Last month we began a journey of rediscovering wonder by simply looking up and remembering the greatness of our Creator. This month, I’d like to invite you to take the next step. Once we begin seeing God in the grandeur of the heavens, we also begin noticing His fingerprints in the world around us. Wonder has a way of opening our eyes to things we’ve been walking past all along.

In the past few weeks, we have welcomed two new families into our safe house. Both are young mothers who arrived with their children after leaving very difficult situations behind.

The night one of those families arrived, I received a picture that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about.

Ever since my ninth-grade physical science class, I’ve been fascinated by the stars. I still remember learning the constellations and being amazed that people had been looking at those same patterns in the sky for thousands of years. To this day, one of the items on my bucket list is taking one of those star-gazing glamping trips at a national park where the night sky comes alive in a way most of us rarely experience.

September marks a milestone I never imagined writing—twenty years of Dare for More Ministries.
Over the past few months, our team has been preparing for this celebration, and our theme has been 20 Years of Miracles. As I’ve reflected on those words, I’ve realized the miracles aren’t just the stories we tell. They’ve been the daily reminders that God has faithfully walked with us every step of the journey.

Waiting may be one of the hardest parts of life—especially when the rest of the world seems to be moving forward just fine without us. We wait for answers, for clarity, for healing, for things to finally change. And if we’re honest, waiting often feels unproductive, inefficient, and uncomfortable. We don’t mind progress, but pause? That’s harder to embrace.

Every now and then, God does something that makes you stop and look around in amazement.

Over the past several years, we have prayed for specific needs within Dare for More. We have prayed for leadership in our medical ministry. We have prayed for help with mission teams. We have prayed for additional support for our safe house and the growing needs of the ministry. Like many prayers, these requests were offered faithfully over time, trusting God to provide in His timing.

For the first time, four women came together to make one decision.

Two from the U.S. team. Two from our Guatemala team. Together, they traveled to Guatemala City with one goal: to find the perfect fabrics for this year’s cosmetic and accessory pouch collections.

There are moments in life when we realize the story unfolding isn’t the one we would have written. A door closes. A relationship changes. A plan falls apart. If we’re honest, some chapters feel so far from what we hoped for that we wonder how anything good could possibly come from them.

Recently, I had the opportunity to speak at an event, and afterward a woman came up to talk with me. She shared that many years ago she had purchased my Bible study, Return to Me, during a very difficult season of her life.

As she spoke, tears filled her eyes. She shared how a bad decision she had made years before had followed her every day since. Shame had cast a shadow over her life, and no matter how much time had passed, she could not seem to move beyond it.

During our recent medical trip to Guatemala, we had the opportunity to serve in three different communities where access to medical care is extremely limited. Medical personnel from across the United States joined together to help meet both physical and spiritual needs, and we were grateful to partner with Medical Missions Outreach, whose experience and expertise made this work possible. Local pastors were also present to pray and build ongoing relationships within each village.

There’s something about uncertainty that makes our minds race ahead. When life feels unstable, we don’t just worry about today—we worry about next week, next month, and sometimes the next five years. We start asking questions we don’t yet have answers for and carrying weight we were never meant to hold all at once.

As we continue to build and grow, we are taking intentional steps across every area of the ministry.

In our training centers, we are preparing for what we believe will be increased demand and new wholesale opportunities. This season is not just about dreaming—it’s about getting ready. We are strengthening our processes and building a foundation that will allow us to care for more women in the future.

This month marks an important step forward for Dare for More as we have officially started work on our new space to expand our women’s training center.

If we’re honest, most of us like control more than we care to admit. We like plans, predictability, and at least a general sense of how things are going to turn out. Control feels responsible. Trust, on the other hand, can feel risky—especially when life starts to feel uncertain.

Most of us like to think we’re fairly adaptable—until life proves otherwise. One unexpected phone call. One change in plans. One situation that didn’t make it onto the calendar. Suddenly, we’re scrambling to regain our footing, wondering how everything unraveled so quickly.

This month brought a new experience for us at the safe house. A family who had only been with us a short time chose to leave unexpectedly. In our three years of operating, we have not had this happen before.

There was a time when I believed healing should move faster.

Not because I lacked compassion—but because I didn’t yet understand the depth of what survivors are carrying. I thought that with safety, support, and opportunity, women would naturally be ready to move forward within a reasonable timeline. A few months. A clear plan. A visible sense of “next.”

It’s often something small.

A woman finishes a piece she’s been working on—slowly, carefully, learning each step with her hands. A leather bag. A woven textile. Something useful. Something beautiful. She turns it over, checks the stitching, and for a moment, her shoulders lift just a little.

Someone notices.

The question often comes quietly.

It doesn’t arrive all at once, and it rarely sounds dramatic. It comes during a conversation near the end of a woman’s time with us, when the urgency of rescue has settled and the reality of what comes next begins to surface.

Who am I now?

She stood in our classroom holding a pencil for the first time.

Not unsure. Not embarrassed. Just still.

The room was quiet, the kind of quiet that happens when someone is doing something brave. A chalkboard wall stretched across one side of the space, covered with letters written by other women—some careful and practiced, others uneven and tentative. When she lifted her hand and made her first marks, no one rushed her. No one corrected her. We simply stayed.