Hallie is FIFTEEN.

 My most precious Hallie Belle,

FIFTEEN.

Oh my darling girl…how in the WORLD are you fifteen?!?

Every year I sit down to write this letter and somehow find myself saying the exact same thing. Time is moving entirely too fast. But this year feels especially crazy because you aren’t just my little girl anymore. You are becoming this absolutely incredible young woman right in front of me.

And Hal, I am completely captivated by you.

You are fierce and strong and independent. You are confident beyond measure. You are hilarious and fun and somehow ALWAYS dancing. You are driven and disciplined and apparently completely incapable of having a small goal. 😂 You love people. You lead naturally. You walk into a room and people are drawn to you. And underneath all of that confidence and strength is the same tender, beautiful heart that I have been writing about since you were tiny.

I have prayed since you were ONE that you would become a woman who was “amazingly strong, courageous, and dignified, yet incredibly gentle and kind.”

And sweet girl…LOOK AT YOU.

This year feels like the beginning of something new.

Last year your back was forcing you to slow down. And slowing down is NOT exactly Hallie Pentz’s specialty. Gymnastics has been such an enormous part of your life and having your body put limits on something that your mind was absolutely determined to do was HARD.

But you’re back.

Back in the gym. Back doing something that has shaped so much of who you are. And I hope you realize that the greatest thing gymnastics has given you isn’t a skill or a score or a medal. It’s taught you how to fall.

And then get back up.

Over and over and over again.

That ability is going to serve you for the rest of your life.

But apparently gymnastics isn’t quite enough anymore because this year you have decided you’d like to TRY EVERYTHING. 😂

You’re swimming for the high school team. You’re planning on playing flag football. You’re looking forward to track and, because simply running and jumping isn’t interesting enough, you’ve got your sights set on POLE VAULTING.

And then this summer you completed your very first triathlon.

A TRIATHLON.

At fourteen.

And instead of crossing the finish line and thinking, “Well, that was a cool thing I did,” you apparently decided that now you’d like to complete an IRONMAN before you graduate from high school.

Of course you do.

Honestly, that might be the most Hallie thing I’ve ever heard.

I absolutely LOVE the way your brain works. You see something difficult and instead of wondering if you could do it, you start figuring out how you’re going to do it.

You have always been that way.

At ONE I wrote that you were “incredibly determined and focused.”

At fourteen I wrote about how fiercely independent and strong you were.

And at fifteen, those aren’t little personality traits anymore. They are becoming defining parts of the woman you are growing into.

You don’t shy away from hard things.

You RUN toward them.

And that isn’t only true athletically.

You’re taking FOUR classes at Klahowya now, stepping more and more into high school life. You’ve joined the Executive Board as Treasurer. You’re taking on leadership and responsibility and finding your place in a much bigger world.

And now…DRIVERS ED.

Excuse me while I have a small emotional breakdown. 😂

There was a time when I wrote in these letters about someday walking you into preschool. Then it was someday middle school. Then someday high school.

And now I’m supposed to sit calmly in the passenger seat while YOU DRIVE THE CAR?!?

No thank you.

But also…I can’t wait.

Because watching you become independent is simultaneously one of the hardest and most beautiful parts of being your mom.

And Hal, I love watching you lead.

You don’t need to demand attention. People are naturally drawn to you. You are vibrant and confident and ridiculously fun, but you also have this incredible ability to bring people WITH you.

You are an includer.

I’ve written that about you for years because it is one of the things I admire most about you. You make people feel like they belong. You notice people. You celebrate them. You make room.

And I love that some of the places where you’re finding the greatest joy right now are at youth group and with people who are helping you grow in your faith.

You LOVE youth group.

And apparently summer camp brought out every competitive ounce of Hallie Pentz because you won the HIGH DIVE competition AND were named Tribal Wars MVP!!!

I mean…obviously. 😂

I can picture you so perfectly. Competing like your life depended on it, laughing ridiculously loud, dancing whenever music came on, gathering people around you and having the absolute time of your life.

And somewhere in all of this, you’re still talking about becoming a surgeon.

That dream hasn’t gone away.

And every year that you get older, I can see it a little more clearly.

I can see your intelligence and discipline carrying you through years of school. I can see your confidence walking into incredibly difficult situations. I can see your hands doing complicated things that require precision and courage.

But most of all, I can see your HEART.

Because someday, if Dr. Hallie Pentz walks into a room where someone is scared, she won’t just see the diagnosis or the procedure.

She’ll see the person.

That’s who you are.

And Hal, after everything our family has walked through this year, that dream hits my heart a little differently than it used to.

You’ve seen medicine from another perspective now. You’ve seen that behind every appointment and procedure and scary word is an actual person—and a family—trying to be brave.

I don’t know if surgery will ultimately be what God calls you to do.

But I know that wherever He puts you, people will be better because you are there.

Because people have ALWAYS been drawn to your light.

And as you turn fifteen, there is something I want you to remember.

The world is going to keep getting louder.

There will always be someone telling you what you should look like, what you should accomplish, how you should act, who you should impress, or what supposedly makes you valuable.

But I have been praying the same words over you since you were a tiny baby:

“I pray against any outer influence that says that she is not good enough, or that she is lacking in any way.”

Hallie Belle, you lack NOTHING.

You do not need a gymnastics score or a swim time or a pole vault height or an Ironman finish line to prove your worth.

You don’t need a title.

You don’t need perfect grades.

You don’t need anyone’s approval.

Your confidence does not have to come from being the best at everything you try.

It comes from knowing WHOSE you are.

You are a cherished daughter of the King.

You were created intentionally and beautifully by the Creator of the Universe.

So keep dreaming ridiculous dreams.

Keep being fiercely confident.

Keep doing hard things.

Keep dancing every single time the music comes on.

Keep including the person standing on the outside.

Keep loving youth group.

Keep laughing.

Keep leading.

Keep trying new sports.

Keep planning the Ironman.

Keep dreaming about becoming a surgeon.

And most importantly, keep chasing after Jesus.

Because Hallie, every year when I read the prayer I wrote for you when you were a baby, I am blown away.

I prayed for a future woman I couldn’t yet see.

And now…

I see her.

