Motives That Matter

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Last week we sat with a truth that should take the pressure off every one of us: the outcomes belong to God (1 Thessalonians 1:8). The Thessalonians didn’t try to be impressive. They didn’t try to be influential. They didn’t try to be significant. They simply obeyed. And God took their ordinary obedience and made it ring out across Macedonia and Achaia. Their quiet faith became a loud testimony.

So when Paul opens Chapter 2 with, “You yourselves know… our visit to you was not a failure” (1 Thessalonians 2:1), he’s correcting their perspective. He’s saying, Don’t mislabel what God is doing. Don’t call small things insignificant. Don’t call quiet obedience a failure. Last week was about what God did. This week is about why it mattered.

Motives matter.

Paul takes us under the hood of his ministry and shows us what was driving him. And what he reveals is both inspiring and uncomfortable—because it forces us to ask what’s driving us.

He writes, “We are not trying to please people but God, who tests our hearts” (1 Thessalonians 2:4). That’s a hard sentence. It’s honest. It’s direct. And it’s the kind of truth that doesn’t let us slip past it. Paul is saying, If you want a life that matters, you have to pay attention to what’s happening inside you.

Before Paul ever talks about courage, strategy, or impact, he talks about motives.

He reminds the Thessalonians of what happened in Philippi—the beatings, the humiliation, the public shaming (Acts 16:22–24). Everything in their circumstances said, Protect yourself. Stay quiet. Don’t risk this again. But Paul says, “With the help of our God we dared to tell you His gospel…” (1 Thessalonians 2:2). They didn’t speak because it was safe. They spoke because the Thessalonians needed truth.

Courage is one thing. But courage without clean motives can still go sideways.

So Paul goes deeper: “Our appeal does not spring from error or impure motives” (2:3). “We are not trying to please people but God” (2:4). “We never used flattery… nor were we looking for praise” (2:5–6).

Paul and Timothy lived for one audience. And that shaped everything.

Motives show up in everyday choices. They show up in the moments no one sees. They show up in the decisions we make when we’re tired, stressed, or afraid. They show up in the places where we want to be liked, or safe, or comfortable.

Sometimes the easiest way to see our motives is to ask a simple question: Would you rather…?

  • Would you rather be seen as kind… or obey God when kindness costs you something?
  • Would you rather avoid an awkward moment… or speak truth gently when someone needs it?
  • Would you rather be known as easy to get along with… or hold a boundary God asks you to hold?
  • Would you rather look spiritual… or actually follow Jesus when no one is watching?
  • Would you rather protect your reputation… or confess sin and let God make you whole?

Most of us don’t choose the world’s approval intentionally. We slide into it.

So pause long enough to notice what’s happening inside you. Where have you been living on autopilot? Where has comfort been steering your choices more than conviction? Where is the Spirit nudging you right now?

Paul moves from motives to lifestyle because motives shape how we live.

He describes how he and Timothy lived among the Thessalonians: gentle like a mother (2:7), caring and invested (2:8), hard‑working and honest (2:9), encouraging like a father (2:11–12). Their lives made the message believable.

That’s the question sitting underneath this chapter: What does your life say? Are you living for the world’s approval or God’s? Are you awake or drifting?

Jesus repeatedly says, “Stay awake” (Matthew 24:42; Mark 13:37; Luke 12:35–40). Most people don’t reject God. They drift. They settle into habits. They follow the wide road because it’s familiar. They move through life on autopilot.

When the Spirit nudges your conscience, do you notice? Or do you keep moving toward what’s comfortable?

Living awake is intentional. Living asleep is automatic.

While I was writing this I was reminded of the first car I bought myself. It was a 1980 Mustang hatchback, a 5‑speed manual. I loved that car.

With a manual transmission, you can’t drift off. You have to listen to the engine. You have to watch the RPMs. You have to feel when it’s time to shift. You have to participate in the movement of the car. Driving that Mustang required attention. It required intentionality. It required me to be awake.

My Tiguan today? It’s automatic. I can get in, put it in drive, and go. I don’t have to think. I don’t have to listen. I don’t have to engage. I can be a passive navigator—just along for the ride. (No, it does not drive itself and I’m very diligent…but that’s not the point.)

A lot of us live our spiritual lives like an automatic transmission. We move forward, but we’re not awake. We’re not listening. We’re not shifting when the Spirit prompts. We’re just drifting with the flow of the world. Staying with the smooth flow of traffic.

Paul and Timothy lived like a manual transmission—tuned to the Spirit, responsive, intentional. And because they lived awake, their lives pointed people to Jesus.

Paul ends the chapter with joy. “What is our hope, our joy, our crown…? It is you” (1 Thessalonians 2:19–20). They didn’t come to be liked. They came to please God. But they rejoiced when people came to Jesus.

This is the pattern Scripture gives us: Live for God’s approval → God draws people → their transformation becomes our joy.

So take inventory. Are you drifting or awake? Automatic or intentional? Tuned to the Spirit or tuned to the crowd?

When we live for God’s approval, people notice. God draws them. Our lives become Scripture in motion. And the outcomes belong to Him.

Last week we learned that God takes our obedience and creates significance (1 Thessalonians 1:8). This week Paul shows how that obedience becomes significant in God’s hands: when our motives aim at God, our lives become the kind of lives God uses. God takes ordinary obedience and turns it into extraordinary impact.

Motives shape direction. Direction shapes impact.

And the closest thing some people will ever get to reading the Bible is watching how we live.

Please help me share the good news of Jesus and how He can change your life, and our world!

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When You Obey the Small, God Writes the Big

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Last week, we as a church confronted a truth most of us resist: significance isn’t measured by size, visibility, or outcomes. Significance is measured by obedience. Not impressive obedience. Not platform‑building obedience. Just the simple, quiet kind that says, “Lord, I’ll do what You’ve put in front of me today.”

Paul shows us what that looks like in real people in 1 Thessalonians 1. And it’s not glamorous. It’s not strategic. It’s not the stuff of leadership podcasts. It’s small. It’s ordinary. And it’s exactly the kind of obedience God loves to multiply.

I want to share a recent experience with you.

