The Titus 2:4 Project - Women Mentoring Women

One of the healthier hobbies I picked up in the last couple of years is road cycling. I started out with a decent commuter bike - not built for speed, but designed to get from point A to point B comfortably. My husband has been a cyclist for several years and has upgraded his equipment along the way including everything from the bicycle itself to the shorts, jerseys, gloves, helmet, lights, and a fancy bike computer. It's a Garmin device that tracks all sorts of data for him. Since he is a "data guy," this means a lot to him. I, on the other hand, was just happy to be joining him for a leisurely ride. But I couldn't keep up with him, and I knew it was frustrating. I was pedaling furiously just to go 11 miles an hour! I wanted to start attending club rides with him, but as he so kindly pointed out, I would need to be able to ride a minimum of 14 mph. I had a ways to go. I kept working at it until eventually my husband found a nice used road bike for me. I knew it was a...

A few days ago, during a morning run, I watched a woman slowly drive through my neighborhood tossing business card out of her car window—into the gutter, into the grass, at the base of our mailboxes. I picked them up. Every single one. Then I confronted her at the stop sign and let her know exactly what I thought about her "marketing strategy." I was fired up. And later, I even took to social media to vent. What was I really so angry about? Was it the littering in my neighborhood? Or was it something much deeper—something I’ve been carrying quietly for a while now? The truth is, my anger didn’t begin with a woman tossing business cards from her car window. That moment simply gave my anger somewhere to land. I’ve been angry about things I feel powerless to change. The Epstein files. War in Iran. Injustice that feels endless and overwhelming. And none of my anger feels particularly useful. I don’t know what to do with it. So I tuck it away. I distract myself. I tell myself I’m...

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...