So today, just as I have every year of your precious life, I pray this prayer over you…

Jesus, thank you so much for this gift of life that you have blessed us with. What an amazing honor it is to be her mom. I pray that your grace would pour out over Hallie’s life and that your Holy Spirit would invade every part of who she is. I pray that she would know and truly understand that she is amazingly beautiful. She is the picture of perfection created in YOUR image. You created her as an artist creates a masterpiece and looked upon her and said, “It is good!”

Jesus, I pray that Hallie would grow to exude confidence and grace. That she would be amazingly strong, courageous, and dignified, yet incredibly gentle and kind. I pray against any outer influence that says that she is not good enough, or that she is lacking in any way. Lord, I pray that all of her worth would be found in you.

God, I pray that Hallie would dream big and love deeply. And be loved deeply in return.

And Jesus, please guard her heart. Set her apart for you and your will. I pray that your love would envelop her and consume her and she would find herself in you. Lord, protect her heart, her mind, and her body. I pray that your protection would follow her all the days of her life.

I am so excited for the days ahead and to watch my baby girl grow into a woman that is chasing after your heart. Before I know it, I will hear her name announced as she walks across the stage to receive a diploma. And see her Daddy walk her down that aisle—glowing with your love as a beautiful bride. Or watch her hold her baby in her arms for the first time and gaze into his or her eyes, as I know it is at that moment that she may finally get a glimpse into how much I love her.

Jesus, thank you for this precious gift! Please give me wisdom to be her mom…to love her every single day of her life, to encourage her always and to be her biggest fan. I pray that you would be apparent in all of my words and all of my actions. Lord, help me to strive to demonstrate your love for Hallie in a tangible way in hopes that it will give her the smallest peek into who you are.

Just as her name means “Praise God,” all I can do is praise you for this precious life. May Hallie grow into the amazing woman that you have called her to be!

Amen.

My precious Hallie Belle,

Fifteen years ago, I held this tiny baby girl in my arms and wondered who she would become.

I could never have dreamed up YOU.

The gymnast.

The swimmer.

The future pole vaulter.

The triathlete who thinks an Ironman sounds like a reasonable high school goal. 😂

The leader.

The future surgeon.

The dancer.

The includer.

The girl who loves Jesus.

My strong, confident, fierce, hilarious, breathtakingly beautiful daughter.

I know these next few years are going to fly. Drivers licenses and high school and giant decisions about your future are coming way faster than my mama heart would prefer.

So I’m going to soak up fifteen.

The music.

The dancing.

The gym.

The swim meets.

The ridiculous goals.

The laughter.

The driving lessons…Lord help us. 😂

The late night conversations.

The ordinary moments when all my kids are still under my roof.

All of it.

Because getting to be your mom has been one of the greatest gifts of my entire life.

Happy 15th Birthday, my exquisite girl.

Never shrink yourself. Never stop dreaming. Never stop making room for people.

You are more precious than the finest gems, and I am so incredibly proud of you.

I love you to the moon.

Mom

My Love…

My love,

I don’t know that I will ever be able to adequately thank you for the way you have loved me through this season of our lives.

You have always been my provider and protector, but those words have taken on an entirely new meaning these past few months. In the middle of so much fear and uncertainty, you have been my constant. When everything around me feels chaotic, you are steady. When I feel like I’m falling apart, you are the one place I feel safe enough to completely come undone.

You have held me while more tears than I knew I had have fallen from my eyes. You never rush them or try to fix them. You just pull me close, protect every tear, remind me over and over that I’m beautiful, and say the words I have needed to hear a thousand times: “We’re going to make it through this together.”

Your arms have been my shelter.

There have been moments when I have felt like God gave me you as a tangible reminder that Jesus is holding me too. That even when I’m terrified and cannot see what comes next, I am held. I am protected. I am loved. I am not alone.

And your love hasn’t only shown up in the big moments. You serve me so incredibly well in a thousand quiet ways every single day. You make dinner. You run our kids everywhere. You do the chores. You keep our family moving when I simply don’t have the capacity. You make my coffee every morning. You have carried so much without ever making me feel like I’m a burden.

Your support is unwavering. Your love is unending.

I know this has been hard for you too. I know you have fears of your own, yet somehow you continue to be this steady force beside me. Cancer didn’t just happen to me; in so many ways it happened to us. And through every appointment, every decision, every tear and every unanswered question, you have never wavered. You just keep showing up. Loving me. Serving me. Protecting me. Holding me.

Tomorrow I’m walking into that hospital scared. I’m saying goodbye to a part of my body, and I don’t know exactly how I’m going to feel when I wake up on the other side. But I know you’ll be there. When I hurt, you’ll take care of me. When I cry, you’ll hold me. When I struggle with my changed body, you’ll tell me I’m beautiful until I can believe it again. And when fear takes over, you’ll remind me that we are going to make it through this together.

Someday, when this chapter is far behind us, I know I’ll remember the fear, the appointments, the surgery and the uncertainty. But I think what I’ll remember most is how deeply you loved me through all of it.

I want so much more of this beautiful life with you. I want to finish raising our amazing kids. I want graduations and weddings and grandbabies. I want ridiculous adventures and a million ordinary evenings. I want to sip coffee with you when we’re 80. I want to grow old beside you and look back together at this beautiful, crazy life God gave us.

Thank you for being my provider and protector. Thank you for serving me so selflessly. Thank you for carrying our family when I can’t. Thank you for every cup of coffee, every dinner, every kid you drive somewhere, every chore you quietly take care of, every reminder that I’m beautiful, and every tear you’ve protected while I cried in your arms.

Thank you for being my safest place.

I don’t know exactly what tomorrow will bring. But I know whose arms I want around me when it does.

Yours.

Every. Single. Time.

I love you more than words could ever say.

Forever Yours,

❤️ Me

The Night Before

My precious babies,

As I sit here tonight, on the eve of my surgery, there are a million things running through my mind. Fear and relief. Gratitude and sadness. Hope. Exhaustion. Faith. All of it seems to exist together right now.

But overwhelmingly, I keep thinking about the three of you.

This has been hard.

Really, really hard.

There have been moments over these last few months when I have been scared in ways I didn’t know I could be scared. There have been appointments and tests and biopsies and phone calls and decisions that I never imagined having to make. There have been tears that came out of nowhere and moments when I desperately wanted life to go back to the way it was before anyone ever said the words “breast cancer.”

