Not Enough Milk in My Cereal



I cried over my milk last night. Not because I’d spilled it, but actually because of a much more important reason: there wasn’t enough milk in my cereal.

I was sick of partially-submerged cereal. I’d been a milk martyr for far too long.

When my servant-hearted husband brought me the cereal in the first place and I realized it didn’t have enough milk for my preference, I felt crushed. Didn’t he know? Didn’t he know how much milk I needed after 15 years together? My first feeling was one of sadness and resignation—I felt I should just be thankful and eat what was given to me. My next feeling actually came as a spark of anger—This was unjust! I was wronged!

This flip-flopping of emotions was exhausting and launched me next into feelings of self-accusation and condemnation. Just get over it. What’s wrong with you? I was tempted to stuff the pain and ignore it because I was also tired. But the Holy Spirit nudged me gently into a different direction:

“Pay attention to this. Pay attention to what your heart is saying.”

So I took a minute and just sat with the feeling. I tried to probe deeper into my emotions. What was going on? Why this extreme reaction to a very minimal event in my day? It was just a bowl of cereal for goodness’ sake—not some massive family crisis. But I knew enough by now to know that an extreme reaction like this was usually masking something much deeper. What was it?

And then BOOM!—there it was. It hit me like the BRIGHTEST freight train ever:

I’d NEVER had enough of what I needed.

The quiet introspection had paid off. I finally saw the root of an issue that had plagued me for years but I could never quite figure out. Like a newly-receded tooth, I felt like the root issue was totally obvious now.

How did I not see this before?

After discovering the emotional root, various memories began to scroll before my eyes like a movie reel. I remembered how much neglect had played a part in my early childhood years. Both parents always gone. Childcare provided by a mushpot of nannies, dysfunctional family members and sexual predators.

I remembered the emotional starvation—how often I was forced by authorities to accept less than what I really needed. Crucial emotional ingredients like attentiveness, active listening, emotional connection, healthy physical touch, and even safety were few and far between. Inconsistency had been my biggest childhood companion.

I realized that neglect had taught me not to expect too much from others or even life itself. I learned that what I needed didn’t matter. I learned that “What you get is what you get—and you don’t get upset.” 

I also remembered the abuse—times when authorities actively pushed against my own boundaries and needs. Like being forced to eat liver and oysters as a young child and almost puking. Like being forced to swim down powerful river rapids that almost drowned me. Like having a parent chase me and barge into my room when I just needed space and privacy. Like all the years of hidden sexual abuse that continued on unnoticed by the people who were supposed to be protecting and keeping me safe.

I realized that the abuse and disrespect of my boundaries had taught me that authorities got to make all the decisions. I learned that I did not get a choice. I learned submission, victimization, and powerlessness. 

I realized that I had learned a lot of things but I had NEVER learned how to get my needs met.

And now here I was: a married woman with four children who didn’t know how to ask for more milk—who didn’t think that she even DESERVED more milk.

So I did something I hadn’t done in a long time. I went downstairs and added some more milk into my bowl. I FLOODED that cereal. And then I sat in my favorite chair, ate my cereal and cried. And I invited God into that space to clean out the pain and heal me.

It felt wonderfully reconciling. I was finally grieving. It was a new experience for me but it felt so timely and God-orchestrated. The backlog of suppressed pain was finally finding its channel to be released.

These grieving tears felt so much different than self-pity tears. Self-pity tears never resolved anything. They were always an endless revolving-door of pain.

Grieving tears made me feel lighter. They were tears of release and self-acceptance. I was releasing the pain. I was accepting myself and reconciling to the story of my past. I could own the truth of my story now: so much of my childhood had majorly sucked. I didn’t need to lie to myself anymore. I didn’t need to accept the script any longer that others had fed to me over the years. I finally believed myself. 

And as I cried, a lot of the pain got out. It was like I could feel God wiping away my tears. I didn’t need to wait for Heaven—He wanted to do it now.

A bowl of cereal. Who knew? 

God will use anything to bring healing.

Trusting in the Great Redeemer,

Nova (newly-redeemed milk martyr)

“He will wipe away every tear from their eyes…” (Revelation 21:4).

Mother’s Day Mayhem


I heard the lady curse as she reached the bathroom door. F*@#!, she said. She had only just realized, as I had a brief moment before, that the public beach bathroom was now closed for a quick cleaning and that she would have to wait.

