How Highlands College Prepared Me For Ministry: You Asked, I Answered

This is the first time I have ever put pen to paper to discuss just a small percentage of what I experienced during my time at Highlands in a decade. They asked, so I answered…

Last night, I received a text message from a “staff member” from the Highlands College creative team. I’m going to share the text message in it’s entirety, so whoever reading can understand  exactly what I’m responding to: 

“Hey Caitlin!!!! This is [redacted] with the Highlands College Creative Team! We are doing a video to celebrate the fact that HC has just placed it’s 1000th student !!!! We would love for  you to be apart of it! Could you send me a selfie video of you saying your name, the year you graduated, where you are at, what you are doing, and a quick statement of how HC prepared you to be placed?! Doesn’t need to be longer than 30 seconds! Let me know if you have any questions!!

Also could you please have the video in by Friday?”

My initial thought receiving this message was that it was bizarre. Anyone who knows me knows that I have left the church, deconstructed my faith, and have spent the better part of two years desperately trying to heal from the trauma that spiritual abuse (in multiple forms and on multiple levels) has caused me. I have been quite vocal about it, too. 

Does it surprise me that no one  at Church Of The Highlands knows what I’m doing now? No. Does it surprise me that the faculty and staff of the very small (at the time I attended) college doesn’t know what I’m doing and “where I’m at?” Even less so. Why? Because they didn’t even know the answer to those questions when I was attending school. 

I spent 10 years of my life at Church of The Highlands. I spent four years at Highlands College. And I was even more of a stranger to them the day I left than when I started. 

Let me be clear that Highlands College didn’t “place” me - (“placement” was a promise they would find you a job in ministry.) I left half a year into my internship because I was so sick I could barely function. Doctors couldn’t tell me what was wrong. All the church had to offer was “praying it away.” I had been battling several debilitating health issues since my internship had begun. Looking back, I realize the pressure, rigorous dedication to the church, expected physical labor, and ALL of the expectations they placed on us; on top of the guilt and shame of feeling like I didn’t fit in certainly played a part in my failing physical health. After a visit to my hometown of Boston, I made a decision to move back home to get the care I needed. 

One night after I had returned from my brief trip to Boston, before I moved back, Layne Schranz, Mark Pettus, and Hayes Kearby prayed over me for “healing” in the main campus of Grants Mill auditorium. They assured me they would keep in touch and support me in “any way” they could. I remembered I felt so cared for in that moment. I never could have imagined being thrown away like trash they way they did to me. 

But I was. After returning to Boston, I didn’t hear a word from any of them. Not a word. Not one word. I was bed ridden for months, struggling with depression and anxiety from being diagnosed with multiple chronic illnesses. My realization that Highlands didn’t give a damn came when I flew back to Birmingham briefly, and met with an unnamed pastor. Casually sitting at his desk, he looked at me and said “you barely scraped by. We really didn’t think you were gonna make it”, as I was preparing to go serve at a church in Massachusetts.  I had connected with an “ARC” church up in Massachusetts called Excel Church, run by pastors Emy and Emily Vazquez (This church is now known as The Life Church Massachusetts.) But that’s a story for a different time. I have never experienced more pain or loneliness in the months or years that followed. 

Somehow, during a global pandemic in 2020, I was forced to face my faith. And I won. I found freedom. To this day, I shed tears and I attend therapy working through the many levels of spiritual abuse and hurt I’ve encountered. 

I’m a rape survivor. Once stories started to come out about pastors on staff at Highlands being unfaithful, raping and sexually abusing girls, etc; I was horrified to know I had sat in rooms with these acclaimed “leaders” whom we were FORCED to show honor to. We were told they were the elite, they were “men of God”, or “MOGS” as they liked to say. We never questioned them because we didn’t KNOW better. They kept it all from us. It is so traumatizing to know that although as a woman, I’m not safe anywhere, the most DANGEROUS men are IN the church. That is the reality. And it is horrifying. 

So I guess if you’re still reading, I should share what my time at Highlands taught me:

It’s not about who you are to them, it’s about what you can do for them. 

One thing I can ALWAYS count on the church to do? Prey. In EVERY single way. 

Prey… Pray… While we’re on the subject, I don’t want your prayers. I want accountability. I want acknowledgment. Something I have NEVER received in my duration of time at your church. 

