There’s a popular idea that we should all have a bucket list—a running tally of things to do before we die. Skydive. See the Grand Canyon. Run a marathon. Eat gelato in Italy.

I don’t have anything against those lists. In fact, some days a plane ticket and a passport sound like very holy things.

Over the last few years, through ministry, motherhood, adoption, and especially through grief—I’ve found myself less interested in a list of things to do before I die and more drawn to a list of ways I want to live while I’m still here.

Not just any list. A reversed bucket list. Why “Reversed”? The word revered means something honored, cherished, held with deep respect.

I’ve walked with people at hospital bedsides, gravesides, and kitchen tables covered in tissues and coffee mugs. I’ve listened to the things they wish they’d done differently, and the things they’re so grateful they did.

Over and over, I’ve noticed:
What we most regret at the end is rarely “I never saw Paris.”
It’s “I never said I’m sorry.”
“I never slowed down long enough to enjoy my kids.”
“I never let myself rest.”
“I never told them how much I loved them.”

So my “reversed bucket list” isn’t about collecting experiences to impress anyone. It’s about cultivating a life that, when I look back on it—whether that’s next year or decades from now—I can say:
I honored what mattered most. I loved well. I paid attention. I didn’t waste the pain. What Is a Reversed Bucket List? For me, a revered bucket list is:

• Less about achievement, more about alignment
• Less about spectacle, more about substance
• Less about “how much can I squeeze in,” more about “what am I being called to live out?”

It’s a list of:

• Practices I want to grow into
• Relationships I want to tend
• Risks I feel nudged to take
• Ways I want to honor my body, my calling, my grief, and my God

Some of the items are small and ordinary. Some are big and a little terrifying. Some are tender and rooted in loss. All of them, I hope, are grounded in reverence—for God, for this one wild and precious life, and for the people I’ve loved and lost along the way (including my son, Nickolas).How grief shaped This list. I can’t talk about a revered bucket list without talking about grief.

When you’ve stood in the delivery room and held a baby you don’t get to bring home…
When you’ve sat with families who are planning funerals instead of first birthdays…
When you’ve listened to the quiet “I thought we’d have more time” whispered in countless hospital rooms…
You start to see time differently.
Grief has a way of stripping life down to the essentials. It asks hard questions:

• What actually matters?
• What am I postponing because I’m afraid?
• What am I clinging to that doesn’t give life anymore?
• Where am I refusing joy because I’m afraid it will hurt again?

My reversed bucket list grew out of those questions. It’s my way of saying:
I don’t want to wait until the end to start living the life I’m meant to live. I want to practice it now, in the middle of laundry and sermons, late-night worries and all the messy, ordinary, holy things. What you can expect from this series. This post is the beginning of a new series where I’ll be sharing pieces of my reversed bucket list—one entry at a time.

Some of the things you’ll see on it:

• Commitments to rest and Sabbath (even when my to-do list screams otherwise)
• Ways I want to show up more honestly in my relationships
• Creative risks I’ve been quietly avoiding (hello, books and wild ideas)
• Practices for honoring grief and making space for joy at the same time
• Acts of courage that feel small on the outside but huge on the inside

For each item, I’ll share:

• Why it’s on the list
• Where it came from (often a story from ministry, motherhood, or grief)
• How I’m actually trying to live it out in real life—not in some Pinterest-perfect fantasy

My hope is not that you’ll copy my list, but that you’ll feel invited to consider your own. You may already have a bucket list taped inside a journal or tucked in a notes app somewhere. Or maybe you’ve never written one because life has felt too heavy, too busy, or too uncertain.

Wherever you are, I want to invite you into a gentle question:

If you treated your life as something sacred and worthy of reverence, what would belong on your list?

Not the list you think you’re supposed to have.

Not the list that would look impressive on social media.

The list that would make you exhale and say, “Yes. That. That’s the life I want to live.”

In the weeks ahead, I’ll be opening up my own list—messy, unfinished, and in progress. I’ll be honest about where I’m still learning (spoiler: that’s most of it). And I’ll be cheering you on as you name what matters most in your own story.

At the end of the day, I don’t just want to die having checked off a list of activities. I want to live having honored a list of values, relationships, and holy callings.