I was standing nearby in the sand. My eyes were closed and I was listening to the roar of the waves and the children laughing in the nearby distance. I wiggled my toes in the cool, silky sand. I was KEENLY aware of the pressure in my bladder—but I was even more aware of something much more important:

I was present in this waiting moment for the first time in forever and I felt SO thankful.

It was the day before Mother’s Day and I was already exhausted by the time I finally stumbled up to the bathroom. The usual 1-hour drive to the beach had taken 4 hours. We hit major stop-and-go traffic. And that combined with the 5 food/ bathroom stops along the way, plus the kids’ endless chorus of whining and my now lingering carsickness had left me pretty well spent. It was after we finally crash-landed onto the beach at 6 pm that I realized my need for a bathroom trip.

The day had not gone as I had expected.

So here I was: tired, nauseated, headachy, and waiting near the bathroom with my toes dug deep into the sand. I felt uncomfortable, but I also felt luxuriously happy. I could feel God’s presence as the wind whipped through my hair and caressed my shoulders. A wave of joyful emotion rushed over me that almost brought me to tears. This is real life. The crazy and the sacred all mixed together. I’m so grateful.

I thought back to the earlier morning. My husband and I had such high hopes for a fun early mother’s-day celebration. But then the dog pooped blood all over our carpet and we had to make an emergency trip to the vet. Thankfully, the news from the vet was promising and we ended up back at home with an exhausted dog and an antibiotic. It could have been worse.

We decided to still pursue our earlier beach plans.

But then my favorite coffee shop messed up my latte and as we were driving away with my gross drink—I got some disappointing news on my phone. My happy mood was shot. The bad news plus my marginal coffee seemed to be the cherry on top to an already crappy day that finally pushed me over into the grumped-out zone.

Come on, get it together. You’re bigger than this. Don’t let this steal your joy.

I tried to self-encourage but it wasn’t working. I knew I had to get myself out of this funky mood before it spiraled down even more. I started having second thoughts about our destination and thought maybe we should just go home.

“What are we going to do if we just go home? Work around the house?” my husband asked.

He was right. I knew the potential for family fun was still there if we could just push through a little bit more and make it to our destination. So we did. Four hours later we arrived on the beach, suits on and towels in hand. It was FREEZING. The fact that it was now evening and the lifeguards had already gone off-duty plus the local shark sightings meant we were pretty much beached. We only lasted an hour.

The kids had fun anyway. The Olders made meatballs out of sand and sang goofy songs. The Littles played on the playground adjacent to the beach (because we apparently have NO playgrounds back home). I watched the water and the seagulls. I closed my eyes and listened to the waves. I tasted the salty-sea spray on my lips. And it was enough.

And that epiphanous moment at the bathroom ended up becoming my mother’s day gift. Because as I heard the lady curse, I realized just how far I’d come in my own life and healing. I remembered how conditioned I used to be to the busy maze and pace of life, where the waiting had become more inopportune than the rushing. Life had gotten flipped somewhere along the way. I knew that I too used to be a reactive person that missed out on the joy of the moment.

But not anymore.

I was back.

And this moment was a gift that I savored. It was a time when I could just BE rather than DO. And I purposefully chose to engage in that moment with God.

My Mother’s Day gift:

Being present.

Being purposeful.

Being with Him.

❤ Nova

Landmines of Pain


Have you ever accidentally stepped into a memory from your past that sent you reeling? Yep—me too. A few months ago, I stumbled onto a painful landmine of unhealed pain in my heart.

Trauma triggers are like that—so unexpected. You’re just walking along and then…BOOM! PAIN!

It happened not long after I started attending a new community of believers. My spirit was so refreshed in this particular community that I was FILLED with massive hope and expectation for the future. This place felt like home. I loved it.

I couldn’t wait to see what God would do. I knew I could thrive in this place. I knew my spiritual DNA would fit. So I purposefully gave it my all and dove right in. I’ve never done anything half-heartedly. I began to attend every event and activity that I could—trying to meet people and make new friends.

And then that one fateful conversation began with a person who looked strangely familiar…

“I remember YOU…”

And suddenly there it was: INSTANT pain.

In that one moment, I was flung back into the past without my consent. I realized now why that individual had looked so familiar to me. Ten years ago. It was almost ten years ago that I had spent some time with this person among a group of other believers.

