I am Woman: In a Dry and Weary Land

 I had a dream that shook me to my core. It happened 10 years ago, when I became a new mom- but I’ve never stopped thinking about it since.

In the dream, I arrived at a women’s ministry convention, and my newborn was with me. The moment I stepped inside, something felt off. It was surreal, almost like a simulation. Everywhere I looked, there were women—women in the seats, women on the stage, even a woman in the pulpit where a pastor would typically stand.

At first, I tried to settle in, but the atmosphere was chaotic. It felt like a concert—women hollering, waving their hands in the air wildly, screaming in a frenzy. It wasn’t worship. It wasn’t reverence. It was hysteria. Even in the dream, I knew something was wrong.

Then, I heard it. A low hum, deep and unsettling. I looked around, but no one else seemed to notice—at least, not at first. As I scanned the room, I locked eyes with a few other women who also seemed aware. Without speaking, we exchanged a knowing glance: You hear that too?

Suddenly, the doors to the sanctuary burst open. A sea of locusts poured in, so thick and endless that the doorway disappeared behind them. They swarmed the room in an instant, filling every space.

But the strangest thing? Nobody reacted—except for those of us who had heard the hum.

Gripping my child, I ran. A handful of other women ran too, our instincts propelling us to the far corner of the room. There was a small bathroom, and we barricaded ourselves inside. I ducked into a stall, holding my baby on my lap, trying to quiet my breathing.

And then—screams. The women on the other side of the door were pounding, desperate to get in. I could hear their cries: “Please! Let us in!” But someone among us shouted back: “I’m sorry! We can’t open the door! It’s too late!”

I pulled a scarf over my head and my child’s, and everything went black. I felt safe in that darkness, but when I woke up, my heart was pounding.

What the hell was that?

This dream came to me when my daily groanings and prayers looked a lot like Davids in Psalm 63:1: "O God, you are my God; earnestly I seek you; my soul thirsts for you; my flesh faints for you, as in a dry and weary land where there is no water."

I remember rocking my baby in the nursery, the soft hum of lullabies filling the air as a gentle breeze drifted through the window. It was a quiet, tender moment, and while I was grateful for it, exhaustion pressed heavy on my chest. My arms ached—not just from caring for a newborn, but from carrying years of unresolved trauma from my childhood and adolescence.

I was a runner. I ran from things I didn’t know how to tame or control. I had mastered the art of avoidance and dissociation, convincing myself that if I ignored a problem long enough, it would eventually disappear. I leaped into adulthood, hoping a fresh start would fix everything—but instead, it left me feeling lonelier than ever. And now, as a mother, that loneliness deepened, leaving me even more isolated in my struggles.

I longed for connection—for someone to see me, hear me, understand me. It wasn’t that the people around me were doing anything wrong—they loved me, and they wanted the best for me. But I was drowning in silence, resentment bubbling just beneath the surface. I didn’t know how to put my feelings into words. I was afraid that if I spoke up, people would see me as a fraud—or worse, that something was wrong with me.

On the outside, I was polite. Southern hospitality had taught me how to smile through the struggle, how to be “fake nice” with a well-placed bless your heart. But inside? I was exhausted. I was saying yes when I wanted to say no, checking in on others out of obligation rather than love, convincing myself that self-sacrifice was the same as goodness.

I poured into my spiritual cup—not always with the purest intentions, but still, God met me there. Even when I was running on obligation, He showed me glimpses of His grace. He was using my struggle to shape something greater.

Then life happened in 2019 that brought everything front and center.

One moment cracked me open. A breaking point, a realization—I can’t keep living like this. I had to unlearn. I had to rebuild. I had to refocus. But I was weary.

And yet, even in that weariness, God was present.

Somewhere in the breaking, I realized that what I had been searching for all along—a women’s ministry, a space where connection and healing could take place—I was being called to create.

Called to be Missional, Not a Performer

I can’t shake the dream I had about the locusts and the women preaching in the church. At that time, I was struggling with a sense of stagnation in ministry. I longed to make a big impact—women helping women, creating something life-giving and powerful—but instead, it felt barren, like a desert. I longed for connection and for other women to pour into me, just like the women I had known when I was in youth group. I felt like I needed mentors to encourage me, especially as I was facing so many new things in life. I didn’t know what to feel or think about any of it. At the time, I didn’t understand the significance of the dream, but looking back, I see that the Lord was telling me that I wouldn’t find what I was looking for inside a building. 