And tomorrow, I will walk into a hospital and say goodbye to a part of myself.

But through every single piece of this, I have been reminded over and over again of just how unbelievably blessed I am.

Because I have you.

You three have been absolutely incredible.

And I need you to know something before I walk into that hospital tomorrow:

I am SO PROUD to be your mom.

Not because of your grades or sports or accomplishments. Not because of gymnastics or football or track or AP classes or leadership positions or anything else you might ever achieve.

I am proud of WHO YOU ARE.

This experience has given me a front row seat to the hearts of my children, and somehow, in the middle of one of the hardest seasons of my life, that has been one of the greatest gifts I’ve ever received.

Zack…

My first baby. The boy who made me a mom.

I have prayed for seventeen years that God would raise you to be a strong and courageous man, but that your heart would always remain tender toward people.

And sweet boy, I am watching that prayer come true.

You are so strong. You are steady and disciplined and focused, but underneath all of that strength is this enormous heart. You care deeply. You protect the people you love. You show up. You have this incredible ability to make me feel like everything is going to be okay, even when I’m not entirely convinced of it myself.

I look at you sometimes and cannot believe that the little boy I used to scoop into my arms has become this young man standing beside me.

There is something especially strange about needing your strength now when I spent your whole life believing my job was to be strong for you.

But right now, I just want you to be a carefree 17 year old boy. Play football. Laugh with your friends. Love McKenna. Be ridiculous with your sisters. Chase enormous dreams. Work hard. Love Jesus. Go become the man God created you to be.

And know that your mama is watching you with more pride than you could ever comprehend.

Hallie Belle…

Oh my beautiful girl.

You are strength wrapped in grace.

I’ve prayed those words over you practically since the day you were born, and I don’t think I’ve ever understood them as clearly as I do now.

You are fierce. You are independent. You are ridiculously confident. You are strong in ways you don’t even understand yet.

But you are also tender.

You notice people. You include them. You make them feel important. You have this incredible presence that draws people toward you, and then this beautiful heart that makes room for them when they arrive.

And I have watched you navigate all of this with such courage.

You have your own hard things right now. Your body hasn’t always cooperated with the plans you’ve made for it, and you’ve had to learn things about patience and strength that I wish you didn’t have to learn yet.

And then Mom got cancer.

I wish I could have kept that word completely outside of your world.

But I couldn’t.

So instead, I’ve watched you face something scary without letting it steal the joy and confidence and silliness that make you YOU.

Please keep dancing, Hal.

Turn the music up way too loud. Laugh. Be fierce. Dream ridiculously enormous dreams about becoming a surgeon. Keep making room for people. Keep walking into rooms with that beautiful confidence.

And never forget that your mama thinks you are absolutely exquisite.

And my sweet Jovie girl…

My baby.

You have absolutely undone me through all of this.

You are only ten years old, and somehow you have this almost unbelievable ability to understand what the people around you are feeling.

You see me.

Sometimes before I want to be seen.

You notice when one of my favorite worship songs comes on and tears start filling my eyes. And without needing an explanation, your little hand reaches over and wipes them away.

You snuggle me every night.

You stay close.

And somehow you seem to know that sometimes there aren’t words that make hard things better. Sometimes you just love someone and sit beside them.

Jovie, that tenderness inside of you is one of the most beautiful gifts God has given you.

But my love, enjoy this sweet age. I want you playing Barbies. I want you taking care of August. I want gymnastics and softball and dance parties and ridiculous laughter. I want you to be TEN.

And while I don’t ever want you to carry this, I hope someday when you’re grown, I can tell you how much those little hands wiping away my tears meant to me.

My babies, cancer has taken some things from us.

It has taken time.

It has taken some innocence.

It has taken some certainty.

Tomorrow it will physically take something from me that has been part of my body for my entire adult life.

But it does NOT get to take the things that matter most.

It doesn’t get my faith.

It doesn’t get our joy.

It doesn’t get our wild and crazy and precious family.

And it absolutely does not get to touch the love I have for you.

If anything, this experience has made that love feel even more overwhelming.

Because when the noise of life gets stripped away and you’re forced to think about what actually matters, the answer becomes incredibly simple.

You do.

You three are three of the greatest gifts God has ever entrusted to me.

There is no accomplishment in my life that will ever compare to being your mom.

Nothing.

And I want you to hear this part especially clearly:

You do not need to accomplish another thing for me to be proud of you.

You don’t need another A.

Another medal.

Another touchdown.

Another gymnastics skill.

Another AP class.

Another leadership position.

Another trophy.

I am proud of you because you are kind.

I am proud of you because you are brave.

I am proud of you because you love people.

I am proud of the way you love each other.

I am proud of the way you love Dad and me.

I am proud of the way each of you, in your own completely different way, carries the light and love of Jesus into the world.

And I am so ridiculously proud that I get to say:

Those are my kids.

Tomorrow morning, when they wheel me away, I know I’ll be scared.

But I also know exactly what I’ll be thinking about.

I’ll be thinking about seventeen years ago when they placed Zack in my arms and I became Mom.

I’ll be thinking about the tears streaming down my face when I heard, “It’s a girl,” and met my Hallie Belle.

I’ll be thinking about a crazy summer night when Jovie came flying into the world before half the people who were supposed to deliver her even made it into the room.

I’ll be thinking about vacations and boats and Disney and sports and dance parties and frozen pizzas and inside jokes.

I’ll be thinking about ordinary mornings and crazy evenings.

I’ll be thinking about snuggles.

I’ll be thinking about the thousands of times I’ve kissed your faces and said goodnight.

I’ll be thinking about our life.

And I will be thanking Jesus for every single second of it.

I don’t know why this is part of our story.

But I know who holds our story.

And I trust Him.

I have spent your entire lives praying that you would know Jesus—not just know about Him, but KNOW Him. That when life is beautiful, you would praise Him. And when life is painful and confusing and scary, you would discover that He is still there.

So tomorrow, that’s what I’m going to do.

I’m going to trust Him.

I’m going to let the doctors do their jobs.

I’m going to fight like crazy to heal.

And then I’m coming home to you.

Because we still have SO MUCH living to do.

