My God has a sense of humor…..no, really. Let me catch you up on the tea of my life right now.
My intentional word for 2026 is HOME.
I committed spiritually, financially, emotionally, all the -ly’s—to creating a safer, more joyful, more peaceful home for my daughter and me. Not just in the physical sense, but also in the metaphysical sense: feeling more at home in my own body.
I pictured the groundedness of an old tree. A willow, specifically because it is famously sturdy, but flexible.
So imagine my amusement when three weeks into the year… BOOM.
My septic system backed up at 4 a.m. The drain field wasn’t draining. The first estimate? A full replacement—$8,500.(Later, I found a company that could remediate it and got that down to $4,200, thank God.)
You know that saying about praying for patience?
Insert laugh/cry emojis here.
Because there I was, whispering home, home, home like it was a mantra… and suddenly my bathroom had other plans.
Where was the lesson in this?
Or like my late bonus daddy Hugh says: “Where is God in this?”
Maybe this was spiritual triage. A forced prioritizing. A stripping away of distractions until HOME wasn’t just a pretty word on a vision board it was urgent and real.
And honestly… a neurodivergent’s dream, right?
I keep thinking I should be more of a mess. (Don’t tell my therapist—sorry, my performance coach—that I said “should.”) But falling apart wasn’t an option, and it’s not what I want to model for my daughter.
The last flood happened mid-shower at 4 a.m., only a couple hours before I had to leave town for advocacy work in Tallahassee.
I was throwing towels down while my shop vac—of course—refused to work. But instead of desperation, I felt something else: resolve. A quiet knowing that a way would be made.
It wasn’t in my control right then. So I started laughing.
What else was there to do after choosing HOME for the year?
I wasn’t giving my peace away to a temporary disaster. As soon as the morning came, I’d make the calls. I’d make a plan.
I would be calm so my daughter could be calm. Mirror neurons and all that.
I would reframe it as an adventure—maybe even a staycation, or a sleepover at a friend’s house on a school night.
Tricky, yes. Impossible, no.
As Jon Acuff says: “I wouldn’t bet against me.”
The right people would show up. Help would come. There was no way forward except surrender.
And that’s when it hit me—maybe that is the God part.
Because my God has a sense of humor… but my God also knows I’m hyper-independent. Overachieving. Maybe even a little prideful. And apparently, I needed to be forced into surrender.
No perfect strategy. No powering through. No doing it all alone.
Just accepting help.
And if that wasn’t enough of a push? A brutal cold front rolled in—perfect timing to flare up my chronic pain. Like the universe saying, “Don’t even think about muscling through this one.”
So here’s the real question I’m sitting with:
How do you feel at home… when you can’t stay at home?
I guess I needed perspective.
Here is the latest poem I wrote on the same topic a few days later after sitting in stillness and gratitude.
What if Surrender is Not
What if surrender is not a ceremonial white flag
or relinquishing the weapons that you have
What if it is simply
Orpheus not looking back?
Not giving fear a chance to warp
reality or your own…
morality?
What if it is a quiet knowing?
A decision, mundane
like choosing a pair of pants
or calmly collecting towels
to soak up the floor
Beneath you.
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