There is only one thing to celebrate, Highlands. 

That I am free from your abuse and healing from the immense trauma you have caused me. That others (some of my closest friends to date) are free or are fighting like hell to get there. 

You have inflicted more pain than I could ever put words to. You are dangerous. You are predators. But hey, as your staff used to tell us ALL the time, “everything in the darkness always comes to light”, right? Here’s hoping. 

Guess it’s too late to start living beyond reproach now. 

Best,

Caitlin Ritchie 

to you | an open letter to survivors of sexual assault

i don't know you. 

but you and i have both been categorized as "victims" of sexual assault. 

you and i both fall into the category of one of the Americans sexually assaulted every 73 seconds. 

i don't know you. but i do know your pain. 

believe me, i wish i did not. i wish i could blink and make it disappear. i'd give anything to give back the "victim" label...

the label that feels forever engraved on the inside of my heart, and on the outside of my body. 

i wish whatever led you to my blog wasn't our similarity of having been sexually assaulted. but you're here now. so if that is what led you here, this letter is to you. 

if you are not a victim of sexual assault, you are fortunate. if you are a woman, i'd urge you to stay and read these words from the depths of my soul.  if you are a man, i'd ask you to stay and read these words from the depths of my soul. just because it hasn't happened to you, doesn't make it IRRELEVANT to you. 

it's not MY problem. it's not HER problem. it is, and hear me when i say it: IT IS OUR PROBLEM. and it is infecting more of us than we care to admit. 

the only way to help is for you to listen. listen to our stories. listen to our hearts. SEE our tears. LISTEN to us speak, and don't condemn us. HEAR US.

for now, though, on the very last day of sexual assault month, i am writing to you. this is for you. i see you. i hear you. i believe you. i value you. and i will never, ever stop fighting for you. for me. for us. 


to you:

i know you're tired. 

you feel like you can't possibly inhale ONE more time.

instead of drawing a deep breath, and hoping for relief, you feel suffocated. instead, you choke, gripped by fear, plummeting you into a deep cloud of panic. 

after the panic has tormented you enough for one day, it buries you under a feeling of hopelessness so immense, you pray you don't open your eyes again. 

but you do. you rise. 

some days the peace and the panic intertwine, like a 50/50 custody battle. 

some days you wake up in peace, only to have it be cruelly ripped away from you. right as you were beginning to trust that it was here to STAY, it dissipates, only to be replaced with what feels like sheer terror. 

a similar pattern, that one. everything you once trusted, you no longer can. 

life feels like a roller coaster, but the ride isn't enjoyable. in fact, you become so desperate to stop it sometimes, you think about ending it all. anything to just MAKE IT STOP. 

your mind can't differentiate what hurts more. 

waking up in panic, and praying desperately for peace that doesn't come...

or, 

waking up in peace, skeptically, only to be paralyzed by panic so immense, that, the only thing you can beg of your body is for it to do what it was CREATED to do, BREATHE.

i know the nights that you stay up, with every single light on. your eyes, your mind, your body exhausted, 

but still, safer to have your eyes open than to close them, fearing for what will come if they close. 

the times you get into the shower, and let searing water run over your body, hoping that with its cleansing, it will cleanse you of what happened. as if there is a magic eraser for rape. 

you close your eyes for safety, but they betray you, and amid flashbacks of what they did to you, the torment screams: 

nothing will ever take it away. 

suddenly, your face is drenched in water, and you can't tell where the water running out of the shower head stops, and where your tears start. 

though you know you are forever marked by what they did, you fool yourself into still trying to wash away. it's a desperate attempt. one that's become habit, even though it doesn't work.

the water burns your skin, but you stand there. you stand there and you stand there and you stand there, until your skin looks almost unrecognizable. 

you step out of the shower, and you don't allow yourself to catch a glimpse of your reflection. 

you can't bear to look at yourself, because all you see when you do, is how they brutalized you. 

you can't face yourself, because then you have to face what they did to you. 

shame begins to infiltrate you, slowly shutting you up. 

you try to scream, and you are met with a deafening silence. 

