Faith Love n Joy

My Body Is Not a Before Picture

Posted on February 25, 2026February 12, 2026 by Vikki Lynn Sorensen

Somewhere between women’s magazines, church potlucks, and the invention of shapewear, we learned a dangerous lie: that our bodies are just temporary drafts. That we’re all walking around as “before” pictures—waiting for a future version of ourselves that will finally be worthy of confidence, compliments, and sleeveless tops.

But I’ve come to a decision.

My body is not a before picture.

It is not a “work in progress” God forgot to finish. It is not a ministry project for strangers. And it is definitely not an apology.

God Did Not Create a Rough Draft

Psalm 139 says we are fearfully and wonderfully made. Fearfully. Wonderfully. Not “adequately assembled with room for improvement.”

If God had intended me to be a before picture, Scripture would say:

“You are fearfully and wonderfully made… pending updates.”

But it doesn’t.

God looked at His creation—including bodies of all shapes, sizes, ages, and abilities—and called it very good (Genesis 1:31). Not “good if she loses ten pounds.” Just… good.

This Body Has Earned Its Stripes (Literally)

This body has lived. It has survived seasons that nearly broke me. It has carried stress in my shoulders, laughter in my belly, and wisdom in my laugh lines.

Ecclesiastes 3 reminds us there is a time for everything. Including a time when your metabolism retires early without notice.

And yet—here I am. Still standing. Still breathing. Still used by God.

Which tells me something important: purpose is not measured in inches or pounds.

Jesus Never Asked Anyone to Shrink

Let’s be clear—Jesus never told anyone, “Come back when you’re smaller.”

He said:

“Come to me, all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.” (Matthew 11:28)

Not:

“Come to me, all who are toned and well-hydrated.”

Jesus fed people. A lot. With bread. And fish. No side salads. No guilt. No calorie counting. Just abundance and compassion.

Strength Looks Different Than Instagram Thinks

Proverbs 31 talks about a woman clothed in strength and dignity—not spandex and self-loathing.

And Isaiah 46:4 says:

“Even to your old age and gray hairs I am He who will sustain you.”

Notice it doesn’t say, “As long as you stay youthful and camera-ready.”

God’s idea of strength has always included softness, endurance, and the ability to keep going even when your knees crack like bubble wrap.

Stewardship, Not Self-Punishment

Loving my body doesn’t mean I think it’s perfect. It means I stop treating it like an enemy.

Romans 12:1 tells us our bodies are living sacrifices—holy and pleasing to God. Which means hating them, starving them, or constantly criticizing them probably isn’t worship.

I move my body because it helps me feel alive.
I rest because God literally commanded it.
I dress it with dignity because I’m not required to look miserable to be holy.

A Holy Reframe

I am not a before picture.
I am not a project.
I am not an apology.

I am a woman made in the image of God—right now, as I am.
Soft where I’m soft. Strong where I’m strong. Still growing. Still loved.

And if God can use a burning bush, a donkey, and a man who ran from his calling… He can absolutely use this body.

Even on days when it needs a nap.

Moments and Musings

Worship Disruption and Reverence

Posted on February 24, 2026January 29, 2026 by Vikki Lynn Sorensen

Dear Church,

This is not a suggestion. This is a rebuke given in love.

We must confront a pattern that has quietly taken root in our congregations: a casual, irreverent, and dismissive attitude toward the time of worship that precedes the preaching of the Word. What we have normalized, Scripture calls disorder. What we excuse as habit, heaven sees as dishonor.

Week after week, worship begins—and many of God’s people are not present. The call to stand is given, yet conversations continue. Laughter carries on in the aisles and lobby. Coffee is poured. Greetings linger. People drift into the sanctuary as though the presence of God has not already been invited to fill the room. The first song ends, the second is halfway through, and only then do some finally decide it is time to participate.

Let us be clear: this is not a minor issue of preference or personality. It is a matter of reverence.

“Guard your steps when you go to the house of God.”
—Ecclesiastes 5:1

Worship is not the prelude. It is not the warm-up. It is not background noise while we finish our conversations. The worship team is not a band filling time until the “real” part of the service begins.

Worship is the people of God responding to the holiness of God.

“God is spirit, and those who worship Him must worship in spirit and in truth.”
—John 4:24

When we habitually arrive late, disengaged, distracted, or indifferent, we are not merely disrespecting a team—we are demonstrating what we truly believe about God’s worth.

