Rose Unplugged

These reflections first aired as part of an episode of Rose Unplugged on Real Life Network.

I've been doing a lot of thinking lately about how my life and responsibilities have changed. In a good way. A very good way. Maybe it's because I'm a grandmother now. Watching my son and daughter-in- law with their toddler has a way of pulling me backward and forward at the same time. It's made me think about my early days as a mom and the joys and challenges that came with that responsibility. And let's be honest, parenting really is the best job in the world… but it is also a very intense job.

And I've been thinking about the difference — the very real difference — between moms and dads. In fact, this is exactly what they're meant to do — be different. When a man lays his head down on the pillow at night, he's out. Just like that. He sleeps, he gets up, and he goes back out the next day to care for his family in his own steady way.

But when women lay their heads down at night? Our minds are still running. It takes us a while to fall asleep. Because every single day, as a mom, you are carrying around more information than anybody else on the planet. You know exactly where your child is. You know his schedule by heart. You know he has study hall sixth period. You know what he's going to have for lunch — not just today, but tomorrow. You know the school lunch menu better than the cafeteria does.

Moms know how to handle doctor's appointments. We know how to get them seen when they're sick. We know what soothes our children, what worries them, and what they're not saying out loud. Why? Because we're moms. And that's the job. But I also know the men in our audience — they are there, engaged. They work hard. That's why families work best when both roles are honored.When strong families are built intentionally.

And thinking about that strong family unit brought back a memory for me. Years ago, when my son was about five, I wrote a letter to my dad. I don't remember every word, but I remember the heart behind it. Even then, I understood that while Mom was holding the details of our days together, Dad was the foundation.

I remember going fishing with him. I don't remember if we caught a single fish — but I remember the ham and capicola sandwich, and the cold can of Coke we packed for lunch. I remember how excited I was to just have that time alone with him. I remember the sacrifices. I remember the day he had to sell the car he loved when the steel mills began shutting down in Pittsburgh. He owned a design business that had worked with many of them, and when that industry faltered, so did his livelihood.

After he sold the car, I can still see him counting the cash out on the table. I think he sensed how badly we felt watching him give up something he really enjoyed. So, he suddenly tossed the money into the air, just to make us laugh. I was sad for him — but relieved when he did that. He did what he had to do for us. And because he was a resilient man, he redirected, rebuilt, and his business thrived until the day he retired.

Aristotle explained: “A multitude of great events if they turn out well will make life happier … while if they turn out ill, they crush and maim happiness … Yet even in these — nobility shines through, when a man bears with resignation many great misfortunes, not through insensibility to pain but through nobility and greatness of soul.”

I remember hard moments, too. Sitting in the front seat as he drove me to the hospital after I fell down a hill. I was crying, asking if I was going to die. Yeah — I was always dramatic. Dad answered with such calm assurance — even though I could see the worry in his eyes. And that's the thing about fatherhood. So much of its impact is quiet. You don't always see it in the moment — you feel it later, when you realize how much of what steadied you was simply someone showing up day after day.

And there's another memory that shaped me just as deeply. I remember sitting at my mother's bedside as she was dying from non-Hodgkin's lymphoma. I was the oldest of four — all of us rather young; heck, she was young. Only 48 years old. I told her I was so sorry for all the trouble I caused her as a teenager — and let me tell you, I caused plenty. I was rebellious, strong- headed, and well — a bit wild.

Do you know what she said to me? She said, “Do you think I don't know how teenagers are?” That moment was grace. It was forgiveness without a lecture. It was a salve to my spirit. And what's remarkable is that years later, as I was parenting a teenager myself, I heard her words again — steadying me, softening me, reminding me what love looks like in hard seasons. Because parenting is a long game. I remember when my own five-year-old once said, “I don't like you, Mom,” after I had to discipline him. It hurt. But then I thought about my parents. And I realized something — children don't always understand love in the moment. But they remember it over time.

I remember far more now than I did then. And I honestly believe I wouldn't have the joy, the home, the fulfillment I have today without my parents — and without God's faithfulness woven through it all. That's what I want to dig into here — the mother's heart, the father's role, and the strength of the family unit. There is a poem written by Maureen Hawkins called The Miracle of Life, and there's a line I read while I was pregnant that has never left me: “Before you were conceived, I wanted you. Before you were born, I loved you. Before you were here an hour, I would die for you. This is the miracle of life.”

It truly is the miracle of life — a truth every mother recognizes, deep in her bones, long before she ever has the words for it. While preparing for my show on parenting, I was reminded of Jochebed — Moses' mother. She's mentioned only briefly in Scripture, yet her obedience and courage changed history. Her love didn't just save a child — it contributed to leading a nation out of slavery.

