There is an old rose garden not far from where I live.
Every spring it bursts into color, overflowing with blossoms so full and fragrant that people stop just to admire it. Children wander along the pathways. Couples linger a little longer than they planned. Cameras appear from pockets. Conversations soften.
But if you were to visit that same garden in late winter, you might think something terrible had happened.
The bushes look smaller.
Their branches have been cut back until they seem almost bare.
Scattered clippings lie on the ground like evidence of loss.
To someone who doesn't know gardens, it looks cruel.
Why would anyone cut away something that was alive?
The first time I watched a gardener prune a rose bush, I wanted to stop him.
He wasn't removing dead branches.
He was cutting healthy ones.
Strong ones.
Beautiful ones.
It didn't make sense to me.
He smiled when he noticed my expression.
Without looking up from his work, he said quietly,
"If I leave everything on the bush, it won't become what it was created to be."
I have never forgotten those words.
Because I think many of us spend our lives believing that love means holding on to everything.
God often teaches us that love also knows when to let go.
Not because we care less.
But because we have learned to trust Him more.
The Things We Inherit Without Realizing It
Every family passes something down.
Sometimes it's Grandma's china.
Sometimes it's recipes written on stained index cards.
Sometimes it's photographs tucked inside old Bibles.
But there are other inheritances that never sit on a shelf.
Ways of thinking.
Ways of loving.
Ways of surviving.
Beliefs spoken so often they begin to sound like truth.
"Don't depend on anybody."
"Handle it yourself."
"Don't let them see you cry."
"You have to be the strong one."
No one wrapped those lessons in beautiful paper.
No one called them inheritance.
And yet they shaped generations.
I think about my grandmother.
I think about women who rose before the sun and collapsed into bed long after everyone else had fallen asleep.
Women who worked because there was no other choice.
Women who carried burdens they never talked about.
Women who buried dreams because survival didn't leave room for dreaming.
They loved deeply.
They sacrificed willingly.
They endured quietly.
And because they believed that love looked like sacrifice…
many of us inherited the same belief.
Not because they wanted us to suffer.
Because they wanted us to survive.
There is a difference.
And perhaps that's one of the hardest truths to accept.
Survival is a gift for a season.
It was never meant to become a way of life.
When Survival Becomes a Family Tradition
I've often wondered how many of the things we call strength are actually inherited survival mechanisms.
Maybe your grandmother wasn't emotionally unavailable.
Maybe she was exhausted.
Maybe your mother wasn't hard.
Maybe life required her to become hard just to keep food on the table.
Maybe the women before us weren't cold.
Maybe they were carrying more than any one person should have been asked to carry.
When I think about them now, I don't judge them.
I honor them.
They did what they knew to do.
They kept their families alive.
They protected what mattered most.
But honoring their sacrifice doesn't mean I have to repeat every pattern.
Because survival has a way of becoming a family tradition if nobody questions it.
And somewhere along the line, many of us confused surviving with living.
We learned to keep going.
To keep giving.
To keep rescuing.
To keep fixing.
To keep saying yes.
Until saying no felt like betrayal.
We believed that love meant always being available.
Always being helpful.
Always carrying one more burden.
But I wonder…
What if some of the things we've been calling love were actually fear?
Fear of disappointing someone.
Fear of being misunderstood.
Fear of not being needed anymore.
Because when you've spent years believing your value comes from what you do for other people…
setting something down can feel terrifying.
It can even feel selfish.
But perhaps…
it's neither.
Perhaps it is simply the beginning of wisdom.
Growth Is Supposed to Change You
The older I've become, the more I've realized something that used to hurt my feelings.
People don't usually get upset when you change.
They get upset when your change requires them to change too.
There's a difference.
When I began creating healthy boundaries, people said,
"You've changed."
They were right.
I had.
And I hope I have.
I hope I'm not the same woman I was at twenty-five.
Or thirty-five.
Or even forty-five.
Growth is supposed to change us.
If Jesus can meet someone and completely transform the course of their life, why are we so surprised when following Him transforms ours?
