The Titus 2:4 Project - Women Mentoring Women

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,...

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...

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 ...

I was born and raised in the church. I've been a Christian since I was nine years old. My earliest memories are of Sunday school in the basement of a small, country church with the flannel boards and Bible characters, an out-of-tune piano playing Jesus Loves Me, and countless Sunday potluck dinners. But somewhere along the way I had drifted. Life happened. Mistakes and heartaches happened. Pride and shame happened. And for more than a decade I hid from church.  Then last November, I walked back into a sanctuary for the first time in about 12 years. I slipped into a seat as the worship music started and thought, "This feels familiar...but different."  And suddenly my Garmin watch vibrated. I glanced down and the screen said "Your stress level is unusually high..." That's weird. I felt fine. Maybe it was the coffee. But the following Sunday it happened again - at almost exactly the same time - as the worship music started.  It was as if my heart couldn't c...

Someone posted a lovely meme this morning, complete with a beautiful Christian song playing in the background. Nice, right? I see posts like this every single day from people I know, respect, and love. But today, I was especially in tune with the Holy Spirit. As I read the words, He clearly showed me something: this is the problem today. Satan rarely tries to get a believer to outright worship him—that would be absurd, and we would never do it. What he does do, very effectively, is shift our eyes off Jesus and put them on ourselves. If we try to heal ourselves without God, we’re only treating symptoms. “He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.” (Psalm 147:3) If we try to find ourselves apart from God’s plan, we remain lost. “For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” (Jeremiah 29:11) If we try to know ourselves without knowing our Creator, we know nothing. “Bef...

Originally written July 2021 | Edited July 2025 Have you ever watched that show American Ninja Warrior (ANW) ? It’s the one where highly trained athletes compete on a course filled with intense physical challenges. You often see clips of their training beforehand — practicing monkey bars, rings, climbing, jumping — they come prepared. Their friends, families, teammates, and coaches are nearby, cheering them on, waving signs, holding their breath, and gasping in unison. These wanna-be warriors do their best to make it through the course, but if they fall into the water below, it’s game over. Still, their fans shout, “We love you anyway!” Then there’s that other show… Wipeout . You know the one — where contestants get bounced, punched, flung, and generally pummeled while trying to qualify for the final round. All the while, the announcers laugh, mock, and tease from the sidelines. When a contestant falls into the water (or mud), they scramble to get back to the last obstac...

I learned how to ride a bike when I was about 7 years old. I followed my brother for miles and miles while our mother thought we were home watching cartoons. I spent long days pedaling around my hometown with one of my best childhood friends. I’ve ridden bikes as an adult—even with my children strapped into plastic seats perched above the back wheel. I’ve been comfortable on a bike most of my life. Until now. Now I have a fancy, expensive bike with weird little discs where pedals should be. It has Bluetooth shifting for the gears. This bicycle cost more than my first three cars— combined . Naturally, I got all the right gear: the padded britches, the zip-up jersey with pockets on the back, the padded gloves, the aerodynamic helmet, the blinking LED lights, the phone holder so I can watch my mph and stats on an app… and the pretty shoes with little holes that lock into those funny-looking pedals to help me get more power from each push. So why am I suddenly uncomfortable on ...

Last Sunday was Mother's Day. At our church they did a child dedication service. Several families presented their youngest children before the congregation to publicly profess their intentions of raising the child in the way of the Lord. A beautiful, albeit brief 'ceremony' of sorts. I remember the day I did that with my first born.  Many years ago now.  And something occurred to me, now that this child is in the throes of adulthood - facing adult struggles. The verse that the pastor had spoken over my sweet little infant that day was from 1 Samuel 1:27: "For this child I prayed..." I have tossed this verse around in my head for the past few days and this morning, as I laid awake in the wee hours of the morning, I was suddenly in grammar class with the Holy Spirit before me at the chalkboard, walking me through this simple verse, using a long pointer stick as we read it over and over, each time emphasizing a different word... FOR this child I prayed...      For...

Part 2 So now that Jesus has adjusted my attitude (see yesterday’s post if you missed that backstory), I spent Friday morning walking around and observing people —all kinds of people. Those working, vacationing, sleeping on cardboard, those who seemed like me, and those who didn’t at all. As I watched them, I kept reminding myself: JESUS LOVES THEM. JESUS DIED FOR THEM. I must’ve thought it a thousand times. The day began with a short run and a terrible breakfast. Then we met up with friends and wandered down Fremont Street. We stopped at Pink Box Donuts—yes, I got one. I ran a mile, so I figured I earned it. It seems to me that there's not much to do in Las Vegas except to eat, drink and gamble. Having already eaten and not being much for drinking, I was left with one thing: gambling. I wondered if it was wrong to put a $20 bill in a slot machine. Was it a sin? Maybe, like with drinking, the issue isn’t the activity itself but the lack of self-control. Jesus tu...

