls Me By Name

It’s Sunday again. I woke up this morning and didn’t want to go to church.

It was raining.

I was tired — soul-tired.

The kind of tired that tells you to stay under the covers and stream the service from your phone, with coffee in one hand and your faith held loosely in the other.

And honestly? I could’ve.  No one would’ve blamed me.  I even told myself, “It’s still church if you watch it online.”

But deep down, I knew. 

While I didn’t feel like going… I knew I needed to.

Not just for the sermon. Not just to check a box or keep a streak alive.

I needed to be in the room.

With other people trying, like me, to show up with whatever faith they’ve got left.

This wasn’t about convenience. It was about presence.

Not just hearing about God but choosing to be with Him — in His house, with His people.

Not just getting the message, but letting the space, the sounds, the stillness, and the Spirit speak to the parts of me I tend to silence.

So I went.

And during worship, these lyrics reached right into my chest:

“Though I am a runaway
He still calls me home by name
I’ll be singing with the saints
I will praise, praise the Lord.”

I felt tears rise before I even had the chance to argue with them.

Because that’s me.

The runaway. The wanderer. The one who keeps coming back, still unsure some days if I belong.

And yet—He calls me home.

By name.

Not by shame.
Not by guilt.
Not by “should.”
But by name.

And I don’t know what you’ve been running from—or to—but I know what it feels like to be called home in the middle of a song you weren’t expecting to undo you.

Then the sermon began, and wouldn’t you know…
The topic?

Self-control.

Not punishment. Not rigidity. But a Spirit-filled kind of steadiness.  

The kind that says, “You don’t have to be ruled by your feelings today.”

The kind that gets out of bed when it would rather stay hidden.

The kind that doesn’t wait to want to go, but just goes.

The kind that returns, again and again, not for applause or perfection, but for peace.

Self-control isn’t always flashy.

Sometimes it’s just quietly choosing what you know you need—even when everything in you is craving ease or escape.

Sometimes it looks like brushing your teeth, putting on your shoes, and walking into a building where you’re reminded that you’re not alone.

That God is still calling you by name.

And those saints you’re singing with?  They’re all runaways too.

Still returning.
Still learning.
Still being called home. 

Gentle is Still Brave

Last week I went back to church.

And it felt like a homecoming—full of grace, emotion, old songs, familiar faces. Something deep inside me stirred, and I felt it again. Hope. Presence. A spark of faith I thought I’d misplaced.

But this week?

This week was quieter.
Softer.  

Harder, in a way.

Because after the warmth of that first Sunday faded, I was left with the stillness that follows emotion—the question of what now?

I woke up early, like I said I would. But instead of excitement, there was hesitation.

Was last week just a moment? A fluke? Will I feel anything at all this time?

Part of me wanted to roll over, pull the covers up, and whisper, Next week. I’ll go next week.
But another part—the gentler, steadier part—whispered, “Just go. You don’t need to perform. You don’t need to feel everything. Just go.”

So I did.

Not with a triumphant heart, not with tearful worship.

But with quiet strength.

Strength wrapped in gentleness.

I got ready slowly. I didn’t rush. I didn’t strive. I simply showed up.  And something about that felt holy.

The message this morning wasn’t loud or dramatic. It was about how gentleness is strength under control. The kind of strength that doesn’t need to raise its voice to prove it’s there. The kind that shows up, steady and unwavering, even when no one’s watching.

The pastor said, “Gentleness doesn’t add volume—it adds value.”

Gentleness doesn’t demand the spotlight, but it carries power all the same. The power to keep showing up. The power to remain kind. The power to return—not with a bang, but with quiet intention.

And that’s what I’m learning to honor in myself.

Not the loud leaps forward, but the soft, sacred steps. The quiet yes. The open heart. The willingness to begin again, even if my voice trembles and my hands shake.

Growth doesn’t always come through striving, but through surrender.

That's exactly what this is for me:
Not proving.
Just surrendering—again.

Not in some grand gesture, but in a quiet, consistent yes.

This season of return isn’t about running back with arms flung wide.

It’s about walking slowly. Softly. With care.

It’s about letting my soul adjust to light again after years of shadows.

I think for a long time I believed coming back to God had to look bold or dramatic. But now I see - gentleness is also strength.

To keep showing up.
To keep trusting.
To let God love me even when I feel numb or unsure.

There is something deeply sacred about moving slowly and still believing it counts.

So if you’re in a place like mine—trying to return, trying to rebuild your faith or your rhythm or your sense of belonging—be gentle with yourself.

You don’t have to rush.
You don’t have to prove you’re “back.”
You don’t have to feel brave to be brave.

Just keep coming.
Keep listening.
Keep opening your heart, even if just a crack.

That’s strength.
That’s surrender.
That’s enough.

