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A rainy day — unexpected in California. We loaded up our many cans and bottles and drove them to the recycling center in the parking lot of Target. We arrived efficiently, prepared to do this quickly. No one was there. We stood in the gray pause of it — that moment when plans dissolve and you realize you are stuck between what you expected  and what is actually happening . The rain clouds thickened. Two young children. No snacks. No backup plan. We decided to wait. And so we improvised. Fake Ball This is a game I call Fake Ball . The rules are simple: You have the ball. No one else knows what kind of ball it is except by how you handle it. You serve it — dramatically, subtly, fiercely, gently — and the other person must catch it. The twist? The ball can change mid-air. Maybe it started as a baseball and becomes a beach ball halfway there. Maybe it shrinks. Maybe it grows. Maybe it curves unexpectedly. The other person can catch it however they see it coming — not necessarily how you meant to throw it. And sometimes… they miss it. (If you are me, you accompany the miss with a highly convincing “Oh no! I totally missed that!” face.) We played Fake Ball for over an hour in a rainy Target parking lot. No equipment. No cost. No screen. No complaint. Just imagination and laughter echoing off wet asphalt. The Secret You can make anything fun. Fun is not the setting. It is not the weather. It is not the efficiency of the recycling center. Fun is a decision. It is a willingness to say: Well, this is what we have. Let’s play with it. The rain did not change. The delay did not change. But the atmosphere did. And now, when I think of that rainy parking lot, I do not remember inconvenience. I remember joy. I remember the way their shoulders relaxed when they realized we weren’t rushing. I remember laughing harder than the situation deserved. I remember thinking: This might be one of my favorite memories. I hope it is one of theirs too. What Fake Ball Taught Me Fake Ball is more than a game. It is marriage. It is parenting. It is friendship. We are constantly throwing each other balls — expectations, moods, invitations, disappointments. Sometimes they change mid-air. Sometimes we misread the throw. Sometimes we drop it. But we can always choose to pick it back up and play again. And sometimes the best memories are built in the spaces where nothing went according to plan. 🌱 Good Beet Reflection 1. Where have I been waiting for conditions to improve before allowing joy? 2. What is one inconvenient moment this week that I could turn into “Fake Ball”? 3. Who in my life needs me to lighten the throw — or laugh at the miss? 4. When was the last time I let imagination interrupt efficiency? The Good Beet does not grow because the weather cooperates. It grows because it finds joy in the soil it is given. Even if that soil is a wet parking lot behind Target. 💛

In 2006, I graduated from University of California, San Diego with two bachelor’s degrees. I finished my final classes days before I was married. I did not want to attend graduation. Sitting in the coastal humidity listening to hundreds of names felt unnecessary. Especially with a wedding days later because of an unplanned pregnancy and miscarriage. It was a complicated season. There wasn’t much celebration around that accomplishment. And I didn’t really pause to celebrate it myself either. I moved straight into the next responsibility. I wanted to be proud of earning two degrees. I loved psychology — the study of how people behave and why. But UCSD’s psychology program was deeply scientific. It trained me to research, to quantify, to control variables. It gave me rigor. It gave me discipline. It did not spend much time inside the lived experience of suffering. My political science degree did. Political theory, philosophy, systems of power, the architecture of agency — it forced me to ask: Who decides? Who benefits? Who has access? Who does not? Looking back, I am deeply grateful I studied both. Science without philosophy can become mechanical. Philosophy without science can become ungrounded. Together, they formed the lens through which I would eventually see the world. After graduation, I married. I was a manager at Mervyn’s until days before giving birth to my daughter. I stayed home longer than I expected. We bought a house after the 2008 crash. My son was born. Life unfolded in diapers, mortgages, and grocery lists. Eventually I began asking myself: What should I do? Not what could I do. Not what pays well. Not what sounds