Stalled Progress, Sourdough, and the Strength to Show Up

This was one of those crazy weeks that had me feeling like I was trapped on an emotional rollercoaster. There was relief; setting new quarterly goals went a long way toward easing emotional tension, aiding me as I worked toward recovering from burnout and releasing the mental exhaustion of last quarter's challenges. There was excited anticipation, as my daughter and I looked forward to attending Secret Church 2025 with a group of friends.

For me, those moments of deep spiritual reflection and fellowship are the little wins that matter most, bolstering my faith in frustrating seasons. In those times of togetherness, I learn so much about finding peace in chaos, balancing rest and progress with my trust in God. Those are the moments I find it easiest to let go of the chronic stress of single mom life and the emotional overwhelm of life with complex PTSD.

There was curiosity and expectation too, as I learned to make a wheat-free sourdough starter! Living with food allergies isn't always easy, and I love that my little experiment is going well so far—even if it is another thing to juggle.

But this week, as is so often the case, there were also moments spent wondering what to do when everything goes wrong. I found chances to practice choosing joy in hard times, like when I was accidentally exposed to wheat before Secret Church, and had to suffer the brain fog and hangover of a triple-dose of Benadryl. And I saw opportunities to choose gratitude in hard moments, like when my car wouldn't start after church today but several people stepped in to help.

The thing is, there will always be beauty in broken moments...if we look for it.

Church isn't always beautiful, but today it was.

Sometimes it's easy to forget that Christians are still just people; we love God, but we're just as burdened by chronic stress and anxiety as anyone else. Faith doesn't erase the need for emotional resilience—but church opens doors to support and community. I love that my church offers a place for someone as broken and messed up as I am to lay powerful hands on the shoulders of fellow believers, an opportunity to use God's gift of eloquence to speak life into hurting hearts. These moments of intentional encouragement are where prayer meets healing in everyday life, where a teacher is blessed and one mother holds space for another's pain.

Our home church is in many ways a very social place, and by the time my daughter and I approached our car the parking lot was clearing out. We settled into our seats, chatting about our afternoon plans: what to have for dinner later, my current battle with spider mites in one of my plants, the recent phenomenon of our fledgling sourdough starter.

Regardless of the spiritual energy of a beautiful morning at church, I will always detest the quietly defiant click of a car engine refusing to turn over.

My car (a rebellious little jerk named Todd) has been mostly well-behaved in the last few months, and he chose today to remind me that he is unwilling to be taken for granted. So I set my powerfully blessed church hands on the steering wheel, closed my eyes, and whispered to Todd, "Start, you bastard." Then I turned the key again. And heard that click again. Chagrined, I gentled my grip on the wheel, closed my eyes a second time, and demanded to speak with Todd's manager. "Jesus," I said, "it's hot out here. I just need to get home. I haven't even paid off the last time this stinking car was in the shop!" And I turned the key. Click.

My daughter and I shook our heads and climbed out of the car. I thought about the mechanic's balance on my credit card. Remembered the orange gas light blinking on during our ten-minutes-late ride to church, and my plan to stop and fill up on the way home. I thought gratefully about how, just in case, we live only 3 short miles from our church. And I thought, somewhat less gratefully, about the idea of walking home with an autistic teenager, a spastic, unbalanced gait, and sweaty, soggy hair that I didn't have a ponytail for.

This week's peace crashed into new stress: the Benadryl hangover from Friday, the spiritual/emotional fatigue of Secret Church, the joy of rest (as I slept off the Benadryl Saturday), the weight of waking up to reality and a list of answered-prayers-in-waiting. And Todd. My stupid, stinking, unreliable car.

It was a moment of defeat, but in the balance between car trouble and gratitude, God showed up as reliably as always. Within a few minutes, Todd's hood was up, the key was in the ignition, and a cheerful, curly-haired angel stood beside Todd's dangling, duct-taped bumper. "Alright, try it now," he said, and on the second effort, Todd rumbled to life.

Alternately, I cursed the car and blessed the community of my church as my daughter and I rolled toward home. We got gas and picked up a bigger jar for our growing sourdough starter, with my daughter waiting in the car because we were afraid to turn it off. When we got home I shut the engine down in the driveway, then closed my eyes and started it up again, reveling in the rumble as the engine came to life.

I can't and won't ignore the miseries in my life; hiding from them won't make them go away, and in many ways I must shoulder the challenges of maintaining the life my daughter and I lead on my own. But there is also incredible beauty in this life of mine—and today, as we stepped into our house and exclaimed over the growth of our yeasty little jar of sourdough, I was proud to have the presence of mind to look for it.

*****

The good news is, the editing process for STILL FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM is still moving forward slowly but surely. This is the largest novel I've ever worked with—part of the struggle in shaving it down is that there's so much packed into this book, and all of it matters. I don't think I've ever been so intimidated by (or so incredibly proud of) my own work. The re-release of FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM is only 24 days away; I am constantly delighted by the slow trickle of preorders from people interested in Christine's story and what it represents.

In the meantime, this week reminded me that peace isn’t the absence of stress, it’s the presence of beauty in the midst. And while I definitely could’ve done without the car trouble (and the Benadryl hangover), I’m still standing. Still writing, still laughing. Still choosing joy.

That’s the whole point sometimes, isn’t it? Not that everything is beautiful, but that beauty can still exist right in the middle of chaos. Sometimes it's in the willing aid of a friend…other times it's a happy little jar of gluten-free sourdough bubbling on the counter.

But always, we have the power to choose gratitude for those little wins. For good community, good stories, good food, and God's good timing. Because it's in that gratitude that we harness the magic of learning to...