
There have been seasons in my life when the weight of grief, uncertainty, and the suffering around me left me feeling almost numb. During one of those moments, as I waited through my own fears and watched a hurting world, I wondered what I could possibly offer God when I could barely feel anything at all.
“Maybe My Breath Could Be a Song” is the answer I found. Sometimes worship isn’t loud. Sometimes faith isn’t eloquent. Sometimes all we have is the next breath—and I believe God knows and that’s enough.

I’ve spent years wrestling with the distance between what my head knows and what my heart believes. I know I’m told God sees me, loves me, and knows my name—but sometimes I’ve still wondered.
“I Wonder” is my honest conversation with God. If He knows every star in the sky, does He know me too? If He chose the cross, does He understand the pain I can’t even put into words? Through the years of questions and tears, I’ve discovered that He really does. My hope is that this song helps you believe it too.

For much of my life, I struggled to see God as a tender Father. Some of my experiences made it difficult to believe I could truly crawl into His arms and find rest.
Then one day, in the middle of severe anxiety, my own dad pulled me and my newborn baby onto his knee and simply held us. That moment became the seed for this song.
To My Knees is about surrendering to a God whose grace is gentle, whose love is safe, and who welcomes us as His children. It’s also a song about healing—discovering that His tenderness can be reflected through the people He places in our lives.
The decision to record it as a male-female duet was intentional. For me, it symbolizes restored trust and the beautiful truth that we come before God together—not alone—as brothers and sisters, equally loved by our Father.
My prayer is that as you listen, you would come to know the heart of a Father who is always inviting you home.

There was a time when I found myself on my knees, crying and praying, with no idea how I was going to carry what was in front of me.
My little boy was just three years old. He came over, picked up his blanket, and draped it around my shoulders. Then he put his little hand on my back.
And in that moment, as I knelt there covered by his blanket, I heard the Lord say,
‘The Son has you covered.’
I knew He wasn’t talking about my son.
He was talking about Jesus.
That moment became something I carried with me long after the tears dried. It began to change the way I understood what it meant to be held by God. Not simply protected from everything that hurts, but held in the middle of it. Covered when I couldn’t cover myself. Carried when I didn’t have the strength to carry what was in front of me.
Holding Me came from that place of discovering that sometimes God’s answer isn’t to immediately take the hard thing away.
Sometimes His answer is simply:
‘I’m here. I’ve got you. I’m holding you.’
And perhaps that’s what I love most about the image—the little boy in it isn’t Jesus. He’s just a little boy loving his momma.
But God used that ordinary act of love to give me a glimpse of something eternal.
'The Son has me covered.”'

There are things about God I have spent a long time trying to understand. How can He love us when we are so broken? How can He know everything that has happened, everything we regret, everything that has wounded us—and still reach for us?
“I Am” came out of that place of wondering.
I pictured us being pulled into a black hole of regret, mistakes, hate, and everything that feels impossible to escape. And then, in the middle of it, God breaks through with light.
The imagery of this song draws deeply from the story of Exodus. God doesn’t simply stand at a distance and tell His people how to find their way out. He comes to them. He leads them toward the promised land. And in Jesus, He left His home in heaven, became a man, and came to our aid so that we could be saved.
The song begins with us asking, “What can I possibly give a King who owns everything?” And His answer is not a list of things we need to do for Him. His answer is Himself.
When Moses asked God His name, God said, “I AM.”
So when we ask, “What is God like?” perhaps the answer is not something we can fully explain.
He simply says:
“I Am.”

When I was five years old, I drew a heart on a piece of paper and marked lines through it where pieces had come off. I showed my mom, trying to somehow explain how much sadness I was carrying.
There was a lot of loss in those early years—people I loved, animals that were part of our family, and changes that made my little world feel very different. I remember wondering how I could keep loving when it seemed like the things I loved could disappear.
For a long time, I thought this song was simply about what happened to that little girl. But now I think it is also about giving her permission to grieve.
Maybe healing isn’t forgetting the little girl who hurt, but finally being willing to sit beside her.
Because sometimes faith doesn’t begin with an answer. Sometimes it begins with the honest question: Jesus, were You there? Did You care for me back then?
And after many years, I can look back and say, Yes. You were there.
I still remember the sadness. I still grieve what was lost. But my hope in Jesus has grown more real with each passing year. I can sparkle and glow without pretending the little girl never hurt.
Her heart was broken.
She was never forgotten.
And Jesus was there.
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