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Dana Rongione 06/04/2026 Dana Rongione 06/04/2026

Fixing Your Eyes on the Risen Christ

Okay, real talk. Easter Sunday has come and gone. The ham has been eaten, the Easter lilies are wilting on the windowsill, and the chocolate eggs are gone (or maybe that's just at my house). The decorations are back in the bin, and life has rudely resumed its regularly scheduled programming, complete with the bills, the aches, the worries, and that one news headline that makes you want to go back to bed and pull the covers over your head.

And somewhere in the middle of all that ordinary Monday-ness, you might be wondering: Was Easter just a Sunday? Or does it mean something for right now, when my circumstances are anything but hopeful?

Oh, friend. Peter has something to say about that.

The Apostle Peter wasn't writing from a cozy armchair. He was writing to believers who were scattered, suffering, and facing very real persecution.

Dana Rongione 03/04/2026 Dana Rongione 03/04/2026

Your Easter Sunday Is On Its Way

I want you to do something for me. Close your eyes for a moment and imagine it's the darkest stretch of days the world has ever known. The sky went black in the middle of the afternoon. The earth shook. The temple veil ripped right down the middle. And the Man they had called the Son of God took His last breath on a Roman cross.

The days that followed were devastating. The disciples huddled together in a locked room, trembling behind closed doors. Peter was a wreck. John had nothing to say. The women were weeping. And two shell-shocked followers shuffling down the road to Emmaus were kicking the dust with heavy feet and mumbling to each other about how they had hoped He was the One. Past tense. Had hoped.

They had followed Him. Believed in Him. Left everything for Him. And now He was dead, sealed behind a borrowed stone, and their hope was buried right along with Him.

Dana Rongione 27/03/2026 Dana Rongione 27/03/2026

When the Ground Disappears

I want to tell you something about greyhounds that sounds completely impossible until you see it for yourself.

When a greyhound runs at full speed, it uses what scientists call a double suspension gallop. What that means in plain English is this: twice during every stride, all four of the greyhound's feet leave the ground at the same time. Not once. Twice. In fact, when a greyhound is running full out, it spends roughly 75% of its time completely airborne. That elegant, flying creature is, at any given moment, more likely to be in the air than on the ground.

Think about that for a second.

For a greyhound, losing contact with the ground is not a crisis. It is not a catastrophe. It is not even a stumble. It is simply how the greyhound moves forward.

Dana Rongione 11/03/2026 Dana Rongione 11/03/2026

When You’ve Done Everything Right and Still Feel Like You Failed

I stared into the bathroom mirror and asked myself a very important question: How many people out there can tell I'm faking it?

Not exactly the inspirational pre-event pep talk I was hoping for.

I had done everything right. Really, I had. I'd lined up another speaker to carry most of the load. I'd purchased the decorations and gifts weeks in advance. I'd even managed to say "no," which, if you know me, is practically an Olympic sport, to several things threatening to crowd my calendar. When the back tweak hit, I rested. When the newsletter deadline loomed, I pushed it back without guilt. When the company arrived, I graciously excused myself when needed.

I had managed my time, my energy, and my expectations. I was practically a wellness guru.

And yet, there I stood, more tired than when the week began, staring at a reflection that told the whole unvarnished truth.

Dana Rongione 25/02/2026 Dana Rongione 25/02/2026

When Life Gets Squishy

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

My husband and I had set out for a walk, a perfectly reasonable and wholesome activity. Somewhere along the way, we decided to take the shortcut across the pasture. How bad could it be? Famous last words. After all, we should have known better. We live in Wales, where the rain doesn't just fall; it moves in, unpacks its bags, and stays for weeks.

We hadn't taken more than a few steps into that field before the trouble started. The ground, which had looked solid a few steps away from the gate, was anything but. With every step across that field, our boots sank into the soft, saturated earth with a noise that can only be described as squishy. The mud grabbed at our feet like it had a personal vendetta.