I work in a field where training and technical skill matter. A few months ago, I was in a very detailed training session. For the first time with a specific program, I felt genuinely confident. We were doing a listen–do–teach model, and I finally felt like I owned it.

Then came the next step: a procedure involving a piece of equipment that touched a very raw part of my personal life.

My whole body reacted. My face must have been screaming because one of the instructors — a seasoned leader with a background in patient care — noticed. She had been watching me go from confident to undone. She didn’t call attention to it. She didn’t correct me. She simply caught my eye, smiled gently, and motioned for me to come over.

She put her arm around my shoulder and said, “What’s going on, friend?”

I started tearing up. My hands shook. My voice cracked.

“I just can’t do that part. I’m sorry. I just can’t.”

She didn’t shame me. She didn’t push me. She didn’t make it a moment. She simply said, “You don’t have to.”

I told her a little about my daughter — about her lungs collapsing as a newborn, about the ventilator, about how that memory still lives in my body. And how I didn’t feel capable of doing that procedure, especially in front of a room full of peers. Frankly speaking, admitting that was hard.

She nodded and said, “I’m so glad you told me. Sometimes we forget that people carry stories into these rooms.”

She took me to a quiet station and walked me through everything. I completed the training. I explained the process, the purpose, the outcomes — without having to perform the part that caused me to struggle.

It was such a small thing for her… It was significant for me.

She might not know it, but it changed how I teach. I pay more attention now. I listen better. I notice people.

She wasn’t trying to be significant. She wasn’t thinking about her title or her expertise. She wasn’t trying to be a hero. She simply noticed what was right in front of her — a colleague who was struggling. And God multiplied it.

Paul saw this same pattern in the Thessalonians.

When he writes to them in 1 Thessalonians 1, he doesn’t praise their size, their strategy, or their outcomes. He praises their obedience — their faithful work, their loving deeds, their enduring hope. Small things. Everyday things. Things that don’t look significant until God gets involved.

Paul says their work was produced by faith — the kind of faith Galatians 5:6 describes as “faith expressing itself through love.” Their labor was prompted by love — the kind Jesus says will mark His disciples in John 13:35. Their endurance was inspired by hope — the kind Jesus speaks of in John 16:33 when He says, “In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.”

And then Paul says something astonishing: their faith “rang out” everywhere. Their quiet obedience became a global testimony.

They didn’t plan that.

They didn’t intend that.

They didn’t strategize that.

They didn’t imagine that.

God amplified it.

I saw that same pattern again this past week.

At a company gathering, one of the speakers — look him up, he’s amazing: Shola Richards — introduced a new concept: kossip. It’s kind of the opposite of gossip. Instead of tearing people down behind their backs, you hype them up with the truth of their love in action.

During the session, someone at my table shared a story about a young man on our support team. He had gone out of his way to help her. I was surprised — it was the same person I was planning to kossip about. See how that works!

He had helped me the week before with a complex technical setup. He researched everything, sent me instructions, prepared what I needed, and made sure everything was ready on time. And then, after I told him I was nervous about messing something up, he created a little “Betsy phone‑a‑friend” chat with two technicians who were on call and available during each of my meetings. And yes — I needed them. When one of the devices wasn’t working, someone calmly asked, “Betsy, did you hit start?” It’s ok to laugh…it’s funny. At least he didn’t have to ask if I had plugged it in, right?

Later I learned he had volunteered to stay behind during the event where we were all kossiping about him, to keep things running smoothly with his department. During our kossip session, we decided to nominate him for a quarterly recognition — something no one in his role had yet received.

He wasn’t trying to be significant.

He wasn’t trying to be recognized.

He was simply doing his job — right where he was — the best way he knew how.

And God multiplied it.

Just like the Thessalonians.

The Thessalonians didn’t begin with the end in mind. They didn’t chase influence or visibility. They simply obeyed what was right in front of them — faithful work, loving deeds, enduring hope. And God wrote the ending. God amplified what they offered. God carried their witness farther than they ever could have imagined. That is the pattern of the Kingdom: small obedience in human hands becomes significant in God’s hands.

Obedience is your part. Significance is God’s part.

May we be a church known not for our size, but for our obedience.

Our obedience is all we own. The outcomes belong to God.

And in that truth, friends, there is real freedom — because Jesus carries what we cannot.

So walk in the small things with faithful work, loving deeds, and enduring hope.

Trust God with the outcomes.

Stay rooted in Christ, and be who you’re called to be — then watch what He does with that.

He can take what feels small and make it known to the ends of the earth.

Please help me share the good news of Jesus and how He can change your life, and our world!

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Come back and visit at ListenLearn.Live Ministries

A Different Kind of Strength

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We picture strength as grit, toughness, resilience, the ability to push through. But real strength — the kind Paul describes in Philippians 4 — looks different. It’s quieter. It’s steadier. It’s formed in places we never would have chosen.

Paul isn’t writing from comfort. He’s writing from confinement. He’s writing as someone who has lived through conflict, loss, pressure, and uncertainty. And yet, Philippians 4 is one of the most hopeful, grounded, forward‑leaning chapters in the whole New Testament.

It’s Paul saying: Strength isn’t what you build. Strength is what God forms in you.

And He forms it in four deeply human ways.

Paul begins with a call to unity — not because unity is easy, but because it’s essential. He names two women who are struggling to get along and asks the community to help them reconcile.

It’s a reminder we don’t always want: Strength begins with shared life, not solo effort.

We are shaped by the people around us. We grow through the people who challenge us, support us, frustrate us, and walk with us. Strength isn’t independence. Strength is interdependence — the willingness to stay connected even when connection is hard.

Romans 12:18 says, “If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone.” Galatians 6:2 says, “Carry each other’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ.”

Strength is communal. Strength is relational. Strength is choosing unity when division feels easier.

Paul moves from community to peace — not the soft, sentimental kind, but the practiced kind. The kind that takes work. The kind that grows in the middle of anxiety, not the absence of it.

He says: Rejoice. Be gentle. Bring every anxiety to God. Think on what is true, honorable, just, pure, lovely.

This is not passive peace. This is practiced peace.

It’s emotional peace — choosing trust when fear is loud. It’s mental peace — choosing clarity when your thoughts spiral.