I just got back from a short trip to Las Vegas. 🎰 And honestly? That’s really all anyone can stand— short. Vegas is kind of like glitter: fun in theory, but overwhelming in practice. Truth be told, I didn’t even want to go. It was my husband’s annual get-together with his Army buddies. The wives always tag along, and in years past, we’ve met up in someone’s hometown—usually for a wedding or a milestone birthday. But this year, for reasons unknown, they decided on Vegas. Now, full disclosure: in the not-so-distant past, I actually used to enjoy Las Vegas. Probably more than I should’ve. But over the past year, the Holy Spirit has been doing some serious remodeling in my heart, and these days, Vegas is not high on my list of “must-visit” places. My husband handled the travel plans—booked our hotel and, in true Army fashion, waited until the last possible moment to book our flights, which meant we paid top dollar. Awesome. Now, while I’m not exactly thrilled with how much social media ...

I called my friend this morning to vent about my morning… and she said to me,       "That’s a great story! You should use it in your blog"  – and I was suddenly (and painfully) aware that it was, indeed, a life lesson straight from God…  My husband likes to go on long bike rides on Sunday mornings while I’m at church.  Long like 50+ miles, long… This morning was another normal Sunday… He left home just after 7 am for his ride and I headed to church. I can keep ‘an eye’ on him via his Garmin device and I checked it during announcements to make sure he was still moving. After church I had one quick stop to make then I would be heading home. Just as I finished my one errand, my phone dinged that designated ‘husband is texting’ chime.  His request was a 9-1-1 for calories and water… “ I need snacks and water. I didn’t bring enough today. Can you help me?” “Yes” “Dropping off taxes now. Be there asap.” We share locations on Google maps for just ...

I know and love a lot of veterans. (Some of them pictured here.) I can only share my own observations because I’m not a veteran myself. I’m not one of the brave ones. I kept my butt squarely in one of the cheap seats - a seat that cost me nothing. But from the safety and comfort of my vantage point, here are a few things I find compelling. To be a veteran seems to be part of a brotherhood that transcends branch, age, race, religion, rank or sex; all united under one FLAG and one word: SERVICE.   Within the brotherhood, I have witnessed the friendly rivalry between branches and MOS (specialties). It’s sort of like siblings bullying each other. People within the brotherhood can tease each other - but if anyone on the outside of the brotherhood threatens or maligns a member, they all rise to the defense of the other.   There’s an humble respect for the elder generation and the wounded among veterans. A silent nod to the man in the wheelchair or the one wearing a Vietnam Veteran...

I’ve always been fascinated by communication: everything from the words we use, the tone of voice, body language, and every other intricate detail involved.   Did you know that even your physical absence communicates some message – whether intended or not.   Yes, the things we do – or don’t do – send a message. One of my daughters-in-law posted something on social media about the Five Love Languages – a fantastic book by Gary Chapman.   My husband and I read this valuable book many years ago and it has had a profound effect on our marriage; so much so that I purchased copies for my children as they grew into adults. Our actions communicate a message to those we love which is our ‘love language’.   Chapman defines five primary styles or ‘languages'. They are: Acts of Service, Gifts, Physical Touch, Words of Affirmation and Quality Time.   (You can go to the website and take a quiz to see what yours is.)   Until you understand that the person you love may or ...

I’m a Gen Xer.   Proudly. I’m not ashamed to share my age (55, in case you were wondering.) I have joined several Gen X Facebook groups and I enjoy seeing the posts of pictures of things I grew up with that today’s kiddos will never understand - like rotary phones and actual car keys - one for the trunk and one for the ignition…or World Book Encyclopedias. So many things feel unique to my generation.   Then some things are common to all of us - things keep coming back around. Especially fashion trends. I once read something about fashion trends: “if you wore it the first time, you probably won’t wear it when it comes back into style,” or something like that… for me - that’s jelly shoes.  Nope. Not falling for that again.   And then there are things that are unique to this generation - things that you would never have found in the Webster dictionary in 1987. Like ‘ doomscrolling ’. (I was surprised to find it is now included in the online dictionary app.) So that’s a ...