Posted on December 1, 2025 by Jenn (The CT Healthy Family) in Grace in the Mess, Adventures in Faith & Family
Sometimes, the smallest things — like a crinkly ketchup packet — become God’s way of whispering, “Remember when I said ‘not yet’?”
It was one of those unremarkable Monday nights — the kind where the homeschool schedule ran long, the laundry pile mocked me from the corner, and dinner needed to be on the table before the witching hour hit. So I fired up the oven for burgers, the boys scattered crayons across the table like confetti, and I rummaged through the fridge for the usual suspects: buns, cheese, a sad half-bag of frozen fries. But when I reached for the ketchup bottle, it was empty. In a house with four boys who treat condiments like currency, this was no small thing.
Then, I remembered the stash — a crinkly handful of Pals ketchup packets still sitting in our van, from that Tennessee road trip back in mid-August. The ones from the drive-thru in Kingsport, where the burgers were surprisingly good and the accents even better. Steve and I had packed them absentmindedly, laughing about how they’d be our “emergency rations” if the van broke down (foreshadowing our actual life). But there they were, ready to save the day. As I tore one open and squeezed it onto Wyatt’s plate, the floodgates opened — not of ketchup, but of memories. Good ones. Grateful ones. The kind that remind you God’s “not yet” is often laced with mercy and mischief.
That Tennessee trip feels like a lifetime ago now, though it was just four months back. We’d been dreaming big — scrolling Zillow listings for wide porches and open fields, the kind of place where four boys could run wild without neighbor complaints. Steve and I had prayed over it for months: “Lord, if this is the door, swing it wide.” Mid-August, we loaded up the van with snacks, swimsuits, and a heart full of hope, driving south from Connecticut to scout our potential forever-home. Kingsport welcomed us with its rolling hills and that quirky aquatic center where we splashed around like kids ourselves, the water cool against the humid air, laughter echoing off the slides like a promise of simpler days.
Pals was our pit-stop savior that day — cheap eats in the van, ketchup packets galore, the boys trading stories about “what we’ll do when we live here” while Steve and I exchanged those loaded glances over the rearview. The houses we toured were charming, the community welcoming, and for a hot minute, it felt like Tennessee was calling our names. It was the kind of trip that stirs your soul, makes you question the familiar, and leaves you with a suitcase full of “maybe.”
But as the days unfolded, the doors didn’t swing — they creaked, then closed. A house we loved had terrible zoning rules, and the pull back to Connecticut grew stronger than we’d anticipated. By the time we crossed the state line heading north, disappointment hung heavy in the air, mingling with the faint smell of fast-food wrappers. “God’s got something better,” Steve said, squeezing my hand over the console, but in the moment, it felt like settling. Like we’d chased a dream only to wake up in the same bed, the same routines, the same four walls we’d been itching to escape.
Fast-forward to last night, those same Pals packets spilling onto the kitchen island like confetti from a time capsule. As I squirted one onto the boys’ plates — the exact same crinkly white tubes from that unique drive-thru — the sadness didn’t rush in. Instead, a quiet joy bubbled up, warm as the burgers sizzling on the griddle. I called Steve over, held up the packet like evidence in a trial: “Remember this? The trip that didn’t happen?” He grinned, that same half-smile that got me through the drive home, and said, “Yeah. And look at us now.”
Look at us now, indeed. Four months later, and Connecticut doesn’t feel like compromise; it feels like calling. Thhe church small group that’s walked us through the hard days, the backyard where the boys built that lopsided fort anyway — they’re all part of the “not yet” that God is using to prepare us. That Tennessee dream? It’s still there, tucked away like a seed in winter soil, waiting for the right season. But for now, we’re learning contentment in the waiting, gratitude in the “what is,” and the kind of trust that says, “Your timing, Lord — not mine.”
Last night’s ketchup crisis turned dinner into devotion — the boys asking about the trip, Steve sharing how the closed doors led us to open windows (like that unexpected job lead right here in Hartford), and me reflecting on how God’s plans often look less like a straight-line move and more like a meandering road trip with scenic detours. We prayed over the burgers (ketchup included), thanking Him for the packets that bridged then and now, for the sadness that softened into sweetness, and for the hope that lingers like the faint tang of fast-food nostalgia on our fingertips.
What Those Packets Taught Us (A Few Grace-Filled Takeaways from the “Not Yet”)
In the glow of the kitchen light — burgers devoured, fries gone cold, packets crumpled on the counter — a few truths settled in like old friends. These aren’t grand revelations from a mountaintop; they’re the everyday epiphanies that make space for God’s voice in the mundane. If you’re in your own season of waiting, dreaming deferred, or doors that just won’t budge, maybe they’ll whisper something to you too.
- “Not Yet” Isn’t “No” — It’s Preparation: That Tennessee trip wasn’t a dead end; it was a dress rehearsal. We learned what we want (space for the boys to roam, community that feels like family), what we don’t (rushed decisions in the heat of summer), and how to pray with open hands instead of clenched fists. God’s “not yet” has been a classroom, teaching us patience that blooms into peace, one closed listing at a time.
- Souvenirs of Surrender Hold the Sweetest Stories: Those Pals packets? They’re not trash; they’re trophies of trust. The kind that remind us every closed door echoes with the Father’s “I see you, I know, I have better.” In our marriage, it’s the difference between pouting over “what if” and praising over “what is” — turning potential bitterness into beautiful backstory.
- Contentment Isn’t Complacency — It’s Courage: Being happy here in Connecticut doesn’t mean we’ve given up on Tennessee; it means we’ve given it to God. It’s the brave choice to invest in this soil — the homeschool field trips to local farms, the brotherly bonds forged in our cramped backyard, the quiet evenings where Steve and I dream without desperation. Gratitude isn’t settling; it’s seeing God’s hand in the here-and-now while keeping eyes on the horizon.
- Family Feasts (Ketchup and All) Are Where Faith Takes Root: Last night’s burgers weren’t gourmet, but they were gospel — a simple meal that sparked stories, prayers, and that deep-down knowing we’re exactly where we need to be. In a world that rushes us toward the next big thing, these table talks are the anchors, reminding us God’s plan unfolds one packet, one prayer, one “pass the fries” at a time.
As the dishes stacked up and the boys scattered to their rooms with full bellies and fuller hearts, I lingered at the island, tracing the Pals logo with my finger. Tennessee still tugs — the mountains, the milder winters, the promise of space — but it’s a gentle pull now, not a frantic yank. We’re content in the waiting, hopeful in the holding, and so very thankful for the God who turns “almost homes” into holy ground right where we stand.
“The Lord will fulfill His purpose for me; Your steadfast love, O Lord, endures forever. Do not forsake the work of Your hands.”
— Psalm 138:8
Here’s to the “not yets” that become the yeses we never saw coming — and to the ketchup packets that remind us God’s got the whole story in hand. If you’re in your own waiting room this season, may it be filled with grace, good company, and just enough nostalgia to keep hope alive.
Still squeezing joy from the squeeze packets, still trusting the timeline, still thankful for the table He sets —
Jenn, Steve, and the whole CT Healthy Family crew
What’s one “not yet” memory that’s turned sweet for you? Or a road-trip souvenir that’s become family lore? Share in the comments — we’d love to hear your story!