That, for me, is what makes this a reversed bucket list.
​
Stay tuned—next time I’ll share the very first item on my list and the story behind it.

The Question about the Resurrection

27 Some Sadducees, those who say there is no resurrection, came to him 28 and asked him a question, “Teacher, Moses wrote for us that if a man’s brother dies, leaving a wife but no children, the man shall marry the widow and raise up children for his brother. 29 Now there were seven brothers; the first married and died childless; 30 then the second 31 and the third married her, and so in the same way all seven died childless. 32 Finally, the woman also died. 33 In the resurrection, therefore, whose wife will the woman be? For the seven had married her.”
34 Jesus said to them, “Those who belong to this age marry and are given in marriage; 35 but those who are considered worthy of a place in that age and in the resurrection from the dead neither marry nor are given in marriage. 36 Indeed they cannot die anymore, because they are like angels and are children of God, being children of the resurrection. 37 And the fact that the dead are raised Moses himself showed, in the story about the bush, where he speaks of the Lord as the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob. 38 Now he is God not of the dead, but of the living; for to him all of them are alive.”
(Luke 20:27-38)

God of the Living

Sometimes, Jesus got pulled into arguments that weren’t really about faith at all—they were about winning.
A group called the Sadducees, who didn’t believe in life after death, tried to stump him with a tricky question. They told a story about a woman who married seven brothers, one after another, because each one died before having children. Then they asked Jesus, “When everyone is raised from the dead, whose wife will she be?”

They weren’t asking because they cared. They wanted to prove that the idea of resurrection—of life beyond this one—was nonsense.

Jesus didn’t play their game. He lifted the conversation to a higher place. He said, “People in this life marry and are given in marriage, but in the life to come, it’s different. They don’t die anymore. They are like angels and are children of God.”

In other words: You’re asking the wrong question.

The question isn’t “Who belongs to who in heaven?”

The real question is, “What kind of life is God giving us right now?”

The Sadducees’ story treated the woman like a thing being passed around, not a person with her own worth. They missed the heart of God entirely.

Truthfully, we can make the same mistake. We get caught up in being right, in proving our point, in trying to make life or faith make sense on paper. But faith isn’t meant to be tidy—it’s meant to be lived.

Jesus reminds us that resurrection—the idea that life and love don’t end with death—isn’t something to argue about. It’s something to experience. It’s the power of God’s love that refuses to let darkness have the last word.

When Jesus calls us “children of the resurrection,” he’s talking about more than life after death. He’s talking about hope that rises now.

I think about parents who have buried a child and somehow learn to love again.
Or someone who climbs out of addiction.
Or a couple who rebuilds trust after betrayal.
Or an older person who finds new purpose after loss.

That’s resurrection in real time. It’s what happens when life insists on showing up again, even after everything seems broken.
We are not defined by our endings—but by the new beginnings that keep surprising us.

Then Jesus brings it all home. He reminds the crowd of the story of Moses and the burning bush. God said to Moses, “I am the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob.”

Jesus points out that God didn’t say I was their God—He said I am.

To God, they are still alive. Abraham still dreams. Sarah still laughs. Isaac still stumbles forward in faith. Jacob still wrestles with God. Their stories aren’t finished. And neither is yours.

When you pray, you’re talking to the same God who spoke from that burning bush, who freed people from slavery, who raised Jesus from the dead. That same God is not done with you.

Believing in resurrection isn’t about religion or memorizing verses—it’s about living like love wins. It’s waking up every day and choosing hope over fear.

When you forgive someone instead of getting even, that’s resurrection.
When you show up for someone who can’t give anything back, that’s resurrection.
When you hold on to hope after bad news, that’s resurrection too.
This story isn’t really about heaven at all. Maybe it’s about learning to see life differently, right here.

God is truly the God of the living, then every breath, every act of kindness, every bit of courage matters. Death might make noise—but it doesn’t get the final say.
​
So keep living like it’s true. Because it is.

As a pastor, I'm often asked about sacred spaces—what makes a place holy, and why do we need them? After eight years in ministry and a lifetime of seeking God in unexpected places, I've come to understand that sacred space is far more than stained glass and steeples.