Arriving late to worship affects more than just you. When you slip in after worship has begun, you disrupt those who honored the call to be on time, pulling their focus from God to accommodate your seat. Coffee, conversation, and convenience should never take priority over inviting His presence. This is not neutral—it is disruptive and dishonors the sacredness of the moment.

The worship team does not stand on that platform for applause or performance. They carry a spiritual burden. They labor for hours in rehearsal and in prayer, often unseen and uncompensated, so that the body of Christ may be led into the presence of the Lord. They come prepared to serve, yet many in the congregation come prepared only for convenience.

This should grieve us.

Worship is not passive. It is participation. It is submission. It is sacrifice. It is an offering of ourselves before the Word is ever preached.

“I appeal to you… to present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which is your spiritual worship.”
—Romans 12:1

Ask yourself honestly: if your employer required you to be ready at a certain hour, would you make a habit of strolling in late and always expect grace? If a judge summoned you to court, would you stop for coffee first? If a wedding ceremony began, would you walk in halfway through the vows and see nothing wrong with it?

Yet we do this before the King of Kings.

We understand punctuality when it affects our income, our reputation, or our relationships. But when it comes to the Lord, we often offer Him what is left over—our leftover time, our divided attention, our delayed obedience. And delayed obedience is still disobedience at some point.

Church, this should not be so.

We were created to worship.
We were formed to bow.
We were designed to lift our voices in reverence and awe.

“Come, let us bow down in worship, let us kneel before the Lord our Maker.”
—Psalm 95:6

Worship prepares the soil of the heart. It softens us. It humbles us. It aligns us with the holiness of God so that when His Word is preached, it does not fall on hardened ground. To neglect worship is to come unprepared to hear Him speak.

If we have treated worship casually, we must repent.
If we have prioritized comfort and coffee over reverence, we must repent.
If we have shown up late without conviction, disengaged without remorse, distracted without shame—we must repent.

“If My people, who are called by My name, will humble themselves and pray and seek My face and turn from their wicked ways, then I will hear from heaven.”
—2 Chronicles 7:14

Repentance is not regret. It is change.

It means planning to arrive early.
It means entering the sanctuary with intention.
It means silencing distractions, ending conversations, and standing ready to worship when the first note is played.

“Let all things be done decently and in order.”
—1 Corinthians 14:40

Let us once again treat worship as sacred.
Let us honor those who lead us.
Let us revere the God we claim to serve.

The Lord is worthy—not of our leftovers, but of our first and our best.

“Ascribe to the Lord the glory due His name; worship the Lord in the splendor of holiness.”
—Psalm 29:2

Church, it is time to act like we believe that is true.

Moments and Musings

Fresh Mercy, Full Hearts

Posted on February 20, 2026January 29, 2026 by Vikki Lynn Sorensen

One of my favorite Christmas movies is The Bishop’s Wife. There’s a scene—my mom’s favorite—where Cary Grant’s character, Dudley, counsels Professor Wutheridge (played by Monty Woolley). They’re sharing a bottle of wine, and every time Wutheridge goes to refill their glasses, he finds Dudley’s already full. In the background, we see Dudley discreetly lift his finger, using his angel abilities to refill not only the glasses but the bottle too.

I thought about that scene this morning during my walk with Percy. I was saying my usual “good mornings” to God. (I don’t have super wordy prayers anymore unless I feel led by the Spirit. Mostly, I just talk to Him throughout the day—simple, honest, real.) I was appreciating the beauty of a brand new morning when suddenly a quote from Anne of Green Gables drifted into my mind:

“Tomorrow is fresh, with no mistakes in it.”
—Lucy Maud Montgomery

And right there, on that quiet walk, I felt a rush of relief and peace. If you’re a Failed Perfectionist like I am, you know exactly why that line hits so deeply. There’s something comforting about knowing you get a whole new set of chances each day. Most nights, perfectionists fall asleep trying to outrun the list of everything we didn’t get right. So waking up to a clean slate feels like someone lovingly wiped down the whiteboard of our minds.

Then another reminder came, this time from Scripture—Lamentations 3:22–23 (ESV):

“The steadfast love of the LORD never ceases;
his mercies never come to an end;
they are new every morning;
great is your faithfulness.”

