I live in a red brick house on the corner of one of our quiet neighborhood streets in Augusta, Georgia, a home I prayed for over the course of seventeen years before God opened all the right doors. Every time I pull into the driveway, I’m reminded that waiting seasons can feel endless while we’re living them, but they are never wasted. God’s timing may stretch us, but it is always intentional and often more beautiful than we can imagine.

People are often surprised when I tell them I’m an introvert. I know. I spent years greeting people at the front doors of our church, smiling and connecting. But the truth is, I recharge in quiet. I am happiest at home. Give me a cozy spot on the sofa, a good book, a craft project I can disappear into, and I feel restored. Even better if my best friend and husband of thirty years is right there beside me.

Home is my reset button. It’s where I breathe again, where my thoughts settle, my creativity flows, and my prayers become honest and unfiltered. It’s where God reminds me who I am when the world gets loud.