It wasn’t a good experience for me.

I actually remember liking this person. But the situation? Not so much. And any of the small amenities from that short time were vastly overshadowed by the painful shut-down that followed. My pursuit of spiritual community had been majorly hijacked. I basically crawled into a six-year hole afterwards.

It felt like a lifetime ago. In a way it really was. I had travailed and triumphed, contended and grown, and healed and thrived so much since those days.

I was a different person now.

But in that split-second, all the pain came back. Scene after scene replayed before my eyes: the rejection and isolation. The purposeful exclusion. The public humiliation. The shame.

I did NOT want to be back in that place again—nor did I want to be reminded of it every time I saw this person.

It was a horrible memory to revisit—a significant pain point in my Christian journey. I was obviously not quite as healed as I thought I was. It was one thing to forgive the wounding parties from afar. It was quite another to see someone on a regular basis that had witnessed the whole thing. I had been so thankful for the physical distance between myself and everyone involved in that experience. Besides social media, our paths rarely crossed over the years.

And yet here I was—in close physical proximity to one of the people who had seen my heart get publicly crucified. I wasn’t sure if I could handle the frequent reminder. I actually thought about changing course. Despite all of this community’s innate goodness and tangible Jesus saturation, I debated just leaving.

Because that’s what pain does. It wants to hide. It wants to forget. It does NOT want to revisit.

Yet even as that warm wash of fear and insecurity poured over me, the strength in my spirit rose up with a fierce tenacity that I could NOT deny. I felt empowered with a spirit knowing in the midst of my soul’s internal chaos:

God’s redemptive fingerprints are ALL over this. My Father is up to something good.

This VERY situation felt reminiscent of so many other times when the Father purposefully brought me into awkward situations in order to facilitate my healing. What is laid down in pain can often only be accessed again through pain. I knew that I was no longer a victim that needed to run and hide. I was victorious through my identity in Him.

I knew that EVERYTHING was in the process of being redeemed.

So I settled into the reality that I could trust Him with this—even though I didn’t have the healing closure that I wanted in the moment. It was in spiritual community that I was shut down and it was in spiritual community that I was being restored. The redemptive ways of God take my breath away. Yah, there are still some spiritual logistics to work out. Healing and forgiveness are like an onion—so many layers sometimes. But my end game will always be breakthrough and new freedom in my life. And I’m ready. I want it.

Trusting in the Great Redeemer,


Pursuing the MORE

revamped storybook

I know this will be mommy blasphemy to some—but being a mom was NEVER my end-all goal in life. Neither was marriage. I’ve always wanted more than just a home with a white picket fence, children running around in the yard, and me cooking meals inside for my family.

I wanted my full spiritual inheritance and destiny.

For one thing—I HATE cooking. I think I could have actually excelled at it if I’d been willing to put forth the effort. When I was younger, I didn’t have the energy or time. And now that I’m older—I just don’t care. The cooking responsibility somehow shuffled to my husband during my four back-to-back pregnancies, nausea, and nursing. And by the time I was finished being a baby factory—my earlier desire to be Susie Homemaker was completely gone.

Don’t get me wrong; I still liked the idea of a beautifully-decorated, up-kept home and a mom that made homemade meals—but I just wanted other things MORE. I knew I couldn’t do everything perfectly if I wanted to reach other goals. After having four children, I recognized the need to be more strategic with my time if I wanted to run and finish my entire life’s race well.

I felt this pent-up fire to pursue the other areas of my spiritual calling in addition to motherhood. I realized it didn’t have to be an either/or proposition. I COULD do both.

When I was first a new mommy, I read books about the importance and mission of motherhood—all of which I completely agreed with and endorsed. But even though I understood the importance of my mothering stewardship, I knew I would one day stand before the throne and be accountable for more than just my parenting mentorship and wifehood.

God had entrusted me with other gifts and abilities.

But like what happens to so many new mommies, I got sucked into the all-consuming mommy black hole. I shelved so much of what mattered to me during those early mommy years. I sacrificed myself willingly in favor of meeting everyone else’s needs. It happened slowly at first out of sheer baby necessity. But after many years of repeating this behavior, I realized it had become an unhealthy dying to self. I had given myself no nurturing; no soul-care time to grow, thrive, and develop.