When most people think of sacred space, they picture a church sanctuary. Yes, those spaces are sacred. The light filtering through colored glass, the worn wood of pews that have held generations of prayers, the altar where countless lives have been transformed—these places hold power.

Sacred space isn't confined to buildings with crosses on top.

A sacred space is anywhere the veil between heaven and earth grows thin. It's any place where we encounter the divine, where we feel God's presence so tangibly that our breath catches and our hearts open.

I've experienced sacred space in a hospital room where a family said goodbye to their newborn. I've found it in my garden, hands deep in soil, watching new life push through the earth. I've stumbled into it on a hiking trail, surrounded by trees that have been praising their Creator longer than I've been alive.

Sacred space happens wherever we make room for God.

Here's what I've learned: we don't just find sacred spaces—we create them. We consecrate the ordinary by bringing our whole selves, our honest prayers, and our open hearts.

Sacred space requires:

• Intention - We must choose to be present, to set aside distractions and show up fully
• Honesty - God meets us in our truth, not our pretense
• Openness - We must be willing to encounter God, even when it's uncomfortable
• Reverence - A recognition that we're standing on holy ground

You can create sacred space at your kitchen table during morning coffee with God. You can find it in your car during your commute, turning off the radio and turning toward prayer. You can establish it in a corner of your bedroom with a candle, a Bible, and a willing heart.

In my work with bereaved families, I've witnessed how grief transforms ordinary places into sacred ground. The spot where you scattered ashes. The bench where you sat with your loved one. The nursery that never held your baby.

These places hold our stories, our tears, our love. They become thin places where we encounter both our deepest pain and God's deepest comfort. They are sacred not because they're happy, but because they're true.

Perhaps the most overlooked sacred space is the one we carry with us always—our own bodies. As temples of the Holy Spirit, we are walking sanctuaries. Your heartbeat is a prayer. Your breath is worship. Your body, with all its scars and stories, is holy ground.

When we honor our bodies through rest, nourishment, and care, we're tending sacred space. When we allow ourselves to feel our feelings—even the hard ones—we're making room for God to dwell.

So where is your sacred space? Where do you meet God most fully?

Maybe it's in a church pew, and that's beautiful. Maybe it's on a hiking trail, in your garden, or in the quiet moments before dawn. Maybe it's in the midst of your grief, where God meets you in your breaking.

Wherever it is, I encourage you to protect it. Return to it. Let it shape you.

We all need places where we can shed our armor, speak our truth, and remember who we are and Whose we are. We need spaces where the sacred breaks through the ordinary and reminds us that we are never, ever alone.

May you find sacred space today. May you recognize the holy in the ordinary. May you know that wherever you are, whatever you're carrying, you can create a sanctuary simply by opening your heart to the One who is always, already there.

Luke 17:5–10 NRSV 
The Apostles said to the Lord, “Increase our faith!” The Lord replied, “If you had faith the size of a mustard seed, you could say to this mulberry tree, ‘Be uprooted and planted in the sea,’ and it would obey you.
Who among you would say to your slave who has just come in from plowing or tending sheep in the field, ‘Come here at once and take your place at the table’? Would you not rather say to him, ‘Prepare supper for me, put on your apron, and serve me while I eat and drink; later you may eat and drink’? Do you thank the slave for doing what was commanded?
So you also, when you have done all that you were ordered to do, say, ‘We are worthless slaves; we have done only what we ought to have done!’”

“Have you ever tried to move a tree? Not cut it down—move it. That’s what Jesus says faith can do. Imagine looking at a maple tree in your yard and saying: ‘Excuse me, Mr. Tree, could you just walk over there into Lake Erie for me?’ And the tree actually goes—roots, branches, squirrels and all—marching off like a cartoon. That’s the image Jesus gives.

Now, let’s be honest: that sounds ridiculous. I can barely move when I don’t want to, let alone a tree!”
“The disciples say to Jesus, ‘Increase our faith!’ They want more. Bigger. Stronger. But Jesus replies: ‘If you had faith the size of a mustard seed, you could say to this mulberry tree, “Be uprooted and planted in the sea,” and it would obey you.’

Then He tells a story about servants doing their work—reminding us that faith isn’t about showing off power. It’s about living humbly, doing the work God calls us to do, one small step at a time.”