impressive. But what should I do? Then the question deepened: What would change the world? The answer came back steady and clear: Agency. Knowledge. The power to decide. Education. But then I argued with myself. If education is the key, why is it failing so many? Why are young people graduating without confidence, without direction, without empowerment? My answer: Fear. Trauma. Inadequacy. Lack of resources. Unresolved pain. You cannot educate a nervous system that is in survival mode. You cannot cultivate agency in someone who has never felt safe enough to choose. You cannot teach decision-making to someone paralyzed by shame. And you cannot expect people to step confidently into their future if no one has ever paused long enough to witness what they have already accomplished. That realization surprised me. Because I recognized it. I had learned to move on quickly. To achieve quietly. To transition without lingering in pride. To complete something and immediately look for the next task. Being unwitnessed doesn’t always create loud wounds. Sometimes it creates competence. Sometimes it creates self-sufficiency. Sometimes it creates the kind of person who becomes very good at witnessing others. That is when the path shifted. I did not go into mental health because I was fascinated by diagnoses. I went into mental health because I believe that restoring agency restores people. If fear is the barrier — address the fear. If trauma is the barrier — treat the trauma. If lack of resources is the barrier — build the resources. If no one has celebrated you — witness you. If no one has reflected your strength back to you — reflect it. That felt like upstream work. There is an irony in this. The very reasons I entered mental health — fear, trauma, lack of empowerment — are now often politicized, misunderstood, or weaponized. Labels can define instead of liberate. Systems can entrench instead of empower. But my conviction has not changed. If the root problem is fear — send me. If the root problem is trauma — send me. If the issue is lack of resources — send me. Not because I have all the answers. But because I believe deeply in agency, knowledge, and the power to decide. And because I know what it feels like to move forward without being witnessed — and how powerful it is when someone finally says: I see you. That mattered. You did something hard. 🌿 Good Beet Reflection Where in your life have you moved on too quickly from something worthy of acknowledgment? Who witnessed your accomplishments growing up? Who did not? How has that shaped the way you show up for others now? What would it feel like to pause — just once — and let something be celebrated? The Good Beet grows underground first. But that does not mean it grows unseen. Sometimes the most radical act is simply to witness.

I learned from you what it means to live in service. Not the loud kind. The quiet kind. The kind that shows up every day without needing recognition. You served what you loved most—fully, faithfully, without complaint, without rest, without hesitation. This is how you loved my mother, your truest love. And this is how you loved us girls too. Steady. Present. Unassuming. Complete. I hold so many memories of you—moments that shaped how I move through the world—but what I want to name most clearly is this: I saw you. I saw the sacrifices. I saw you when you were sad. When you were frustrated, overwhelmed, overworked, underappreciated. I saw you searching. And still, you chose steadiness. You put on confidence. You protected joy. You carried what was heavy as if it were yours alone to bear. I didn’t know how to help you then. The closest I could come was joining you in your angry cleaning—no questions, no explanations. Just stepping in beside you. I understand now that this, too, was love. To notice what needs doing. To share the work without being asked. To enter quietly into the service of another. Thank you for being my Batman. Thank you for being my safe place. Thank you for being my Dad—for shielding me from the ugliness and dangers of the world for as long as you could. And when you couldn’t anymore, for standing with me, trusting me, and teaching me how to be resilient in my own body and life. What you gave was never just labor—it was nourishment. And it taught me that love is something you tend, daily, until it feeds others. 🌱Good Beet Reflection: What kind of love are you tending right now? What small, daily acts keep it alive and feeding others? What has fed you without being named as love? How might honoring it change the way you offer care going forward?