I had inadvertently buried and was ignoring the other gifts that God had placed inside of me. I was being like the steward in the parable of the talents that buried what he had been entrusted with—rather than investing it for the good of his master.

To whom much is given, much is required; and the gifts and callings of God in a person’s life are irrevocable—they don’t ever go away.

As for me, these irrevocable talents became like spiritual irritants in my life—lying just beneath the surface and scratching me for years. Reminding me of their presence. I was like the princess and the pea. No matter how much I tried to ignore them throughout the busy mommy years—I could still feel them.

My spiritual DNA was crying out to be noticed and fulfilled.

I finally listened. I finally took the time to stir up and attend to the other gifts and callings that God had placed in me long ago: Writing. Ministry. Community. Prophetic Outreach. I moved past my fearful arguments of inability and agreed to partner with God’s other deposits in my life.

It hasn’t been easy but it’s totally been worth it. It has taken a lot of work and creative re-shuffling of responsibilities to accomplish. And my consistency with taking small, daily steps has paid off and brought new areas of growth into my life.

It has also been an interesting process. My perfectionistic tendencies have had to die—I can no longer be all things to all people. I have to say no to a lot of opportunities and I have to make sacrifices. Those sacrifices usually include a house that looks like a kid fraternity party when I take time to write. I also miss out on family time when I attend classes or outreaches, and I’m behind on laundry ALL the time.

But when I stand before the throne one day—I want to hear my Father say:

“Well done, my good and faithful servant. You have been faithful in handling this small amount, so now I will give you many more responsibilities. Let’s celebrate together!” (Matthew 25:21)

From one heavenly steward to another,

❤ Nova

You Cannot Hide Your Light

IMG_6478It doesn’t matter where I go—people think I work there. It’s been this huge inside joke that I’ve shared with God for years. Like—what’s up with that? But it’s true. People just approach me everywhere I happen to be. They think I know stuff.

They think I can help them.

I notice it a lot when I’m shopping in stores because I often get bumped out of my internal reverie. Like what happened today. This morning I was approached for help by two different men—one of them a shopper wanting me to help him price-check his bread under a scanner: “Excuse me, Miss? MISS!”

The guy basically chased me down in the aisle when I didn’t hear his first inquiry.

Granted, I think I’m pretty readable by others to be a helpful and understanding person, but I think these occurrences actually highlight a deeper and more powerful truth than just my empathic type of personality:

A person’s spirit recognizes LIGHT.

After DECADES of these interactions, I’ve come to the conclusion that these people are actually drawn to me by a KNOWING in their spirit man. They are drawn like moths to God’s LIGHT.

Each one of us is a BEACON—broadcasting light from within our spirit man. It’s a spiritual reality. And everywhere that we go, we pull others into that light. Even unintentionally. People don’t know WHY they come. But they DO come. I see this happen time and again as strangers ask me for help with piddly little things:

Can you give me directions to ______?

Have you tried this brand of beans?

Can you help me scan this bread?

It’s taken me years of watching people make a beeline towards me for me to finally understand what is happening. Now when these moments happen, I feel an internal tug in my spirit and I just KNOW: they see my LIGHT. They see Jesus. They know I can help them. Their spirit is curious and knows that I really do know something that they need:

That something is TRUTH.

And even though their soul may be absolutely clueless about the real reason why they approach me—their spirit is not. The surface requests for help are irrelevant—the soul just needs a socially acceptable reason to approach. But if their soul could find words to language the DEEPER feeling, it would probably go something like this:

“I see something in you that I need. What do you know that I don’t know yet? Please tell me.”

God’s light is attractive and a person’s spirit recognizes it.

I feel those internal tugs on my spirit at other times too—like when I can feel someone watching me. I used to hate it when I could feel someone watching me, especially men. It felt creepy and it usually triggered me into a fearful place. As a woman, I am always aware of my need to stay safe. But the closer I grow with Jesus, the more my spiritual discernment grows. The deeper my union with Him, the more I operate out of my spirit knowing instead of the emotions of my soul. The result?

I can tell the difference now between people’s looking intentions.

I can feel the difference between a creepy person watching me and a person watching me because of a curiosity in their spirit. The difference is night and day. So I no longer walk in fear during these unexpected interactions. I consider them now as invitations from Heaven—inviting me to partner with God and purposefully shine my light.

