After I shared my last post, I didn’t expect much.

I wrote it in a haze of grief and vulnerability—just trying to make sense of the ache in my chest and the swirl in my mind. I almost didn’t hit publish. It felt too raw, too unfinished.

But what I didn’t expect was this: the response. The messages. The prayers. The way you showed up—in comments, in emails, in texts—to say, “Me too,” or “I see you,” or “I’m praying.”

It stopped me in my tracks.

Not because everything suddenly felt lighter—but because I realized I wasn’t carrying it alone.

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🕊️ When Faith Feels Fragile

I’ll be honest: this season hasn’t left me with many eloquent prayers.

There have been whispered fragments. Quiet sighs. The kind of silence where the only thing you can offer God is your presence. But I’ve come to believe He’s not disappointed by that. He doesn’t need polished words—just honest ones.

And I think, sometimes, He sends the answers through other people.

Because in the past week or so, I’ve felt ministered to. Not by sermons. Not by certainty. But by the gentle kindness of others who weren’t trying to fix me—just sit with me. Friends who reminded me that God doesn’t only dwell in the “after.” He’s here in the middle too.

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🌾 The Ministry of Being Seen

When my hands have been too tired to write, your words have held space.

When my spirit has felt worn and thin, your messages have breathed quiet strength.

And I just want to say—thank you. For reading. For praying. For reminding me that love doesn’t always look like answers. Sometimes it looks like presence.

A few of you told me you lit candles for our family.
A few of you told me you cried reading the post because it mirrored your own story.
A few of you simply said, “Still here. Still praying.”

And I believe that’s the heart of the Gospel. God with us.
Not only in the joyful moments—but in the rooms where grief and grace share a chair.

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🕯️ When the Outside Looks Fine

If you saw me in passing, you probably wouldn’t know.

I’m not always great with words in person. I smile. I nod. I say “we’re doing okay.” And on some level, that’s not untrue. But the deeper truth—the one I rarely speak out loud—is harder to see.

Because I do look fine. I’m good at the pretending.
And I know that can be confusing.

It’s not that I’m trying to be dishonest. It’s just that when the ache runs deep, it doesn’t always find its way to the surface through words. Sometimes it settles in quietly, behind polite conversation and pickup lines and tired smiles.

So if you’ve ever wondered…
If you’ve ever felt like someone you care about was holding more than they let on…
If you’ve ever struggled to know how to ask or what to say—

I get it.

And I want you to know: your presence still matters.
Even when I can’t fully show you what I’m carrying.
Even when “I’m fine” is all I manage to say.

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📖 A Verse I’m Holding Onto

“You keep track of all my sorrows.
You have collected all my tears in your bottle.
You have recorded each one in your book.”
—Psalm 56:8 (NLT)

I’ve always loved that image. A God who doesn’t just see your tears—He keeps them. Not a drop wasted. Not a sigh ignored.

So if your prayers feel small right now, know this: He hears them anyway.
And if your heart is heavy, mine is too.
But He is near. Even here. Especially here.

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💛 To Everyone Who Reached Out

Thank you. Truly.

This is the kind of community I prayed for when I started Mind & Scholar—not just a place for printables and curriculum thoughts, but a place where the soul could stretch out a little. Where honesty was welcome. Where faith could be tender and true, not forced.

So to those who checked in, who encouraged, who quietly held us in prayer—know that you’ve been part of God’s care in this season. A reminder that we are held. A reminder that there is still goodness here, even when life is hard.

We’re still in the middle of the story.
But I trust the Author.

With heart,
Patricia