Making memories
Stunning sunrises and sunsets from your porch. Stargazing and s'mores by the fire. Hikes along picturesque trails. Thrilling mountain bike rides.
On 12,000 acres where creeks and a river run. Where clouds kiss mountaintops. Birds, trees, and wildflowers speak a language you'll come to call your own.
Every woman we've met is carrying something she hasn't said out loud.
She's in the pew on Sunday looking like she has it together. She's leading the retreat committee and wondering if anyone sees her. She's twenty-two and doesn't know if her body is a gift or a problem. She's forty-five and forgot she had dreams. We know her because we are her.
We've been the girl too afraid to make the sign of the cross in public. We've been the one comparing ourselves to every woman in the room. We've been the one asking God if He forgot about us.
Our ministry starts there—not with answers, but with the courage to say it out loud. The music opens the door. The honesty walks through it.
Kara Klein Oubre
Kara had the vision for His Own before the rest of us knew what it was. She woke up one night and saw it. That tracks, because Kara sees things—she reads the papal encyclicals, studies the saints, sits with Fr. Jacques Philippe's writing on trust—and then translates all of it into language that hits you in the chest, not the head. She'll tell you holiness is an encounter between your weakness and God's grace, and you'll believe her because she means it.
Maria Spears Mumaugh
Maria is the one you'll want to sit next to at dinner. She asks the real questions—she once spent years asking every long-married couple she met for their secret—and she listens like your answer actually matters. On stage, she tells stories that pull you in so gently you don't notice you're somewhere you've never been until you're already there. She makes you feel known.
Christine Simpson Wessa
Christine almost didn't do this. She thought ministry was for people who had something extraordinary to say, and her life felt ordinary. She was wrong. Christine is the one in the room who names the thing nobody wants to name—comparison, fear, the lie that you're not enough—and she does it so honestly that the woman next to you starts nodding before she realizes she's crying.
You are
enough.
We didn't start this ministry because we had it figured out. We started it because we were tired of pretending we did—and we had a feeling we weren't the only ones.