Nowadays, when I FEEL someone watching me (which is also spirit knowing, by the way)—I purposefully try to step into that moment. I glance up and meet the person’s eyes. I smile. Many times the person and I don’t even talk. But it doesn’t matter. A spiritual transaction takes place.

Science has proven that data is electrically transferred through eye contact. So even if we aren’t speaking, we are relaying our internal message of God’s light and truth. And if it happens to be an interaction that involves an actual conversation or helping—that just means we get an even longer opportunity to shine truth into their world.

I’m not talking about evangelism or preaching the Good News here. That’s another topic for a different day. I’m simply talking about loving another person by shining the light that you already have.

The sun doesn’t have to tell you that it loves you for you to be affected by its presence. You FEEL its warmth on your skin. God’s light is the same way. When a person encounters God’s light—it is transformational no matter what.

I think there will be many people in Heaven one day that meet God because of purposeful believers who shine their light well.

Every time we shine His light—whether through our presence, eye-contact, or intentional conversations, people walk away changed. We should never discount the power of a life well-shined.


Your spirit carries His light.

Shine it well.

❤ Nova

“Nor do people light a lamp and put it under a basket, but on a stand, and it gives light to all in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father who is in heaven” (Matthew 5:16).

“For once you were full of darkness, but now you have light from the Lord. So live as people of light! For this light within you produces only what is good and right and true” (Ephesians 5:8-9).

Everybody Serves Something

img_6181Getting free from idols is so much harder than not picking them up to begin with. Just saying.

The younger me thought idols were just a bunch of mute statues collecting dust up on a shelf. I couldn’t believe people in biblical days had worshipped a golden calf, much less any idols made with wood or stone.

I was SO much smarter than that.

I thought people must have majorly evolved from their stupidity since biblical times. I had zero context for what idols could look like in today’s society—much less knowing that there were common idols within even the church that continued to thrive and be served by multitudes of sincere believers:

Religious Idols: of church performance, activity, programs, disciplines, and martyrdom

Idols of Appearances: being diligent in service or devotion, looking good, and having everything together

Idols of Being Right: having the “correct” doctrine or residing in the “best” stream of the faith

Idols of Importance or Control: being the “knowledgeable” or “gifted” one or the person with “power and position”

I fell victim to serving many of these church idols myself. But I didn’t stop there. I was apparently REALLY good at taking just about anything and making an idol of it. And a lot of my resources got sacrificed to these various idols—whether idols of perfectionism, performance, being in control, being right; or those devoted to relationships, community, addictions, or codependent behaviors in general.

Idols always require sacrifice.

I obviously didn’t sacrifice any of my children to Baal in a fiery furnace; but I sacrificed my time, energy, and money in pursuing appearances and legitimacy that weren’t based in God. I sacrificed and compromised my unique personality in certain settings in pursuit of approval and acceptance.

I also sacrificed numerous passions and the pursuit of my destiny for many years in favor of serving productivity, the accomplishment of the moment, and an organized itinerary and house. I sacrificed much to the idols of guilt and manipulation—allowing myself to be used by others.

I even made idols of my husband and children—sacrificing too much of myself on the altar of marital and parental martyrdom and putting God on the back shelf.

That’s the thing about idols—they are SO covert.

They are usually good things that just get tipped too heavy on the scale of our heart’s devotion and sacrifice. They are not bad in themselves.

The church has its own specific flavor of idols; but honestly—everything becomes fodder for idols if we aren’t careful. Nothing new under the sun, remember? And the enemy is happy to keep us distracted with any and all misplacements of our hearts’ devotion. He doesn’t care if we are serving alcohol, television, or church martyrdom as long as we remain stuck, UN-transformed, and UN-yielded to God.

YIELDING our hearts is the secret place of transformation.

A yielded heart is dangerous to the enemy.

A yielded heart is a powerful force that destroys the works of darkness.

And when we finally stop enslaving ourselves to people, religion, and all the Lesser Loves of our Heart (as John Eldredge describes them)—it is then that we can follow Jesus whole-heartedly into the fullness of our destiny. It is then that we become world changers.

We are meant to love God with our whole heart, mind, soul and strength FIRST.

THEN we love others.

When God has top position in our hearts—EVERYTHING else flows smoother and finds its proper positioning in our lives.

“Guard your heart above all else, for it determines the course of your life” (Proverbs 4:23).

