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Welcome

Most of you know this about me — I heal, dream, live, and breathe through writing. It’s how God and I talk. It’s how I work through the deep places of life. So am I surprised that, after a few days of wrestling and reflecting, He would gently lead me to open a book, read a single verse, and begin something new? Not really. But I had no idea this would be my morning.

Wrapped in a blanket, coffee in hand, I settled into my usual quiet space… and God met me there. The words began to pour out. Before I knew it, I had written the first devotional for a series I didn’t even know I was starting — Coffee, Covenant & Grace.

The heart behind it is simple: to create a place where your spirit can breathe, your heart can rest, and your eyes can refocus on the God who meets us in both the stillness and the chaos. Whether you’ve been here from the start or just pulled up a chair today, my prayer is that you feel welcome in this space — as if you’re sitting right here in my living room with a cup of coffee in your hands and a blanket around your shoulders. That you’d be reminded the Lord knows you by name. That your burdens would feel a little lighter. And that you’d leave reminded of the One who has never once let you go.

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What a Few Weeks It Has Been

What a few weeks it has been. I’ve found myself overwhelmed—in the holiest sense—by God’s work in our lives, and especially in my own heart. My mornings with Him have become a gift I never expected. Those quiet moments before the world wakes feel like sacred ground, where God gently reminds me that He is near.

This morning, I woke before the sun rose, in a house that had only just grown quiet.

Just days earlier, it was anything but. Children’s laughter spilled through the rooms. Grandkids wrestled on the kitchen floor. Someone got hurt. There were tears, quick apologies, hugs that lingered, and then loud laughter again—followed by the fierce competitiveness that comes with family games. For a brief, precious couple of days, everyone was together.

And then morning came.

I woke early with that familiar ache—everyone gone, back to their busy lives. Grandkids who are teenagers now. Adult children with full calendars and responsibilities of their own. The house felt hollow again. And yet, alongside the sadness, there was peace… and awe.

A quiet awareness of how God has been at work all along—bending our lives, shaping our paths, leading us gently to this moment.

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When the House Goes Quiet but God Speaks Loudly

It’s been a road marked by surprise and wonder, happiness and sorrow. And though it doesn’t look like I once imagined, I can see now how incredibly blessed I am—even with the failures. Having everyone together felt as though we had never been apart at all. That can only be God.

One of the moments that stopped me in my tracks was watching my grandchildren with their aunts. The ease between them. The laughter. The unspoken understanding. They teased one another, talked freely, and moved through the space like they belonged together—because they do. There was nothing fragile about it. Nothing forced. Just love, layered with history and protection.

To witness that connection—to see relationships flowing naturally across generations—felt like quiet confirmation that God has been healing more than individuals. He has been restoring family.

If anyone truly knew where we all were over 11 years ago—and could see where we are today—the work God has done would speak for itself. A testimony to His faithfulness when we were weary, when hope felt thin, when the road ahead was unclear.

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A Different Table, the Same Faithful God

Over the last few years, I’ve slowly begun giving my children pieces of their childhood. Little drawings made by small hands. Photographs worn at the edges. Their own Christmas ornaments. School report cards. Yearbooks. Dolls. The things we all call treasures. And as I did, God showed me something quietly that evening: even in the hardest moments of our lives, I have always tried to be the one who walked with Him.

I think back to a Christmas letter I wrote years ago. The opening spoke of how blessed we were—even in a season when I didn’t necessarily feel blessed. I was choosing faith before feelings, truth over circumstance.

“The thief does not come except to steal, and to kill, and to destroy. I have come that they may have life, and that they may have it more abundantly.”
John 10:10 (NKJV)

As I moved through the house that morning—quiet now, emptied of laughter—I found myself noticing something I hadn’t expected.

These walls aren’t the walls that heard bedtime prayers whispered in small voices.
This table never held crayon-stained placemats or spelling homework.
This town isn’t where their childhood memories were made.