My mother is the neck—and the heart—of my family. When my recent relationships needed repair, she was the one who reached out. That surprised me. We had perfected the art of shunning. Silence could stretch for so long as my Dad could withstand it. Pride could calcify into distance. And yet, when it mattered most, she texted me- "Why raise your daughter to be a lady, when you can raise your daughter to be a warrior." Tonight, after an hour-long conversation—the kind that hadn’t happened organically in years—I remembered how central she was to my life before I “lost” her. It is almost hard to have her back because of how completely I had to say goodbye before. There is a grief that comes with death, and there is acceptance. But there is another kind of grief—the kind where the person is still walking around, still breathing, but no longer themselves. I experienced that kind. Watching her move through the world in a shell of who I knew her to be broke something in me. I didn’t grieve and move on. I fractured and scrambled for something to anchor me. She was my rock for so long. My anchor. When I believed she was lost to me, I had a breakdown—not dramatic, not cinematic—just the quiet unraveling of someone who suddenly realizes the ground beneath her feet was love, and that ground is gone. And yet, she has been sober for four years. Tonight, I felt her again. Not the shell. Not the survival version. Her. I thank you, Mom, for being my fighting spirit. You taught me to question. To be assertive. To stand up for the little guy. You were my first model of compassion with backbone. I grew up at a dinner table where you and Dad did not always agree—and that was a gift. I witnessed intelligent, passionate, compassionate dialogue. I learned that love does not require sameness. You taught me how to be strong as a woman. Asserting your thoughts at the table was one thing—but you ruled the house. “The man is the head, but the woman is the neck, and she can turn the head any way she wants.” I grew up laughing at that line, but I watched you live it. Strength without humiliation. Influence without domination. Power with warmth. There was a time I lost you. And when I lost you, I finally understood what you had been giving me all along—love, safety, reassurance, peace. I was angry for a long time. Angry at the loss. Angry at the helplessness. Angry that I needed you so much. But I am forever grateful that you are back. And I am unapologetic for my part in bringing you back. I love you with my whole heart and soul. You are my angel standing by. I still don’t have language big enough for what your love has meant to me. I’m underselling it even now. But I remember this: my middle sister and I used to argue over who got to sleep next to you after Dad left for work. We finally made an every-other-day system to keep it fair. But truthfully? We both just wanted to be close to you. That was it. We just wanted to be near our safe place. And I still do. I love you. 🌿 Good Beet Reflection: Lost and Found Some relationships do not die — they disappear. Sometimes slowly. Sometimes dramatically. Sometimes in a way that leaves you questioning your own memory of what once was. Reflection Questions Have you ever “lost” someone who was still alive? What did that loss feel like in your body? When you think about your anchor person — who comes to mind? What did they give you that you didn’t realize you depended on? Is there someone in your life who has come back — in sobriety, in healing, in clarity, in repentance, in growth? What emotions coexist inside that reunion? Relief? Hesitation? Joy? Guardedness? What part did you play in the repair — even if it was just refusing to fully let go? If you could sit beside your “safe place” again — what would you say now that you couldn’t say then? Gentle Practice Tonight, consider writing a short letter to the person who was once your anchor. It does not have to be sent. It only has to be honest. You might begin with: “When I lost you…” “What I never told you was…” “I was angrier than I knew because…” “What your love gave me was…” Healing does not erase what happened. It honors that something mattered deeply enough to grieve. And sometimes — if we are fortunate — the neck turns again, the heart beats steady, and what was lost is found in a new way. 🌿

There were three different sets of parents, each holding their own child, each granted one wish. The first said, “I wish for my child to have success.” The second said, “I wish for my child to have happiness.” The third said, “I wish for my child to have goodness.” At first glance, the wishes seem nearly the same. But they grow into very different lives. A child raised toward success  may learn to strive, achieve, accumulate. Success often measures itself in titles, wealth, recognition, influence. It can build impressive structures. But it does not always nourish the soul. A life can look full — and still feel empty. A child raised toward happiness  may learn to chase joy, pleasure, comfort, freedom. Happiness feels warm and immediate. But happiness alone is often reactive — dependent on circumstances, feelings, desires being met. A life built only on happiness can drift toward impulsivity, toward comfort without character, toward gratification without grounding. But a child raised toward goodness  learns something different. Goodness is slower. It is quieter. It is rooted. Goodness asks, What is right? What is true? What builds rather than consumes? Goodness does not promise instant happiness. It does not guarantee visible success. But over time — across years, across seasons — goodness has a way of producing both. Not because they were chased. But because they were byproducts. When a person strives to be good — to act with integrity, to serve, to love faithfully, to endure, to choose what is right even when it costs — success becomes meaningful. Happiness becomes steady. Both grow naturally in soil that was never chasing them. The third parent understood something profound: If you raise a child toward goodness, you are raising them toward a life that can hold both success and happiness — without being ruled by either.

