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Meg Marie Wallace

newborn

Quinn’s Birth Story
Family | Favorite Posts | General | Life | Mama Life

Quinn’s Birth Story

All images are credited to my sweet friend, Megan, with Megan Houze Photography. If you are in the San Antonio area I could not encourage you enough to have her as your newborn and/or birth photographer. She was so respectful of us and attentive to the sensitivity and preciousness of these sacred moments. I am…

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Real friends don’t just sit with you in the sorr Real friends don’t just sit with you in the sorrow.⁠ They stand up with fire in their eyes.⁠ ⁠ They get angrier at what’s hurting you than you do.⁠ Not because they’re reckless,⁠ but because they refuse to be indifferent to your pain.⁠ ⁠ They don’t minimize it.⁠ They don’t change the subject.⁠ They don’t offer a Band-Aid for a gaping wound.⁠ They say things like,⁠ “This should not have happened to you,”⁠ and they mean it.⁠ ⁠ Galatians 6:2 says, “Carry one another’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ.”⁠ And sometimes that looks like a casserole.⁠ But sometimes it looks like holy rage at injustice.⁠ Tears that fall as if the pain were their own.⁠ Prayers that feel like warfare.⁠ A presence so rooted, so unmovable,⁠ you remember again that you’re not alone.⁠ ⁠ Real friends don’t just walk in when the world walks out—⁠ they barge in, armed with hope and grit,⁠ and start carrying pieces of the wreckage you thought you had to lift by yourself.⁠ ⁠ They remind you:⁠ You’re not crazy.⁠ You’re not abandoned.⁠ You’re not weak for weeping.⁠ ⁠ You’re loved.⁠ And they’ll carry that truth⁠ until you can carry it again yourself.⁠ ⁠ So yes—thank God for friends like that.⁠ But maybe today’s invitation is simpler than we think:⁠ Be that friend.⁠ ⁠ The kind who shows up.⁠ The kind who feels it all.⁠ The kind who lifts what isn’t theirs to carry—⁠ just because love says, “I’m with you in this. I’m not going anywhere.”
Where is home, really?⁠ ⁠ Is it the place we s Where is home, really?⁠ ⁠ Is it the place we sleep?⁠ The walls we decorate?⁠ The photos on the fridge or the way the light spills across the floor?⁠ ⁠ Or is it something deeper?⁠ ⁠ I’ve been thinking about what I want to pass on to my kids—not just in words, but in the rhythms of our life. And I keep coming back to this:⁠ ⁠ If your heart is anchored in Christ, you’re never really without a home.⁠ Even in chaos.⁠ Even in loss.⁠ Even in transition.⁠ ⁠ Because home isn’t comfort, predictability or even a place.⁠ It’s presence.⁠ Not ours—His.⁠ ⁠ When Jesus is our dwelling place, we carry home with us. Into every storm. Every move. Every strange season that makes us feel like strangers in our own lives.⁠ ⁠ This is the kind of rootedness that holds when everything else shakes loose.⁠ It’s the gift I want to give my children.⁠ And honestly? It’s the reminder I need too.⁠ ⁠ Because if Jesus is your refuge,⁠ if He’s the place you go to rest and be known and be held—⁠ then you are never far from home.⁠ ⁠ No matter where you go,⁠ He goes with you.⁠ ⁠ And that changes everything.
I used to think religion tasted horrible.⁠ Turns I used to think religion tasted horrible.⁠ Turns out…⁠ I was right.⁠ ⁠ It wasn’t the Bread of Life that left a bitter taste—⁠ it was the additives.⁠ The flavor enhancers.⁠ The spiritual substitutes.⁠ ⁠ The fog machines.⁠ The choreographed transitions.⁠ The emotional moments designed to look like awe, but are instead carefully curated, premeditated. The buildings dressed like a daydream but are filled by those who create nightmares ⁠ Somewhere along the way, we traded sacred for slick.⁠ We made the gathering a show,⁠ the leaders celebrities,⁠ the people spectators.⁠ Somewhere along the way the purity of the gospel was made to become fodder for entertainment—drawing sheep to earthly shepherds rather than the indwelling presence of the Holy Spirit. ⁠ But what if it was never meant to be that way? Let me rephrase that—I know it was never meant to be this way. ⁠ ⁠ What if the Church wasn’t supposed to look like a concert hall…⁠or a comedy show…or an entertainment venue… but a living room?⁠ Not a stage, but a table?⁠ Not a crowd, but a family?⁠ ⁠ What if we stopped treating reverence like a relic,⁠ and started returning to the wild holiness of ordinary, mundane genuine relationships where life is shared, forgiveness is extended and repentance is routine? ⁠ Worship that sounds like dishes clanking in the sink.⁠ Communion that happens over coffee.⁠ Confession that shows up in the driveway.⁠ Repentance not reserved for altar calls or mountain tops but held tenderly from across the couch.⁠ ⁠ The simple church.⁠ ⁠ Not soft. Not watered down.⁠ But simple—⁠ less production, more surrender… Like the early Church—⁠ the original Church—⁠filled with those who didn’t gather for entertainment, but for endurance. ⁠ They devoted themselves to teaching,⁠ to breaking bread,⁠ to prayer,⁠ to each other.⁠ ⁠ No programs.⁠ No spotlight.⁠ Just people marked by His presence.⁠ ⁠ That’s the kind of Church we ache for.⁠ Not a new idea.⁠ In fact, one of the oldest ones there is.
Making memories with all my people…staycation su Making memories with all my people…staycation summer mode is in full swing! ☀️🍉⛱️
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