Isaiah 26:3 says, “You will keep in perfect peace those whose minds are steadfast, because they trust in you.” Colossians 3:15 says, “Let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts, since as members of one body you were called to peace.”

Strength isn’t pretending you’re calm. Strength is letting God steady your inner world when the outer world is chaotic.

This is the part of Philippians everyone quotes — often without context:

“I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” (Philippians 4:13)

Paul isn’t talking about achievement or success. He’s talking about endurance — the ability to remain steady in every circumstance because Christ strengthens him.

Right before this verse, Paul explains that he has learned contentment:

  • in plenty and in scarcity
  • in comfort and in hardship
  • in hope and in disappointment

Philippians 4:13 is Paul saying: “The only reason I can live with this kind of steady contentment is because Christ strengthens me.”

It’s not a verse about accomplishing anything you want. It’s a verse about enduring anything you face — because Christ holds you together.

Strength is not the ability to control your circumstances. Strength is the ability to trust Christ inside them.

Paul ends with generosity — not because generosity is the point, but because generosity reveals the point.

The Philippians gave freely because they trusted fully. Their generosity wasn’t about money. It was about confidence — confidence in God’s provision, God’s care, God’s faithfulness.

Paul says, “My God will supply all your needs according to His riches in glory.”

This is the landing of the entire letter: A forward‑leaning, Christ‑centered community can be generous because they are confident God will meet their needs.

Strength is not self‑reliance. Strength is God‑reliance. Strength is trusting that God sees, God knows, God provides, and God sustains.

Maybe you need strength in community — the courage to reconcile, forgive, or ask for help. Maybe you need strength in peace — the ability to breathe again when anxiety tightens your chest. Maybe you need strength in contentment — the grace to stop striving and rest in God’s sufficiency. Maybe you need strength in confidence — the trust to give generously, live generously, and believe God will meet your needs.

Strength isn’t loud. Strength isn’t flashy. Strength isn’t self‑made. Strength is God forming something steady inside you — something that holds when life shakes.

Paul ends Philippians with a communal call: Stand firm. Think clearly. Pray honestly. Give generously. Trust confidently.

Strength is not a solo journey. Strength is a shared commitment.

We press on together. We lean forward together. We become a different kind of community — one marked by peace, contentment, generosity, and confidence.

A different kind of joy leads to a different kind of obedience. A different kind of obedience forms a different kind of life. And a different kind of life becomes a different kind of strength.

This is the forward‑leaning life Christ is forming in us — together.

Please help me share the good news of Jesus and how He can change your life, and our world!

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A Different Kind of Life – Philippians 3

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Photo by RUN 4 FFWPU

We spend a lot of time looking backward. Not just in cars — in life. We replay old mistakes, rehearse old wounds, revisit old identities, and sometimes cling to old versions of ourselves because they feel familiar. But backward isn’t where freedom is. Backward is where bondage tries to keep us.

Jesus said, “No one who puts a hand to the plow and looks back is fit for the kingdom of God.” He wasn’t being harsh. He was being honest. You can’t move forward while staring backward. You can’t live a straight, steady, forward‑leaning life if your attention is chained to what’s behind you.

And when Paul writes Philippians 3, he’s saying the same thing — not with farming language, but with his own story. He’s naming a tension we all know in our bones: the pull of the past and the promise of something better ahead.

Paul says, “Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead…” He’s not talking about denial. He’s talking about direction.

He’s talking about a different kind of life — one shaped not by what’s behind us, but by Who is ahead of us.

Every one of us knows what it feels like to chase the wrong things. Achievement. Reputation. Performance. Success. We build our worth on what we produce, what we prove, what we earn — and still feel empty.

We also know what it’s like to feel stuck in the past. To be identified by old stories: addict, failure, victim, divorcee, liar, cheat, sinner. We know what it’s like to want a different kind of life but not know how to step into it.

Paul gets this. He lived it. He had the résumé, the reputation, the status — and none of it held. He also had a past full of violence and religious arrogance. But Jesus interrupted his story, and everything changed.

Philippians 3 is Paul saying, “I tried all of that too. And I’m done staring backward.”

Paul says everything he once valued is now “loss” compared to knowing Christ. Not because those things were evil — but because Christ is far better.

What we value becomes the driving force of our lives. If we value approval, we chase it. If we value success, we sacrifice everything for it. If we value comfort, we avoid anything that costs us something.

A different kind of life begins when Christ becomes our treasure — not our accessory.

Jesus said, “Where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” Your heart follows your treasure. Your life follows your heart. Your identity follows your life.

If Christ becomes your highest value, everything else finds its rightful place.

Paul says, “Not that I have already obtained all this…” And, “I do not consider myself yet to have taken hold of it.”

He’s saying, “I’m still growing. I’m still being formed. I’m still becoming.”

A different kind of life isn’t about perfection. It’s about movement. It’s about choosing a new direction even when you’re still learning how to walk in it. It’s about shifting your life toward what’s real and good, even if you’re still figuring it out.

Paul isn’t claiming he’s arrived. He’s saying he’s pursuing.

A forward‑leaning life is a life in motion — not flawless, but faithful.

Paul says, “I press on toward the goal…”

This is singular focus. Steady pursuit. Eyes forward. Heart aimed at heaven.

Scripture echoes this everywhere:

  • “Run in such a way as to take the prize.” (1 Cor. 9:24)
  • “Set your focus on Jesus.” (Heb. 3:1)
  • “He has called us with a holy calling.” (2 Tim. 1:9)

Joy isn’t found in what we hold onto. Joy is found in Who we press toward.

Paul has laser focus. Blinders on. He’s straining toward one thing — Jesus.

A different kind of life is a forward‑leaning life.

Then, Paul lifts their eyes and says, “Our citizenship is in heaven…”

This is the “why” behind everything he’s been saying.

You belong to a different Kingdom. You are shaped by a different King. You are headed toward a different future.

Identity isn’t something you manufacture. It’s something you receive. And when Christ becomes your value, your pursuit, and your focus, your identity begins to shift. You stop being defined by your past and start being shaped by your future — the one Christ is forming in you.

Your identity becomes rooted in the Creator, not attached to His creation.

