What if loving more didn’t mean loving less?

I used to be scared to pray.

Jesus felt like someone I was supposed to revere—and God, even more so. Holy. Distant. Intimidating. I didn’t want to mess it up. I confused fear with reverence, silence with respect. I was taught to stay in line. Don’t question. Don’t speak unless spoken to.

So I prayed quietly. Secretly. Without ever calling it prayer.

I prayed when I couldn’t sleep.
I prayed when I hated myself.
I prayed when I thought I might fail the times tables test—again.
I prayed in a school bathroom, trying to stop a nosebleed, ashamed and alone.

Back then, I thought I was talking to myself. Now I know better.
That was prayer.
And God listened. To all of it.

When I became a pastor, my prayers shifted.

They got more polished.
More official.
More… scripted.

I followed the form, the cadence, the structure. But my truest prayers—the deep ones—still came through the side door.

I prayed through songs as I ran.
I prayed through conversations with my dog.
With the deer, the squirrels, the turtle I once met on a walk.
I once heard someone say “pray without ceasing” and imagined monks in stone-walled caves. I figured that wasn’t for me.

But maybe it is.

Because lately, I’ve realized: I am praying without ceasing.
I’m talking to everything.
I’m talking to God in everything.

Right now, my life feels like one big, unfinished prayer.

I’m moving to Pittsburgh. And I’m scared.

I’m scared about the boxes.
About the mess.
About not having my cave—my room, my safe place.
I’m scared about starting over again.
This will be my fifth move in five years.

I’m praying quietly, constantly.

Are you still there?
Will you be with me in this too?
Will this place hold me? Will I belong?

I ask God to help me find a coffee shop I love (thank you, Stay Gold).
A bookstore that feels like me.
Friends I haven’t met yet.
A school that Leo will still love.
A house that feels like home, not just shelter.

And then—this is going to sound silly—I found myself thinking about football.

I’ve got a Denver Broncos tattoo on my hip. I am loyal.
I bleed orange and blue.

But then Kansas City grew on me. (I know. Gasp.)
And then I started loving the Titans.
And now… dare I say it… can I love the Steelers?

What is happening to me?

Can I love more than one team?
Can I love more than one place?
Can I belong in more than one zip code?

For a long time, I believed that loving more meant loving less.
That if you let your heart stretch, something would get lost.
That every new hello would betray an old goodbye.
That loyalty meant exclusivity.

But now?

Now I see that my love is expanding.
My home is expanding.
My faith is expanding.

I’m seeing God in all of it.
And how could I not love it all?

Let me love fully without fear.
Let me stretch without shame.
Let me belong everywhere I’ve ever been—and everywhere I’m going.

Rare doesn’t mean “only.”
Rare means sacred.
Held. Known. Treasured.

Loyalty isn’t about choosing one place and cutting off the rest.
It’s about depth. Showing up. Staying soft.

I’m still a Broncos girl.
And maybe now… also a little bit Titans. A little KC. A little Steelers.
I’m not betraying anything.

I’m arriving more fully to everything I’ve loved all along.

I thought I was leaving.

Turns out, I’m arriving.

For Subscribers: I’m sharing a few gentle, bonus offerings behind the paywall—a voice prayer, some reflection prompts, a blessing, and a few snapshots from this messy, beautiful moment of transition. If you’re in the middle of your own arrival, I hope this helps you feel seen.