THEY damaged you, but it doesn't matter anymore. the only thing that matters, is that you are now damaged. 

i know the emptiness and lonliness you feel. how it is possible to feel so alone in a room of crowded people.

on the outside, you may be able to muster a smile, but nobody could ever possibly know the sadness that surrounds you. every single second. of every day. 

i could talk about the triggers that launch your body from where you presently are, back to that very place and time when they violated you. but i won't. out of respect and compassion, both for you and i. 

but i know. trust me, i know. 

i know the dialogue in your head about ever feeling "normal" again. 

i know you spend hours thinking about if you will ever make it through the day without being set off by something seemingly "normal" and "small." 

i know you think about it constantly. 

i know you have days where you cannot tolerate the weight of it, so the only thing you can do is numb it. some days, it feels so overwhelming. it engulfs you and all you can do is what you need to, just to simply survive. i've had so many of those days, i've lost count of them all. 

other days, you feel more brave, and you open your mouth to let out some of the horror that has happened to you, only to be met with instant shame and regret.

it isn't their fault, they don't know what to say. but it isn't your fault either. 

whether it's a secret, or you speak about it only. whether you're single or married. kids or no kids. 27 years ago, or yesterday. 

i know it haunts you. i know the torment firsthand. 

it is a fight that feels unimaginable, it feels like a war that will never be won. 

a battle that somehow is in the past, yet is rooted in the very depths of your soul. it never leaves. it never moves. it never changes. it never goes away. 

yes. i know. 

but i also know that if you are reading this, even if your eyes are cloudy and dripping with tears, you have survived your worst day. 

and that, just simply that, is incredible. 

nothing, nothing will ever take away what they did to you. 

but the good news, my friends, is that your worth isn't placed on what others have done to you. 

they violated you. they stole from you. they tried to break you. 

and you are right. you are right that you will never be the same. 

you will NEVER go back to who you were before. 

there is loss and grief in that statement. and my friend, before you can possibly move forward, you have to admit that, and accept it.  

you will never be the same, and, the reason IS NOT fair, but the truth is, who you were before simply doesn't exist anymore. 

leaving behind who you were is not a bad thing. 

in fact, who you are becoming now, and who you will be in the future, could never possibly match who you were before. 

i know, you don't feel like it. 

but despite the crushing weight of it all, you're still here. you still rise. you choose to breathe in and out every day, no matter how painful it is. 

your eyes, though clouded with tears, they still see the beauty in the world. because of you. because of your choice to see it. 

you feel pain every single day. and yet, you rise. you move your body. you show up. even though it hurts, you continue to show up. you show up. you show up. you show up. 

your heart is shattered, broken, perhaps even drenched in fear. and yet, somehow, miraculously, you allow yourself to be loved and to love. 

i am proud of you, i am honored to stand by an army of incredibly brave and resilient women, who choose to take their life back, no matter HOW painful it is. 

no, really. my friend. despite living in the middle of what feels like evil and torment, you accept love. love, that i believe heals us minute by minute, and in our darkest moments of suffering. YOU DO THAT. and if nobody has told you today, or yesterday, or in a very long time, let me tell you now. that is remarkable, and you should be proud of yourself. 

even though you feel surrounded by shame, you will (slowly) start to speak. to whoever, and wherever, i don't know. and perhaps you're reading this, and you haven't yet... you will. you will find the strength along the way to share your story, I PROMISE YOU. 

people tell you you're brave, and you cringe. but here i am. i am one of you. and i am telling you that you don't even know the level of courage and bravery and strength and grace and resilience you have. 

you may have been accused, ridiculed, blamed, name called, not taken seriously...but through all of that, you survived. 

they may have stolen from you, but they did not end your life. and they do not get to. 

i remember how alone i've felt. but we are not alone. we are NEVER alone. 

YOU are not alone, wherever you are. 

somehow, every single one of us that still have breath in our lungs have managed to climb out of the pit of despair (no matter how slowly.) 

we are not just survivors. we are overcomers. we have a choice to emerge out of this on the other side, more beautiful than we ever could have known. 

you may not feel like an overcomer, but, i promise you, you are. i know you are.

i am not feeding you some superficial motivating words. believe me, i don't play like that. ask anybody who knows me. 

i know, because, most days, i am trapped in what feels like the deepest pain i've ever known, and somehow, i carry on. and you do too. 

we survived the assault, but EVERY day SINCE, we have overcome. i need you to say this out loud until you can start to believe it. 

you SURVIVED. past tense. 
YOU ARE OVERCOMING. present tense.