There are football games and swim meets and gymnastics meets and track meets and softball games to watch. There are graduations and college decisions and giant dreams ahead. There are places we haven’t traveled and jokes we haven’t told and music we haven’t danced to. There are weddings I pray I get to cry through someday and babies I pray I get to hold.

There are a million ordinary days that I cannot wait to experience with you.

And maybe that’s one of the greatest things this season has taught me.

The ordinary days were never ordinary.

They were the whole thing.

Being your mom has been the greatest adventure, honor, privilege, and joy of my life.

So if you remember anything from this season, remember this:

I am okay.

I am strong.

I am surrounded by incredible doctors and an incredible family.

Jesus is with me.

And I love you more than any words I could ever write could possibly explain.

Zack, Hallie and Jovie…

Go be kids.

Be silly.

Be brave.

Dream HUGE.

Love people fiercely.

Take care of each other.

Love Jesus fiercely.

And know that wherever you go for the rest of your lives, there will always be one ridiculously proud mama cheering louder than anyone else in the room.

You are my heart walking around outside of my body.

And tomorrow, when things feel scary, I will close my eyes and picture your three faces.

My greatest gifts.

My greatest adventure.

My babies.

I love you to the moon, around all the stars, and back to home.

Forever and always,

Mom

Cancer

 I don’t really know how to write this. And maybe that’s because I don’t really know how to feel this either. This is hard. There isn’t a more eloquent way to say it. Cancer is hard. It came crashing into a life that I absolutely love and turned things upside down in ways I never could have anticipated. And there is so much grief in that.

I grieve the woman I was before I knew. The woman who woke up and worried about completely ordinary things. Kids and schedules and gymnastics and football and dinner and laundry and vacations and whether everyone had what they needed. I didn’t know how lucky I was to have such ordinary worries. There was a time when my body was simply my body. When a doctor’s appointment was just an appointment. When my phone ringing didn’t make my stomach drop. When words like margins and pathology and lymph nodes didn’t carry the weight of the world. I miss her. I miss the innocence of not knowing.

And there have been so many tears. Quiet tears. Angry tears. Terrified tears. Tears that make perfect sense and tears that show up completely out of nowhere. Tears in the car after appointments. Tears late at night when everyone else is asleep. Tears when someone is kind to me. Tears when I look at my kids. Tears when one of my favorite worship songs comes on and suddenly I can’t hold them back. Sometimes Jovie notices before I can even wipe them away. She reaches over with her little hand and wipes my face or curls up next to me, and somehow that makes me cry even harder. Sometimes I cry because I’m scared. And sometimes I cry simply because I’m tired of having something to cry about.

I’ve spent a lot of time wondering what all of these tears mean. And I think I’ve realized that they aren’t evidence that I’m losing faith. They’re evidence that something I deeply love has been threatened. My life. My body. My family. My future. Of course I’m grieving.

And then there are the questions. So. Many. Questions. Questions that don’t have answers yet and some that may never have answers. Why me? Why now? Why this? What will they find? Will surgery get everything? What will pathology say? Will I need more treatment? What will my body look like? Will I recognize myself? How long will recovery take? When will I feel normal again? Will I ever actually feel normal again?

And then there are the questions that are harder to type. The ones I don’t really want to say out loud. Will I be here for all of it? Will I see my babies grow up? Will I watch Zack graduate and find out where all of those enormous dreams take him? Will I see Hallie become the incredible woman I can already see emerging? Will I watch Jovie grow from this hilarious, tender little girl into the woman God created her to be? Will I grow old beside the man I love? Will I see weddings? Will I hold grandbabies? Will there be Christmas mornings twenty years from now when somehow all of my kids end up back at our house?

I want someone to promise me all of it. I desperately want someone to tell me exactly how this story ends. And nobody can. Maybe that’s one of the hardest parts of cancer for me—the uncertainty. There isn’t an appointment that can answer every question. There isn’t a pathology report that can promise me the next fifty years. There isn’t a doctor who can look me in the eyes and guarantee that I will get every single moment I’m desperately hoping for. So somehow I have to learn how to live inside the unanswered questions. And I hate that. I really, really hate that.

But somewhere in the middle of all of this, I’m beginning to understand that I don’t have to choose between grief and hope. Apparently, they can live together. I can be absolutely heartbroken that this is happening and incredibly grateful to be alive. I can hate cancer and still see beauty everywhere. I can trust Jesus and still ask Him why. I can believe with my whole heart that He is good and still desperately wish He had written this chapter differently. I can pray with enormous faith and still be scared. I can cry until my eyes hurt and then laugh hysterically with my kids ten minutes later. One doesn’t invalidate the other.

Maybe that’s what this season is teaching me. Grief AND hope. Fear AND faith. Heartache AND gratitude. Uncertainty AND trust. I keep wanting to resolve the tension, but maybe I’m not supposed to. Maybe faith right now isn’t certainty. Maybe faith is taking the next step without it. Maybe faith is saying, “Jesus, I don’t know what happens next. I don’t know why this happened. I don’t know what tomorrow holds. I don’t know what the pathology will say. I don’t know exactly what my body will look like on the other side. I don’t know how long it will take before I feel like myself again. And I really, really wish I knew. But I know You. So I’m going to give You the things I cannot know, and I’m going to walk forward.” Scared. Hopeful. Heartbroken. Grateful. All of it.

Tomorrow, I will walk into a hospital and say goodbye to a part of my body. Even typing that feels surreal. And I’ve realized that I need to give myself permission to grieve that too. I can know that my breasts don’t define my femininity and still mourn losing them. I can be overwhelmingly grateful for a surgery that may protect my life and still absolutely hate that I have to have it. I can know that reconstruction is possible and still understand that what is being taken from me cannot actually be replaced. This isn’t cosmetic. This isn’t simply changing the way my body looks. I am saying goodbye to a part of myself because cancer forced me to. And that hurts.

I grieve the scars I didn’t choose. I grieve the innocence I’ve lost. I grieve the time cancer has taken from our family. I grieve the appointments and biopsies and phone calls and decisions. I grieve the version of myself who didn’t know any of this was coming. And someday, when I’m ready, I will welcome the woman who comes next. Because she’ll still be me. Maybe changed. Definitely scarred. Probably a little more tender. Certainly more aware that life is fragile. But still me. And maybe she’ll love ordinary life even more fiercely than the woman who came before her.