From glory to glory in Him,

❤ Nova

That Could Have Been Me


I felt the shift inside the cozy coffee shop as she entered. It wasn’t because of other’s reactions to her arrival that I noticed her, but simply because I was like a spiritual weather needle. My meter was now jiggling back and forth in almost earthquake-like anticipation. It was no use. I could no longer focus on the halfway-written article in front of me.

Pain and brokenness had just entered the building.

I glanced up and saw her then—looking bedraggled at the counter with her short brown hair, dirt-tanned skin and mismatched clothing. She was mumbling a request to the barista that I soon realized to be an order for a cup of hot water.

Something that was free.

For some reason, my eyes were repeatedly drawn to her shoes. I couldn’t take my eyes off her sockless feet which seemed starkly contrasted among her gigantic skater shoes. Had I not seen her torso, I would have guessed her to be a homeless man.

“Poor baby,” I thought. Where’s her family?”

The mother within me grieved. What had happened to this lost sheep that she no longer had a flock or a shepherd to watch over her?

I wondered how old the girl was: 20? 21? It was hard to tell. What at first glance appeared as wrinkles soon turned out to be just opportunistic dirt—caked into the natural grooves and contours of her face.

She should be in college somewhere, enjoying her life and excited about the possibilities of her future—not sleeping under a tree somewhere.

As I continued to ponder her sad circumstances, this lost soul wandered over nearby—as if compelled by the silent yet compassionate projection of my spirit—and sat down next to me on a sofa chair. Her feet soon began a semi-rhythmic pitter patter on the tile floor, a nervous syncopation of possible drug withdrawal or social anxiety.

She brought the cup of hot water up to her mouth and paused as her eyes clouded over into a vacant stare.

My heart just broke.

This was someone’s child. This was God’s child. This was a daughter of the King who had somehow lost her way. Maybe just recently. Maybe she’d been lost her whole life. But whatever the timing or origin of the wilderness—she just needed to find her way back home.

“If you had asked me, I would have but given you the water of eternal life…”

I flashed back to Jesus’s conversation with the woman at the well. Here was a young woman seeking a drink of water in the midst of a life that certainly had not satisfied.

“I am the Water of Life…”

“He who drinks of Me will never thirst again…”

I kept gazing into her young face, feeling the Father’s heart for His prodigal daughter. Yes, she was marred by earth and pain—but her essence still shined through: Made in the Image of Love.

My heartstrings resonated with His love and I began to be consumed by yet another thought:

That could have been ME.

It totally could have. In a way it really was—I’d just processed my brokenness differently. I’d chosen less disastrous addictions. The after effects of my life’s earliest traumas were just not as obvious to the outside world.

Appearances are so deceptive.

I kept feeling like if the life dice had been tossed differently…

If I’d had a few less assets and made a few different choices—that definitely could be me: dirt obscuring beauty, sockless with masculine attire, sitting homeless and chilled on a coffee-shop chair for a brief reprieve from life’s cruelty.

What if?

What if I hadn’t made it through the Jello maze of high-school depression and somehow ended up in college? The application essays themselves almost took me out. What if I hadn’t found a church during college that gave me hope? What if I hadn’t discovered friends who loved and inspired me to push through?

The dice could have landed so differently…

I knew I was one of God’s prodigals. Who wasn’t?

And as we sat there on those coffee shop chairs together, I began a brief conversation with this precious, wandering soul. Two prodigals discussing life. I asked her about her journey. We talked about God. She had a few moments of clarity where she shared life details, but then she rambled off into an incoherent jibber jabber—whether out of post-drug effects or accompanying spiritual dynamics, I couldn’t tell.

I wished I could do more to help her.

I knew I wasn’t the answer to her life’s problems. I knew there would be others that God would place along her path to love on her and point the way back home.

I just tried to do my best to love on this little lost sheep while I was there. I bought her a sandwich. My small part was to show her some kindness and love and convey through my actions that she mattered.

That could have been me.

In a world full of prodigals, each one of us is on a journey to find our way home. Some of us are messier and stay in the pig pit longer than others. Many of us just don’t know that we have a loving Father awaiting us with open arms around the bend.

But all of us deserve a chance to come back home.

❤ Nova

“But whoever drinks of the water that I will give him will never be thirsty again. The water that I will give him will become in him a spring of water welling up to eternal life” (John 4:14).

“But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion for him; he ran to his son, threw his arms around him and kissed him” (Luke 15:20).