I’m learning that God isn’t looking for my performance.  He’s drawn to my presence.

And right now? That’s all I can offer.

But I know this much:  Gentleness has carried me farther than pressure ever could.

So I’ll go again next week.
And the next.
Not because I have it all together.
But because grace meets me right where I am—
Softly. Faithfully. Gently.

At the end of the sermon, the worship team closed with an old hymn—Amazing Grace.

No lights. No theatrics. Just voices rising together, some shaky, some strong.

The moment the first few words rang out—
“Amazing grace, how sweet the sound…”
—I couldn’t hold the tears back.
Not because I felt ashamed.

But because something about those words, in that moment, felt like a hand reaching out to my heart and saying, “You’re home. Take your time. You’re safe to return slowly.”

So I wept.

Not the overwhelmed tears of being found in a mess but the quiet kind that come when you realize you were never truly lost.

Just gently being led back.

Still willing. Still soft. Still His.

Drifting…And the Return

 I didn’t walk away from Jesus—not exactly. It was more like a slow drift. Sundays became optional. My prayers got quieter. The loneliness crept in and did what loneliness does best—it whispered that no one really noticed whether I showed up or not. Not even God.

Until last week.

I had stopped by the local bar—again. It’s become part of the routine. Not because I love it, but because it gives me somewhere to go. Something to do.

I slid onto a barstool, exchanged a few words with the bartender, chatted with one of the regulars—just small talk. 

And then the question. It came out of nowhere—gentle, unassuming—

‘So this what keeps you here?’ he asked, like he hadn’t just cracked something open in me.

Just a passing question. A throwaway line.

But it hit something deep.

I didn’t answer. Just smiled politely and took a slow sip of my drink. But my chest felt tight—like he’d cracked open a door I’d been holding shut for years.

What does keep me here?

Not just here at the bar. Or in this town. But in this space. This sadness. This distance. The low hum of a life half-lived.

That night, I lay awake in bed, staring at the ceiling. That question echoed louder in the dark.

And I remembered Jesus. The Jesus I once loved like a friend. The One I used to talk to about everything. The One I used to sing to in the car.

I hadn’t stopped believing. But somewhere along the way, I stopped reaching.

No flashing lights. No dramatic tears. Just a quiet ache. A stirring in my chest that said:

You’re not as far as you think.

And for the first time in a very long time, I knew exactly what my next step needed to be. 

Sunday morning came. I moved slowly—chose a simple outfit, brushed my hair with more care than usual, stared at my reflection a little longer than I needed to. Something about me looked different. Softer, maybe. More open.

I was nervous. Not about being seen—but about feeling seen.

Still, I went.

The church parking lot was full. The sight was so familiar, it almost hurt. Nothing had really changed. And yet, everything had.

I walked through the glass doors into the wide-open lobby of the church I once called home.

And just like that—it all came rushing back.

The familiar rhythm of Sunday morning. The hum of conversation and laughter. People glad to see each other. It was exactly how I remembered it—contemporary, casual, full of grace.

I smiled. I’d spent years here once. Years singing, praying, serving. Healing.

And now…I was back.

Familiar faces approached me, people I hadn’t seen in so long, arms open, eyes kind. No judgment. No hesitation. Just:

“We’re so glad you’re here.”

I hadn’t realized how much I needed that—to be seen.

I found my way to the worship center and settled in. As the band began to play “I Thank God” by Maverick City, the words washed over me:

“Wandering into the night
Wanting a place to hide
This weary soul
This bag of bones…”

Tears slid down my cheeks.

“And I try with all my might
But I just can’t win the fight
I’m slowly drifting
A vagabond…”

That was me.

The sermon was on building healthy relationships through faithfulness. And as I listened, I remembered.

Yes, I’d drifted.

But I hadn’t quit.

And now—I was here. Present. Open. Still willing to grow.

Still willing to be faithful.

I closed my eyes, let the tears come again, and whispered—“I’m still willing.”

And I meant it.

Not perfect. Not polished. But present.

Faithfulness isn’t about perfection—it’s about presence. It’s about staying when it’s hard. Showing up even when you don’t feel strong. Living with commitment to God and others when it would be easier to pull away.

And I know now:God never stopped being faithful to me.

Even when I drifted—He stayed. 

It's Messy

So, I'm making my way back.  Back to my faith, back to my roots, back to my calling.  In doing that, I have made a committment to read (or actually listen) to the entire bible by the end of the year.  This morning's passages included the following scriptures: 

Abraham introduced his wife, Sarah, by saying, “She is my sister.” So King Abimelech of Gerar sent for Sarah and had her brought to him at his palace.  But that night God came to Abimelech in a dream and told him, “You are a dead man, for that woman you have taken is already married!” But Abimelech had not slept with her yet, so he said, “Lord, will you destroy an innocent nation? Didn’t Abraham tell me, ‘She is my sister’? And she herself said, ‘Yes, he is my brother.’ I acted in complete innocence! My hands are clean.”