Because that’s the strangest thing about all of this. Everything has become precious. My kids laughing in the other room. Someone reaching for my hand. A ridiculous family dinner. A sunny afternoon. A worship song. One of my babies crawling into bed beside me. Kevin sitting next to me. All five of us simply existing under the same roof. I always knew those things mattered. But now I KNOW.

Because the deepest fear underneath all of this isn’t really about losing my breasts. It’s about losing time. Because I LOVE my life. I love it so much. I want more of it. I want to see ALL OF IT. I want graduations and college drop-offs. I want to watch my kids fall in love. I want weddings. I want grandbabies. I want family vacations that are far more chaotic than relaxing. I want Christmas mornings. I want to embarrass my teenagers. I want to watch them become adults and then call me asking how to do something completely basic. I want to watch Kevin become a grandpa. I want to grow old beside him and someday sit together laughing about how completely insane and beautiful this whole adventure has been.

But more than any of the giant milestones, I want the ordinary days. I want a million more Tuesdays. I want everyone asking me what’s for dinner. I want shoes left in places they don’t belong. I want music playing too loudly. I want people coming and going. I want kids piled on my bed. I want conversations in the kitchen. I want goodnight kisses. I want our wonderfully ordinary life. And cancer, for the first time, forced me to acknowledge that I’m not promised any of it. That realization has broken my heart in a place I didn’t even know existed.

But wanting desperately to stay isn’t a lack of faith. It’s gratitude. It’s realizing just how unbelievably beautiful the life God has already given me is. So I am going to hope. Not because I know exactly how this story ends. I don’t. Hope isn’t pretending that I do. Hope is believing there is still so much story left to be written.

I hope there comes a day when cancer is something I talk about in the past tense. I hope someday I realize that an entire day went by and I didn’t think about it. Then a week. Then maybe longer. I hope the appointments become less frequent. I hope the scars soften. I hope my body heals. I hope the fear gets quieter. I hope life becomes wonderfully, beautifully ordinary again.

And someday, I hope I read this from very far on the other side. I hope my kids are older. I hope our house is loud. I hope I’m complaining about dishes in the sink and somewhere I’m supposed to be five minutes ago. I hope cancer feels like something that happened a very long time ago. And I hope I remember this version of myself—the woman sitting here tonight. The woman who doesn’t know what happens next. The woman who has cried more tears than she knew she had. The woman who is scared. The woman who desperately wants more time. The woman who loves her husband and her babies so fiercely that sometimes it physically hurts.

I hope someday I can look back at her with tenderness. Because right now, she is doing the best she can with something she never asked to carry. And she’s still walking. Not because she isn’t afraid, but because there is still so much love in front of her.

So tonight, I am not going to force myself to be brave. I’m not going to make myself stop crying. I’m not going to solve questions that cannot be solved tonight. I’m going to let myself grieve. I’m going to pray. I’m going to hope. And I’m going to let all of those things sit together.

Tomorrow will come when it comes. Tonight, I am here. My babies are close. The man I love is beside me. Jesus is with me. There is grief. There is fear. There is uncertainty. But there is also so much love.

And there is hope.

So much hope.

And for tonight, that is enough.

Jovie is TEN

My Most Precious Treasure,

DOUBLE DIGITS. How in the actual world are you TEN?!? I have written some version of that sentence every year of your life, and somehow this one feels impossible. TEN. An entire decade of Jovie. Ten years since you came flying into this world, apparently in such a hurry to start living that the doctors didn’t even have time to make it to your birthday party. And honestly, that feels pretty fitting for you. You have been living BIG ever since.

I wish I could adequately put you into words. I have tried every year for the last ten years and every year I come up short. You are incredible. You are talented and smart and hilarious. You are wildly empathetic and tender and strong. You have a gigantic personality and the most beautiful heart. You are confident and silly and capable of making us laugh until our stomachs hurt. You are somehow SO grown up and still so wonderfully little.

And that might be my favorite thing about you at ten.

You can understand these enormous concepts and have conversations that sometimes make me forget that you are only ten years old. You read a room better than most adults. You notice people. You don’t just hear what someone says—you somehow understand what they’re feeling. You know when to celebrate with someone and you celebrate BIG. But even more remarkably, you know when someone is hurting and you aren’t afraid to sit right there in the pain with them.

And then five minutes later you’re playing Barbies or taking care of your baby doll August.

I LOVE that about you.

I love that you are growing up without being in a hurry to grow out of the things you love. I love that you can be incredibly mature and insightful and then disappear into the magical little world of your imagination. I love that you are big and little all at once. Please don’t ever rush through that, sweet girl. There is plenty of time to grow up. Hold onto every little bit of childhood magic for as long as you possibly can.

You are also just ridiculously talented. Gymnastics is still such a huge part of your world and watching you work and learn and push yourself is so much fun. But this year you also decided to try softball and, because apparently you can just do ALL THE THINGS, you fell in love with it. You made the Diamond Dusters and were SO excited to play, only to realize that your gymnastics meets conflicted and you couldn’t do both. I have a feeling softball isn’t finished with you yet. There is something so fun about watching you discover something new and realize, wait…I’m good at this too!

But Jovie, as proud as I am of the things you can DO, they aren’t even remotely close to what makes me most proud of you.

It’s who you ARE.

This year has asked more of you than I ever wanted it to.

My breast cancer diagnosis changed our world in ways I wish it hadn’t. There have been scary conversations and appointments and tears and a whole lot of uncertainty. There have been moments when I desperately wished I could shield you from all of it and let you just be ten. I hate that in some ways you’ve had to grow up a little faster than I wanted you to.

But somehow, through all of it, YOU have taken care of ME.

You are always by my side. You know when I need a snuggle without me saying a word. You see tears forming in my eyes when one of my favorite worship songs comes on and quietly reach over to wipe them away. You crawl into bed and snuggle with me every night. You don’t try to fix everything. You just stay close.

Jovie, I don’t know if you’ll understand how extraordinary that is until you’re much older.

You have this almost unbelievable ability to read people. To know when someone needs your gigantic Jovie energy and when they just need you to sit beside them. You celebrate with people when life is good and somehow, at only ten years old, you’ve learned how to sit with people when life hurts.

That is a gift.