There was a new king of Egypt who didn't have the relationship with Joseph that the previous king had. As a result, over time the Israelites were no longer favored guests in their land. The Pharaoh began to imagine them as the enemy, and as a people to be feared should they rise or join forces against Egypt. Out of fear and growing hatred of the Israelites, Pharaoh first enslaves them then commands the death of male children. Exodus 1:15-21 reads: “The king of Egypt said to the Hebrew midwives, whose names were Shiphrah and Puah, ‘When you are helping the Hebrew women during childbirth on the delivery stool, if you see that the baby is a boy, kill him; but if it is a girl, let her live.’”

The midwives couldn't bring themselves to obey Pharaoh's command. When they were questioned, they answered with remarkable courage and wisdom. They said in their defense that the Hebrew women gave birth so quickly the babies were already born before the midwives arrived. I love that. Very clever. You must admire their boldness — their cleverness, their reverence for life, and their fear of God. And Scripture tells us that God honored their faithfulness by blessing them with families of their own.

During the time that Jochebed gave birth to her son Moses, Pharaoh ordered all Hebrew boys thrown into the Nile. So, she hid her baby for three months. When she could no longer keep him safe, she did the unthinkable — she placed him in a waterproof basket and set him among the reeds. Can you imagine the heaviness of her heart? Keeping him meant certain danger. Letting him go meant uncertainty. But one choice offered a chance at life. That's what mothers do — risk everything for their children.

God honored that trust. Moses was discovered by Pharaoh's daughter, and through Jochebed's daughter Miriam's quick thinking, Jochebed was chosen to nurse her own son — was even paid to do so. God allowed Moses to be loved by both his biological mother and his adoptive mother. What compassion. What grace. Especially towards Jochebed.

Moses is remembered for leading a nation out of bondage. But behind that story is a mother who trusted God with what she loved most. Jochebed's story is really a story of surrender. Of trusting God to take an impossible situation and turn it into something miraculous. I remember the day Iplaced my fears for my son into God's hands.

I had given my son my very best. I raised him up in the way he should go, I loved him, sacrificed for him. But there comes a moment when we must do what Jochebed did. We must entrust our children to the One who loves them even more than we do. I remember telling God: I love my son so much — but however much I love him I realize that my love cannot possibly compare to the love that you have for him.

Setting our children free to be what God intended them to be is, at some point in their lives, the right thing to do — the only thing to do. Setting our children free to become who God created them to be isn’t easy — but it is right. And like Jochebed, that act of trust becomes part of our own story too.

I began with a quote about a mother's love. But it also echoes the heart of God toward each of us: “Before I formed you in the womb, I knew you; before you were born, I set you apart.”

Women — we must trust our child's life to the One who gives life. And that same God still holds our children — and us — in His hands.

For more content like this, visit Real Life Network.

This piece grew out of a recent episode of Rose Unplugged, where I  sat down with decluttering expert Joshua Becker to talk about the surprising overlap between our need for control and the clutter we hold onto. Here's some of what I shared with viewers that day. 

This is about relinquishing control to God — and about organizing and uncluttering our homes, our lives, and our faith. It's a subject I explored recently. 

Let's start with control: 

Last year someone very close to me experienced serious complications after surgery. What should have been a recovery turned into a two-month hospital stay, and ultimately, his passing. 

I was carrying the deep sadness of watching someone I loved slowly  fade away. There's no way to prepare yourself for that — for sitting  next to a hospital bed, hoping for improvement while quietly realizing the outcome may already have been decided. 

And naturally, during seasons like that, lessons surface. Growth happens — even when we resist it. Because if I'm being honest with  myself — and it took me some time to get there — I realized this  wasn't just about grief. It was about control. 

As my friend was dying, I was forced to come face-to-face with something I've struggled with my entire life: and that is-- I can't control everything. 

But I am a fixer. That's what they called me at home for years. You've got a problem? I can fix it. And most of the time — I did. I was good at it. Not only did I believe I could fix things — my family and friends  believed it too.  

If friends or family found themselves tangled in circumstances they couldn't sort through — I was there. Not just with a solution, but with a really good solution. I took pride in that.

I think when someone grows up surrounded by a lot of chaos — a lot  of distressing moments — that child learns early how to create order wherever they can. As they are growing into an adult that person will find ways to create their own order. Or essentially, control situations because growing up they felt things were so very out of control. 

That was me. 

‍

‍

But the problem with being a fixer is that it doesn't always leave room for God to do what only He can do. 

During my friend's time in the hospital, I learned — painfully — that  there were things I simply couldn’t do. I didn't understand what was happening to his body. I couldn't make it better. I couldn't fix it. I had  to let go. And I had to let God finish a work He had already begun. 

Not everything is up to me. Not everything can be fixed by me. And  learning that — really learning it — changed me. And once that truth settled in, I began to look honestly at my own  life — and I realized just how many ways I exerted control. 

Now understand, my control came from a desire to help. But  underneath that help was often an inner turmoil — a constant hum of responsibility. Constantly asking myself, how do I make this better? What else can I do? What am I missing? 

But even in the midst of turmoil, God calls us to rest in Him. 