 YOU ARE HEALING. every day, you are healing. and healing isn't some clean cut journey. some day healing looks REAAAAAAALLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLY ugly. and healing hurts. and it's painful. and some days, the pain feels unimaginable. but you are. you are healing. 

there is so much more inside of you than you know. so please, for you, for me, for us - please don't give up. 

shame cannot kill you if you refuse to be buried in silence. so speak. your story deserves to be told. wherever you feel safe, speak there. 

your life is worth it. you are worth it. i am worth it. we are worth it. 

you will never be the same, but thank God for that. there is so much beauty to come out of the ashes. i don't know how, i don't know when, i just know that triumph will come, if you can trust the journey. 

there is no timeline for healing. you do the best you can every day, and then you do a little more. YOU are only responsible for yourself in every moment. be compassionate. be gentle with yourself. 

trust the grief.
trust the unraveling. 
feel. feel all of it. every single emotion. every feeling. 
be angry. scream. cry.
come the fuck apart. 
and then rise. like you do. every day. 

so, my friends, until the triumph does come, don't give up. please know that you are not alone. and if you feel alone, you have a forever friend + advocate in me. whether you know me or you don't, i am here for you. i believe in you. i see you. i hear you. i BELIEVE you. i value you. i love you. and like i said at the beginning of this letter, written from the depth of my heart to YOU, i will never, ever, stop fighting for you. for me. for us. 

you are not alone. 

it wasn't your fault.

i belive you. 

and i love you. 

XOXO,

CAiTLiN

if you read this, and you are not a victim of sexual assault, heed my words at the top of this blog. listen. believe survivors. and take heart these words;

people begin to heal the moment they feel HEARD. 

every 73 seconds in AMERICA, someone is sexually assaulted. every 9 minutes, that person is a CHILD.

only 5 out of every 1,000 perpetrators go to prison.

9 out of every 10 rape victims are WOMEN.

if you need support, please call the RAINN hotline: 800-656-HOPE

you are never alone. 

letting go.

yesterday marked s e v e n years of my mother going home to Heaven.

every year on February 3rd, the days leading up to the date and the actual date always seem to bring a strangely familiar grief. 

i usually have floods of several ranging emotions: anger, sadness, bitterness, and then the end of the day is usually sealed with a stamp of God’s promises and hope, hung on me telling myself that with each year, the sting of grief will hurt a little less.

so, as the days began to approach, i EXPECTED the same. 

i had a conversation with a friend in the beginning of the week, and i had shared with him about the “anniversary” if you will. and how every year, it’s always a hard time for me.

he responded  with something that left me a little unsettled at first. ok, a lot unsettled. ok, let me really be honest: his words pissed me off. 

i wanted to lash back at him, although his words intended NO harm. 

no, his words (even though he may not have known it) were appropriate, divine, on time, and necessary. God spoke through him directly to me.

he said, “7 is a good number. a number of completion...FINALITY.” 

i was stunned. how dare he diminish my grief. 

of course it’s FINALITY. my mother is dead.... is what i desperately wanted to say.

he then said, “maybe...this year mourning turns to celebration.” 

he then APOLOGIZED and said he hoped his words weren’t coming off as insensitive, but as encouraging and empowering.

i sat there for a bit. because i knew in that moment...

...this was the catalyst for God to free me from being so blindly trapped in my pain and grief for the past 7 years. 

and even though i desperately wanted to be freed and let it go, i could feel my flesh rising up and fighting against it. 

without even actively thinking, isaiah 43:18-19 in the Message popped into my head:

“forget about what’s happened, don’t keep going over old history. be alert, be present. i’m about to do something brand new. it’s bursting out, don’t you see it?”

don’t you see it Caitlin? 

that’s the question that plagued me as i sat on my bed in silence...(something that, let’s be honest, if you know me, you know doesn’t happen a lot.) 

i had to have a very honest dialogue with God that day. 

frustrated, scared, and overwhelmed with immense sadness, i barely uttered the words, “i can’t see it. why can’t i see it, God?” 

