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For the one who is still praying for the same thing, many years later…

For the one who is still praying for the same thing, many years later…

by Kaitlyn Bouchillon | Aug 28, 2024 | Brave, Broken and Raw, Devotional, Faith, Grief, My Health Story

If you’ve been praying for the same thing for a really long time… Me too. And I think these 4:04am words typed in the notes app are meant for you. For twelve years, l’ve prayed for physical healing.* When the brain tumor was removed, insomnia began. Most...
Dear you, it’s okay to not be okay today.

Dear you, it’s okay to not be okay today.

by Kaitlyn Bouchillon | May 7, 2024 | (in)courage, Books, Broken and Raw, Devotional, Faith, Faithful, Family, Grief

I planted my heels firmly into the ground and, with both my hands and my voice shaking, read a prayer to close my grandfather’s funeral service. With the wind blowing and tears falling and God watching, I held the prayer written weeks in advance in my hands, printed...
God Will Meet Us in the Muchness

God Will Meet Us in the Muchness

by Kaitlyn Bouchillon | Apr 23, 2024 | (in)courage, Brave, Broken and Raw, Devotional, Easter, Faith, Grief

If you prefer audio, this article is also available as a podcast episode. The hunter-green box sat tucked among books in the antique store, a mystery hiding in plain sight. One word on the spine caught my eye: puzzle. As an author and a voracious reader, I’m naturally...
Hosanna, here, in the ashes.

Hosanna, here, in the ashes.

by Kaitlyn Bouchillon | Feb 14, 2024 | Beauty, Broken and Raw, Devotional, Easter, Faith, Faithful, Grief

I don’t know what today held for you, but I imagine it was a mix of things. I mean… Valentine’s Day + Ash Wednesday A both/and if there ever was one. Tonight the ashes of last year’s Palm Sunday palm fronds were smudged onto my forehead, the mark of the cross, a...
The Storm Is Never The End of the Story

The Storm Is Never The End of the Story

by Kaitlyn Bouchillon | Mar 13, 2023 | Broken and Raw, Devotional, Easter, Faith, Grief, Story

A couple walks arm in arm, runners sprint past, and grown men whiz by on bikes. A little boy cries crocodile tears as he tries to maneuver the trike with training wheels. The trail is full today, but so are the ditches on either side. A week of gray skies and pounding...
This Is Not Where Your Story Ends

This Is Not Where Your Story Ends

by Kaitlyn Bouchillon | Mar 3, 2021 | Broken and Raw, Devotional, Even If Not, Faith, Prayer

A few weeks ago, I walked into the living room, still groggily wiping sleep from my eyes and mentally thinking through my to-dos for the day, and immediately started blinking back tears. I planted the bulb in December, watered it through January, and kept waiting for...
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RECENT POSTS:

  • For the one who is still praying for the same thing, many years later…
  • Temples, Trails, and When God Says “No”
  • No Matter How Deep or Long or Dark the Night, This Remains
  • Dear you, it’s okay to not be okay today.
  • God Will Meet Us in the Muchness

