YES Mom

I walked Jordan to security, went to the bathroom, then walked back just to see if I could still catch a glimpse of him. That's when it hit me. My chest got tight, my breathing went shallow, and I realized I was standing in the middle of an airport hyperventilating over my own child walking through a metal detector. I said a prayer right there. Not a pretty one. A real one. Because I know, deep in my spirit, that he is covered by the blood of Christ. I believe that the way I believe the sun is coming up tomorrow. And I still felt like I couldn't breathe. Here's the part nobody tells you about faith. Believing something is true and feeling calm about it are two different jobs. Your spirit can be settled while your body is still running the emergency drill it learned from every news story you've ever half watched about what happens to kids in airports. Jordan is fifteen. He's done the Delta minor program before, where at least you know a flight attendant has eyes on him and there's a structure around the whole thing. This time he's flying general population. An actual adult, technically, in the eyes of the airline, even though he is still very much my baby. No wristband, no assigned adult, just him and a bunch of strangers and every worst case scenario my brain decided to generate on a Friday morning. I thought about statistics I didn't ask my brain to bring up. I thought about how one of the biggest hubs in this country is also flagged as a hotspot for human trafficking. I thought about how fast I would end a person's whole existence if they looked at my son wrong, let alone touched him. That's not a cute mom joke. I meant it in my body. And then I had to catch myself, because that spiral has no bottom. You can go all the way down if you let it. Worst case thinking doesn't stop at reasonable concern, it keeps manufacturing content until you're picturing funerals over a two hour layover. So I prayed again. Not because the first prayer didn't work, but because faith isn't a one time transaction. It's something you keep choosing every time fear shows back up and asks for a rematch. I know God has him. I know that covering doesn't come and go based on my anxiety levels. The anxious part isn't the whole five days. It's these next few hours, the exact window where he's between my hands and hers and nobody's officially got him yet. Once his friend's mom texts me that they picked him up, that tension breaks. I'll miss him for five days. I'm only anxious for a few hours. That text is going to hit different than any sermon ever could. Not because my faith is small, but because peace and physical relief don't have to show up on the same schedule. I can trust God completely and still want proof of life from a fifteen year old boy. If you're a parent standing in your own version of this airport moment, here's what I want you to take from mine. You are allowed to pray and panic in the same sixty seconds. You are allowed to believe fully and still want your phone to buzz with good news. That's not weak faith. That's a parent's body doing exactly what it was built to do while their spirit does what it was built to do. Both can be true. I'm not going to pretend I have it fully together right now. I don't. But I know where my peace actually comes from, and it caught up to my body within a few hours, not five days. I prayed, I checked my phone, and I trusted that the same God who has kept my son this far isn't clocking out somewhere over the Midwest. Peace, Love and Joy always Infinite Faith and Favor | InfiniteFaithandFavor.com

I recently started bringing live plants back into my home and for the first time in my life, they were actually thriving. The gifted plant lasted over a year, the Trader Joe’s succulents are still going strong, even the flowering cactus from Publix is living its best life. Then I grabbed a $20 herb set from Costco and every single one is flourishing except this lavender (dill is struggling too). I repotted all of them, I prayed over the lavender, and still the struggle is real. I’m so disappointed, but I’m not giving up. Growth is still happening, even when one thing refuses to cooperate. I don't know what else to do!?!?!!?

Shit is just poop. Damn is frustration. Bitch is a female dog. So why are we treating these words like crimes? Let's talk about it.

Parenting a 15‑year‑old is beautiful and heartbreaking at the same time. After years of being a single mom and building a tight bond with my son, I’m now navigating teenage independence, emotional distance, and the shift in our relationship. Here’s my honest look at motherhood, growing pains, and missing the version of “us” we used to be.