And while I would take every ounce of pain and uncertainty away from you if I possibly could, I am in absolute awe of the person I have watched emerge through it. You have handled something really hard with more grace, empathy, faith, and love than I could have ever asked of you.

Sweet girl, someday you’ll realize that the greatest gifts God gives us aren’t always the ones that get trophies or applause. Your gymnastics ability is incredible. Your intelligence will open doors. Your confidence and personality will take you places. But your ability to SEE people—to walk into their joy and celebrate with them and to walk into their pain and sit beside them—is something this world desperately needs.

I hope you protect that tender heart forever.

Ten years ago, I prayed over my tiny baby girl that God would raise you up to be a mighty woman who stands for the good of all. That you would fight for justice, mend the brokenhearted, break barriers, and love deeply.

And now I get to watch it begin.

At ten.

So today, just as I have every year, I pray this prayer over your life…

Jesus,

I lift up my sweetest baby girl to you. In my weakness and shortcomings as a mom, you are so very strong. You have created an absolute masterpiece in Jovie Kalei Pentz. I am constantly in awe at the wonder of who she is. She is wild and crazy, yet gentle and loving. She is gorgeous beyond words and precious beyond measure. Jesus, take her precious life and hold it so close to your heart. It is my deepest desire that she would come to know you and the power of your resurrection. That she would love and serve you and love and serve your people with every fiber of her being. And that she would be deeply loved in return. Jesus, raise her up to be a mighty woman that stands for the good of all and points people to you. May she fight for justice, mend the brokenhearted, break barriers, and love deeply. May you lead her, guide her, and let your amazing grace fall upon her as she fights back the darkness for your name. Jesus, give her incredible confidence and strength as she pursues the life that you have called her to. Oh Lord, it is my greatest honor and privilege to be her mom. I dream of the day that I will hear her name announced as she walks across the stage to receive her high school diploma, and then her college diploma and beyond. I can picture it now, seeing sweet Jovie in a white gown as the most beautiful bride. Jesus, I pray for her future spouse, that he would love her like you do and lay his life down for his bride. And I have tears in my eyes even now as I imagine the day that Jovie becomes a mom and instantly knows this crazy and incredible love that I feel for her. Jesus, thank you so much for her precious life. Thank you for the gift that she is to our family. Lead her. Guide her. Let your grace wash upon her. She is your beautiful daughter and I am humbled at this opportunity to love her every day of her life.

Amen.

My precious Jovie, I don’t know what the next decade holds. If the first one is any indication, I know it will be filled with a million adventures, belly laughs, dance parties, gymnastics meets, giant dreams, ridiculous shenanigans, tears, triumphs, and more joy than I could ever put into words.

But I do know this.

For ten years, I have had the absolute privilege of watching you become you. And somehow, the tiny baby girl who captivated all of us from the moment she arrived has become this extraordinary little human who still captivates us every single day.

Keep your Barbies. Keep loving August. Keep doing gymnastics. Play softball again. Sing the songs. Snuggle with your mama. Laugh ridiculously loud. Feel things deeply. Celebrate people loudly. Sit with them quietly. Never make yourself smaller for the comfort of the world around you. And above everything else, keep loving Jesus and loving His people with that gigantic, tender, beautiful heart of yours.

You are still my baby girl.

You will always be my baby girl.

And Jovie Kalei Pentz, getting to be your mom for the last ten years has been one of the greatest honors and joys of my entire life.

Happy 10th Birthday to the sweetest buttercup in all the land.

Love you to the moon, around all the stars, and back to home.

Mom

Seventeen.

To the best young man I have ever met,

How? Seriously, HOW are you seventeen?

I have been writing these letters to you for seventeen years now, and every single year I say some version of the same thing…it is going too fast. But this one feels different. Seventeen feels dangerously close to grown. You’re standing on the edge of your senior year, making plans for college and your future, and becoming the man that I have literally been praying you would become since the day you were born.

And Zack, I am completely blown away by you.

When you were little, I wondered who you would become. I prayed that you would be strong and courageous. That you would be a man of integrity and great character. That you would work hard, lead people, love Jesus, and love His people. And now I get this crazy privilege of watching those prayers unfold right in front of me.

You are disciplined. You are focused. You are driven. You set absolutely enormous goals for yourself and then somehow just quietly go to work accomplishing them. You don’t need someone standing over you telling you what needs to be done. You decide what matters to you and you WORK.

This year has been absolutely insane.

You played football, basketball, and ran track all while carrying FIVE AP classes. You made it all the way to STATE in track and were a captain. You stepped up as a leader in your school and were elected ASB PRESIDENT!!! And because apparently five AP classes, three sports, leadership, friends, church, family and everything else isn’t quite enough for you, you’re planning to take FIVE MORE AP classes your senior year.

Dude.

I am exhausted just writing that. 😂

But here’s the thing, Zack. As incredibly proud as I am of all of those accomplishments, they aren’t actually what makes me most proud of you.

It’s you.

It’s the person you are when nobody is keeping score.

You are one of the most disciplined and focused people I know, but you’re also completely ridiculous and silly. You’re vibrant and outgoing and FUN. You love people. You genuinely care about them. You are empathetic and kind and selfless. You notice when someone needs something and you step in. You lead naturally, but you don’t need to make everything about you. People follow you because of who you are, not because you’re demanding their attention.

And THAT is leadership.

I’ve watched it grow in you since you were tiny. At thirteen I wrote about you being a “natural born leader.” Back then it was on a middle school football field. Now you’re a captain, an ASB President, a friend that people trust, a big brother that your sisters look up to, and a young man who is beginning to understand that leadership isn’t about being the loudest or most important person in the room. It’s about serving the people in it.

And Zack, you love Jesus.

Of everything I could possibly write about you, that matters most.

You love Jesus and you love people. Your faith belongs to YOU now. It’s not just something that Dad and I taught you or something you inherited from our family. I get to watch you figure out what it means to actually follow Jesus with your own life. And my prayer is that as your world gets bigger, your dependence on Him grows deeper. That you never become so talented or successful or capable that you forget where every single one of those gifts came from.

And then there is McKenna. 💕

Last year on your sixteenth birthday, you went for a hike with this sweet girl and asked her to be your girlfriend. And I have loved getting to watch this part of your story too. Watching you care about someone, learn how to be a boyfriend, and continue becoming the kind of man who treats people with kindness and respect makes my mama heart so happy.