Shelby 🌱 You were conceived in a tent, on a very cold night. Before you existed, your dad taught me how to fish. I caught my first fish that night. Years later, a client told me that dreaming about fish often symbolizes pregnancy. We weren’t dreaming. We were living it. And you came anyway—unplanned, unmistakably wanted. You are my best and most beautiful catch. I was an Associate Manager at Mervyns when I was pregnant with you, in charge of Men’s, Children’s, and Home. My boss was… difficult. She hated my refusal to wear heels. May Jesus forgive her. You grew slowly at first, which was strange considering what you loved to eat. We started with nectarines. Then they went out of season, and you demanded sugar—ice cream cake, cookies, old-fashioned doughnuts. To balance things out, I ate In-N-Out cheeseburgers. A lot of them. I single-handedly fattened my coworkers. Your dad can confirm this by the receipts piled in the car console. When I was “fat enough” and ready to evict you, the internet told me tomatoes might help. Your dad came home to find me absolutely gorging on tomatoes. It did not work. Princess, you were not rushed. The day after Christmas, riding in the back of Grandpa’s truck on the way home from shopping, I felt it— maybe you’re coming.  Back at the Yucaipa house, the discomfort wouldn’t leave. Grandma looked at me and said, “We need to tell the boys it’s time.” We left around 11 p.m.—your dad, Uncle Kenny, and me—driving toward Zion. At a Chevron in Temecula (you know the one), I waited for the bathroom. Then warm water ran down my leg. Not something I could stop. Not something I could will away. You decided. The clerk was rude. I left your amniotic fluid on the floor. And in a detail that feels spiritually accurate for you, one of Grandpa’s dogs had pooped outside the door earlier, and we didn’t clean it up. You have always been unimpressed by decorum. We arrived at the hospital. I peed again—nervous bladder. Everyone was called around 1:30 a.m. Family slept in trucks and chairs. Grandma and your dad stayed with me. Your other grandma ran in while I was pushing you out. You waited until 1:39 p.m. to present yourself. They had given me morphine. You fell asleep. Then Pitocin. You woke right up. Forty minutes of pushing later, your beautiful face arrived. A nurse briefly thought your swollen anatomy meant you were a boy. You were not. You were a beautiful, Asian-looking baby with lips so full they looked professionally done. Those lips are your dad’s gift to you. You will never need lip plumping. You were the first grandchild on both sides. Everyone who could be there, was. Your dad and I argued over your name. I won’t say what ultimately led us to it, but I will say this: your name was never accidental. Shelby— willow farm . Earthy. Rooted. Flexible. Strong. You are my princess of the dirt. You like pretty things, but you are the first to dig in. Dirt doesn’t bother you—it encourages you. Like the willow, you bend without breaking. Firstborns are often burdened with expectations. I thought you were my hope and dream. You taught me something better. You are not my dream fulfilled. Your existence is the dream. Your life is your own. And I am so proud of the way you live it.

