The Titus 2:4 Project - Women Mentoring Women

It won’t kill me. Right? Isn’t that what “they” say? What you don’t know won’t kill you. I’m still breathing. How? Because there are some things I don’t know. I don’t know what really happened the night I was drugged and raped. I don’t know the details of his infidelities. I don’t know why he chose drugs and alcohol over his family. I don’t know why my great-uncle repeatedly molested little girls. I don’t know why my parents divorced before my first birthday. And I don’t know why God allowed certain things to happen in my life that were deeply painful—though I don’t pretend my story is the worst one out there. Quite the opposite, actually. Have you ever seen one of those videos where a heart-transplant recipient meets the  donor’s family? I searched for them on YouTube once, and I cried through nearly every one. When the donor’s family listens to the beating heart that once belonged to their loved one—now sustaining the life of a former stranger—when gratitude collides with grief,...

The Art of the Draft In the spring of 2025, I took up fitness as a way of life—not just a new hobby. I genuinely wanted to live better. I didn’t want to feel like I might die after climbing three flights of stairs. And I wanted to spend more time with my husband, who spent a lot of time riding his bicycle and running. If I’m being totally honest, it was more the latter at first. Maybe I was a little jealous that he spent so much time doing things with other groups of people. I knew it was my choice to either sit on the sidelines and watch or jump in. So I decided to get off the couch and try something new. Once I realized the true benefits of physical activity at my age, I was all in. The bicycle I had was a commuter bike. I knew as little about cycling as a person could know—other than how to ride a bike, which I had done plenty of as a child. I didn’t know the rules, and I knew even less about cycling etiquette. And yes… that is very much a thing. When I first started, ...

As I went to my knees this morning in prayer, wondering what on earth was wrong with me today, the Holy Spirit gently revealed the truth: I was experiencing the familiar post-whatever depression that tends to follow meaningful milestones in my life. Sometimes it comes after a party or event I've spent weeks planning. Sometimes after a race that I spent months training for. This time, it came after finishing a book that I had spent the last 386 days reading...  THE Book.   The Holy Bible.  For the first time in my life I read the entire thing -- every word of every verse of every chapter of every book.  The plan was 365 days. I missed a few days here and there, but that part doesn't really matter. What matters is that I finished.  It became part of my daily rhythm: get up, make the bed, brush my teeth, take my vitamins, get my coffee and head to my cozy reading corner. On mornings with early commitments, I did my best to squeeze my reading in later. At this...

Every December, the pressure creeps in — the ads, the expectations, the endless lists of things we feel like we should buy. Bigger. Better. More. But if you’re anything like me, when you pause long enough to think about it, you start to realize… the gifts that truly last rarely come wrapped in shiny paper. Do you remember what you got for Christmas last year? How about five years ago… or twenty? A few years back, I read a post on a county-wide social media page from a mom who was desperately looking for “cheap gifts” so her kids would have enough to open on Christmas morning. The classic struggle of quantity over quality. And if I’m honest, I’ve fallen into that same trap more times than I’d like to admit. Her post transported me back to a Christmas forty-seven years ago, when my parents didn’t have much money to spare. As a child, I didn’t understand layoffs or budgets, but I knew my dad had been out of work at General Motors for a long stretch. That year, my parents gave me a gift...

Christmas with seven children is a level of chaos that I find it hard to explain… even all these years later.  The limited budget versus the mile-long wish lists. The limited days in a week versus the never-ending schedule of holiday programs, band concerts and classroom parties.  The limited energy I felt versus the growing list of things that needed to be done. The limited chances to focus on the true meaning of Christmas versus the overwhelming pressure to make Christmas into something it was never meant to be. I was exhausted by early October just thinking about it – before the pumpkins were even carved for Halloween. It seemed like our kids were never satisfied, always wanting something they didn’t get… and the guilt over never feeling like I had done enough was disheartening. We all had expectations that weren’t being met. Christmas didn’t feel “warm and fuzzy” like I thought it would. Honestly, it felt more like a chore. But somewhere along the way, I found a way to rev...

My husband and I recently participated in a cycling fundraiser to benefit a local trail project. The sign-up cost included a swag bag, a safety-yellow t-shirt, coupons, the obligatory lip balm and a wrist band for admittance to the food tent after the ride.  The morning of the event it was an absolute sea of safety yellow. Over 450 riders, mostly dressed the same. Only a hand full opted not to wear the t-shirt we had been given. I was one of them. It’s not my best color. And there were no pockets on the back to store my energy snacks, so I wore one of my favorite jerseys from another event I had attended earlier this year. After the ride, as we walked around, I searched the crowd for fellow club members who had mentioned attending but quickly realized that I wouldn’t recognize most of them if they walked up and punched me in the nose. Once we park our bicycles, remove our helmet and sunglasses, we are all strangely unfamiliar to each other. To make matters worse, most everyone was ...