“Can you even see this? This is a mustard seed. Tiny! Jesus says you don’t need giant, superhero faith. Just this much. Because it’s not about how big your faith is. It’s about how big your God is.”

“Sometimes we think: If only I had more faith… then I wouldn’t worry. Then I wouldn’t doubt it. Then I’d pray longer, or read the Bible every morning at 5 a.m. But let’s be real—most of us are just trying to keep up with laundry, homework, doctor’s appointments, and maybe squeeze in an episode of Netflix before we pass out.

God isn’t waiting for us to be spiritual superheroes. God is saying: ‘Bring me what you’ve got—even if it’s tiny, even if it’s shaky—and I can work with that.’”

And here’s the Lutheran part: faith itself is not our achievement. It’s God’s gift. Sola fide—we are saved by faith alone. But even that faith isn’t something we manufacture by trying harder. Luther said faith is created in us by the Holy Spirit through the Word of God. In other words, when you hear the gospel—when you hear that Christ died and rose for you—God plants faith in your heart like a seed. And even if that faith feels small, shaky, or uncertain, it’s still real faith because it clings to Christ.

That’s why Jesus points to the mustard seed. It’s not the size of our faith that matters; it’s the object of our faith. A weak faith in a strong Savior is still saving faith. Even when you can only pray, ‘Lord, I believe—help my unbelief,’ Christ holds onto you.

Faith is not just about believing in our heads—it’s about trusting with our lives. Luther loved to talk about vocation—our everyday callings as parents, neighbors, workers, friends. Faith doesn’t always look flashy. Most of the time it looks like showing up, keeping promises, forgiving, and serving where God has placed us.

“Think about a parent whispering a prayer in the car before dropping kids at school. Or someone bringing a meal to a sick neighbor. Or a teenager choosing kindness when it would be easier to make fun. Those don’t look like giant acts of faith. But they are mustard seeds. And God can grow them into something amazing.

“To the kids here: You don’t need to be an adult to have faith. Your prayers matter. To the teenagers: Your questions and doubts are part of faith too. To the parents and grandparents: Your steady example plants seeds others will remember for a lifetime.

Faith is for all of us—no matter our age, no matter how ‘big’ or ‘small’ we think it is.”

“So here’s the good news: Faith is not about being perfect. Faith is about trusting God enough to take the next step.

One small prayer.
One act of love.
One choice to forgive.

That’s mustard seed faith. And in the hands of a big God, it changes the world.”

“So this week, don’t go outside and start yelling at trees. Your neighbors will worry about you! Instead, take one small step of faith—pray for someone, show kindness, forgive, serve. Because that’s where faith grows.

When you do, you’ll find that God’s power is at work—even in seeds so small you can barely see them.”
“Lord, we bring you the little faith we have today. Grow it into something beautiful, something strong, something that blesses the world."

​

A gentle reminder that you are enough, exactly as you are

I used to be a slave to my to-do list.

Every morning, I'd wake up with this mental inventory running through my head: Did I respond to all my emails yesterday? Did I finish that sermon? Did I call Mrs. Johnson back? Did I remember to pick up groceries AND help with homework AND still have energy left to be a decent human being to my family?

Sound familiar?

For the longest time, I believed that my worth as a pastor, as a mother, as a person, was directly tied to how many items I could cross off that never-ending list. If I had a productive day, I was valuable. If I fell behind, well... I must be failing at life.

But here's what I've learned through my own journey of grief, ministry, and the beautiful messiness of being human: Your worth isn't measured by your productivity. It never was.

Social media doesn't help, does it? We see other pastors posting about their perfectly organized ministries, other authors celebrating their book launches, other moms who somehow manage to have Pinterest-worthy homes while homeschooling three kids and running a side business.

There we are, still in yesterday's clothes, wondering if we remembered to brush our teeth.

I remember scrolling through Facebook one particularly rough day and seeing a colleague post about completing her third book manuscript while I was still struggling to find five hours a week for my writing. The comparison hit like a punch to the gut. She's so much more productive than me. She's probably a better pastor too. I should be doing more.
But comparison is a thief, friends. It steals our joy, our peace, and our sense of purpose. It makes us forget that we're all running different races, carrying different burdens, called to different season.

Here's the thing about to-do lists: they're tools, not scorecards.