A different kind of life requires honest questions:

What do you need to stop staring at in the rearview mirror? What old story keeps trying to name you? What past moment keeps trying to define you? What do you need to release so you can move forward? Where do you need to change your focus? What do you need to press toward?

Because when Christ becomes your highest value, your desires begin to change. Your priorities shift. Your heart starts wanting what He wants for your life. And as you follow Him, He gives you the desires of your heart — not because you get everything you want, but because your heart becomes aligned with His.

That’s where identity is found. That’s where freedom is found. That’s where a different kind of life begins.

Paul wrote to a community, not a person. A different kind of life isn’t lived alone. It’s lived with people who pray for each other, carry each other’s burdens, encourage each other, and hold each other accountable.

We press on together. We lean forward together. We live this different kind of life together.

We refuse to stare backward. We choose to move forward with hope. We fix our eyes on Jesus. We press on.

A different kind of life is possible — not because we’ve arrived, but because Christ is ahead of us, calling us forward.

Please help me share the good news of Jesus and how He can change your life, and our world!

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A Different Kind of Obedience – Philippians 2

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Obedience is a word that can feel heavy. It can sound like pressure, performance, or perfection — like something we’re supposed to muster up on our own. But when Paul talks about obedience in Philippians 2, he’s not talking about white‑knuckling our way into Christlikeness He’s talking about something far more honest, far more communal, and far more dependent on God than we usually admit.

Philippians is a letter written to a community — not a single person. Paul isn’t writing to “you” the individual; he’s writing to “you all,” the gathered people of God. And that matters, because obedience in Scripture is never just about personal behavior. It’s about how we live together. How we treat each other. How we witness to Christ through our shared life. Hear me friends, Christians can’t exist in a vaccuum.

Obedience isn’t a solo project. It’s a community practice.

And Paul makes that clear when he says, “For God is working in you, giving you the desire and the power to do what pleases Him.” (Phil. 2:13)

That verse begins and ends with God. The desire comes from Him. The power comes from Him. Our part is response — using what the Spirit provides to actually live it out.

Obedience isn’t something we force. It’s something God initiates, empowers, and completes.

Most of us know what it feels like to try to “be better.” We try to be patient. We try to be forgiving. We try to be humble. We try to be less reactive, less defensive, less self‑protective. And sometimes we succeed for a moment — until someone pushes the wrong button, or life gets heavy, or we get tired.

Trying harder isn’t transformation. It’s exhaustion.

Paul says obedience doesn’t start with our effort. It starts with God’s work inside us. God gives the desire. God gives the power. God shapes the heart. God forms the will. Our part is to cooperate — to act on what He’s already doing.

This isn’t passive. It’s responsive.

It’s the difference between rowing and sailing. Rowing is all effort. Sailing is cooperation — catching the wind that’s already blowing.

Obedience is catching the wind of the Spirit.

Paul begins this section with a call to unity. He talks about encouragement, comfort, compassion, humility, and putting others first. He points to Jesus — who emptied Himself, who served, who loved, who obeyed even when it cost Him everything.

Then Paul points to Timothy and Epaphroditus — two real people who lived out the same humility, service, and obedience Jesus modeled.

Paul is building a picture: Jesus obeyed. Timothy obeyed. Epaphroditus obeyed. Now you — the whole community — obey together.

Obedience is not just about personal holiness. It’s about how we treat each other. How we forgive each other. How we carry each other’s burdens. How we correct each other with gentleness. How we work through conflict without tearing each other apart.

The hardest part of following Jesus is people. The hardest part of discipleship is the “one‑anothering.”

But that’s exactly where obedience becomes visible.

Obedience is not just reading Scripture. It’s living it with real humans who sometimes frustrate us, misunderstand us, or disappoint us. And it’s choosing unity anyway — not fake unity, but the kind shaped by humility, honesty, and love.

Philippians 2:13 isn’t an isolated idea. It’s a thread woven through the entire story of God.

  • 2 Chronicles 30:12 — God gives people unity of mind to follow His word.
  • Ezra 1:5 — God moves hearts to act.
  • Ezekiel 36:27 — God puts His Spirit in us and moves us to follow His ways.
  • Jeremiah 31:33 — God writes His law on our hearts.
  • 2 Thessalonians 1:11 — God brings our desires and deeds to fruition.
  • 1 Corinthians 12:6 — God works in all of us.

The pattern is clear: God initiates. God empowers. We respond.

Obedience is not self‑improvement. It’s Spirit‑empowered transformation.

Paul doesn’t say, “Work hard until you get it right.” He says, “Work out your salvation with reverence,” because God is already working in you. Respect the process!

Obedience is not about achieving perfection. It’s about participating in what God is already doing.

It’s about saying yes to the nudge of the Spirit. Yes to the conviction. Yes to the invitation. Yes to the uncomfortable step toward reconciliation. Yes to the hard conversation. Yes to the act of service you don’t feel like doing. Yes to the forgiveness that feels impossible. Yes to the humility that feels costly.

Obedience is not about being flawless. It’s about being willing.

Paul says, “Do everything without grumbling or arguing.” Not because he wants us to be quiet, but because he knows how quickly community can fracture.

  • He says we shine like lights — not as individuals, but as a people.
  • He says we are children — not child — of God.
  • He says we hold out the word of life — not alone, but together.

Obedience is most visible in how we treat each other. It’s most tested in conflict. It’s most refined in community.

The world doesn’t recognize Jesus because we behave perfectly. The world recognizes Jesus when we love each other well.

Philippians 2:13 is the center of this whole chapter: “For God is working in you, giving you the desire and the power to do what pleases Him.”

God gives the desire. God gives the power. We respond with yes.

Obedience is not about earning God’s love. It’s about responding to it.

It’s not about proving ourselves. It’s about participating in what God is already doing.

It’s not about perfection. It’s about surrender.

It’s not about pressure. It’s about presence.

It’s not about trying harder. It’s about trusting deeper.

Hebrews 13:20–21 says:

“May God equip you with everything good for doing His will, and may He work in us what is pleasing to Him through Jesus Christ.”

That’s obedience. God equips. God works. We respond.