While I had that dream 10 years ago, God is still using it to teach me that what He wants for me isn’t inside an organized convention. What He wants for me is intentional presence. Because when we are intentional about being present in the moment, we get to feel the joy He wants us to experience in this life. Every moment is a gift, and every day holds some good meaning for us to encounter. God is a good God who delights in giving good gifts, and life itself is one of those gifts. He wants us to experience His goodness and love every day.

And today, I can testify that the Lord has delivered me from many things the enemy meant for evil. He has healed wounds that were never properly tended to. Through trial and perseverance, He has reclaimed my mind with His Word and redeemed my heart with His love. I’ve witnessed His goodness firsthand, and I can testify that He is a loving Father who hears His people. He gave me a voice not just for myself, but to be an advocate for others. He softened my heart toward the people I was called to love.

"I will restore to you the years that the swarming locust has eaten." – Joel 2:25

I know I’m not alone in this. Maybe you’ve been there too—longing for connection, for a space to process your struggles without judgment, for someone to say, I see you, I’ve been there, and you’re not alone.

Maybe you’re still in that place.

If so, let this be your sign: You don’t have to stay there.

Healing isn’t about pretending to be okay—it’s about doing the work to be okay. It’s about stepping into the light, acknowledging the wounds, and allowing yourself the grace to grow. And sometimes, it’s about becoming the very thing you once longed for.

So I want to invite you into something deeper.

This isn’t just a project for me—it’s personal. I know what it’s like to feel unseen. I know what it’s like to crave a space where you can show up messy and real and still be loved. That’s why I want to create that space for you.

If you have a story of resilience—if you’ve walked through the fire and come out on the other side—I’d love to hear from you. If you’re part of an organization making an impact, I want to highlight your work.

Let’s create a space for stories that heal, uplift, and connect.

Your story is safe here.

📩 Email me at SMproductions812@gmail.com to share your journey or recommend an organization doing powerful work. Your story matters. Your impact matters. And together, we can be the light that someone else is searching for.

Heaven’s Lavender: A Reflection on Faith, Motherhood, and Growth

For years, I thought joy was something to be captured—a spark found in celebrations, special occasions, or those rare moments when life felt "just right." In my early 20s, I convinced myself I was thriving. I thought I had a clear vision of success, but in hindsight, I was simply chasing external validation. My idols were rooted in capitalism, my happiness built on momentary highs, and my sense of self was tangled in how others perceived me. I wasn’t miserable—I had love, laughter, and good memories—but my life lacked depth. I was so distracted by the noise of the world that I didn’t realize how hollow it all felt.

By my 30s, life had brought me to my knees. In 2019, I lost my marriage, my home, and the life I had envisioned. What followed was an identity crisis I never saw coming. Then, as the COVID-19 pandemic swept across the world, isolation intensified my grief. The most painful losses weren’t physical things, but the relationships and sense of community that once felt irreplaceable. My identity felt shattered, scattered beyond recognition. I didn’t know how to move forward.

How did I get here? I did all the right things. I went to church. I was missional for outreach. I bought all the books on self-help. I watched TED Talks on self-awareness and growth. I listened to podcasts and sermons on righteous living. I sacrificed time and labor for humanitarian causes. How could this happen? The truth is, life meets everyone where they are, and everything can change in an instant. Life teaches us all—without prejudice. Tragedy, in one form or another, is inevitable. I’ve learned that these moments of trial are when faith is tested in the fire.

Through it all, I was raising three incredible daughters. I had to hold it together—not perfectly, but enough to be present for them. It wasn’t about pretending to be okay; it was about becoming okay. How could I teach resilience when I felt broken? How could I guide them when I didn’t know my own path? Motherhood brought joy, but it also amplified my unhealed wounds. Guilt, shame, postpartum anxiety, and depression weighed heavily, and the isolation of the pandemic deepened the shadows.

I wish I could offer a simple antidote for overcoming the victim mentality that had developed from my trauma, but I can’t. Ultimately, I had a choice—the same choice we all have when life gives us a wake-up call. I could stay stuck or take one small step forward.