There were many times I did. But if I'm honest, there were just as  many times I did not. Or I would give a situation to Him — only to  take it back. We do that, don't we? Hand it over in prayer, then quietly reclaim it the moment things don't move fast enough or look the way we want them to. 

When you really think about it, it's arrogant. How in the world do we convince ourselves that we can control outcomes? Especially as Christians. We should know better. 

Proverbs 19:21 reminds us, "Many are the plans in a person's heart, but it is the Lord's purpose that prevails."

And here's the part that stopped me cold: God was calling His child — my friend — home. To eternal life with Him. And if I'm being completely honest, I was almost working against that. Think about it. I felt like I needed to be part of the process that saved his earthly body, and yet all the while God was preparing to receive it. 

When you sit with that for a moment — you realize that's awfully presumptuous. 

During that time of awakening, I was reminded of something Oswald Chambers wrote in “My Utmost for His Highest”. In a July devotion, he talks about what he calls "calculating without God." He references Psalm 37:5: "Commit thy way unto the Lord; trust also in Him; and He shall bring it to pass." 

Chambers wrote, "Don't calculate without God. God seems to have a delightful way of upsetting the things we have calculated on without taking Him into account… Haul yourself up a hundred and one times a day in order to keep your heart from being troubled, until you get into the habit of putting God first and calculating with Him in view." 

That hit me. I decided I needed to stop managing God and start truly trusting Him. Trusting Him entirely. And I couldn’t do that with conditions and backup plans. But with open hands. And an open heart. And that surrender, real surrender, was the hardest lesson of all. 

It was a lesson that carried me through the rest of 2025. And it's one I hope to continue deepening as I move forward. 

I spent years believing peace came from holding everything together – from tightening my grip. But I've learned that peace isn't found in managing more – It's found in letting go, making room for God and trusting Him with the outcome. 

And all of that was on my mind when I interviewed Joshua Becker about a few of his books; “Becoming Minimalist”, “Uncluttered Faith”,  and “Clutter Free with Kids”. 

Long before "minimalism" became a trend, Christian leaders were preaching the power of decluttering our lives. John Wesley, the founder of Methodism, emphasized extreme simplicity and faithful stewardship. In his sermon “The Use of Money”, he urged believers to "gain all you can, save all you can, and give all you can," warning  that accumulating luxuries was a burden that "chokes" the spiritual  life.  

Wesley himself lived with very few possessions; he considered it a crucial part of living a holy life and therefore freeing his heart for God's work and for helping others. 

And here is a story that really struck home for me about Wesley:

Wesley had just finished hanging and admiring some artwork he had purchased for his room when one of the chambermaids came to his door. It was a very cold winter day, and he noticed that she had only a thin linen gown to wear for protection against that cold.  

He immediately reached into his pocket to give her some money for a coat and realized he had very little left after his purchases. It struck him then that the Lord was not pleased with how he had spent his money. He asked himself: "Will Thy Master say, 'Well done, good and  faithful steward?' Thou has adorned thy walls with the money that might have screened this poor creature from the cold! O justice! O mercy! Are not these pictures the blood of this poor maid?" 

I can’t stop thinking about that. When we engage in excess, there is little left for those in need. 

And that raises an uncomfortable but necessary question: are we conducting our lives, our choices, and our spending, in a way that reflects stewardship, or self-indulgence? 

This isn't about luxury for luxury's sake. It's about whether our appetites have quietly replaced our accountability. Because every dollar, every resource, every moment we consume beyond what we  need is something that can no longer be offered to someone else. 

In a culture that celebrates more, faster, bigger; restraint has  become radical. But restraint is also where compassion lives. And maybe the measure of a life well lived isn't what we accumulate, but being mindful of making room to give. 

I shared initially in that program with Joshua Becker about control and then segued into reducing clutter which, when accumulated, is really a type of control.  

And here's the thing — we don't usually call it control. We call it  being responsible. Prepared. On top of things. But let's be honest, sometimes it's not organization we're after but reassurance. 

Most of us aren't trying to control life because we're bossy or rigid. We're doing it because life feels loud and unpredictable. And when the world feels uncertain, control feels comforting. That's where clutter sneaks in. Because clutter isn't always about having too much stuff. Sometimes it's about holding onto options, just in case. Just so we don't feel caught off guard. 

So, we keep the extra bins and the backup supplies. The things we might need someday. Even when what we're really doing is trying to manage our anxiety with labels and shelves. 

I do want to point out that order is not the enemy. God is a God of order. But order without trust can leave us exhausted. Because while control promises peace… it never actually delivers it. 

Scripture reminds us that peace doesn't come from managing every outcome. Jesus told us not to worry about tomorrow, not because tomorrow doesn't matter, but because we aren't meant to carry it. 

Sometimes the most freeing thing we can do isn't organize more, it's loosening our hold. And maybe the goal isn't a perfectly controlled life, but one where we trust God enough to release what we don't need to carry. One where we make space — not just in our  homes, but in our hearts.

For more content like this, visit Real Life Network.