God’s mercy is new every morning. Fresh. Abundant. Undeserved. Prepared ahead of time. Never failing.

For someone like me—someone who is chronically hard on herself—that truth needed to sit with me for a while. And as it did, the Holy Spirit brought that scene from The Bishop’s Wife back to mind. Just like Dudley kept refilling the professor’s glass over and over, God continually replenishes us with mercy, grace, favor, and love. Every time we draw from His supply, He instantly refills. And unlike Dudley, He doesn’t even wait for morning to do it.

I know this might sound simple to some, but God knows how He made me. He knows my process-driven brain. He knows I’m a visual learner. He knows if I don’t understand something fully, I’ll get frustrated—and then I’ll quit. So He gives me examples I can see, feel, and picture. He meets me exactly where I am.

He knows us perfectionists so well.

So as you head into your weekend—and as you wake up tomorrow morning—remember this: there is brand new, shiny, untouched mercy waiting for you. More than enough mercy. It never runs out. It never grows stale. You will never reach the bottom of the glass or the bottle.

Because He is a God of more than enough.

Moments and Musings

Just Sophia

Posted on February 19, 2026February 12, 2026 by Vikki Lynn Sorensen

Every time a child is born, families gather around and almost immediately begin comparing. Who does the baby look like? The mother or the father? Someone points out the eyes, another notices the nose, and before long the room is filled with opinions and laughter. It’s almost instinctive, this need to trace a child back to someone else, as if resemblance helps us understand where they belong. In a way, it feels like we’re all trying to claim a small piece of this brand-new person before we even know who they are.

I did the same thing.

When Sophia was born, I found myself searching for familiarity. I pulled up baby pictures of Emilie and studied them side by side, holding them next to each other and scanning for similarities. In those early days, it’s hard to tell—most babies look pretty much the same in the infancy stage. Soft faces, rounded cheeks, features that haven’t yet settled into anything distinct. At that stage, you’re mostly guessing.

But as Sophia grew out of that newborn look and into her baby face, things became clearer. Her features began to take shape, and it was obvious that she favored her father. The resemblance wasn’t subtle. Still, there were moments—certain expressions, tiny mannerisms, a look in her eyes—that reminded me of Emilie. Those moments felt important, like little confirmations that I was seeing something meaningful.

It’s such a common thing for families to do, and I commented on it often. I’d joke with Emilie, saying things like, “Sorry, she looks exactly like her father.” We laughed about it more than once. It felt harmless and lighthearted, just part of the way people talk about babies. No deeper meaning intended. Just conversation.

Then one day, during a similar exchange, Emilie said something that stopped me completely.

“She looks like Sophia to me,” she said. “Just Sophia. And that is all.”

That is all.

Her words lingered in the air long after the conversation moved on. At first, I wondered if I had unintentionally hurt her feelings with all the comparisons that seemed to leave her out. I replayed past comments in my head, questioning whether they landed differently than I meant them to.

But that wasn’t it at all.

She wasn’t offended. She wasn’t correcting me. She was simply stating a truth—plain, uncomplicated, and confident.

And the more I thought about it, the more I realized it was the same truth I’ve spoken over my own girls for years. Emilie looks like Emilie. Shelby looks like Shelby. Neither one looks exactly like me or their dad, and honestly, they don’t even look much like each other. Their connection isn’t found in identical features or shared expressions. They are connected by love, by history, by the life they’ve grown together—not by carbon-copy appearances.

Since overthinking is my superpower, I sat with Emilie’s words longer than most people probably would. I let them settle in my heart and mind, turning them over again and again. That reflection led me to Psalm 139:13–16—a passage that speaks so clearly about God’s intentional design.

It reminds us that God forms us carefully and purposefully, knitting us together with precision and love. That we are fearfully and wonderfully made, not accidentally assembled or loosely imagined. There is no other Vikki like me on this planet. Not one. That’s how intentional God is. Uniquely chosen. Uniquely made.

So when Emilie said, “She just looks like Sophia to me,” something clicked.

Of course she does.

Because there has never been—and never will be—another Sophia exactly like her. She doesn’t need to resemble anyone else to be worthy, to belong, or to be known. Whatever God has planned for her will be just as unique as the way she was created, shaped by a purpose meant only for her.