I used to treat mine like a report card from God. A full day of crossed-off items meant I was worthy of rest, worthy of feeling good about myself. An unfinished list meant I was lazy, disorganized, or simply not enough.

What a exhausting way to live.

The truth I've had to learn (and relearn, and relearn again) is that some days, the most important thing you do won't be on any list. Some days, sitting with a grieving family for three hours is more valuable than answering fifty emails. Some days, taking a mental health break is more productive than pushing through burnout. Some days, playing piano for nursing home residents brings more healing to the world than checking off every administrative task.

1. Redefine Productivity Instead of measuring your day by tasks completed, ask yourself: Did I show up with love today? Did I offer grace – to others and to myself? Did I honor the season I'm in?

2. Practice the "Good Enough" Rule Not everything needs to be perfect. Sometimes good enough really is good enough. Your sermon doesn't need to be Pulitzer Prize-worthy. Your house doesn't need to look like a magazine. Your parenting doesn't need to be flawless.

3. Celebrate Small Wins Did you get out of bed on a hard day? That's worth celebrating. Did you listen to a friend in need? That matters. Did you choose kindness when you felt overwhelmed? That's huge.

4. Remember Your Identity You are not your productivity. You are not your accomplishments. You are not your failures or your unfinished to-do lists. You are beloved, created with purpose, worthy of love and rest and grace

These days, I still make to-do lists. But I also keep what I call a "gratitude and grace" list. At the end of each day, I write down:

• One thing I'm grateful for
• One way I showed grace (to others or myself)
• One reminder of my worth that has nothing to do with productivity

Some days it's as simple as: "Grateful for coffee. Showed grace by not snapping when I was overwhelmed. Worth reminder: I am loved not because of what I do, but because of who I am."

Friend, if you're reading this while mentally tallying up everything you didn't get done today, please hear me: You are enough. Not because of what you accomplished, but because you exist. Because you're trying. Because you showed up.

The world needs your unique gifts, your particular way of loving, your specific calling – not a carbon copy of someone else's productivity or success.

So tomorrow, when you wake up with that mental inventory running, take a deep breath. Remember that your worth isn't measured by your to-do list. It's measured by a love that has nothing to do with performance and everything to do with grace.

And that, my friend, is more than enough.

What would change in your life if you truly believed your worth wasn't tied to your productivity? I'd love to hear your thoughts – feel free to share in the comments or reach out directly.

Not just the kind of loud that comes from traffic, social media notifications, or the neighbor’s leaf blower (which always seems to run the moment you sit down with a cup of coffee). I mean the other kind of loud, the voices that tell you you’re not enough, that you’re behind, that you should be more like them.

We live in a time where it’s easy to believe the lie that our worth comes from what we produce, how polished we look online, or how many likes our posts get. And in all that noise, it’s easy to forget this simple truth:

You are important.
You matter.
You have value that cannot be measured by anyone else’s approval or applause.

The Compliment That Changed My Day still remember the first time I realized just how much a small compliment could shift my entire perspective. I was having one of those weeks, you know the ones. The to-do list was longer than the hours in the day, my confidence felt like it was running on fumes, and I was certain I was failing at pretty much everything: ministry, parenting, being a decent human.

Then, in the middle of a routine conversation, someone looked me straight in the eye and said,
“You know, you make people feel safe when you sit and listen so well." 
That was it. No fireworks. No confetti cannons. Just a simple statement.

It felt like someone opened a window in a stuffy room I’d been sitting in for weeks. I didn’t even realize how much I needed to hear it until my shoulders dropped, my chest loosened, and a tiny spark of hope lit back up inside me.
It didn’t magically fix all my problems, but it reminded me of something crucial: I bring value to the world, not because I’m perfect or endlessly productive, but because of who I am and the way I show up for others.

The truth is that the world probably won’t get any quieter. There will always be criticism, comparison, and an endless scroll of reasons to doubt yourself. But here’s what I’ve learned:

• You don’t have to earn your worth.
• You don’t have to be “on” all the time to matter.
• You don’t have to be louder than the noise, just truer than it.

Sometimes the loudest, most transformative thing you can do is quietly live as though you believe you are loved, seen, and needed—because you are.

