Maybe your heart is aching for someone you love who has lost their way. Or maybe you feel as if you’re the one who’s strayed too far from the path to ever make it back home.

This morning, I climbed a mountain. The sun was already high in the bright blue sky, the heat radiating off the rocks as I ran.

There is so much power in the words “I don’t know.” And it’s a power I don’t access nearly enough.

I know what you’re thinking—“That’s easier said than done, Nicole.” And believe me, I couldn’t agree more. But we have to ask ourselves an important question: What is actually harder? Holding on to fear or letting it go? 

“I’ll miss you too much, Mama.” 

Oof. Those six little words pack quite a punch. 

This week I gave myself permission not to move forward but to stay perfectly still and painstakingly present. Breathing in the moment before it’s gone.

Ever since I started writing my new book, I’ve been writing out of order. 

Each of us has the sacred opportunity to find the magic in the mundane. And each of us gets to decide whether we want to savor the manna that’s dropped down from heaven every single day or throw it out and wish for something we think is better. 

I’m going to swing imperfectly between doubt and faith, anxious and not anxious, every day of my life. We all are. Those days can exist side by side just as those psalms reside on the same page.

Our Savior wants us to live a life made of hope, not one of obligation and fear. He wants to banish that thief known as comparison. He wants us to hand over our shoulds and shouldn’ts; He wants to transform our never-ending lists of self-improvement into something better.

I think that’s one of the reasons I love writing so much—it’s an incredible act of faith. And it reminds me that no matter how hard I try, I can’t know the end from the beginning. But I believe in a God who does. I believe in the Author and Finisher of my faith. 

When our commitments feel shaky, we need to remember our whys—the beautiful reasons that brought us here and the reassuring reasons that make us want to stay.

In many ways, I love our summer schedule. I love the freedom and the extra playtime, the pool days and the movie nights. But summertime also signals the end of something I place a high value on. A commodity all mothers speak of in hushed, reverent tones: alone time.

Being a parent is such a strange thing, isn’t it? We have front-row seats to our kids growing up, watching as our babies are slowly whittled away, their bodies stretching and growing at an alarming rate that none of us remember agreeing to.

I feel so lucky to share words with you every week; it is a privilege and gift. Today I’m just thankful that God has brought us together. It’s a little miracle if you sit and think about it. Out of all the billions of people on this planet, you and I get to walk together. 

This song has become a kind of anthem for me this year, a much-needed reminder that I’m experiencing a season of transition, a season of growth and change and rebuilding.

But my Father in Heaven wasn’t done parenting me. I felt His Spirit nudge me to say something else. This was an opportunity for me to not only demonstrate truth for my daughter but also for myself—and God didn’t want me to miss it. 

At first glance, it seemed as if my prayers about writing this book had fallen on deaf ears. But as I move in closer and look again, I not only see a God who’s been listening this whole time, but a God who invited me to His table and actively sat with me, preparing me for more words to come.

I’ve been feeling that same achy feeling lately. A new kind of growing pain that keeps me up at night.

Isn’t this the ultimate paradox? By giving up our burdens and letting go of our heavy things, we become stronger in Christ. Our God is asking us to engage in a different kind of strength training. He’s asking us to surrender and discover His rest.