And maybe that’s the quiet lesson hidden beneath all those well-meaning family comparisons. Before we rush to decide who someone looks like, before we search for reflections of ourselves in them, we should pause. Long enough to see them fully. Long enough to recognize that they don’t need to resemble anyone else to be complete.

Sometimes, the most beautiful thing we can say about a person is simply this:
They look like themselves. And that is all.

Photo by me. @vikkilynnsorensen. All rights reserved.

Moments and Musings

Lent Through the Lens of Grace

Posted on February 17, 2026January 29, 2026 by Vikki Lynn Sorensen

Lent has always been familiar to me.

As a Catholic, I grew up knowing the rhythms of the Lenten season—the ashes on my forehead, the quiet reverence in church, the call to fasting, repentance, and reflection. Lent was serious. Sacred. It was a season that asked you to slow down and look inward.

But over the years, as my faith has deepened and I’ve come to know Jesus not just as Savior, but as my Savior, Lent has taken on a richer, more personal meaning.

Today, I stand in a place that some people struggle to define. I am Catholic. And I am also a born-again Christian. I treasure the history, beauty, and reverence of the Church, and I cling just as fiercely to the truth that I am saved by grace alone through faith in Jesus Christ.

“For by grace you have been saved through faith. And this is not your own doing; it is the gift of God.” (Ephesians 2:8)

So what does Lent mean to me now?

It means remembering—without drowning in guilt or shame.

For a long time, Lent felt heavy. I approached it with quiet pressure: What am I giving up? What am I doing wrong? Am I doing enough? Reflection sometimes slipped into self-condemnation. There was an unspoken belief that if I felt bad enough, suffered enough, or sacrificed enough, I would somehow be closer to God.

But Jesus already suffered enough.

“Surely he has borne our griefs and carried our sorrows.” (Isaiah 53:4)

Lent is not about punishing ourselves. It is about positioning ourselves to remember.

Remembering the road to the cross.
Remembering the weight Jesus carried—willingly.
Remembering that the sacrifice was complete, final, and fully sufficient.

“He himself bore our sins in his body on the tree, that we might die to sin and live to righteousness.” (1 Peter 2:24)

This season, I don’t want to sit in shame over who I am not. I want to sit in awe of who He is.

Lent invites us to look back—but not to live there. We look back to see the cross clearly so we can move forward in freedom. We look back to remember the cost of grace, not to question whether we deserve it.

Because we don’t—and that’s exactly why it’s grace.

“There is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.” (Romans 8:1)

As a born-again believer, I understand repentance differently now. Repentance is not self-loathing or spiritual self-punishment. It is turning—turning my heart, my eyes, and my life back to Jesus.

“Repent therefore, and turn back, that your sins may be blotted out.” (Acts 3:19)

And as a Catholic, I still deeply value the quiet discipline of Lent. The fasting. The stillness. The intentional pauses. Lent reminds me that faith is not always loud or dramatic. Sometimes it is humble obedience. Sometimes it is sitting in silence, letting the magnitude of the cross speak for itself.

“Be still, and know that I am God.” (Psalm 46:10)

This year, I want my Lenten sacrifices to look different.

Less about obligation.
More about intention.

Less about what I am giving up to prove something.
More about what I am laying down out of love.

“Present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which is your spiritual worship.” (Romans 12:1)

That may look like more time in Scripture.
More gratitude instead of grumbling.
More honest prayer instead of polished words.
More remembrance of all that Jesus has already done.

Because when I look back at the cross, I don’t see condemnation—I see mercy.

“But God shows his love for us in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” (Romans 5:8)

I don’t see a demand for perfection. I see a Savior with outstretched arms declaring, “It is finished.”

“When Jesus had received the sour wine, he said, ‘It is finished,’ and he bowed his head and gave up his spirit.” (John 19:30)

Lent is not a season to earn forgiveness.

It is a season to remember that forgiveness has already been given.

“In him we have redemption through his blood, the forgiveness of our trespasses, according to the riches of his grace.” (Ephesians 1:7)

So this Lent, I am choosing reflection over shame. Gratitude over guilt. Grace over striving. I will look back—but only long enough to see the love that changed everything.

And then, with eyes fixed on Jesus, I will move forward in freedom.

“Let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, looking to Jesus, the founder and perfecter of our faith.” (Hebrews 12:1–2)

That is what Lent means to me now.