I started with what I knew—simple, tangible acts of self-care. I may not have known how to process deep grief, but I knew how to brush my teeth, how to step outside and feel the sun on my face. These seemingly trivial habits became lifelines, anchoring me in the present. Over time, these small acts built resilience. I found myself able to get out of bed, to start my morning, to keep moving.

It was around this time that I came across a quote by C.S. Lewis that I loved so much, I wrote it down and put it on my fridge:

“Joy is the serious business of heaven.”

But as I reflected, I realized how much my understanding of joy had been shaped by circumstance. I once believed joy was something to be captured—something fleeting, dependent on external validation. But Lewis suggests something far deeper: joy is not just an emotion we experience; it is central to our existence, a reflection of something eternal.

In Letters to Malcolm: Chiefly on Prayer, Lewis describes joy as more than momentary happiness. He believed our deepest desires—our inner yearnings and soul’s purpose—are glimpses of something greater, something beyond this world. True joy, he argued, is a longing that no earthly experience can fully satisfy because it points to our ultimate fulfillment in Heaven. Even in suffering, joy serves as a reminder that we are made for more.

God is a God of joy and life, and He is a loving father who gives the gift of life to experience for his Glory. From the beauty of creation to the small moments of everyday life, joy is woven into our existence. God delights in our happiness and calls us to find joy in Him, for He is the source of all true and lasting joy. He calls us to live a life set apart in righteousness, but He also invites us (if we choose to accept) to experience joy—even in the midst of suffering. Joy and suffering often go hand in hand. It’s in our struggles that we can discover deeper joy—a joy that comes from His presence and is rooted in contentment, not our circumstances. As James 1:2-3 reminds us, “Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance.” Life, with all its highs and lows, is meant to be celebrated, and in every moment, His joy and righteousness walk together, offering us hope even in the hardest times.

This idea completely shifted my perspective on my own struggles. If joy truly is the serious business of heaven, then it must be something of profound importance—something worth seeking out, even in the pain. It’s a concept I had to learn and embrace: joy doesn’t have to be absent in the face of hardship. In fact, it can coexist with sorrow, discomfort, and uncertainty. It’s not about denying the reality of pain, but about acknowledging that joy is a deeper, more resilient force—one that doesn’t disappear when life feels hard. I found that even in the darkest seasons, joy could still flicker like a quiet light, shining through the cracks of my circumstances.

Joy is not merely a fleeting emotion but a choice, a discipline, and sometimes even a rebellion against despair. So often we settle for fleeting distractions and dissociate, ignoring the present moment and its deep, abiding joy. It's the willingness to find beauty, gratitude, and peace amidst the messiness of life. It's about leaning into the small, sacred moments—the sunrise, a shared laugh, the warmth of a hug—that quietly remind us that life is still good, even when it's hard. And in doing so, joy becomes a constant companion, walking beside us through every season, no matter how stormy it may get. Like the way my daughters’ laughter fills our home or the warmth of a cup of tea in the morning. It’s the lingering scent of lavender that gently reminds me to slow down and be present. These moments are far from trivial; they are sacred, holding within them the power to ground us and bring us back to what truly matters.

There is something about lavender that has always drawn me in. Its scent is clean yet soft, calming yet invigorating. It lingers in the air like a gentle reminder to slow down, to breathe, to be present. Lavender carries with it the essence of springtime—farmers' markets bursting with life, the warmth of the sun after a long winter, the quiet moments where time seems to pause. It has always given me a sense of peace, a sense of belonging. And if the lavender of this world can do that, I can only imagine what Heaven’s lavender must be like.

This blog, Heaven’s Lavender, is my reflection on that joy. It is a space where faith, motherhood, and personal growth intertwine. It is a sanctuary for storytelling and introspection—a place to explore the resilience built in challenges, the self-discovery found in stillness, and the sacredness hidden in the mundane.

Beyond personal narratives, Heaven’s Lavender will also serve as a resource hub—a place where readers can find valuable insights, curated recommendations, and meaningful connections. Whether it’s a book that inspires, a tool that empowers, or a shared experience that reminds you that you’re not alone, my hope is that this space brings something of worth to your life.

So, welcome. Welcome to a place where lavender lingers, where faith deepens, and where joy is taken seriously. I invite you to reflect on the moments that bring you joy. What small, everyday experiences remind you of something deeper? Share them in the comments—I’d love to hear what joy looks like in your life.

Welcome to Heaven’s Lavender.