A word for anyone in the middle of something hard.
There's a question I've been sitting with lately that I think might be for you too. Is God trying to fill your life with good things — but there's no room?
Not because He isn't willing. Not because you've done something wrong. But because your container is full. Worry has pushed out peace. Grief has crowded out hope. Unanswered questions have taken up the space where trust was supposed to live. I've been there. More recently than most people know.
The Night Everything Changed
On the evening of March 6, 2026, a tornado moved through our neighborhood in Broken Arrow, Oklahoma. It punched holes in our roof and walked away. The rain did the rest.
I'm not going to dramatize it. We are alive. We are whole. We were never in danger. But the damage was real, the displacement was real, and the weight of it — if you let it — could have been crushing.
Twenty-one days later, I got the call that my position at Empire Fence Company had been eliminated in a restructure. Gabby's hours were cut simultaneously, and she resigned. After nearly eight years, both of us stepped out of the only paycheck we had — in the same week — while living in temporary housing.
I want to be clear about something: Empire is a great company. We left on excellent terms. We are still their biggest cheerleaders. That season simply concluded — exactly when God said it would. No bitterness. No regret. Just gratitude for eight years of growth and the grace to know when a chapter is finished.
But I'd be lying if I told you none of that felt heavy.
What We Did With the Weight
Here's what I've learned: you can't carry what God never intended for you to hold.
Worry about tomorrow is weight. Bitterness over what you lost is weight. The endless loop of why did this happen is weight. And the longer you carry it, the less room you have for what God is trying to bring in.
He fills our lives with good things — so we stay young and strong.
Psalm 103
Notice the word fills. That implies space. That implies room. That implies that our part in the equation is making room.
We had a choice in March. We could pick up the offense — at the storm, at the timing, at the uncertainty. We could have let the container fill with fear and questions and self-pity. Lord knows the circumstances handed us plenty of reasons. Or we could empty it out.
Every morning, we made a decision. Not today. Not the worry, not the grief, not the weight of not knowing how this ends. We'd hand it back to God before it could settle. Before it could take up space that peace was supposed to occupy. That's not denial. That's not pretending. That's faith working the way it was designed to.
Out of Your Pain Comes Your Purpose
Here's the thing nobody tells you about hard seasons: sometimes God isn't removing you from something. He's repositioning you for something. The tornado didn't destroy our future. It cleared the ground for it.
In the middle of displacement, in the middle of transition, in the middle of the most uncertain stretch of our lives — Gabby and I launched Keystone Table Rock Ministries. Not from a position of comfort. Not from a season of abundance. But from a posture of obedience. Because when you've emptied out the fear, that's what's left: the call.
Kevin went to Mexico in 2001 as a full-time missionary. Gabby was there — and that's where we found each other. We married in 2004 and came stateside in 2007 with the call still burning. We spent years in the marketplace — Arvest Bank, Valley Family Church, Empire Fence — raising our three kids, Faith, Noah, and Dennis, staying planted at A Glorious Church under Pastors Chip and Candace Brim, and believing that the seasons in-between were never detours. They were preparation.
This spring, God said: now. Not comfortably. Not safely. But clearly. And we said yes.
Make Room
I don't know what you're carrying today. Maybe it's grief over a loss you didn't choose. Maybe it's resentment toward someone who walked out or let you down. Maybe it's guilt over a chapter you'd rewrite if you could. Maybe it's just the quiet, grinding weight of uncertainty — not knowing how it ends, not knowing if it gets better.
I want to tell you what I've told myself in this season, on the hard mornings, on the days when the circumstances looked louder than the promise: Empty it out. Make room. God is trying to bring something in.
You don't have to have it all figured out. You don't have to understand why before you trust. You just have to release what you're holding so He has somewhere to deliver what He's already prepared.
Jesus said, Blessed are the pure in heart. That word "pure" comes from the same root as cathartic — cleansing, releasing. Not perfect. Not without struggle. But consistently letting go of what contaminates and making room for what restores.
We aren't victims of a storm. We are people God is repositioning. And if you're in the middle of something hard right now — I believe that's true for you too.
There's a Seat for You Here
Whatever you're in the middle of, you don't have to carry it alone. That's the whole reason this ministry exists. The table is a place where you come as you are, bring what you're carrying, and leave lighter than when you walked in. No fear. No condemnation. Just the presence of God and people who believe with you.
And the nations? That's the reminder that what God is building in your life isn't just for you. Your breakthrough becomes someone else's road map. Your testimony becomes someone else's courage. Your willingness to empty out the negative and make room for God — that ripples further than you can see.
We're still in the middle of our story. The house isn't finished. The ministry is just beginning. The journey is still unfolding. But we're not worried. We made room.
If this encouraged you, share it with someone who needs it today. And if you'd like to walk this road with us — there's a seat at the table with your name on it.