“because you won’t let it go.” 

a soft, still, voice. 

“because, you won’t let it go.” 

God doesn’t do anything by mistake.

so, that he spoke his divine words through a friend, to me, on a particular day, in the middle 

of a heart wrenching season, that had been consumed with me fighting for control over 

everything in my life...

well, it was divinely planned. and right on time. 

i’m gonna be real.

control is a hard thing for me.

and, if we reviewed my life, and my childhood, from a psychological and intellectual viewpoint, this isn’t really surprising.

when we grow up in uncontrollable environments, we learn how to self protect.

we learn how to grip the reigns of our situations and circumstances, to the best of our ability. we do whatever we need to do to feel in control. 

we learn to hold tight to things that keep us comfortable, safe, and sometimes even dull us and keep us numb, to a certain extent.

we choose what to hold onto. 

and what to let go of. 

while this keeps us safe, and has the potential to feel protected and empowered in dangerous situations.., the truth is... this is an impossible life to live if we are living for Jesus. 

why? because, simply  stated...

i am not Im control. 

god is. 

and, He is not just God over some. or God over a few areas.

he is God.

and He is sovereign.

over ALL. 

the truth is, I have battled with God and had my many fights with Him, eventually leading me to wave the white flag of surrender. 

those fights are less than fun. they are painful. 

and they are exhausting.

and they are the kind of fights that, after it’s over, you wondered why you even fought so long to hold on in the first place. 

for some reason, i have never been able to let go of my grief. 

hear my heart. when we let go of painful things, it doesn’t mean we’re pretending they didn’t happen. 

we’re letting go of them controlling our future. we are relinquishing them of their power to CONTROL us. 

after praying, and a few hours of really ugly crying and lots of snot (sorry not sorry) i wiped the tears from my eyes and sat up. 

i felt the Holy Spirit ask me a strange question...one that I’m not sure I’ve ever heard him ask me before...

“what are you so afraid of?” 

the answer is, i’m afraid of the unknown.

i’m afraid of what could happen. 

and truly, at the bottom of it all, I’m afraid of change. 

because it is unfamiliar, uncomfortable, and uncharted territory. 

as I’m reading this, i can feel the voice of condemnation trying to shame me.

because how can i be a Christian and love Jesus and be so compulsively controlling?

how can i say i live my life with bold faith, when i want to stay comfortably perched in my pit of pain?

how can i confess God as my healer, and then grip so tightly to the things he is trying to free me and heal me from?

if this is getting too deep and real, i make no apologies. (in case you’re waiting for one.) 

the truth is, for most of my life, pain and heartbreak have been the name of the game. 

this isn’t to make me a victim or to try to receive your pity. it’s not an excuse, in Caitlin language...

this is just facts. 

it’s truly all I’ve ever known. 

so it’s become my “normal.” 

how then, is it really a surprise, that when a shift comes, when the urging of the Holy Spirit presses me to release what I’ve held onto for so long, i feel trapped in fear and can’t let go?

the answer is it isn’t a surprise. 

but it is a setback. one that God never intends for us. 

and, if not identified and fought against, that setback can become a stronghold. 

isn’t it interesting that the definition of a stronghold is: “ a fortified place, a place of security or survival.” 

having been enclosed in the comfortable and normalcy of my grief so long, my heart pounded at the suggestion of God turning my mourning to celebration. 

i didn’t know where to begin. i didn’t know how. 

but here’s the beauty... 

God does.

all he asks is for surrender. and an open heart to trust Him.

i have watched Him gloriously and miraculously work all things together for my good, even when it looked impossible.

how then, will He not take THIS too, and do the same thing?

my heart is so encouraged by the truth of God’s word.