Genesis 20:2-5 NLT

As I was listening, and preparing for the day, I realized there was a lesson for me in this old testament scripture.  You see, this is not the first time Abraham lied about Sarah being his "sister", it happened back in Genesis 12 too.  That was before God changed Abraham's name from Abram, it was also before God made his covenant with Abraham.  So after powerful encounters with God, Abraham is choosing to lie about Sarah being his "sister" again, beacuse of fear.  

Here's the beauty of this lesson, you see, I, too, tend to act on my fears, making rash decisions, not trusting God for the outcome.  And I usually find myself doing this because I created the messy situation.  It was my own doing.  I can still hear these words ringing in my head from my childhood "You made your bed, now you must lie in it."  Did you hear those too?  

What I noticed is that both times that Abraham created that messy situation - God stepped in.  God didn't stand back with His arms crossed, and a stern look, waiting to see how Abraham was going to explain this one....nope, He rescued Abraham.  And you know what else, God didn't reprimand him for the transgression either.

I had to soak all of that in this morning, because I have created more messy situations than I care to acknowledge and usually, I am grabbing a shovel and doing my best to dig my way out, only to have created a deeper mess.

So this morning, I laid down my shovel, and found myself resting in the arms of my Heavenly Father, knowing He sees me and He will continue to provide for me. He is the God of my messes.  He's yours too.    

Absent

I'll start this post by saying it's rather interesting that I've been led to write about absence on my blog that I have been absent from for almost four years..., oh the irony!  But I digress...let's go.

Merriam-Webster defines absent, as follows:

absent (adjective) ab·sent | \ˈab-sənt \ 

1: not present at a usual or expected place

2: not existing, lacking

3: showing a lack of attention to what is happening or being said, not attentive

absent (verb) ab·sent | \ˈab-sənt \ 

1: to keep oneself away

I’ve spent most of last night (sleepless) and today pondering on some recent (and not so recent events) in my life and this afternoon this word could not escape my thoughts.  It was as if there was a huge flashing sign pointing at me ABSENT!! 

These last few months, I have been absent.  Absent in many areas of my life.  If I’m honest, I really didn’t think anyone noticed – I didn’t even notice myself.  But today I noticed.  Today I felt the pain of absence.  My pain and other’s pain.  My own absence.  Everywhere.  Every day – absent somewhere that mattered – somewhere I needed to be present.  Feeling rejected, lonely, alone and shutout.  Which is probably how others felt while I was absent in their lives.  And those choices that I’ve made and the bed I now lie in, are the consequences that I must face. 

So, what does all this mean?  Am I just to trudge along in my sorrow and sadness and hope all gets better?  No!  I do not have to face this alone!  This is the first verse He reminded me of today:

Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid or terrified because of them, for the Lord your God goes with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you. (Deuteronomy 31:6)

You see although I’ve been absent, my Savior has not been.  I cried out to Him today and asked forgiveness for my absence with Him.  Even though I have created a messy masterpiece of mistakes; even though I didn’t get it right time after time after time, He is still with me.  

Jesus reminded me today of these truths found in His word:

The Lord your God is with you, he is mighty to save. He will take great delight in you, he will quiet you with his love, he will rejoice over you with singing.  (Zephaniah 3:17) He still delights in me and sings over me!

You made all the delicate, inner parts of my body and knit me together in my mother’s womb.  Thank you for making me so wonderfully complex! Your workmanship is marvelous—how well I know it. You watched me as I was being formed in utter seclusion, as I was woven together in the dark of the womb.  You saw me before I was born.  Every day of my life was recorded in your book. Every moment was laid out before a single day had passed.  (Psalm 139:13-18) He created me and knew all of my days, and still loves me!

No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord. (Romans 8:37-39) Nothing will ever separate the love Jesus has for me.  Nothing!

Being confident of this very thing, that He who has begun a good work in you will complete it until the day of Jesus Christ. (Philippians 1:6) He will continue to work in me to complete His good work!

I may still feel lonely and alone and rejected - but the truth is, I am none of those things in Jesus.  

While I know He has forgiven me, I now must take the steps to seek forgiveness of those who I may have hurt, who felt rejected because of my absence these last few months.  While it was never, ever intentional, I am sure it was painful. 

Forgiveness is not a one-time event, it is a journey.  I’m starting this journey today, one step at a time.  💗

Pray, Mama, Pray

Mama, the kids are all grown up now.  Life is pulling everyone in different directions.  They have kids and husbands and friends and fiancé’s and ballgames and work and in-laws and the list goes on and on.  Remember Mama?  Remember what that was like? 

