What’s Next-Life and Spiritual Coaching-Discovering Your Life’s Purpose

So yesterday I made a little “official announcement”…

Little Momma is now on her second career as a stained glass model, since hatching golf balls was not lucrative.

(I am still waiting for her to ask for royalties, but for now she just seems pleased that her “look” is finally being appreciated.)

As much as I love seeing her yellow fluffy self in my window, this gift wasn’t really about the chicken.

It was that feeling you get when someone notices a tiny, specific detail about your life… and actually remembers it.

I’ve been thinking about how rare that really is.

Most of the women I sit with are world-class noticers of everyone else’s lives.
They know who needs a snack, who is about to melt down, and which deadline is on fire.

They are carrying big “what is next” transitions like pros… usually so well that no one even thinks to ask how they are doing.

They are so busy keeping everyone else’s light on… that they are sitting in the dark themselves.

Which is why I love what I do.

Spiritual direction is simply a space where someone holds the light for a while… so you can finally be the one who is noticed.

No performing.
No pressure to have it all together.
No hatching golf balls required.

🤍
If that kind of space sounds like something you’ve been needing, I’m here.

P.S. I checked on Little Momma after writing this. She is back in the coop, staring intensely at a rock. Apparently the stained glass fame has not gone to her head. She is still fully committed to the dream.





P.S. I checked on Little Momma after writing this. She is back in the coop, staring intensely at a rock. Apparently, the stained glass fame has not gone to her head. She is still fully committed to the dream.

If you know me, you know Little Momma.

She’s a Buff Orpington with a one-track mind. That girl will try to hatch anything—golf balls, rocks… probably a rogue shoe if I left it in the coop long enough. She just decides, “Well, this is my life now,” and settles in.

So when my sister’s friend wanted to make me a gift and asked if I had a favorite chicken, my sister didn’t even hesitate: “Little Momma.”

Now I have this stained glass version hanging in my kitchen window. Every morning when the light hits it, it just glows.

It makes me smile—partly because it’s a chicken (obviously), but mostly because someone paid attention.

They really did.

It’s the simple things that stay with you.

Not the “polished” version of us, but the version of us that loves a relentless orange chicken.

That kind of knowing feels a lot like home.

Greg and I were in Colorado Springs recently for a retreat called Day Apart. It was exactly what it sounds like—just a day for everyone to step away, reflect, and spend some time learning together.

As we were leaving the hotel to head over to the church that evening, the mountains decided to say good night.

The sky looked like someone had taken a paintbrush and just swept it across the entire horizon. So, we did what you almost have to do in moments like that… we stopped. We just stood there for a minute taking it all in.

It felt like this quiet, steady reminder right before the evening started.

Isn’t it funny how the most beautiful moments usually show up in the middle of the most ordinary transitions? Like walking to the car, or heading to a meeting, or just moving from one thing to the next.

If we pause long enough to notice, those moments feel like little invitations to just breathe.

So if your Monday feels a bit full already, maybe step outside for a minute tonight. You never know what the sky might be doing.

Greg and I finally caught a small break in the rain on our work trip, so we decided to take a walk down by the water.

When we reached the pier, this pelican had already taken over the place.

There was a family with two little kids trying to fish, and this bird had clearly decided their entire fishing operation belonged to him now. Every time they dropped a line in, he was right there making a nuisance of himself.

By the time we wandered down the boardwalk, he had apparently moved on from the fishermen and decided he wanted to be my friend.

He just walked over and settled in behind me like we had arrived together.

Which felt a little suspicious, considering he had just been terrorizing a family of four five minutes earlier.

The funny part is I didn’t even realize he was behind me at first.

Someone had to point him out.

And it made me think about how often the things worth noticing in life show up exactly like that — quietly, right beside us — while we’re busy looking somewhere else.

I see this a lot in spiritual direction.

The clarity people are searching for usually isn’t hiding somewhere far away.

Most of the time it’s already nearby.

Standing quietly behind us…

like a slightly mischievous pelican on a pier.

Greg and I like to imagine our work trips are always glamorous and sun-drenched.

And then sometimes the forecast delivers biblical levels of rain. The kind where your sightseeing plans quickly turn into creative indoor problem solving.

On one of those afternoons we wandered into a hotel game room clearly designed for people under the age of… us.

Naturally, we took that as an invitation.

I discovered two things that day:

Pac-Man is still surprisingly stressful in your 50s.

And chasing little glowing dots while running away from ghosts is oddly therapeutic.

It also reminded me how easy it is to forget that play is still allowed in adulthood.

We get so used to being responsible and productive that we forget how good it feels to laugh over something completely unnecessary.

Sometimes a random weekday game of Pac-Man is exactly the reset you didn’t know you needed.

Even if the ghosts win.

