If Christmas Felt Different This Year

Hi Friend,

How was your Christmas?

Was it rough?
Were there good moments tucked in between the deafening silence?
Did it feel different this year? quieter, heavier, unfamiliar?

Mine did too.

Sometimes we walk into seasons we never thought we would. Loss we didn’t plan for. Absence we didn’t prepare our hearts for. Empty spaces where laughter used to live. And during the holidays, those spaces feel even louder.

I want you to know something, and I need you to really hear it:

Jesus sees this, too.

Just because someone left does not mean Jesus left.
Just because things look different does not mean He disappeared.
Just because the table feels emptier does not mean you were abandoned.

He sits with us in the quiet.
He stays when the music stops.
He remains when everyone else walks away.

And if all you could do this Christmas was survive, if joy felt distant, if faith felt fragile, if your heart felt tired, that does not disqualify you from His love. It draws Him closer.

You are not weak for feeling this.
You are not faithless for grieving.
You are not forgotten in the silence.

I’m sitting on the porch with you today, holding space for the hard and the holy all at once. And I’m reminding you, even if it doesn’t feel like it right now, you are not alone in this life.

With all my love,
Sunshine 🌾🤍

✨ If Jesus could whisper something to you right now, I think it would be this:

"I see your tears, beloved. I have wept too. You are not alone in the ache. Come sit with Me, I’ll carry it all."

🕊 Breath Prayer for Today:

Inhale: Jesus, You see me.
Exhale: Jesus, You sit with me.

📖 Verse to Remember:

John 11:35 — "Jesus wept."
Two words. One Savior. Infinite comfort.

🪑 Porch Talk Letter 1 of the Series: “Jesus Weeps Too”

I used to think tears were a sign of weakness. That if I was really “strong in my faith,” I’d be able to smile through it all. Be the tough one. The brave one. The polished girl with the perfect verse at the perfect time.

But then my world fell apart… because of my own doing.
And I learned to weep.

And in that weeping, curled up on a bathroom floor or lying flat on a bed that felt more like a coffin, I found out something stunning: Jesus weeps too.

He wept for Lazarus.
He weeps for you.
Not because He’s powerless. But because He is present. Intimately, heartbreakingly, overwhelmingly with you.

He weeps with us in grief.
He weeps for us in pain.
And somehow, He weeps through us, in a way that brings healing.

That night I reached under my bed for that Bible, I didn’t hear a thunderclap or feel the rush of angels. I just felt this stillness. A peace that didn’t match my circumstances. A tear I hadn’t allowed myself to cry in years. And I knew, He had been there the whole time.

So today, if the tears fall…
Let them.
They are holy water.
And Jesus is right beside you, whispering,
"Me too, beloved. Me too."

Dear Friend,

If you’re reading this at work, at home, or somewhere else, maybe coffee in one hand and the weight of the world in the other, I want you to know something right off the bat:

You are not alone. Not even close.

I know what it’s like to feel like you’re underwater. To feel like you’ve messed it all up, or that maybe God’s voice has grown quiet because you stopped listening. I know the shame that settles in your chest like a storm cloud. I know the numbness that makes it hard to cry, or pray, or even care. And I also know the life-giving breath that rushes in when you finally reach out, when you finally remember that dusty Bible under the bed and the Savior who never left your side.

For years, I lived like I was barely breathing. Addiction was my anchor, shame was my shadow, and I didn’t know how to get out. But even in that place, especially in that place, Jesus was near. I remember the night I reached for that Bible like it was my last hope. It was like breaking the surface after drowning. Like Ezekiel’s valley of dry bones suddenly inhaling. He didn’t wait for me to clean myself up. He didn’t scold me for disappearing. He met me with mercy. Breath. Life.

That’s why I’m writing to you now.

Not as someone who has it all together, but as someone who remembers what it’s like to fall apart. As someone who believes Jesus doesn’t run from the wreckage, He steps right into it and rebuilds.

These Porch Talk Letters? They aren’t devotionals from a stage. They’re conversations from the steps. From a girl who still wrestles, still wonders, still walks with a limp, but walks with Jesus. And He’s walking with you, too.

I don’t know what your valley looks like. But I know this:

Jesus weeps with you there.
And He breathes new life into dry bones.
Even yours. Especially yours.

So let’s keep sitting here together.
Let’s keep showing up.
Let’s keep breathing.

And hey, if you’re here and you don’t really know what you believe yet… I just want you to know this:

I’m so glad you’re here.
You don’t have to have it all figured out to pull up a chair on this porch. I’m not here to preach at you, I’m here to sit with you. To share my story, my wrestle, my healing, and the Jesus who met me in the dark. And I know that might not be where you’re at right now, and that’s okay. You’re still welcome here. Always.

I believe with every fiber of my being that Jesus loves you, right now, exactly as you are. No performance. No pretending. Just you.

So if you’re curious, doubting, angry, numb, or just here for a good porch story and some real talk, I’m with you. I won’t rush you or push you. I’ll just keep writing letters that tell the truth:
That hope is real.
That healing is possible.
And that you're not alone.

With you always,
From the girl who found Jesus under the bed,
Maria

The Hammie Ranch

Sunshine & Jesus Joy

My friend,

You do not have to do this life alone.