So maybe the question today is simple:

Where is God inviting you to cooperate with what He’s already doing? Where is He giving you a desire you didn’t have before? Where is He giving you power you didn’t think you had? Where is He nudging you toward unity, humility, forgiveness, or courage?

Obedience isn’t about being perfect. It’s about being willing.

It’s about catching the wind of the Spirit — together.

Please help me share the good news of Jesus and how He can change your life, and our world!

Like, share, comment, and add your email to receive blog posts, podcasts, and more!

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A Different Kind of Joy – Philippians 1

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Joy is one of those words we toss around like it’s simple. Like it’s a mood. Like it’s a personality trait. But real joy — the kind Scripture talks about — is something deeper, steadier, and far more honest than the smile‑and‑pretend version we sometimes settle for.

James says, “When troubles of any kind come your way, consider it an opportunity for great joy.” That’s not a slogan. It’s a reality that feels almost impossible when life is heavy. Joy doesn’t mean liking the hard stuff. It means trusting God inside it.

And that’s where Philippians hits us right in the center of our real lives.

Paul wrote this letter from a place none of us would choose. He wasn’t free. He wasn’t comfortable. He wasn’t winning. He was chained, watched, and unsure if he’d live or die. Yet Philippians is the most joy‑filled letter he ever wrote — not because life was good, but because God was close.

That’s the heartbeat of joy: God’s presence, not God’s presents.

Joy isn’t the result of everything going right. Joy is what grows when we stay close to Jesus even when nothing around us has changed yet.

Let’s be honest: every one of us carries something heavy.

Some are grieving someone they loved. Some are facing medical news they never expected. Some are praying for kids who feel far from God. Some are dealing with consequences they wish they could undo. Some are stretched thin financially. Some are lonely. Some are tired in a way sleep can’t fix.

Nobody is walking an easy road… regardless of what it may seem.

So when Scripture talks about joy, it’s not telling us to fake it. It’s not telling us to ignore pain or slap a smile on top of heartbreak. Joy isn’t denial. Joy isn’t pretending.

Joy is choosing to trust that God is with you — really with you — right in the middle of whatever you’re facing.

Nehemiah said, “The joy of the Lord is your strength.” Not the joy of circumstances. Not the joy of people’s approval. Not the joy of everything working out.

Joy is the strength that comes from knowing you’re not alone.

Galatians calls joy a fruit of the Spirit. Fruit doesn’t appear overnight. It grows slowly, quietly, steadily — often in conditions that don’t look ideal.

Joy grows in hospital rooms. Joy grows in seasons of uncertainty. Joy grows in long nights of prayer. Joy grows in the middle of pressure, conflict, and disappointment.

Joy grows because God is present.

Psalm 16 says, “You will fill me with joy in Your presence.” Not in success. Not in comfort. Not in ease. In His presence.

Joy is choosing to stay close to Jesus when escape would be easier. Joy is choosing to love when frustration feels justified. Joy is choosing to trust when fear feels louder.

Joy doesn’t just happen. Joy is chosen.

Philippians 1:12–19 is Paul’s reflection on his situation. He says everything that has happened to him — the chains, the confinement, the uncertainty — has actually helped spread the gospel.

And then he names something we don’t talk about enough: Some believers were preaching Christ out of jealousy. Some out of rivalry. Some out of selfish ambition. Some were even hoping Paul’s imprisonment would make their own ministry look better.

Pressure from the outside is hard. Pressure from the inside can be even harder.

But Paul doesn’t let their motives decide his joy. He doesn’t excuse their behavior. He doesn’t pretend it’s fine. He doesn’t call it holy. He simply says: “Whether their motives are false or genuine, Christ is being preached — and because of that, I rejoice.”

Paul knows he can’t control their hearts. He can’t control their attitudes. He can’t control their behavior.

But he can control his response. Paul chooses joy because Paul chooses Jesus.

Joy is a choice — and it’s found in God’s presence, not His presents.

So maybe the real question is this: Where have I been waiting for life to get easier before I let joy in?

  • Where have I let pressure steal my joy?
  • Where have I allowed someone else’s motives to shape my attitude?
  • Where have I chosen comfort instead of choosing people?
  • Where have I chosen escape instead of choosing purpose?

Joy isn’t geography. Joy isn’t financial security. Joy isn’t being liked. Joy isn’t ease.

Joy is choosing Jesus — His presence, His strength, His way — right in the middle of whatever we’re facing.

The same Jesus Paul rejoiced in can be the reason you find joy today. Not because your circumstances magically shift, but because He is with you inside them.

Joy doesn’t wait for life to get easier. Joy grows when we choose to stay close to Jesus. Joy grows when we trust His presence more than our fear. Joy grows when we let Him shape our response instead of letting pressure shape it.

Joy is a choice — and it’s found in God’s presence, not His presents.

So today, may you choose the kind of joy that comes from Him alone — the joy that doesn’t erase grief but gives strength inside it. The joy that doesn’t deny reality but invites God into it. The joy that doesn’t depend on people’s motives but rests in God’s steady love.

Joy is choosing Jesus. Right here. Right now. Right in the middle of whatever you’re facing.

Please help me share the good news of Jesus and how He can change your life, and our world!

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I Hate Waiting

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Photo by Chu Chup Hinh

I hate waiting.

Any kind of waiting. Even waiting for good news. I just want to skip to the end—get to the “stuff,” whether it’s good, bad, or somewhere in between. I’m the person who picks up a new book and reads the ending first to decide if it’s worth the emotional investment. If the ending is sad or unresolved, I won’t read it. I’m the friend who wants to know how the movie ends. I love spoilers. Tell me the ending—if it’s good, I’ll still watch; if it’s sad, at least I’ll be prepared. Honestly, I prefer it that way.

This is one of the areas where God and I often come to blows. And I never win. No matter how hard I try to rush to the ending, it never works.

Right now, I’m sitting in front of my computer in one of those seasons where I can’t see the resolve in so many areas of my life.

I just got off the phone with a dear friend and sister in Christ who is facing the end of her sister’s life—another dear friend of mine. We’re waiting for her triumphant entry into eternity with Jesus…waiting.

My mom just moved from her home of almost 50 years to be closer because she was diagnosed with a rare terminal cancer…waiting.