“even if we are faithless, He remains faithful. He can not deny Himself.” 2 timothy 2:13 

it is hard to let go and feel yourself “lose control.” 

yes, it’s hard, unless you are handing it to over to somebody who knows MUCH better than you do.

in this case, this release and surrender sets you FREE.

it relieves all pressure off of you. 

his promises and his word can be trusted. 

his plans are good, even when we can’t see them. 

his plan and his purpose is so much greater than anything i could ever imagine for my life. 

i don’t want to be in control of my own life.

i want a bold faith and an obedience that always chooses to surrender EVERYTHING to God.

even when it’s scary. even when it’s unknown. even when it’s painful. 

as i sat there that day, God spoke many precious things to my heart.

some that i really feel were just meant for me, and nobody else. 

but he gently uttered something to me that i feel i am meant to share with you: 

God can’t bless us with new unless we surrender the old to Him.

yes, He promises to give beauty for ashes, but only if we WILLINGLY give Him the ashes. 

we don’t know how, but we know He WILL. 

and isn’t that all we really need? 

i can’t control HOW God will, and WHAT He will do, but I choose to declare that I know His character, and His goodness, and I proclaim that HE WILL. 

God’s plan has ALWAYS been to propel us forward. NEVER to set us back. 

6 months after my mother passed, i was in a season of prayer and fasting at my church. 

i had a particularly hard night the night before. 

i was up all night, weeping, mourning my mother. 

all I remember was praying to God that if He got me through the season of immense grief, i would serve Him and glorify Him for the rest of my life. 

the next day, out of the thousands of prayer cards that sat scattered in my church, one card from a 7 year old, Sarah, ended up in my hands. 

it read:

“please pray for me and my dad and 3 sisters. We just lost our mom. We need hope and peace.”

as i sit here typing...my eyes flood with tears. i have reminisced that story a few times, but when I went to look it up just now, my jaw dropped, at Sarah’s age. 

7. Seven. Completion. Finality.

and here, my friends, i sit in this moment, and indeed, i celebrate. 

at God’s goodness, at his amazing divine interventions, his faithfulness, his grace that has sustained me in the very deep, and dark, and lonely moments of grief .

yes, i celebrate.

and i finally walk boldly into this new season with SHOUTS of JOY, because this story of my mother and i, that God has written, is about to shift...

yes. it’s about to do a new thing. it is about to bring hope and healing to so many. and, as i take a deep breath, and draw in the silent strength of my good, good Father, i wholly surrender. 

here is to the divine completion that only Jesus can bring.

“those who sow with tears, will reap with shouts of joy.” Psalm 126:5 

these words from my heart are dedicated to you, momma. i know you’re proud of me, and even more than that, i know your life is being honored, and that God is being glorified by your story. i love you with my whole heart and soul. 

and to you, Jason Morales. thank you for being exactly who God has called you to be, and for walking so beautifully in obedience to our God. i love you back. 

U N T I L N E X T T I M E,

C A i T L i N 

details.

i have a confession.

what i'm about to share is deeply personal to me. 

in fact, to be completely honest and vulnerable, as i always PRAY i am when i write…

i'd really rather not share. 

but after a pretty heavy argument with the dude upstairs, a lot of sassiness, a little bit of shade thrown, (from me, to Him) a few tears, a big deep breath, and an urging from the Holy Spirit, 

i digress. 

so here we go. 

God often speaks to me visually. i suppose i learn better that way. 

today, i was sitting at my vanity (yes, duh, of course i have a vanity, who do you think i am.) 

anyway, i sat there as i was brushing my hair. 

i carefully looked at every strand of my hair, counting each one of them. 

before you all start secretly and silently judging me, thinking i'm some sort of a weirdo who has a weird hair obsession and freakishly counts and collects and keeps my hair, let me back up. 

i'm losing my hair. 

not yet sure of the reason yet, so last week i went to see a specialist.

at that appointment, he asked me to keep track of how many individual hairs i lose. 

thus, you can see, it wasn't a personal choice to pay close attention to my hair, or rather, my hair loss. 

i have to be honest.

the significant loss of my hair has really thrown me.

this morning, as i sat there counting the hairs, i actually began weeping. 

it wasn't an ugly cry, it wasn't a hysterical cry.

it was a slow, soft, incredibly painful cry.

the kind of cry that starts off about one thing, and deepens in substance as it goes on. 

in honesty, in that moment of losing something quite superficial (although still significant), i was reminded of how many other things i've lost recently. 

as always, and right on time, God spoke to me in the midst of my pain. 