I don’t know what Good Beet is yet. I once imagined it as a kind of digital Pay It Forward—a place where people could record small acts of kindness. Each act could be traced backward and forward, mapped visually, telling the quiet story of how goodness moves through the world in ordinary hands. I wasn’t sure how to begin something like that. I told my younger sister one idea: a QR code people could pass along, inviting whoever received it to share what had been done for them and what they chose to do next. The goodness would ripple outward, one story at a time. I told her my dramatic starting point would be to give a stranger in a grocery store $100 and the code—no instructions, no pressure, no explanation. She laughed at me. A few weeks later, at 6:45 a.m., I was in the drive-thru at our local Moxie Java, still disheveled from hot yoga, buying coffee for my family’s Wednesday coffee day. I was fiddling with my phone when a woman walked up to my open window. I looked up and she extended her hand. Inside it was a crisp five-dollar bill. “I just saw you sitting here,” she said, “and I wanted to give you this and wish you a wonderful day.” I was so startled that I’m not sure I declined politely. I think I said, “Are you sure?” She insisted. I thanked her and said something I don’t usually say to strangers: Bless you. Between that moment and the pickup window, my mind spiraled. Why me? Was this random—or not random at all? Was I supposed to do something with this? Was I being tested? Was I meant to be a “Good Beet”? I put the bill in the center console. When I paid and the barista asked if I wanted to leave a tip, I glanced at it again. Should I get rid of this now? I wondered. Should I offload the responsibility so I don’t have to figure out what to do with it? I tipped on my card, but not five dollars. A half-kindness, I told myself. I would decide later. On the drive home, one of the four coffees tipped over. I watched it in slow motion, convinced I could still save it. The lid stayed on—until it didn’t. Espresso spilled across the floor. In that minute, I wondered whose coffee it was. If it was my daughter’s, would I go back out immediately to replace it? Of course I would. Then I realized she wouldn’t even be awake for hours, and I caught myself thinking maybe I could go later. When I got home, I learned it was mine. And I felt instantly ashamed that I had mentally delayed her comfort while protecting my own. I delivered the remaining coffees, returned to the truck, and drove three minutes to the other Moxie. I pulled the five-dollar bill from the console and thought, She told you to have a wonderful day. No use crying over spilled milk—or espresso. Did she somehow foresee the spill? Was the bill meant to be passed on immediately? I don’t think so. I think it was meant for me. And maybe that’s the point. Goodness isn’t a transaction or a relay race. It isn’t something you’re required to redistribute perfectly or immediately. Goodness is something you carry. Something that can move through you when you’re ready—and sometimes, something you simply need to receive. Maybe it wasn’t selfish to keep it. Maybe it was human. I wish I knew who that woman was. I wish I could tell her that her small, unprompted kindness stayed with me far longer than the coffee did. And maybe that’s what Good Beet is—not a platform yet, not a plan—but a way of noticing how goodness already moves among us, quietly, imperfectly, and exactly when we need it most.

In a garden known for its competitions, every vegetable believed it had to be extraordinary. The carrots stretched tall and straight, whispering about symmetry. The tomatoes polished their skins with morning dew. The pumpkins measured themselves daily. And then there was a beet. She was round—but not perfectly round. One side dipped slightly inward. A faint scar marked where a worm once tried to nibble. She grew in soil that was sometimes too dry, sometimes too wet. She did her best with what she was given. Each year, the Great Harvest judged the crops. The vegetables would tremble as the Gardener walked through the rows. “Too small.” “Too crooked.” “Too late blooming.” The beet tried to grow straighter. She twisted herself toward the sun until her stem ached. She compared herself to the carrots and tried to elongate. She drank too much rain one season hoping to swell larger, only to crack slightly at the top. “I will be perfect next year,” she told herself. But next year, the soil was rocky. And the year after that, the wind was relentless. And still—she grew. One afternoon, exhausted from striving, she whispered to the soil, “Why can’t I be enough?” The soil, who had seen many seasons, replied