My husband is waiting for a board vote to see if he’ll have a position next year.
My son is waiting to hear about scholarships.
I’m waiting for a prodigal child to return.
Waiting through middle school with my youngest.
Waiting through hormones with my middle son.
Waiting for my broken foot to heal.
Waiting for cars to be fixed.
Waiting.

And yet, I’m aware—very aware—that even in this season of waiting, I am blessed. Blessed to walk with my friends in their grief. Blessed that my mom has the means to move closer so I can walk with her through this part of her journey. Blessed that if my husband doesn’t have a position next year, we’ll be okay. Blessed that my son not only wants to continue his education but is qualified for scholarships. Blessed for the experiences my younger children are having, and blessed that my prodigal is reaching out.

I’m not grateful for a broken foot, but I am grateful for good insurance, for the ability to work from home, and for the fact that the injury—though painful—has been more inconvenient than devastating.

Writing that last sentence is convicting.

I don’t like waiting because it interrupts the flow of life I prefer. I’ve always fancied myself a bit of an adventurer—taking chances, trying new things, leaping before I look. But I’m realizing my impulsiveness is often just a response to my aversion to waiting. I don’t like uncertainty. I don’t like the discomfort of not knowing. I don’t like the anxiety of unclear paths. So I change direction. I detour. I divert. I try to skip to the end.

And God says, “Wait.”

“Be still before the Lord and wait patiently for Him.”
Psalm 37:7

It’s in the waiting that God forms us.

Yesterday was Resurrection Sunday. I shared the Gospel—God’s redemptive work accomplished in His Son Jesus. The sacrifice Jesus made to assure our salvation and restoration. I shared how the work He began in us will continue until we go to meet Him or He returns.

“He who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus.”
Philippians 1:6

Until we go to meet Him or He returns…waiting.

There is a pattern in how God forms His people:
It’s in the waiting.

When the future feels uncertain, God is doing His deepest work. What do we learn when everything is going our way? How do we grow when life is predictable and smooth? Do roots grow deep when water is plentiful on the surface?

No. Deep roots grow in drought, in heat, in wind, in harsh conditions.

I know this from my own life—and because I grow roses in the desert.

Photo by Damla Kırçiçek

When I place a new rosebush in the ground in early spring, I won’t know if it will make it until it survives at least two Tucson summers. If it can make it through that, it will thrive. My citrus trees take up to five years of soil cultivation, deep watering, pruning, and terrible fruit before they’re established. And during those years, I keep tending them—watering, fertilizing, pruning.

I take better care of my plants than I do my own heart.

I get frustrated with my growth and want shortcuts. I want to avoid the long winters and burning summers. I want shade and refreshment. But in trying to escape the discomfort, I often end up worse off than if I had stayed where God planted me—letting deep roots form through the hard seasons.

On the day after Jesus was crucified, the disciples were lost, broken, uncertain, afraid, and confused. A drought season if there ever was one. They weren’t just grieving Jesus—they were grieving their own failures. They fled. They hid. They denied. The world went silent, and there was nothing they could do.

The Sabbath came and went.
They waited—not with hope, but with despair.
Not with expectation, but with fear.

But they waited together.

And into that shared fear, shared grief, shared uncertainty—Jesus appeared.

“Jesus came and stood among them and said, ‘Peace be with you.’”
John 20:19

You and I never have to wait the way they did. We know how the story ends. We’ve read the last chapter. Our waiting is temporary, and it is anchored in hope.

“We have this hope as an anchor for the soul, firm and secure.”
Hebrews 6:19

We can live with confident expectation that our waiting will end—and that in the process, God is forming us into the people He created us to be.

Peter was formed into the rock on which Christ built His church (Matthew 16:18).
John was formed into the disciple who would receive Revelation (Revelation 1:1).
Every person in that room—tired, crushed, desperate—was being formed for kingdom work.

Most of us don’t like waiting. We don’t like uncertainty or fear or confusion. But what if that is exactly where God does His best work? What if our weakest moments are where He grows the deepest roots? What if our waiting is preparation for the work He is sending our way?

Paul talks about finding joy in suffering, and I struggle with that. Who finds joy in suffering? But maybe Paul wasn’t joyful about the suffering. Maybe he was joyful because he could look back and see what God had formed in him through it.

“We rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance; and endurance produces character; and character produces hope.”
Romans 5:3–4

I’m not suggesting we “get over” impatience. We’re human. But maybe we can start to see waiting as an opportunity—a season where God is cultivating deep roots, forming us into people who can help others grow deep roots too. People He will use to bring peace, restoration, and reconciliation. People equipped to make disciples.

I still don’t like waiting.
But I’m choosing to look at it differently.

Instead of “Why me, Lord?” I’m learning to ask, “What are You doing, Lord?”
Instead of “Why must I endure this?” I’m learning to ask, “What do I need to learn?”

Whatever God has in mind for these uncomfortable, inconvenient, painful seasons, I know He will use them to grow me, grow others, and grow His kingdom—all while glorifying Himself.

And if that’s the ending, then the waiting is worth it.

Please help me share the good news of Jesus and how He can change your life, and our world!

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Pulled Back Into the We: Lamenting Our Sin

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Photo by Jace Miller

Last week we talked about the kind of honesty that refuses shortcuts—the honesty that tells the truth about my sin. The kind that stops minimizing, stops explaining, stops shifting blame, and finally says, “This is what I’ve done, and I need God to heal me.” It opens the door to mercy.

But there’s another kind of lament that may be even harder: lamenting our sin. Not just what I’ve done, but what we, as the people of God, have done together. The places where the Church has drifted. The places where we’ve compromised. The places where we’ve chosen comfort over courage, influence over integrity, or cultural approval over faithfulness to Jesus.

Corporate lament asks us to tell the truth about the Church we belong to—not the Church we wish we were, not the Church we pretend to be, but the Church we actually are. And that kind of truth‑telling is uncomfortable because it removes our ability to stand at a distance. It pulls us into the story. This is not about shame. It’s about honesty. And honesty is the doorway to healing.