"not one hair drops off of your head without me knowing." 

let me just be real.

i haven't really been hearing God's voice lately. 

it's not because God hasn't been speaking. 

it's just more so that i haven't been listening. 

when i say i've been in a season of loss, it has truly felt overwhelming at times. 

in the past year:

i've lost pieces of myself that i had become so familiar with, 

i've had to grieve letting them go (although they no longer serve me purpose anymore.) 

i've lost people, people i never could have imagined living life without. 

i've lost jobs.

i've lost the ability to do things that once came so very easy to me. 

i've lost love - in family, in friendships, and even romantically. 

and then, comes, losing my hair.

you see, i'm aware that the hair may seem petty and shallow to you…depending on how you feel about your hair. 

the deeper reason here is that, to me, in some way, i thought i could at least control my physical appearance. 

the emotional pain, the immense grief, the sadness…

i can't control that. 

but my hair? 

i could control, until all of the sudden, i couldn't. 

i can't even do that. 

and then, in the midst of my tears and my deeply saddened and discouraged heart, 

god spoke, in a way so delicate, as only He could…

"but you haven't lost me." 

you see…

we may lose sight of God. 

but we never actually LOSE God. 

of course, as i sat there, i was reminded of the faithfulness of God.

and even more than His faithfulness, His sovereignty. 

i was reminded of the Scripture in Matthew 10:30-31, in the amplified version…

"but even the very hairs of your head are all numbered [for the Father is sovereign and has complete knowledge.] so do not fear, you are more valuable than many sparrows."

i am humbled that He knows every hair on my head, but i'm even more humbled and comforted at what the amplified verse says after…

the Father is sovereign and has complete knowledge.

i was thinking, in this season, of how silent i've been to God. 

and yet again, God shows up, with a gentle reminder that not even silence can break His sovereignty. 

God is still sovereign in my silence.

God is still sovereign in my disobedience. 

God is still sovereign in my heartbreak. 

God is still sovereign in my loss. 

God is still sovereign in my grief. 

God is still sovereign in EVERY season of my life. 

this isn't some profound blog. i'm aware. 

this is just a reminder, in case life has done a good job of keeping you distracted…

that God is STILL, and is always in control. 

and i'm aware that you may be reading this, perhaps rolling your eyes…

because we hear it all the time. and it's easy to say, but it's harder to actually FEEL.

there's good news. 

God is intricately and delicately acquainted with all of Y O U R ways.

YOU. 

not one thing slips by Him without His knowledge. 

you are seen by Him, even in the deepest moments of silence. 

you are known by Him, even when it seems like you've been forgotten. 

get this: His EYE is always on you.

ready for this? even when your eyes drift and lose sight of Him, He never takes His eye off you. 

you can rest assured that although we lose people and things in this life, 

we won't lose God. 

He is a good, good father. 

it's who He is. 

His faithful love endures forever. 

He created us, and He sustains us. 

it's in Him that we live and that we move and that we have our being. 

He is in our details.

ALL of our details. 

the messy.

the scary. 

the good.

the bad. 

the seemingly insignificant. 

He is in the midst of it ALL with you. 

and He never leaves. 

i pray he speaks to you faithfully as He did to me this morning. 

gentle reminders.

hope filled promises. 

His unfailing word.

this is our GOD.

you are loved. you are seen. you are known. by a God who is in COMPLETE control. 

O LORD, you have searched me and known me! 

You know when I sit down and when I rise up; you discern my thoughts from afar. 

 You search out my path and my lying down and are acquainted with all my ways. 

Even before a word is on my tongue, behold, O LORD, you know it altogether. 

You hem me in, behind and before, and lay your hand upon me. 

Such knowledge is too wonderful for me; it is high; I cannot attain it. 

Where shall I go from your Spirit? Or where shall I flee from your presence? 

If I ascend to heaven, you are there! If I make my bed in Sheol, you are there! 

If I take the wings of the morning and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea, 

even there your hand shall lead me, and your right hand shall hold me. 

If I say, "Surely the darkness shall cover me, and the light about me be night,"

 even the darkness is not dark to you; the night is bright as the day, for darkness is as light with you.

 For you formed my inward parts; you knitted me together in my mother's womb. 

I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Wonderful are your works; my soul knows it very well. 

My frame was not hidden from you, when I was being made in secret, intricately woven in the depths of the earth. 

Your eyes saw my unformed substance; in your book were written, every one of them, the days that were formed for me. // psalm 139 

until next time, 

X O X O,

C A I T L i N