We were heading out after dinner in Grand Cayman when I spotted this sign. It had a chair sitting right next to it that felt like a direct invitation, so I hopped in and made Greg take a picture.

“Be like a pineapple. Stand tall. Wear a crown. And be sweet on the inside.”

It made me laugh at first, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized there might actually be something to it.

I’ve been thinking lately about how real maturity usually isn’t loud. It’s more like a steady kind of strength that stands tall without needing to be the center of attention. A quiet dignity that doesn’t have to prove anything, paired with a kindness people can actually feel when they’re around you.

In leadership — or even just in our neighborhoods — we don’t always remember the loudest voice in the room. We remember the people who were steady. The ones who were kind. The ones who made others feel seen and at ease.

Turns out the pineapple might be onto something after all.

What’s one “simple” thing that’s been shifting your perspective lately?

I met a man the other morning wearing a baseball cap that said “Fish Daddy.”

Naturally, I had questions.

He was the groundskeeper standing on the little bridge by the koi pond outside the hotel at The Cloister at Sea Island, and he grinned as soon as I asked about it.

He started telling me all about the fish. It’s his job to care for them, but somewhere along the way he decided they were basically his kids.

He leaned over the railing and pointed into the water.

“See those?” he said. “My babies just had babies.”

Apparently that means he may need a new hat soon that says Fish Granddaddy.

We stood there for a few minutes watching them swim, and it struck me how easy it is to walk right past moments like that when we’re busy trying to get somewhere else.

But honestly, sometimes the best parts of the day show up in the most ordinary conversations with a proud Fish Daddy.

It was a good reminder that delight is usually a lot closer than we think.

Several weeks ago, we were back in Ohio for my husband’s uncle’s funeral.

It was one of those weekends you wish didn’t have to happen, but there was real joy in the way it brought everyone together.

After the service, the four of us—Greg, my mother-in-law, my brother-in-law, and me—ended up leaning into a phone like a bunch of teenagers and taking this ridiculous picture.

And we laughed. It was one of those deep, surprising laughs that shows up right when you didn’t know you needed it.

I’ve been thinking about how weekends like that hold so much at once. You have the sorrow for who’s missing, but then there's this incredible joy for who’s still sitting at the table. Stories get told, memories get repeated, and someone inevitably says something that makes everyone lose it for a second.

It reminded me that being “encouraged” doesn’t always mean things feel light. Sometimes it just looks like allowing yourself to laugh in the middle of something tender—noticing that the love and the connection haven’t gone anywhere.

If your week feels a little layered today—some sorrow mixed with some sweetness—you aren’t doing it wrong.

I think that’s just what love looks like.

Several weeks ago, we were back in Ohio for a funeral.

I had just started a church planting residency a little over a month before. Most of the leaders and coaches involved are scattered across the country, so everything so far had happened through a screen.

Then I realized something.

One of my coaches pastors a church just a few miles from my mother-in-law’s house.

And we were not flying back to Denver until later that Sunday afternoon.

It felt too meaningful to ignore.

So that morning, we went.

Up until then, Allison had lived in little square boxes on my computer. But standing in her church, watching her lead, seeing the people she shepherds — it grounded something in me.

There is just something about being in the room.

Leadership is not meant to be built alone.

I am grateful for people who have walked the road ahead and are willing to walk alongside me while I learn.

Growth feels different when it happens in relationship.

Bless my husband’s heart.

While we were driving around Grand Cayman, he pulled over so we could get out and watch the “Bullet Holes.” They reminded me a little of the geysers at Yosemite.

As he was using the moment to impart some earthly knowledge, I found myself following a butterfly who clearly knew how to pose for a photo.

I trailed her longer than I meant to, completely lost in a moment that was never on the itinerary.

Not everything sacred announces itself loudly.

Sometimes it flutters just off to the side of whatever you thought you were supposed to be focused on.

I have noticed that clarity does not always come from staring harder at the horizon.

Sometimes it comes from paying attention to what quietly captures your heart.

What small beauty have you almost overlooked lately?

We had an hour before dinner while on a work trip at the historic Cloister at Sea Island Hotel, so Greg and I decided to wander.

We ended up on this old dock overlooking the water.

There’s something about water that grounds both of us. It’s steady. Rhythmic. Peaceful. We just stand there and breathe a little deeper.

And standing there together, I was reminded that life really is about presence.

Presence with each other.
Presence with the moment.
Presence with the quiet rhythms happening all around us.

That’s often where clarity begins.

I’ve noticed spiritual maturity doesn’t usually look like doing more. It looks like showing up:
• for yourself
• for the people you love
• for the small, ordinary gifts right in front of you

What in your schedule might benefit from five unhurried minutes today?

If you’re longing for a steady space to sort through what’s unfolding in your life, I’d be honored to walk with you.