When God speaks to His people in Scripture, He rarely speaks to individuals alone. He speaks to communities. He speaks to His people as a whole. And He invites them to return to Him together. “Stop doing wrong. Learn to do right.” (Isaiah 1:16–17) is a call to a whole community that has drifted from God’s heart. And “Come, let us return to the Lord… He will heal us.” (Hosea 6:1) reminds us that repentance is a shared journey. Healing comes when God’s people return together.

Corporate lament is the moment we stop pretending that the Church’s failures have nothing to do with us. It’s the moment we stop distancing ourselves from the parts of the Body we don’t like. It’s the moment we say, “We are the Church. And we want to be healed.”

Every generation of God’s people has had to face the truth about its own drift. Ours is no different. And while the specifics may vary from place to place, the patterns are painfully familiar. We’ve softened Scripture when it felt inconvenient. We’ve followed cultural voices more closely than the voice of Jesus. We’ve chosen comfort over obedience. We’ve defended institutions more fiercely than the vulnerable. These are not accusations. They are confessions. They are the places where the Church has drifted from the heart of Jesus.

And if we’re honest, we’ve all participated in that drift in one way or another—through silence, apathy, fear, convenience, misplaced loyalty, or simple distraction. “For our offenses are many in your sight, and our sins testify against us… we acknowledge our iniquities.” (Isaiah 59:12–13) This is not about shame—it’s about finally telling the truth together so God can heal us together.

Corporate lament also asks something that feels almost impossible: it asks us to stand shoulder to shoulder with our brothers and sisters in sins we personally didn’t commit, don’t agree with, and may even abhor. It asks us to say, “We did this,” even when our instinct is to say, “They did this.” We don’t want to be associated with harm we didn’t cause. We don’t want to be connected to choices we never would have made. We don’t want to carry responsibility for actions that grieve us.

But here’s the truth we often forget: others have had to do the same for us. There are things we have done—choices we’ve made, harm we’ve caused, blind spots we’ve carried—that other believers have had to stand beside, even though they didn’t commit those sins themselves. They’ve had to say “we” about things we did. They’ve had to carry the weight of our failures as part of the same Body. If we want grace for our own missteps, we must be willing to extend that same grace to the Church’s missteps—even the ones that aren’t ours personally.

Scripture keeps pulling us back into the “we.” Israel confessed as a people. The early Church repented as a people. The prophets spoke to the whole community, not just the guilty individuals. Paul confronted the whole church in Corinth, not just the man at the center of the scandal. Why? Because sin in the Body affects the whole Body. Because silence is participation. Because looking away is its own kind of agreement. Because blaming “those Christians over there” is just another way of avoiding the truth.

Corporate lament asks us to tell the truth about the harm we allowed, the harm we ignored, the harm we explained away, the harm we stayed silent about. It asks us to admit that sometimes we stood by with our arms crossed, pointing fingers, shaking our heads, blaming others—while people were being wounded in Jesus’ name. It asks us to say words we don’t want to say: We failed. We allowed this. We protected the wrong things. We hurt people. We looked away. We chose comfort over courage. We chose reputation over repentance.

This is the posture Ezra and Nehemiah took when they prayed for Israel. They didn’t stand outside the people’s sin; they stepped into it. They confessed as part of the community, saying “we have sinned” even when they personally had not committed the wrong. They understood that belonging means responsibility. Belonging means honesty. Belonging means standing in the truth together so we can be healed together.

Throughout Scripture, whenever God’s people lamented and returned to Him together, He restored them together. After Ezra confessed the sins of the nation, God brought cleansing and renewed worship. When Nehemiah led the people in corporate repentance, God restored their unity, their identity, and their joy. And at Pentecost, when thousands repented as one people, God poured out His Spirit and birthed the Church. This is the pattern of God: when His people tell the truth together, He heals them together.

And this is where your life and mine intersect the story: our personal decisions shape the Body, whether we intend them to or not. When we choose convenience over conviction, the Body absorbs the cost. When we avoid truth, the Body carries the wound. Silence is not kindness—it is a failure of love. It is a refusal to care enough about one another to name what is real.

This is the part of lament that humbles us the most. It strips away our defenses. It removes our ability to say, “That’s not my problem.” It pulls us into the story and asks us to stand in the light—not as isolated individuals, but as a community that needs God’s mercy. And this is where healing begins.

We can’t heal what we won’t name. And as painful as it is to face the truth about our drift, God meets us in that honesty. He doesn’t turn away from a confessing people—He draws near, He listens, and He responds with mercy. This has always been the pattern of Scripture: “Stop doing wrong. Learn to do right.” (Isaiah 1:16–17). “Come, let us return to the Lord.” (Hosea 6:1). “Humble yourselves.” (James 4:10). And then the promise: “After two days he will revive us; on the third day he will restore us.” (Hosea 6:2). This is resurrection language. This is God’s heart toward a people who return: revival, restoration, new life.

Corporate lament is not about beating ourselves up. It’s about opening ourselves up. It’s about making space for God to reshape us into a people who look like Jesus again.

At the end of the day, corporate lament is not about what we’ve done wrong. It’s about who we want to become. A Church that tells the truth. A Church that refuses to hide. A Church that loves Scripture enough to obey it. A Church that chooses integrity over influence. A Church that is humble, honest, and ready for resurrection.

This is the Church we long to be. This is the Church Jesus is calling us to become. And lament is how we begin.

Please help me share the good news of Jesus and how He can change your life, and our world!

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No More Hiding

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So you’ve done something you aren’t proud of. It hurt someone you care about—or maybe someone you barely know. But it’s not sitting well. Something in you is unsettled.

And instead of facing that discomfort, your mind starts reaching for relief. You justify. You minimize. You explain. You shift blame. You tell yourself you’ll think about it tomorrow.

But here’s the truth: there are no shortcuts through the harm we’ve done. Not spiritually. Not relationally. Not emotionally. The only way through is honest lament.

Psalm 51:1 gives us the starting point: “Have mercy on me, O God.” David doesn’t begin with excuses. He doesn’t begin with explanations. He begins with truth. He begins with lament.

Lamenting my sin is not wallowing. It’s not whining. It’s not beating myself up. Lament is simply telling the truth in God’s presence. It’s the moment I stop running from what I’ve done and allow myself to feel the weight of it—not to be crushed by it, but to be freed from it.

