Grace in Motion: The Principles That Define How I Live

There are moments in life — after heartbreak, after loss, after the quiet rebuilding — when you realize that your life is shaped not by what happens to you, but by what you choose to stand for.
I’ve learned this the slow way, through ache and grace, through faith and relapse, through learning to begin again and again.

So, what principles define how I live?

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✨ Grace Is My First Language

Grace is the way I keep breathing when the ache rises.
It’s how I forgive Mr. California for the silence, and myself for waiting by the phone. I love this man with everything in me, but the complications and distance hurt me, hurt us.
Grace is how I turn pain into prayer instead of poison.

Grace doesn’t erase the past — it redeems it, thread by trembling thread.
It’s what carried me through four years of sobriety,
teaching me that healing is a thousand small surrenders,
each one whispered: “Not my will, but Yours.”

I’ve learned to meet myself where I stumble, not where I wish I was standing.
That’s where God meets me too — in the wreckage, in the real.

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💗 Love, Even When It Costs

The Legion of Mary taught me that love isn’t just emotion; it’s mission.
It’s handing out rosaries when your heart is breaking.
It’s comforting the lonely when you wish someone would comfort you.
It’s praying for the one who walked away — not because you’re a saint,
but because you remember what it feels like to be lost.

I still love Mr. California.
Not as an idol, but as a soul I once touched with light.
And loving him now means releasing him gently into God’s keeping.
That, too, is service.

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🕯️ Adoration Is My Anchor

The hours I spend before the Blessed Sacrament aren’t penance — they’re medicine.
When I look at that small circle of white, I remember who holds the universe.
I let His silence speak louder than the unanswered calls.

It’s where my heartbeat syncs again with heaven’s rhythm.
I whisper names — all my beloved friends across the distance and miles —
and trust that grace travels where I cannot.

Sometimes I think the monstrance holds not just Christ, but all our waiting.

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🌧 Truth, Even When It Trembles

I used to think strength meant composure.
Now I know it’s confession — the willingness to say, “I’m still healing.”

Sometimes I go to Mass with tears still wet on my cheeks.
Sometimes I feel like a saint one moment and a storm the next.

But truth, even messy, is holy.
It’s what keeps me human in a world that rewards pretending.
Sobriety has taught me that honesty — especially about weakness —
isn’t failure. It’s freedom.

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🌌 Beauty Is How I Worship

A candle flame, a choir voice, the sky through my new telescope —
they are all hymns in disguise.
I see God in every shimmer, in every constellation He flung across the dark.

When I find beauty, I offer it back.
Because every lovely thing is a reminder: He hasn’t given up on me.
Even the ache is beautiful when I surrender it.

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🌿 Becoming Is the Only Rule

Every day I am learning to live slower, holier, truer.
I am learning that waiting doesn’t mean wasting.
That silence can be sacred, not punishment.
That loving without demand is its own vocation.

I am not who I was when he first said, “I see you, Lynn.”
But I hope I am someone who keeps seeing others that way —
through eyes washed in grace.

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🌹 Benediction

If you asked me again what defines how I live,
I would say this:

I live by grace,
by love that costs,
by faith that doesn’t need proof,
by beauty that resurrects,
by truth that trembles,
and by the quiet miracle of becoming.

And when my heart aches for what was lost,
I place it back on the altar, whispering —
You can have this too, Lord. All of it. Even him.

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“My grace is sufficient for you, for My power is made perfect in weakness.”
— 2 Corinthians 12:9