Sometimes becoming more like Christ means becoming less available to dysfunction.
Sometimes becoming more like Christ means saying no without anger.
Sometimes becoming more like Christ means allowing people to experience the consequences of their own choices instead of rescuing them from every uncomfortable moment.
That isn't the absence of love.
It may be one of love's purest forms.
Becoming Someone New
My sister says something that always makes me smile.
Every now and then she'll laugh and say,
"I don't know where my sister went."
And every time she says it, I know exactly what she means.
She's remembering a version of me that existed decades ago.
The girl she laughed with.
The teenager she argued with.
The young woman she thought she knew.
That woman helped shape who I am.
I love her.
I'm grateful for her.
But she isn't supposed to still be here.
She served her purpose.
She carried me through one season of life.
And now...
God is growing someone else.
That doesn't mean I love my sister less.
It doesn't mean I think I'm wiser than anyone else.
It simply means I refused to stop becoming.
Sis.
I hope ten years from now your family says you've changed.
I really do.
I hope your children notice you're gentler.
I hope your friends notice you don't react to everything anymore.
I hope the people around you notice that your peace has become more important than proving your point.
I hope they notice that you're slower to judge.
Quicker to listen.
More willing to walk away from an argument than win one.
Because that is what maturity does.
It softens what pain once hardened.
The older I become, the less interested I am in being right.
And the more interested I become in becoming like Christ.
There is a difference.
One feeds the ego.
The other heals the soul.
The Day God Changed the Way I Helped People
One of the biggest changes God made in me had nothing to do with boundaries.
It had everything to do with advice.
There was a time when I believed helping people meant telling them what I thought.
Offering solutions.
Fixing problems before they even asked.
If someone was hurting, I wanted to make it better.
If someone was struggling, I wanted to solve it.
I genuinely believed I was helping.
Until one day...
the Lord convicted me.
Not harshly.
Not with condemnation.
The way He usually does.
Quietly.
Lovingly.
Gently.
And in that quiet place, one word came to my mind.
Trespassing.
It startled me.
Because that wasn't how I saw myself.
I wasn't trying to control anyone.
I wasn't trying to interfere.
I was trying to help.
But the Lord gently showed me something I had never considered.
Not every life is asking for my opinion.
Not every problem is asking for my solution.
Not every struggle belongs to me.
And every time I stepped into a place He had not invited me...
I was crossing a boundary He had never asked me to cross.
That realization changed me.
I stopped giving advice that wasn't requested.
I stopped assuming I knew what someone else needed.
I stopped believing I had to rescue everyone.
And do you know what I found?
Peace.
So much peace.
Because I realized something beautiful.
Some people may need help.
But they don't necessarily need it from me.
Maybe God wants to speak directly to them.
Maybe He wants them to wrestle.
Maybe He wants them to grow through the very thing I'm trying to remove.
Every time I rushed in...
I may have interrupted something sacred.
That thought humbled me.
It still does.
"Lord... Is This Mine?"
That experience changed my prayer life forever.
Now, before I step into someone else's situation...
I ask one simple question.
**"Lord...
is this mine?"**
It's such a small prayer.
But it has changed everything.
Because not every burden with my name on it actually came from God.
Some burdens came from guilt.
Some came from habit.
Some came from fear.
Some came from people who discovered I was willing to carry what belonged to them.
And for years...
I picked it up.
Without asking.
Without praying.
Without discerning.
Until eventually...
I couldn't carry anymore.
Then one morning, I read words that I had read dozens of times before.
Jesus said,
"My yoke is easy, and My burden is light."
— Matthew 11:30
That morning those words landed differently.
Because I suddenly wondered...
If my burden is crushing me...
maybe I'm carrying something He never handed me.
Sit with that for a moment.
If you cannot breathe beneath the weight...
perhaps some of that weight never came from God.
Maybe it came from expectations.
Maybe it came from people pleasing.
Maybe it came from trying to keep everyone happy.
Maybe it came from believing you are responsible for outcomes that only God controls.
That realization changed my prayers.
I stopped asking,
"Lord, help me carry all of this."