gently: “You think the carrots do not bend underground? You think the pumpkins do not crack in heat? You see only what stands above the surface.” The beet paused. She had never considered what was hidden. That evening, instead of stretching painfully toward the sun, she rested. She let her leaves settle. She drew nutrients slowly. She allowed her scar to remain a scar. When Harvest Day came, the Gardener lifted her from the earth. Her shape was imperfect. Her skin bore marks of wind and worm and weather. But when the Gardener sliced her open, her color was deep—rich crimson spirals layered within. The Gardener smiled. “This one,” he said, “grew through drought and storm. This one did not quit.” The carrots were tall. The tomatoes were smooth. The pumpkins were large. But the beet had depth. She had not grown perfectly. She had grown faithfully. And the soil whispered once more: “Effort nourishes more than perfection. Resilience flavors the root. You were always enough.” From that day forward, the beet grew not to impress the garden—but to honor the season she was given. And in doing so, she flourished. 🌱 Good Beet Reflection • Where are you twisting yourself toward perfection at the cost of your peace? • What “scar” in your life tells a story of resilience rather than failure? • If effort mattered more than outcome, how would you move differently this week? • What would it look like to rest without calling it quitting? • Where might self-compassion help you grow deeper rather than just taller? 🌱 Good Beet Practice This week, instead of asking: • Was I perfect? Ask: • Was I faithful to the season I am in? • Did I show up? • Did I try? • Did I rest when I needed to? Growth is not linear. Worth is not earned. Depth often grows unseen. You are not required to be flawless to be valuable. You are required only to grow—again and again

Henry 🌱 You may not want to hear this, but your birth was calculated. I hoped for you. So much so, that I encouraged your dad to have sex with me, which wasn't hard- "That's what she said.." (Relax. You can handle the gritty.) You were conceived in the room you know well in our Murrieta home. The sun was out. I don’t know why I remember that, but I do. I took the pregnancy test in the purple room. I walked out, laid next to your dad, and told him we were having another baby. He was thrilled. Then he went to work. At the 20-week ultrasound, the nurse said—multiple times—“He has a weina.” The moment I heard that, I knew your name was Henry. I didn’t tell your dad right away because he enjoys arguing. I offered him Xander instead. We asked your sister to say both names. She said Henry spectacularly. It didn’t matter. You were already Henry to me. When Shelby was almost two, we went to the San Diego Zoo. I thought you were coming that night—early. I know now you just love the zoo. You were built from steak burrito especiales from Rubio’s and a nightly orange juice. And when I say nightly, I mean required , or there would be suffering. For me. For everyone. The last thing I ate before you were born was frozen yogurt, resting on my belly like a table. I told your dad to be ready. You slept in. Your dad went to work. I made Shelby breakfast. Then I took my very large belly into the shower, and my water broke. I knew it wasn’t shower water. It was you. Your dad turned around the moment I called. We went to Riverside Kaiser. Grandma took Shelby. We waited. And waited. I read Timeline  by Michael Crichton. Grandma suggested naming you Merrick. He’s a good character. But he is not a Henry. When it was time, I had an epidural and thought I needed to poop everywhere. I tried to cover my own bunghole. The nurses panicked. You were coming—fast. Ten minutes of pushing later, they placed you—bloody, enormous—on my belly. “He’s a nine-pounder,” they said. At first nursing, your massive baby hand rested on my breast and I thought, Am I nursing a giant?  I am not exaggerating. You had the biggest baby hands I have ever seen. You wanted only food and closeness. You hated the hospital interruptions. And then they circumcised you. You slept for hours afterward. I hated that. I hated the idea of you being alone. I was nervous bringing you home. But the moment we got in the car, you slept. Your dad drove me through Starbucks for my first espresso in ten months. I looked at your bruised, purple-yellow face—like a tiny old man—and thought, This is one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever made. Later I learned I had bruised your face pushing you out. I’m sorry. And also—impressed. At home, you were calm. Safe. Still. I learned quickly: you know where you belong. And when you don’t, you make it known. You always have.

