I held the three pieces of paper in my hand, reading them over several times. A book contract. For my book. For the story Allen and I lived after Ron died — the story I wasn’t sure I’d ever be brave enough to write, let alone share. We mourned the same man, but we walked two very different paths to do it. And somehow, through a series of events I can only describe as God’s hand nudging me along, Finding Father found a home with a small traditional publishing house. On October 1, it will step out into the world.
Writing the journey was healing. Sharing it feels like something else entirely — like opening a door and inviting others to walk through. I’ve always believed there are many ways to mourn, and that God meets us in every one of them. But believing that and offering it publicly are two different things
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“Sharing the journey felt like opening a door and inviting others to walk through.”
As I sat with that contract, I found myself thinking about the early church in Acts 2:42–47. Luke tells us the believers “devoted themselves to the apostles’ teaching and to fellowship, to the breaking of bread and to prayer.” They shared meals, shared prayers, shared resources, and shared their lives so fully that Scripture says, “they had everything in common.”
Everything.
Not because they were the same.
Not because their griefs or joys matched.
But because they trusted that what God had given one person could strengthen another.
“Their ‘everything’ wasn’t just bread and coins. It was stories, wounds, and wonders.”
Their “everything” wasn’t just bread and coins. It was stories. Wounds. Wonders. The unpolished pieces of their lives. They didn’t hide them. They brought them to the table, believing God could use even the tender parts
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That’s what I thought about as I held those papers. My story — our story — is part of my “everything.” Something God entrusted to me not to keep, but to offer.
Most of us aren’t selling our possessions or living in communal houses. But Acts 2 isn’t really about economics. It’s about connection. Devotion. Shared life. It’s about showing up with what we have — our stories, our gifts, our griefs, our joys — and trusting that God can use them to encourage someone else.
“What God entrusts to one of us is often meant to strengthen someone else.”
For me, that looks like offering the journey Allen and I walked after Ron died. It looks like trusting that the pages of Finding Father might become bread for someone who is hungry for hope. It looks like believing that no one has to walk their grief alone.
A gentle invitation
If you’re reading this, you’re already part of this little Substack community — this circle of people who show up with honesty and humor and faith. So I want to invite you to consider what part of your journey God might be nudging you to share. It doesn’t have to be dramatic. It doesn’t have to be polished. It might be a small moment of grace, a prayer that carried you, a lesson learned the hard way, or a story you’ve never said out loud.
Your offering — however simple it may seem — could be the encouragement someone else needs today
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A closing prayer
Lord,
Thank You for the gift of shared life.
Thank You for the stories, the sorrows, and the small offerings You weave together to strengthen Your people. Teach us to open our hands the way the early believers did — with trust, with courage, and with love. Use what each of us carries, even the tender and unfinished parts, to bring comfort and hope to someone who needs it.
Amen.