MY BOOK // Even If Not: Living, Loving, and Learning in the in Between

Even If Not: Living, Loving and Learning in the in Between

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A four-word prayer when you’ve run out of words, A four-word prayer when you’ve run out of words, when you’re at a loss, when it feels like you’ve already said it all one hundred times: Holy Spirit, Your turn. Sometimes (so many times) this is all I have. That’s the entire prayer, start to finish. There are verses about interceding for one another—and that matters tremendously. There are verses about how Jesus is at the right hand of God interceding for us—right this actual second—and that’s truly astounding. But there’s also this… Right before the verse about God working things for good, Scripture says the Spirit prays and intercedes for us with wordless groans. I’m not discounting Romans 8:28—it’s been manna in the deserts and a lighthouse in various storms and hope through many long, dark nights. But today I’m struck by and stuck on what comes before, what’s present when we’ve run out of words, what remains when we’re overwhelmed and at a loss. In anguish and faith, holding the wild tension of heartbreak and hope—until Romans 8:28 is on display and Revelation 21 is our reality—there’s this. A four word plea and a promise He’ll say the rest. Pray the rest. Groan for you. Wail for you. Weep with you. Hope for you. Cry out for you. Palms open, deep breath, four words, the end. Holy Spirit, Your turn.⁣ Amen. 🙏🏼
Maker of the waters, we ask You to speak peace ove Maker of the waters, we ask You to speak peace over the chaos that is raging. In the Name of Jesus, the One who walks upon the storms that threaten to overtake, we declare that we aren’t going to drown. Instead, You’re teaching us to dance upon the waters, holding us up and holding true to Your word: You are greater than anything we face. Psalm 93 says “The sound of the water is loud; the ocean waves are powerful, but the Lord above is much greater.” And so we know: You see the other side, and You will see us through. Help us hear Your voice above the roar, Your never-failing promise behind every wave: Mightier than this, and this, and yes, even this, is Your love. Amen *This prayer is from my newest article. I wrote it in July, recorded this video the first week of September, and both were published at @incourage last week. The article talks about waters rising and how sometimes, it seems like the waves will get the last word. I’m honestly shaking my head at the timing, eyes wide and heart tender toward those impacted by hurricane Helene. Growing up in South Florida, well, we’ve weathered many hurricanes... but the devastation this week—it’s absolutely heartbreaking. All of my family live in states impacted by Helene. They’re doing okay, but my heart is heavy for their neighboring communities. If that’s you, please DM me! 💛 If you’d like to read “A Promise for When the Waves Just Keep on Coming”, comment below and I’ll send it to you via DM. Whether literal or metaphorical rising waters, I hope the full piece and the short prayer can meet you or someone you love right where you are today. 🙏🏼
So, Oswald Chambers⁣ said “Faith is deliberate So, Oswald Chambers⁣ said “Faith is deliberate confidence in the character of God whose ways you may not understand at the time.” There’s so very much I do not understand at this time, amen. This is the part that gets me, though—and gets me through when the waiting seems ridiculously and impossibly and frustratingly long: His character is worthy of deliberate confidence. So, maybe one day we’ll look back on the seasons where we tried our best to follow His lead one shaky but trusting step at a time, only to discover that all along God was teaching us to dance.⁣ Maybe when our hearts are weary and worried, when the days keep slipping by and adding up, the unexpected yet somehow extravagant beauty of small and simple ordinary things will remind us: Even here, even now, we are seen. Even here, even now, there is goodness to be found. Maybe we have clocks that tick and tock, but God holds time itself in His hands, and the work He does while we wait is just as important as whatever we’re waiting for in the first place. I don’t say that flippantly, oh no, I say it in faith as a woman desperately praying and waiting 14+ years in. In the things that don’t change, God provides manna to carry through. But then, flip it, in every unwanted change, God is unchanging. In every unknown, He’s sure to be faithful. And so we wait... and wait… but we wait with hope, watchful and expectant because the story isn’t over—not yet. The clock will tick on, the leaves will fall, the calendar pages will turn and we may strain our eyes looking for even the smallest hint of goodness here, smack in the middle of the very place where the storm rages and our legs shake as we stumble one step at a time. That very much may be, and it may be for a long time. But—He holds time and He holds us. We are safe to hope. We are held secure. Let’s learn to dance. 💃🏻🫶🏻
Words for a new week. 💛 120 books into 2024 and Words for a new week. 💛 120 books into 2024 and I have no earthly idea how many words read, but I can tell you these struck a chord—brought hope, made me think, invited me to slow, still, and consider. My annual list of ‘new nonfiction books you don’t want to miss this fall’ goes out in a few days, but this weekend I pressed pause on the list to re-read the already-underlined sentences that have stood out to me so far this year. There are literal hundreds (I mean—one book has 41 highlights, another 37…), but in the wisdom of looking back before looking forward, here’s a carousel of words to carry with you into the fall. Ps If you’d like to receive the fall book round-up list, let me know below in a comment and I’ll make sure it’s sent your way. 🫶🏻
It’s the Autumnal Equinox, the first day of fall It’s the Autumnal Equinox, the first day of fall, and it’s an actual 95 degrees here. And I’m just saying that sometimes seasons don’t change as quickly as we’d like them to. Somethings a thing, a situation, a diagnosis, a job, an in between, or an unknown drags out so. much. longer. than we thought it would. Sometimes the calendar doesn’t line up with our timetable. The season will shift—eventually. How things are today is not how they’ll always be, maybe not even how they’ll be tomorrow. But for now we’re here waiting for leaves to fall, for someone to call, for a positive test, for a benign report, for an open door, for an apology, for forgiveness, for for for… I could tell you the things you already know. I could say that times of waiting don’t equal wasted time. I could remind you that God is never late and He doesn’t make mistakes. That would all be true. But what I know is that waiting can be its own kind of exhausting. So I’ll just say to you what I need to hear on this Autumnal Equinox, when the calendar says “here it is!” but it’s just more of the same: You haven’t been forgotten. The Author is kind and He does not tease. You are seen by the One who is still writing. There is more to come. You are safe to hope. 🍃 Every day, every shift, every season. 🍂