Some People Believe... My children were exposed to religion the way I once understood it myself—factually. Some people believe this. Some people do that. I offered faith like a landscape you could walk through if you wanted, but never a road you had to take. I trusted that if belief mattered, it would find them in its own time, the way I hoped it would one day find me. Now they are on their own paths. They sit beside me in church, quietly drawing on their notepads, secretly enjoying the sermons while pretending not to listen. My daughter has begun to take responsibility for praying at dinner, speaking to the Lord as if He were sitting right there at the table—casual, familiar, unafraid. Her brother makes faces. It feels like a parable already. The Holdout My son surprises me most. Once, when he was barely able to read, he walked into a historic church, picked up a hymn book, and sang hymns—perfectly—on his own. No prompting. No instruction. Just sound and confidence and memory that felt older than him. At the time, I was shocked. I thought this must mean the Holy Spirit is already within him.  I assumed that moment would mark something clear and linear. And yet, in our family, he is the holdout. Not resistant exactly—just thoughtful, careful, unwilling to surrender his agency too easily. He contends most with an idea I once offered him: that conscience is the Holy Spirit. For him, that framing feels dangerous. If conscience is God, then where is choice? Where is freedom? He worries that belief would mean he has none. I have tried to clarify— conscience is the voice, but the choice is always your own.  Still, the tension remains. And I see now that this tension itself is holy. What I Am Learning to Release I have been surprised by my daughter—by the joy, love, and comfort she has found in church. And I am learning to be surprised without trying to manage the outcome. I need to give this to the Lord. To trust that He will guide my daughter to remain true in His word—not because I watch carefully, but because He does. And to trust that my son will one day see what is already true: that he has always been guided by goodness, that the choices he has made have been his own, and that most of them bend naturally toward love, justice, and care. Perhaps the Spirit has been quieter with him, or perhaps simply less named. What Faith Looks Like Now Faith, I am learning, is not always immediate agreement. Sometimes it is resistance that still leans toward goodness. Sometimes it is hymn-singing before belief. Sometimes it is prayer spoken casually at the dinner table. And sometimes it is a mother standing back, hands open, trusting that what she cannot orchestrate has already been held. 🌱 Good Beet Reflection Where have you mistaken certainty for faith—or resistance for absence? What might change if you trusted that goodness itself is already a form of guidance?

When my children were young, I was unsure of my faith. Not hostile to it. Not opposed. Just unconvinced. So I did not teach them to grow within it. I spoke of faith and religion the way one speaks of geography or temperament— some people believe this —hoping that one day they would arrive at their own conclusions, the way I assumed I would eventually arrive at mine. I wanted their beliefs to be chosen, not inherited. I wanted openness more than certainty. Now my children are teenagers. And now, I am fully invested in my faith. They watch me sing at church—hands lifted, eyes closed, voice unguarded. They watch me praise the Lord with my whole body. And I can feel it: the mild embarrassment, the sideways glances, the quiet amusement that says, "We love Mom's weirdness." I suspect they think I am a little silly. And I cannot discount that, in their place, I would have thought the same. When the Voice Tightens There are days when I try to sing and my throat closes. Not because I don’t know the words. Not because I don’t believe them. But because my body knows something my mind hasn’t finished naming yet. The voice tightens when emotion arrives before permission. We like to think worship comes from confidence—clear notes, steady breath, lifted hands. But sometimes worship comes from a body that is holding grief, fear, gratitude, or longing all at once. Sometimes the voice doesn’t rise because it is already heavy with truth. I used to think the tightness meant I was doing it wrong. Now I think it means I am close. The Body Keeps the Prayer When emotion surfaces, the body responds first. The chest constricts. The breath shortens. The throat narrows, as if to protect what is tender. This is not resistance. It is wisdom. Before words were language, breath was prayer. Before melody, sound. Before sound, presence. The body remembers this order even when we forget it. So when my voice tightens, I stop trying to sing through  it. I breathe. I hum. I soften. I let worship be quieter than I planned. Lower. Softer. Slower. There is a strange permission that comes from singing lower and softer than feels impressive. It strips away performance and leaves only offering. When I sing this way, my voice may shake. It may crack. It may barely rise above a whisper. But it is honest. And honesty, I am learning, is not a lesser form of worship—it is a deeper one. When Tears Appear Tears used to feel like interruption .Now they feel like accompaniment. If tears come, I no longer stop immediately. I stay with the breath. I stay with the hum. I let the sound tremble instead of forcing it steady. This teaches the body something sacred: Emotion does not require silence. Vulnerability does not require control. Sometimes the most faithful sound is an unfinished note. Enough Is Enough (in the best way) When I finish—whether it was one line or one breath—I place my hand on my chest and remind myself: That was enough. Not because it was polished. Not because it was complete. But because it was real. 🌱 Good Beet Reflection Where does your body hold prayer before your words can speak it? What happens if you let worship be quieter, slower, or unfinished today?