Seventeen is messing with me a little bit, Zack.

Because for your entire life I’ve prayed the same prayer. And there is one line that I’ve written again and again and again:

“All too soon I will hear Zachariah David Pentz announced as he walks across the platform and is handed his diploma.”

When you were ONE, I wrote those words.

ONE!!!

You were this tiny little boy and high school graduation was so impossibly far away that I could barely imagine it.

I wrote them again when you were ten.

Again at thirteen.

Again at sixteen.

“All too soon…”

And somehow, all too soon is almost here.

You’re about to start your senior year.

There are going to be lasts this year that I am absolutely not prepared for. Your last first day of high school. Your last high school football season. Your last Homecoming. Your last track season. Your last day walking through the halls of Klahowya. And then, way sooner than I am emotionally prepared for, someone is actually going to say the words I’ve been writing for seventeen years:

Zachariah David Pentz.

And you’re going to walk across that stage.

I already know I’m going to be a complete disaster. 😂

But I also know that underneath those tears will be an absolutely overwhelming amount of pride and gratitude.

Because somehow God chose ME to be your mom.

I got to hold the baby.

I got the LEGO years and the Hot Wheels and that little-boy giggle. I got basketball games and football games and track meets. I got school projects and family trips and inside jokes and late nights and early mornings. I got to watch you become a big brother. I got to watch you fall in love with sports and set gigantic goals and discover who you are. I got to watch you learn to drive and get your first car and have your first girlfriend.

And now I get a front row seat as you begin figuring out where you’re going next.

I don’t know exactly where God will take you, Zack. But I know the man you are becoming, and I know that wherever you go, you will bring all of YOU with you. Your discipline. Your intelligence. Your work ethic. Your ridiculous sense of humor. Your confidence. Your empathy. Your ability to lead. Your enormous dreams. Your love for people. And most importantly, your love for Jesus.

So today and everyday, I continue to pray this prayer over your life. And after seventeen years, I am absolutely overwhelmed as I watch so many of these prayers become reality…

Lord, thank you for the precious gift and miracle you have blessed us with in giving us Zack. I pray that you would raise Zack up to be a Mighty Man of God and a warrior for your kingdom. That he would love and serve you and love and serve your people and honor and obey us as his parents. And Lord, that you would give us great wisdom to be parents worthy of his love, honor, obedience, and respect! God I pray that Zack would be a man of integrity and great character. That he would be strong and courageous. That he would tenaciously seek you and your will, but that his heart would be tender in the pursuit of your people. Lord, I pray that your grace and mercy would pour out over his life and that he would accept your amazing gift of forgiveness, every single day. And please work in our hearts to never take this weight of parenting lightly. Lord, we are raising your precious child. He is not ours, he is a child of the Most High God. You have created every speck of sand on the shore, every star in the sky, and know every hair on his head…he is yours. But thank you so much for giving us the amazing opportunity to be his parents and love him every day of his life.

Lord, I pray that you would protect him from injury, disease, and illness. Protect his heart from heartache. And Lord, please help me to always be his greatest fan and encourager. This year he will begin his senior year. The moment that I have prayed about since he was a baby is suddenly almost here. Soon I will hear Zachariah David Pentz announced as he walks across the platform and is handed his diploma. And then, Lord, he will step into a world where I won’t always be beside him. Go before him. Walk beside him. Give him wisdom and discernment as he makes decisions about college and his future. Open the doors you have for him and give him the courage to walk away from the ones you don’t.

Lord, I pray even now for Zack’s future spouse. I pray that Zack would lay his life down for her as you did for your church. And on that day, on that altar, you would join them together forever in a union that only you could create. And one day, if you bless him with children, may he hold his baby and experience this same overwhelming, ridiculous, indescribable love that I have been privileged to feel for him for seventeen years.

God, continue to shape him and form him into the Man of God that you have called him to be.

Amen.

Zack, I know this next year is going to go way too fast. So I’m going to try really hard not to spend it mourning what’s ending. Instead, I’m going to soak it ALL in.

Every football game. Every track meet. Every ridiculous joke. Every conversation in the kitchen. Every time you walk through the door. Every family dinner. Every moment I get to have all three of my kids under the same roof.

Because seventeen years ago, you made me a mom.

And Zack, it has been even better than I dreamed.

You are one of life’s greatest gifts. I could not possibly be more proud of you, and there is absolutely nowhere you could go and nothing you could accomplish that would ever make me love you more than I do right now.

Go chase the gigantic dreams, sweet boy.

I’ll be right here, just like I promised you on your very first birthday…

Your biggest, craziest, loudest fan.

Happy 17th Birthday, Zachariah David.

I love you, I love you, I LOVE YOU!

Mom

Hallie is FOURTEEN

My most precious Hallie Belle,

FOURTEEN.

Oh my darling girl. How in the world are you FOURTEEN?!?

It feels like just yesterday that I heard the words, “It’s a girl,” and tears immediately started streaming down my face. I remember looking at your tiny perfect face and being completely overwhelmed by the gift God had just given me. I dreamed about who you might become. I imagined shopping dates and manicures and lunches and coffee and all of the fun things we would do together. I prayed that you would grow to be strong and courageous, confident and graceful, gentle and kind.

And somehow, fourteen years later, you are all of those things and SO MUCH MORE.

Hallie, you are absolutely breathtaking.

You are strong in every possible way. You are fierce. Independent. Hilarious. Talented. Ridiculously confident. You know who you are and aren’t afraid to be exactly that person. You walk into a room and people are drawn to you. You’re gorgeous beyond words, but somehow the most beautiful thing about you has absolutely nothing to do with what you look like.

It’s how you make people feel.

I’ve been writing that about you for as long as I can remember.

When you were little, tiny kids followed you everywhere because somehow they knew they were safe with you. At ten, I wrote that you had this incredible ability to make people feel like, in that moment, they were the most important person in the world.

And at fourteen, that hasn’t changed.

You are a natural includer.

You notice who’s standing on the outside and pull them in. You don’t have to be told to make room for someone—you just do. People are drawn to you because you’re fun and confident and hilarious, but they stay close to you because you make them feel valued. You have this gigantic presence without needing to make everything about yourself.

That is such an incredible gift, Hal.

And you are FUN.