Try This: Give a Compliment Today. If a single sentence could lift me out of a fog that day, imagine what your words could do for someone else.

Today, try this:

• Notice something good about someone, big or small.
• Tell them.
• Don’t overthink it. Just say it.

It might feel like a tiny act, but you never know if it will be the exact thing they’ve been needing to hear.

And Don’t Forget YourselfThe next time that noisy world tries to drown you out, I want you to pause, breathe, and say it out loud—yes, out loud:
“I am important. I bring value. I matter.”
​
Because it’s true. And no amount of noise can change it.

I have this theory that every journey is a little like a parable. Not because it wraps up neatly or has a moral at the end, but because travel—real, messy, wonderful travel—reveals glimpses of the divine in ways I rarely expect. I pack a suitcase thinking I’m going to learn something about a new place, and instead, I learn something about God.

Gettysburg: God of Courage and Sacrifice
Standing on Seminary Ridge, where the stories of North and South collided in blood and heartbreak, I felt the weight of history pressing into my chest. The museum there tells stories not just of strategy and battle, but of conviction—often tragic, sometimes noble, always costly. What moves me most is the reminder that both sides were reading the same Bible, praying to the same God. It makes me tremble with humility. Gettysburg teaches me that God does not reside in easy answers, but in the courage to wrestle with complexity, to speak truth, and to keep showing up in the face of heartbreak. The God I met there was not draped in flags but clothed in the quiet presence that walks with us through division and grief, calling us to reconciliation and hope.

Disney World: God of Delight and Imagination
I know—Disney might not sound like a sacred place but stick with me. There’s something Holy about watching your child’s face light up when they see Cinderella’s castle for the first time. Joy without apology. I’ve come to believe that delight is a form of worship. The God who made galaxies and giraffes surely smiles when we laugh with abandon. Walking through the lands of fantasy and adventure reminded me of the divine invitation to play, to dream, to believe in impossible things. I serve a God who told stories with talking animals and mustard seeds, after all. Maybe magic isn’t the opposite of faith—maybe it’s one of its truest expressions.

New England Coast: God of Rhythm and Rest
There’s something healing about the rhythm of the tide. Ed and I sat on a weathered bench in Bar Harbor, just watching the water rise and fall. That’s it. No agenda. No productivity. Just presence. And there in the hush, I heard God whisper, “You don’t have to earn rest. You’re allowed to just be.” As someone who often measures her worth by what she gets done (hello, to-do list addiction), that was revolutionary. Creation keeps time differently than we do. Maybe the Sabbath wasn’t just a command—it was a gift. A reminder that God is not only found in the whirlwind of ministry and motherhood, but in the slow unfolding of a sunset over the sea.

A Cabin in the Mountains: God of Stillness and Self-Discovery
I once spent a few nights in a little cabin tucked deep in the Pennsylvania woods. No Wi-Fi. No cell service. Just birdsong and breath. At first, I panicked. What would I do without noise and updates and tasks? But then the silence settled in like a weighted blanket, and I remembered something essential: God speaks in whispers. Elijah didn’t hear God in the wind or fire, but in the still, small voice. That cabin reminded me that sometimes, we can’t hear God because we’re drowning in our own noise. And sometimes, the most courageous prayer we can pray is simply, “Here I am.”

A Small Village in Finland: God of Heritage and Belonging
I visited Finland, there was something grounding about being in a place where I didn’t speak the language but somehow felt known. Isn’t that what God offers? A home, even when you feel like a stranger. Scripture calls us sojourners and citizens of heaven, which makes me think our sense of belonging isn’t tied to a GPS coordinate but to the One who knows every hair on our heads and every place our feet will tread. Finland taught me that faith is not just about where you come from, but where—and with whom—you’re going.

Conclusion: The God Who Travels with Us
Every place I’ve visited has taught me something about God—and about myself. God isn’t confined to the pews or the pages of our liturgy. God is in the courage of soldiers and the laughter of children, in crashing waves and quiet woods, in heritage and new beginnings. Travel doesn’t pull me away from God—it leads me deeper into God’s expansive heart.
​
So, where are you headed next? Whether it’s across the ocean or just to the next town over, keep your eyes open. You might find God in the most unexpected places—like a castle made of dreams, or a battlefield soaked in tears.
And wherever you go, remember this:
God goes with you.