Baptism — April 30, 2024 On April 30, 2024, I was baptized by my father—a true believer. I like to choose. I like to control. And yet, I keep finding that what lies outside my control becomes the most interesting part of my existence. The timing of my parents’ visit was practical. The day that worked best for my baptism was also practical. It just happened to fall between Good Friday and Easter Sunday. As someone who loves symbolism, I couldn’t have chosen it better—even if I tried. My Testimony I have watched many people be baptized from the pulpit of a church. I never understood the relationship they described having with God. I did not feel His touch or the love they spoke of. As an adolescent, my father asked me one night at dinner if I wanted to be baptized. To his disappointment, I plainly told him no. Despite the pain this may have caused him, I am glad that was my answer. I was not ready to receive salvation. I needed to experience the world—to know both its good and its evil. I needed to question science, philosophy, psychology, and theology. I needed to experience loneliness, loss, and personal suffering. I needed to wrestle with unanswered prayers—and to eventually realize they were not unanswered at all. They were simply not granted, because I was praying to avoid the very suffering that would allow me to grow. I needed to know that I was worthy of salvation—not because my Father graciously deemed it so, but because I came to know myself as worthy of Him. I now believe the Spirit of God manifests within me as resistance to tyranny, evil, injustice, and cruelty. This Spirit has always lived in me—even when I fought against its existence. It has always compelled me to speak for the vulnerable, to seek truth, and to try to heal and guide others. I am not sure whether I chose the Snake River, or whether it chose me. This has been a recurring realization in my life—the mystery of choice. I came hoping to cleanse the snakes within me, or at least to understand them, so they might be redeemed. I am brave enough to want to know more. I am open enough to feel Your compassion, acceptance, and love. I am humble enough to admit my inadequacies and embrace my quirky imperfections, knowing they serve a purpose and touch others who are in need. Facing fear does not mean becoming less afraid. It means developing more courage. More faith. And for that, I thank You for making me strong, brave, trusting, and honest. I wanted to be baptized in cold water. I needed to feel physical suffering—only a fraction of what Your Son suffered—so that I might know Him better. I accept both the suffering and the love You may place upon me. I am not a hugger. For a long time, I thought that meant God was not a hugger for me either—and that is why I could not feel the love others described. But now I realize something different: I have always been listening. I have always heard His voice. God is good. Let His goodness cleanse me. “Thus, by their fruit, you will know them.” — Matthew 7:10 Location: River Canyon Trail — where it felt right. My Father’s Words Daily Prayer Thank you for this day Thank you for every day you have given me Thank you for every day you give me after Forgive me my sins Bless my family and keep them healthy In Jesus’ name In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost Amen Baptism Prayer Thank you for this day Thank you for every day you have given us Thank you for every day you give us after Today I am a fisherman of souls Allow me to be an instrument of Your will I do this in Jesus’ name In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost Amen “Do you, Brandy Leigh, accept Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior, forsaking all others?” “I do.” “In Jesus’ name.” Then he said: “Into the water you go—and you are saved.” 🌱 Good Beet Reflection Where have you waited to say yes—not out of fear, but out of honesty? What suffering have you tried to pray away that may have been shaping you instead? In what ways has God’s voice been present in your life, even when His presence did not look or feel the way you expected? Sit with these questions gently. Notice what rises without forcing an answer. Grace often arrives exactly where it feels right.