Early last week, I found myself confessing to a friend—that I was trying to sit in a place of refreshment, though I wasn’t even sure what refreshment looked like or exactly how to find it. After weeks of being stretched thin with little margin beyond my husband and kids, I felt myself tucked behind everyone else’s needs, longing for a moment that felt like me again.

 

Not another moment to pour out.

Not a space to hold everything together.

Just a place where rest and restoration could reach me.

 

And by Saturday, on my Sabbath morning, Hagar met me. [1]

 

The Hagar remembered for meeting another’s need at the expense of her own, for the wilderness she was pushed into, for the wandering that marked her. And, yet the moment that defined her wasn’t from her circumstances shifting in the proximity of a spring, but from her awareness awakening—

 

 

Something in that settled into me.

 

My refreshment doesn’t have to be earned or chased.

My refreshment doesn’t come from escape or extra time or perfect conditions.

My refreshment arrives when I remember and stay attentive to who God is—by nature and to me personally—the one who hears me, looks after me, and meets me in the very places I feel hidden.

 

 

And if refreshing and restoration come through remembering, then intentionally placing reminders around me becomes the gift I give myself—small offerings of beauty that help keep my face turned toward the God who keeps his turned toward me.

 

Last June, I gave myself rhythm for my birthday.

 

This June, I’m choosing to surround myself with beauty on purpose. Not as an indulgence, but as formation, as a gentle way to again and again awaken my awareness.

 

I give myself the morning outside. Stepping out first thing, habitually, not only for the sunlight, but for the birdsong that literally cultivates my own praise. Surrounded by creation declaring his glory and what I do not want my heart to forget—that the God who considers the sparrows, considers me. [2]

 

I recommit to wearing my favorite fragrance every day. It’s scent, sort of like a liturgy of delight, whispering to me that he and his goodness envelop, chase after, and collide with me.

 

I cultivate the air I breathe. His God‑breathed words set where my eyes will land. Scripture in the kitchen, the car, on the mirrors and walls. Not to demand anything of me, but to remind me that the one who breathes life is the one who also speaks with me and never leaves.

 

And maybe this month, you might join me. Maybe you choose one small beauty to place in your path—a verse on your counter, a flower by your sink, a scent that stirs you, a moment outside before the day begins.

 

Not as pressure. Not as perfection. Simply as a reminder of the God who knows you, the God who sees you, the God who hears you, the God who meets you where you feel hidden, and the God who carries you.

 

A beauty that helps you not forget. 

I’m including a prayer I wrote in 2021—words that once met me in my own wilderness and continue to shape how I remember, how I return, how I breathe knowing he's doing the carrying. 

 

First name / MAMA, pray this with me…

[1] Genesis 16

[2] Consider the birds of the sky: They don’t sow or reap or gather into barns, yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Aren’t you worth more than they? Matthew 6:26 CSB

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