They laugh.  They cry.  They work hard.  They play hard.  They love hard.  Love is a battlefield.  They've been wounded.  Remember Mama?  Remember what those wounds did?  Remember the midnight crying, the mask you’d wear to hide the hurt?  Remember Mama?

Mama, kissing a wounded heart just doesn’t heal the sorrow. They’ve walked through real pain.  Real hurt.  Real anger.  Real loneliness.  Real rejection.  Real abandonment. Real fear.  Their hearts have been bruised and broken.  Tattered and torn.  The rose-colored glasses have dimmed a bit. The childhood dreams are a distant memory.  The fairy tale isn’t real anymore.  Life is hard.  Remember Mama? 

Mama, you can’t fix it.  You can’t make it better.  You can’t pretend it’s not there.  Mama, you aren’t their savior…Jesus is.

Mama, call out to the One who already knows what you need.  Rest fully in His promises. Know He hears your cries Mama.  And while the cries of your own children pierce your heart and trouble your soul, cease your worrying Mama.  Jesus hears their cries too.

Cries of pain. 
Cries of hurt.
Cries of anger.
Cries of loneliness.
Cries of rejection.
Cries of abandonment.
Cries of fear.

Mama, He knows the journey they must travel.  He will walk it with them.  He is the only One who can heal the pain, the hurt, the anger, the loneliness, the rejection, the abandonment, the fear…He is the One who will give them beauty for their ashes.  Remember Mama?  He did it for you.  He will do it for them too. 

So, Mama, fall on your knees and cry out to Jesus.  He’s already answering your prayer.  He’s already made a way where there seemed no way.  The battle is fought on your knees Mama.  The battle is the Lord's.

Keep praying Mama, keep praying.

The fewer the words the better prayer.  ~ Martin Luther

Feel It...

A solitary tear gently rolls down my cheek.

Tears begin to slowly spill from my eyes.

Do not blink.

Do not blink.

DO.NOT.BLINK.

My eyelids flicker, no longer able to hold back the flood of tears, and they cascade down my cheeks. 

I really do not want to cry.

Not now.  Not today.

I do not want these tears to fall.

I do not want…

I do not want to…

I do not want to feel….yes…that’s it…FEEL…

I.DO.NOT.WANT.TO.FEEL.THIS.PAIN.

Rising from the desolate places deep within my soul, the familiar anguish of loneliness and rejection and abandonment and death begin to consume all of who I am.   The intensity startles me…. 

The darkness of depression looms perilously close.

The tears WILL.NOT.STOP.

BREATHE…JUST BREATHE….

Feel what you are feeling Debbie.  FEEL IT…FEEL IT … FEEL ALL OF IT…BUT do not let these feelings DEFINE YOU.

Debbie, you are NOT what you feel. 

No matter how many tears fall. 

No matter how deep the hurt. 

No matter how dark the night. 

You are so much more that what you feel.

You are precious.  Even if you don’t feel precious. 

Because you are precious in My eyes, and honored and I love you…(Isaiah 43:4)

You are loved.  Even if you don’t feel loved. 

For the mountains may move and hills disappear, but even then My faithful love for you will remain.  (Isaiah 54:10)

You are wanted.  Even if you don’t feel wanted. 

I knew you before I formed you in your mother’s womb.  Before you were born I set you apart.  (Jeremiah 1:5)

You are chosen.  Even if you don’t feel chosen. 

You did not choose Me, but I chose you.  (John 15:16)

You have purpose.  Even if you don’t feel that you have purpose. 

“For I know the plans I have for you, says the Lord.  “They are plans for good and not for disaster, to give you a future and a hope.” (Jeremiah 29:11)

You have destiny.  Even if you don’t feel that you have destiny. 

And I am sure of this, that He who began a good work in you will bring it to completion at the day of Jesus Christ.  (Philippians 1:6)

You matter.  Even if you don’t feel like you matter. 

I am your Creator.  You were in My care even before you were born.  (Isaiah 44:2)

My tears have now subsided …my makeup is a mess, but my heart is full.   

But in my distress I cried out to the Lord; yes, I prayed to my God for help.  He heard me from His sanctuary; My cry to Him reached His ears.  He reached down from heaven and rescued me; He drew me out of deep waters.  He led me to a place of safety; He rescued me because He delights in Me.  (Psalm 18:6, 16, 19)

I’ve finished the day strong…not because I am strong…but because His strength is made perfect in my weakness.  (2 Corinthians 12:9)

He collected my tears and carefully recorded my sorrows.  (Psalm 56:8)  He drew near to me (Psalm 145:18) as I cried out for Him.

He answered…He always does.  Always.  Every.Single.Time. He is faithful.

Weeping may last through the night but joy comes with the morning!  (Psalm 30:5)