Welcome to the Red Vine table, friend.
Welcome to Red Vine Spirituality, a home for those of us who are just a little too gritty for the trite, clean lines religion wants to draw down the middle of our faulty hearts. Together, one bleeding, joyful day at a time, let’s find a way to live a full life, a free life, a hopeful life . . . abundantly more than just a perfect life. Allow me to tell you the story of how a straight-A good girl morphs into a mental patient who can’t shave her legs without a chaperone, and how a broken-hearted mama finds redemption in loving a broken-hearted child .
I have been swallowing lithium every morning and night for thirteen years in an attempt to find
stable
, learning achingly slowly that a diagnosis does not diminish my capacity to serve this world for good. Grace comes to me through spilt blood alone, from a Jesus I professed to follow but never understood until I split rock bottom, splintered clean out, needing more than a new banner and a perfect score card to fix me. Jesus speaks to me and to you in John 15:
I am the vine; you are the branches. If you remain in me and I in you, you will bear much fruit; apart from me you can do nothing.
And I know I am grafted to Him through his own doing and nothing of my own. Through this spectacular connection, I am given daughter rights. I rise up with a new banner stained in His salvific blood and cry,
If He can do this for me, what will he do for you?
What will He do for you, friend? Let’s discover it here together. Let’s write in between the lines of our humanity and sweat out our fears; let’s lay it down deep in our shadow valleys and endless wastelands. Let’s believe that our lives and souls are meant for more than clean lines. Let’s live out our nitty-gritties and find His
twisted bliss
. ‘Cause it’s all twisted back and forwards again, but I live one fantastic, brag-worthy tale of grace right here on Red Vine. This daughter’s got a nitty-gritty resurrection story to tell. And I’d love to hear yours.
Welcome to the table.
Humbly,
Taylor
10 October, 2017 at 12:34 am
Not sure how to follow your blog but loved your heart mama post on congenital heart defect.
Love,
A new heart mama
3 January, 2018 at 11:46 am
Hi new heart mama friend,
If you email me, I can get you on my mailing list. How is your heart baby doing?
Love,
Taylor
3 January, 2018 at 12:25 pm
Hi she is doing great! She’s a dream to have. What is your email?
6 January, 2017 at 1:42 pm
Hi Kay,
I read your blog on the Grace Alliance website. I recently went through a deep period of depression that was very confusing for me as a Christian. I believe that I am coming out, and I am sleeping better and have more energy but from time to time I still feel very far away from God and guilty, even though I honestly have done nothing wrong. Have you experienced this ? Is this normal during recovery ?
Sincerely,
Jenny Smith
23 January, 2017 at 9:22 pm
Hi Jenny,
Oh my goodness, have I experienced this! I have spent years thinking God forgot about me and wondering why. That is all the depression talking, sister. Don’t listen to it! He is right there with you in the pit. I read the Psalms when I feel this way. David felt it, too. Do not give up. He holds you, adores you, and is pulling you out. If you have time, scroll through the Living with Bipolar Disorder category. So many of my blog posts are about this very thing.
God bless you,
Taylor
Spirituality rarely arrives wrapped in tidy answers. More often it shows up in the middle of restless nights, tangled thoughts, and the quiet ache of feeling far from whole. Red Vine Spirituality leans into that honest space, refusing to pretend faith is neat. It is a place where broken hearts and hopeful prayers sit at the same table, breathing together, learning that grace is just as present in the mess as it is in the miracle.
Living with mental illness can make prayer feel strange, as if words bounce off the ceiling before reaching anywhere good. Yet many who walk through depression, anxiety, or bipolar disorder describe a faith that refuses to let go. Spiritual practice becomes less about saying the right thing and more about staying open, showing up, and trusting that something deeper is listening even when the mind insists otherwise.
Motherhood weaves together ordinary tasks and extraordinary love, stretching the heart in directions no one warned you about. Sleepless nights, sticky fingers, and tiny voices asking big questions all become unexpected teachers. The kitchen table becomes a chapel, the bedtime routine a kind of liturgy. Within those small, repeated moments, mothers often discover a deeper patience and a surprising tenderness they did not know they carried.
Marriage is rarely the polished storybook picture culture suggests. It is more like two imperfect people learning to share space, share silence, and share the harder days. Real partnership involves arguing well, forgiving often, and choosing to remain when leaving would be easier. Over time, those small choices build a kind of love that is less about fireworks and more about showing up, again and again, with grace.
Faith evolves. The beliefs shaped in childhood rarely survive adulthood untouched, and that is not a loss. It is growth. Questions become teachers. Doubt becomes a doorway rather than a danger. A mature spirituality holds space for grief, joy, confusion, and wonder all at once. It allows the heart to keep searching while trusting that the searching itself is sacred, and that being unfinished is part of being human.
Community matters, especially when the road feels lonely. A blog, a comment thread, or a shared story can remind a struggling reader that someone else has walked this exact terrain. Connection does not require perfection; it only requires honesty. When one person names their fear out loud, it gives another permission to do the same, and that simple act of being witnessed can be quietly transformative.
Grief and gratitude often live in the same breath. Losing a child, watching a dream dissolve, or simply saying goodbye to a former version of oneself leaves marks that do not vanish. Yet alongside that sorrow, surprising joy can still rise, uninvited and undeniable. Holding both at once is its own kind of spiritual practice, one that honors reality while leaving room for healing and hope.
Storytelling remains one of humanity's oldest tools for making sense of pain. Writing about hard seasons, about faith that wavered and returned, about motherhood and marriage and mental health, opens a window for others to see themselves. Each post becomes a small lantern. Shared honestly, it can guide someone through a dark stretch they thought no one else understood.
Hope is not the absence of struggle. It is the stubborn belief that light still exists, even on the grayest mornings. For those walking through ongoing mental health challenges, parenthood, or simply the weariness of ordinary life, that hope can feel fragile. Tending it requires intention: prayer, rest, community, honest conversation, and the willingness to believe that the story is still unfolding, still worth living, still being written.