Faith, Hope, and Love — In the Waiting and the Walking

As I write this on Monday, we are waiting.
By the time this is in your hands on Friday (or later depending on the mail), we will know more.

Scripture tells us, “For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror… now I know in part.” That feels especially true at this moment. We know in part. We see in part. We understand in part.

But we are fully known.

Earlier this week, my dad met with doctors for multiple tests, and on Monday, February 23, he will meet with an oncologist surgeon. Like so many families who find themselves in similar conversations, we are in that space between questions and clarity — trusting God with what we cannot yet see.

And at the very same time, I have been walking neighborhoods as a candidate for local office.

Life rarely separates its chapters neatly.

There is a difference between helping someone run for office and running yourself.

For years, I’ve worked behind the scenes on campaigns — strategy meetings, messaging discussions, community events, advising others on how to tell their story well. I understood the mechanics.

What I didn’t fully understand was what it feels like to stand on the other side of the door.

This is the first time since high school and college that I’ve personally run for office. And walking neighborhoods in Putnam County has reminded me that elections are not just about ballots — they are about people.

Some doors close quickly.
Some conversations are short.
Not everyone agrees. Not everyone wants to talk. That is part of living in a free society.

But there have been far more moments of kindness than I ever expected.
There was the small couple who offered me a bowl of stew they were making on a rainy afternoon. I politely declined, but I will never forget the warmth of that invitation.
There was the lady who worried I didn’t have a coat on and might be cold. (For the record, walking the hills of our county neighborhoods keeps you warmer than you’d think.)
There were thoughtful conversations about growth and traffic — about how Cookeville has changed — about families considering moving back to quieter places like Livingston because life feels a little less rushed there.
And there were long porch conversations — the kind that remind you why community matters.

While waiting on medical answers, I have been reminded how deeply people care. About their homes. About their children. About their neighbors. About their future.
Community feels different when you are carrying something tender in your own heart.
It becomes less about policy points and more about people.

Some of my earliest memories are of my dad and me watching Saturday morning cartoons together. He worked third shift on a press, yet somehow always made time. I remember Star Trek during the week, math homework at the kitchen table, learning to drive in an empty parking lot, and the steady arm that walked me down the aisle.

I remember my parents holding my babies - fishing poles in tiny hands, laughter on warm afternoons. And now I treasure the adult conversations shaped by decades of endurance and quiet wisdom.
When Scripture says, “Love suffers long and is kind… bears all things… believes all things… hopes all things… endures all things,” I don’t just read poetry. I see my parents. I see years of faithfulness that never asked for applause.

This season feels layered.

My father’s health.
My mother’s continued recovery.
Our children building their lives — which brings me joy — and the prayers I continue to lift over their spiritual journeys.
Herbert and I rediscovering quiet evenings in an empty house.
And walking door to door across Putnam County.

When you walk street after street, you see things differently. You see the pride in a freshly painted porch. You see the worry in someone’s eyes when they talk about property taxes. You see the hope people carry for their children and grandchildren.

You also see how deeply people care - even when they disagree.

Highlands Insider continues to grow in ways that humble me. Readers are discovering a publication committed to bridging divides and highlighting what is good in our community. In a time when voices often compete, we are trying - stitch by stitch - to weave something steady.

I think I learned that from my mother. She could take simple strands of yarn and crochet them into something warm and lasting. Layer by layer. Thread by thread.
That is what this season feels like.

Threads of faithfulness.
Threads of grace.
Threads of concern.
Threads of endurance.
Threads of hope.
Threads of abiding love.

Win or lose, this experience has deepened something in me.
It has reminded me that leadership is not about a title. It is about listening.
It is about standing in someone’s driveway and hearing what they love about this county — and what concerns them.
It is about realizing that behind every yard sign, every vote, every opinion, there is a human being with a story.

Most of all, it has made me appreciate this community even more.  My community.  Putnam County is not perfect. No place is. But it is filled with generous, thoughtful, hardworking people who care deeply about their families and their future.

Paul closes this beautiful chapter with words that feel grounding in uncertain days:

“And now abide faith, hope, love, these three; but the greatest of these is love.” (1 Corinthians 13:13)

Faith when we do not yet see clearly.
 Hope when the outcome is not yet certain.
 And love — the steady thread that carries us from kitchen tables to hospital waiting rooms, from Saturday morning cartoons to front porches, from young parenthood to quiet evenings at home.

Whatever this week brings, one thing remains.

Love never fails.

If you’ve read to the end, thank you for walking through this season with me and for being part of the community we are building together.