Instead, I began asking,
"Lord...
what can I put down?"
Those are two very different prayers.
One asks for more strength.
The other asks for more wisdom.
The God Who Waited
There is something I want to tell you that took me years to say out loud.
After everything happened with my daughters...
there was a season when I didn't want God around.
Even writing those words still feels vulnerable.
Especially because people expect those of us who love God to have the "right" response when tragedy comes.
We're supposed to say we ran straight into His arms.
I didn't.
I was angry.
I was confused.
I couldn't understand how a pastor...
a man entrusted with caring for people...
could do something so deeply evil.
I couldn't reconcile the God I loved...
with the pain my family was living through.
So I pulled away.
Not because I stopped believing.
Because my heart hurt too much to understand.
And do you know what God did?
He stayed.
He didn't shame me.
He didn't leave because I had questions.
He didn't punish me because I wrestled.
He waited.
Like a loving Father sitting quietly on the porch, watching the road, knowing His daughter would come home when she was ready.
Patiently.
Quietly.
Faithfully.
Until one day...
He began bringing me home.
Not through fear.
Not through guilt.
Not through condemnation.
But through wonder.
That is the God I know today.
The One who never forces.
Never manipulates.
Never controls.
He simply loves.
Steadily.
Patiently.
Completely.
And perhaps...
that's why boundaries matter so much.
Because real love never controls.
Real love gives room for God to do what only God can do.
Sometimes love stays close.
Sometimes love steps back.
Both can be holy.
Both can be faithful.
Both can be love.
Tea at Today's Table
This week, my tea reminds me of something I've been learning for years.
Steeping takes time.
You cannot rush it.
If you pull the tea too soon, it never becomes what it was created to be.
People are much the same.
Growth cannot be forced.
Healing cannot be controlled.
Transformation belongs to God.
Maybe that's why I've learned to pray less about changing people...
and more about trusting God with the people I love.
Return Practice
Hold your warm cup for a moment.
Take one slow breath.
Now quietly ask the Lord:
"Is this burden mine?"
If the answer is no...
imagine placing it into His hands.
You don't have to pick it back up.
From My Journal
The greatest freedom I have found wasn't learning how to say "no."
It was learning that someone else's healing was never my responsibility.
My responsibility is obedience.
God's responsibility is transformation.
That realization has given me more peace than I ever imagined possible.
A Moment at The Table
Perhaps you've spent years believing that loving people means carrying them.
Perhaps you've confused rescuing with faithfulness.
Perhaps you've believed that protecting your peace was somehow selfish.
Friend...
Jesus loved perfectly.
And even He walked away from crowds.
He rested.
He prayed alone.
He allowed people to make their own choices.
He trusted the Father with outcomes that were never meant to rest on human shoulders.
Maybe that's your invitation today.
Not to love less.
But to love differently.
To love with wisdom.
To love with peace.
To love with open hands instead of exhausted shoulders.
Journal Questions
-
What burden have I been carrying that God never asked me to carry?
-
Where have I confused rescuing with loving?
-
Is there a relationship where healthy distance might actually create room for God to work?
-
What would change if I trusted God with outcomes I cannot control?
A Simple Prayer
Father,
Thank You for loving us with wisdom.
Teach us to recognize the difference between compassion and control.
Help us release burdens You never asked us to carry.
Give us the courage to create healthy boundaries without guilt.
Remind us that loving someone well does not always mean rescuing them.
And when it is time to step back, help us trust that Your hands are stronger than ours could ever be.
Teach us to love like Jesus.
Amen.
Download This Week's Journal Page
If you'd like a beautiful printable version of this week's reflection questions, I've created one for you.
Print it.
Place it inside your journal.
Or save it for a quiet morning with a cup of tea.
This is my gift to you.
Download This Week's Journal Page: Reflections from The Table
🌿 Continue the Journey
If today's conversation encouraged your heart, I'd love to continue walking alongside you.
Whether it's through a warm cup of tea, a quiet Sunday conversation, or a simple moment of reflection, there's always a place for you here.
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