Sidebar: That Time I Ignored My Gut Feeling… And Learned Why I Shouldn't Have

You know that feeling, right? That little voice in your head—or more accurately, that flutter in your stomach, that whispers, "Something's not quite right here" or "This feels like exactly what I need to do." We call it intuition, gut instinct, or that inner voice, and if you're anything like me, you've probably spent more time second-guessing it than actually listening to it.

Well, let me tell you about the time I learned this lesson the hard way.
The Great Babysitter Blunder of 2019Picture this: I'm frantically searching for a babysitter for our three kids so Ed and I can attend a church leadership retreat. After weeks of no luck, a friend recommended someone, let's call her Sarah. On paper, Sarah looked perfect. Great references, reasonable rates, available exactly when we needed her.

But when Sarah walked through our door for the initial meeting, something felt... off. I can't even tell you what it was specifically. She said all the right things, smiled at the right moments, and the kids seemed fine with her. Yet my stomach was doing these little warning flips, like it was trying to send me a message in Morse code.

Did I listen? Of course not. Because what kind of rational person makes decisions based on stomach flutters, right?

Fast forward to retreat weekend. We're two hours into what was supposed to be a peaceful spiritual reflection when my phone starts buzzing. Sarah had decided our house rules were "suggestions," let the kids stay up until midnight eating ice cream for dinner. Now as a parent of Adopted kids, this is an even bigger problem disturbing the natural flow to routine. 

As I'm driving home at 9 PM, abandoning my retreat and my sanity, I kept thinking: "My gut knew. My gut absolutely knew, and I ignored it."

The Science Behind the Flutter
Here's what I've learned since then (and what recent research confirms): those gut feelings aren't just random stomach gymnastics. According to neuroscience research, our intuition is actually a complex interplay between our brain and our enteric nervous system—that network of neurons lining our digestive tract that scientists call our "second brain."

When we encounter situations that trigger emotional responses, our amygdala (the brain's emotion center) can activate this gut-brain connection, creating those physical sensations we feel. It's our brain rapidly analyzing subtle environmental cues and past experiences, then sending us a lightning-fast assessment through what researchers call "thin slicing"—the ability to make accurate judgments based on minimal information.

In other words, that flutter isn't random. It's your brain's sophisticated early warning system, processing information faster than your conscious mind can keep up.

The Art of Listening
Learning to trust your gut isn't about abandoning rational thinking, it's about integrating both your analytical mind and your intuitive wisdom. Here's what I've discovered works:

Pay attention to physical sensations. That knot in your stomach, the sudden lightness in your chest, the way your shoulders tense up, your body is constantly giving you information. Start noticing these signals.

Consider your expertise. Your gut feelings are most reliable in areas where you have experience and knowledge. Trust them more in your wheelhouse, less in unfamiliar territory.

Don't ignore red flags. If something feels wrong, it probably is. Even if you can't articulate why, your subconscious might be picking up on subtle cues your conscious mind missed.

Practice the pause. Before making important decisions, take a moment to check in with yourself. How does this choice feel in your body? What is your initial, uncensored reaction?
The Babysitter Redemption StoryFast forward to last year. We needed a new babysitter again (shocking, I know). This time, when I met with potential candidates, I paid attention to more than just their qualifications. One young woman, Maria, had slightly less experience than the others, but when she walked in, something just felt right. The kids gravitated toward her naturally, I felt relaxed in her presence, and my gut was giving me a gentle "yes."

Your Inner Wisdom KnowsHere's what I want you to remember: you have an incredible internal guidance system that's been honed by every experience you've ever had. It's not infallible—no decision-making process is—but it's far more sophisticated than we often give it credit for.

The next time you feel that flutter, that whisper, that inexplicable sense that something is right or wrong, don't dismiss it. Sit with it. Explore it. Ask yourself what your body might be trying to tell you. Sometimes, the most rational thing you can do is trust the wisdom that lives deeper than rational thought.

Your gut has been looking out for you your whole life. Maybe it's time to start listening.
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What about you? Have you ever ignored your gut feeling and regretted it? Or trusted your instincts and been glad you did? I'd love to hear your stories—they remind us all that we're not alone in learning to navigate this beautifully complex thing called life.