All week I had to keep myself from canceling. It f All week I had to keep myself from canceling. It felt uncomfortable from the start because no thanks to all eyes on me, but I knew the real “why” and I knew what I’d say to a friend, so I said it to myself and bought gold balloons and we paused on a Sunday afternoon to mark it: 10k here on Instagram + 10 years of writing publicly (I started blogging in high school under an obviously fake name, because what about stalkers?! Lol bless. 100s of people read and commented, but only 4 friends knew. I’ll never forget what led to realizing this could be and was ministry, not just “that writing thing I do.” I purchased KaitlynBouchillon.com in 2014 and, well, here we are.) I manage social media accounts that are 10x this, so I know it may seem silly or strange to mark, but the honest to God truth is that it’s not about a number for me. It’s what it symbolizes. I said it at lunch and I mean it to my core: I didn’t cancel because I want to mark the still-here, still-showing-up of it all. I don’t want to be viral, I want to be faithful. The last two years have been the hardest of my life, and 90% of it isn’t online. I’ve wanted to blast details from the rooftops and I’ve wanted to shut this all down. Trying my very best to love well by keeping quiet, while still showing up here with honest words, has been a tightrope walk in every. single. post. But: 2014. But: ministry. But: the kindness of God to give me words to pass along, and then boomerang them back to me through YOUR words of encouragement over the years. So: Thank you, truly, for being here. Thank you for every. single. time. you’ve commented, liked, or shared a post. Thank you for buying my book and subscribing to my emails. Thank you for grace when I’m quiet and kindness when I’m here, for space to be a whole person and not a platform, for being friends. It might not seem like much to you; it means the world to me. Today was in celebration of small, steady, sometimes stubborn, still-here faithfulness. Today was a moment to mark a million others over the years. Today I held balloons and thought of you. For as long as God leads, I’m here. And I’m so glad you’re here, too. 🫶🏻
I’ve been quiet about Italy, processing in perso I’ve been quiet about Italy, processing in person but unsure how to string words together for The Internet. My camera roll is filled but pixels are limited. The scenery is beautiful — true. It was the most exhausting and expensive week of my year — also true. Pixels don’t show the sickness that arrived, the cost involved, working 8:30am-2:30am every day of a retreat or the so-not-okay words waiting to greet me upon arriving home. Instead, delicate flowers. Instead, the most intricate artwork. Instead, cobblestone streets and colanders on the wall. Here’s the thing though: It’s all (!) true. Because: both/and. It’s really all of life, everywhere, every time, isn’t it? There’s always more to the story, a thousand words behind every picture. So we find words to tell it true, to tell it slant, to share a glimpse that is honoring and honest and hopefully hope-full. And somehow, the glimpse of goodness grows and becomes… gooder. The editor in me is cringing but I bet you get it. When we gently hold the complicated tension of the difficult and the delightful, it’s then that we see it prove true: goodness is guaranteed. Even in the behind-the-scenes, there is still beauty that takes your breath away, still laughter that surprises and flowers that stun just as much as Michelangelo’s David. Goodness and mercy are literally chasing us down (Psalm 23:6), in the “both” and in the “and”, and so they have to be ever-present, behind the metaphorical camera and before, beside us every step and with us in every season. The pixels we see online are just a fraction of the both/and story we’re each living. As my friend said, “there’s always more outside the frame.” The ‘more’ might be this, that, or the other… but there’s more goodness there, too. God, I don’t want to miss it. God who sees us, give us eyes to see. So: Here’s a glimpse. :) Expansive skies and tiny petals, ivy creeping and a pink sign of life parked outside the bakery. True goodness, sown as a seed. Real beauty, standing the test of time. Both/and. (Are you in a both/and? Raise your hand.🙋🏻‍♀️👇🏻 Being in it together makes it gooder.)
It’s been a year since I recorded “the labyrin It’s been a year since I recorded “the labyrinth video”, another year of days since I publicly posted the words I’ve privately prayed so many times I’ve lost count: How much longer, God? How much longer until the miracle I’ve been asking for for over a decade is the miracle that I receive? I’d really like a timeframe because it feels like I’m just walking laps year after year. The summer sun beat down, warming the carefully arranged stone pavers that weave in and out, back and forth, and I said out loud in that empty garden: “This is what it feels like right now, God. Each step brings me closer but I’m literally wandering in circles here. All I can do is take the next step, trusting the path will lead where it has promised but not knowing what it will bring along the way or how long it will take.” There are waiting rooms I’ve been in for so long now that I know every piece of art on the wall, every chair that wobbles, every crinkle and crease of old magazines stacked on the side table. Fourteen years have passed and I’m still praying and believing, trusting and weeping, asking and hoping. Still walking. On one of those literal laps, God reminded me of two things: daily manna + how many people in Scripture waited (I’ll post a non-exhaustive list in Stories). I sat with that even as I walked, and weeks later, on another afternoon garden visit, I recorded a video that says: Sometimes the miracle that we receive is not the answered promise arriving tomorrow. Sometimes the miracle we receive is the manna that carries us through *to* tomorrow... and miraculously, it turns out to be no less of a miracle, the grace that sustains when winter endures. Another year has passed. I could tell you about hope that arrived and could pixelate heartbreak that crushed, but really I just want to say: I’m still here walking laps, but God is here too. My testimony is simple: He has held true. One day “how much longer?” will be no longer. One day everything will be colored the shade of restoration. But for today and one year from now and until forever, there’s one thing we can know for sure: We will not walk alone. Hope will walk us carry us all the way Home.
Words for the coming days… Take whichever one(s) Words for the coming days… Take whichever one(s) you need. 🫶🏻 Here’s to September. May we hold onto hope instead of holding our breath, choose “even if” instead of “what if,” look for the light when the night is long, and never stop watching for redemption.
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