And yet, when they were all gathered here—around this table, in this place—it still felt like home.

A different table.
A different town.
But the same God.

The God who knew every place we lived before.
Every table we gathered around.
Every season that held both joy and breaking.

Nothing about this surprises Him. Not the moves. Not the endings. Not the rebuilding. Not even that quiet ache that comes when life doesn’t unfold the way we once imagined.

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Choosing Truth, Breaking Cycles, Trusting God Forward

When my children talk now about certain moments from their lives, the regret can feel deep. Regret that we were ever in those situations. Regret that it couldn’t be changed. Regret that today doesn’t look the way I once pictured it.

Brokenness through divorce is never a light decision. It touches everyone. And in our situation, as much as I wanted it to be different, there came a point when there was no other choice.

It meant facing a truth that had been there for years. The relationship had slowly withered under the weight of emotional harm—for me and for my children. There was a deep desire to give them a life I never had as a child, and for a long time I hoped that holding things together would somehow make that possible.

But when it became clear that it could not, I knew I could not continue a cycle that was quietly wounding us. And I could not allow that pattern to reach into the lives of my grandchildren. Faith no longer looked like staying.

Faith looked like letting go—and trusting God to do the work only He can do.
The work of healing.
The work of restoration.
The work of breaking generational strongholds that existed long before me.

“Christ has redeemed us from the curse of the law, having become a curse for us.”
Galatians 3:13 (NKJV)

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The God Who Restores Fully

It has taken years—years of rebuilding, healing, and learning how to live again in new rhythms. Years of God tending wounds we didn’t always have words for. Years of Him restoring what could be restored and bringing peace where restoration wasn’t possible.

“He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.”
Psalm 147:3 (NKJV)

What I see now is not the picture I once imagined—but it is a picture marked by grace. A family still standing. Hearts still open. Relationships growing stronger across generations.

This morning, in the quiet after the noise, I’m reminded that homes may change, tables may move, and towns may shift—but God remains.

“The Lord has done great things for us, and we are glad.”
Psalm 126:3 (NKJV)

And I sit here now, grateful—for the noise that was, the silence that is, and the faithfulness of a God who has been present in every season of our lives.

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An Invitation to See God at Work in Your Own Story

As you sit with these words, I wonder what places in your own life God might be quietly restoring.

Maybe your story doesn’t look the way you once imagined.
Maybe there are chapters you wish you could rewrite, or seasons marked more by survival than peace.

And yet—what if God has been at work all along?

What if the very places that feel unfinished or imperfect are the places where He is still healing, still redeeming, still breaking cycles you never thought could end?

God does not wait for perfect stories to do holy work.
He meets us in the middle of the mess.
He restores what was broken.
And He weaves redemption into lives that never looked like the plan we had in mind.

My prayer for you is that you would begin to see His hand—not just in the places that feel whole, but in the ones still becoming.

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A Closing Prayer for Legacy & Restoration

Father God,
I thank You for being the God who sees generations—not just moments.
You see where we have been, what has been broken, and where You are still leading us.

I thank You that even in the places marked by sorrow, You have never abandoned us.
That even when relationships fractured and dreams fell apart, You remained faithful—quietly restoring what the enemy tried to destroy.

Lord, I place my children and my grandchildren in Your hands.
Where there has been pain, bring healing.
Where there has been confusion, bring clarity.
Where patterns once threatened to repeat themselves, I thank You that You have broken them by Your power and Your grace.

Help us to walk forward—not defined by what was lost, but anchored in what You are building.
May the legacy we leave behind be one that points clearly to You—not perfection, but redemption.

We believe that You are still at work.
Still healing.
Still restoring.
Still making all things new.

“And the Lord will restore the years that the locust has eaten.”
Joel 2:25 (NKJV)

Amen.

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With devotion from my quiet corner,
Marie

(When you pray this for yourself, feel free to make it your own — and sign your own name at the end as a reminder that God’s promises are personal to you.)