There is pretty much always music playing somewhere around you and there is a VERY good chance that you are dancing. 😂 You cannot help yourself. Music comes on and your entire body apparently has no choice but to participate. You are silly and ridiculous and your facial expressions still make me laugh just like they did when you were tiny. Fourteen-year-old Hallie is somehow equal parts fierce competitor, future surgeon, dancing lunatic, incredible friend, independent woman, and my sweet baby girl.

It’s a pretty fantastic combination.

This year hasn’t been exactly what you planned.

Gymnastics has been such an enormous part of your life. You have poured thousands of hours into that gym. You’ve worked when you were tired, pushed through fear, fallen and gotten back up more times than I could possibly count. You have learned discipline and grit and toughness that most people will never understand.

And this year your back forced you to slow down.

I know that hasn’t been easy.

For someone as fiercely independent and driven as you, being told by your body that you can’t just WILL your way through something is HARD. I wish I could take that frustration away from you. I wish I could make your body cooperate with every giant dream in your head.

But Hal, I hope someday you understand that your strength was never measured by the skills you could perform.

Gymnastics has helped develop your strength.

It did not create it.

YOU are strong.

You are strong when you compete. You are strong when you have to sit out. You are strong when everything goes according to plan and you are strong when you have to completely change the plan. And I have a feeling that learning that lesson at fourteen will someday matter far more than any medal ever could.

And of course, because sitting still isn’t exactly your specialty, you’ve continued finding ways to GO. You ran middle school track. You’ve been swimming. You’re taking a class at Klahowya and getting a little glimpse of the next chapter that is coming way faster than I’m ready for.

And then there’s your dream of becoming a surgeon.

I LOVE that you dream that big.

And honestly? I can see it.

You have the intelligence. You have the discipline. You have the confidence. You have the steady determination to do really hard things. But even more importantly, you have the ability to see the HUMAN standing in front of you. I can picture grown-up Dr. Hallie walking into a room with that gigantic smile, making someone feel safe during one of the scariest moments of their life.

Whatever you eventually decide to do, I hope you never shrink your dreams to make them seem more reasonable to somebody else.

Dream ridiculously big.

Because Hallie, I’ve watched you do hard things your entire life.

There’s something else I’ve prayed over you since you were a baby that means more to me now than it ever has before.

When you were ONE, I prayed:

“I pray against any outer influence that says that she is not good enough, or that she is lacking in any way.”

You were a BABY.

I had no idea what fourteen would look like. I didn’t know about social media or gymnastics scores or teenage friendships or comparison or all of the voices that would eventually try to tell you what a girl is supposed to look like, act like, accomplish, or become.

But I knew those voices would come.

And Hallie Belle, my prayer has not changed.

Never, ever let this world convince you that you need to become less of yourself to be loved.

Keep that ridiculous confidence.

Be fierce.

Be independent.

Be strong.

Be the girl who walks into the room knowing exactly who she is AND makes room for someone who doesn’t yet know who they are.

Be gorgeous and know that your beauty is infinitely deeper than your reflection in a mirror.

Dance when the music comes on.

Laugh loudly.

Include people.

Dream about becoming a surgeon.

Love Jesus.

Love His people.

And when life knocks you down, remember that you’ve spent most of your life practicing how to get back up.

Fourteen years ago, I prayed that you would grow to “exude confidence and grace…that she would be amazingly strong, courageous, and dignified, yet incredibly gentle and kind.”

And sweet girl, sometimes I read those words now and cry.

Because God has been so incredibly faithful.

I was praying for the woman you might someday become.

And now I can see her.

So today, just as I have every year of your precious life, I pray this prayer over you…

Jesus, thank you so much for this gift of life that you have blessed us with. What an amazing honor it is to be her mom. I pray that your grace would pour out over Hallie’s life and that your Holy Spirit would invade every part of who she is. I pray that she would know and truly understand that she is amazingly beautiful. She is the picture of perfection created in YOUR image. You created her as an artist creates a masterpiece and looked upon her and said, “It is good!” Jesus, I pray that Hallie would grow to exude confidence and grace. That she would be amazingly strong, courageous, and dignified, yet incredibly gentle and kind. I pray against any outer influence that says that she is not good enough, or that she is lacking in any way. Lord, I pray that all of her worth would be found in you. God, I pray that Hallie would dream big and love deeply. And be loved deeply in return. And Jesus, please guard her heart. Set her apart for you and your will. I pray that your love would envelop her and consume her and she would find herself in you. Lord, protect her heart, her mind, and her body. I pray that your protection would follow her all the days of her life.

I am so excited for the days ahead and to watch my baby girl grow into a woman that is chasing after your heart. Before I know it, she will be walking into high school…and then I will hear her name announced as she walks across the stage to receive a diploma. And someday, perhaps I’ll watch her accomplish those enormous dreams she has for herself. And see her Daddy walk her down that aisle—glowing with your love as a beautiful bride. Or watch her hold her baby in her arms for the first time and gaze into his or her eyes, as I know it is at that moment that she may finally get a glimpse into how much I love her.

Jesus, thank you for this precious gift! Please give me wisdom to be her mom…to love her every single day of her life, to encourage her always and to be her biggest fan. I pray that you would be apparent in all of my words and all of my actions. Lord, help me to strive to demonstrate your love for Hallie in a tangible way in hopes that it will give her the smallest peek into who you are.

Just as her name means “Praise God,” all I can do is praise you for this precious life. May Hallie grow into the amazing woman that you have called her to be!

Amen.

My beautiful Hallie Belle, I wish I could freeze you right here.

Fourteen.

Still my little girl, but with this incredible woman beginning to emerge.

I want to remember the music blasting. The dancing. The laughing. The confidence. The independence. The gymnastics. The dreams. The ridiculous facial expressions. The people constantly gathering around you. The way you make room for everyone. The way you walk through this world with your head held high.

I don’t know exactly who fourteen-year-old Hallie will become.

Maybe a surgeon.

Maybe something you haven’t even dreamed of yet.

But I know WHOEVER she becomes, she is going to be extraordinary.

Because you already are.

Hallie, you are a cherished daughter of the King and one of the greatest treasures of my life. I am beyond words proud of you and forever grateful that somehow God chose ME to be your mom.

Happy 14th Birthday, my darling girl.

I love you to the moon.

Mom