Scripture gives us a clear and honest path for this kind of truth‑telling.

Paul writes in 2 Corinthians 7:10 that there are two kinds of sorrow. One kind is mostly about consequences—how something makes us look, what it costs us, how uncomfortable it feels. That kind of sorrow doesn’t change us. It keeps us stuck.

But there’s another kind of sorrow—the kind that faces the truth head‑on. It’s the kind that says, “I see the harm I’ve caused, and it grieves me. I don’t want to stay this way.” That kind of sorrow opens the door to healing. It’s not self‑hatred. It’s not shame. It’s the Spirit nudging us toward honesty so He can lead us toward freedom.

Proverbs 28:13 puts it plainly: “Whoever hides their sins doesn’t prosper, but the one who admits them and turns from them finds mercy.” Hiding never heals us. Minimizing never frees us. Justifying never restores us. Telling the truth—honestly, without spin—is where mercy meets us. Not because God is waiting to punish us, but because we can’t receive healing while we’re still pretending we don’t need it.

Jesus makes this even more vivid in Luke 18:9–14. Two men go to pray. One stands tall, listing all the good things he’s done. The other stands at a distance, unable to lift his eyes, and simply says, “God, have mercy on me.” Jesus says it’s the second man—the honest one—who goes home made right with God.

That posture is exactly what Jesus blesses in the first Beatitude: “Blessed are the poor in spirit.” To be “poor in spirit” is not to think badly of yourself. It’s to be honest about your need. It’s to stop pretending you’re fine. It’s to stop performing. It’s to stop explaining away the harm you’ve done. It’s the moment you say, “I don’t have excuses. I need help.” And Jesus calls that blessed.

When you hold these passages together, a clear picture emerges of what lament really is.
Lament begins with honest sorrow.
Lament refuses to hide.
Lament is the posture God honors.
Lament is the worship of the honest and humble.

Lament is not something that happens to us—it’s something we choose. We participate in lament when we tell the truth about what we’ve done, stop explaining away the harm, stop minimizing the impact, stop blaming others, and bring our whole selves—unedited and unguarded—before God.

This honesty is not for God’s sake. He already knows. It’s for ours. Because only in truth can we receive what the Holy Spirit longs to give: grace, mercy, cleansing, restoration, a renewed heart, a reoriented life. Lament is the doorway through which healing enters.

Photo by Kindel Media

And here’s the deeper reality: we can’t receive when we refuse to acknowledge.
If we’re convinced we’re fine, we won’t reach for help.
If we’re busy defending ourselves, we won’t open ourselves.
If we’re hiding the truth, we won’t be healed by it.

When we aren’t honest about where we really are—what we’ve done, what we’ve avoided, what we’ve broken—we close our hands around our own version of the story. And closed hands can’t receive anything. Lament pries those hands open. It makes room for mercy. It makes room for healing. It makes room for God.

This is the heart of holiness: God doesn’t just forgive us—He transforms us. But transformation requires surrender. And surrender begins with truth.

And this matters because this is only week one. Over the next six weeks, we’ll walk through lamenting our sin, our community’s sin, the harm done to us, the losses we carry, the hardships we endure, and finally, the restoration God promises. But it all begins here—with the courage to tell the truth about our own hearts.

Lamenting our sin is not about staying stuck in what we’ve done—it’s about finally telling the truth so we can be healed. When we stop hiding, stop minimizing, stop explaining, and simply stand before God as we are, we make space for the Holy Spirit to do what we cannot do for ourselves. God meets us in honesty. He restores us in humility. This is why lament matters: it is the doorway to becoming whole again. There are no shortcuts. But there is a Savior who meets us every time we choose the courage of confession over the comfort of denial. And in His presence, lament becomes worship, and turning back toward Him becomes the beginning of new life.

Please help me share the good news of Jesus and how He can change your life, and our world!

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Lament: The Path to Resurrection Hope

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Photo by MART PRODUCTION

Most of us walk into church carrying things we don’t quite know what to do with. We pray, we sing, we greet one another—but underneath, there are losses we haven’t named, hurts we haven’t voiced, questions we don’t know how to ask. We carry grief in our bodies even when we don’t have language for it. Scripture gives us a word for that. It gives us lament.

Loss doesn’t arrive politely. It doesn’t knock first. It doesn’t wait for a convenient moment. Sometimes loss is sudden. Sometimes it’s slow. Sometimes it’s not even the loss of a person—it’s the loss of a future, a dream, a sense of safety, a version of life you thought you’d have. And when loss hits, most of us don’t know what to do with it. We try to be strong. We try to keep moving. We try not to fall apart. But Scripture never asks us to pretend. It gives us a different way. It gives us lament.

Lament is telling God the truth about our pain. It’s the honest prayer we pray when life hurts and we don’t have answers. Lament is not complaining. It’s not losing faith. It’s not getting stuck. Lament is how we bring our real pain to a real God who really listens and never leaves. Lament is faith with dirt under its nails—faith that’s been on the ground, faith that’s cried in the car, faith that’s been awake at 3 a.m., faith that’s holding on to God with one hand while wiping tears with the other. Lament is not the opposite of faith. Lament is an act of faith. If you didn’t believe God was listening, you wouldn’t cry out. If you didn’t believe God cared, you wouldn’t bring Him your pain. If you didn’t believe God could do something with your grief, you wouldn’t bother praying at all. Lament is faith refusing to go silent.

One of the most powerful moments in Scripture happens at a graveside. In John 11, Jesus arrives at the tomb of His friend Lazarus. Mary and Martha are devastated. Confused. Disappointed. Hurt. They had sent for Jesus days earlier, and He didn’t come in time. When Jesus arrives, He doesn’t stand at a distance. He doesn’t offer explanations. He doesn’t tell them to “trust God more.” He steps into their grief. And then comes the shortest, most honest sentence in the Gospels: “Jesus wept.” He knew resurrection was minutes away—but He still cried. Because lament is not about the outcome. It’s about the moment. It’s about love. It’s about presence. It’s about entering someone else’s pain before you try to lift them out of it. Jesus wept because love weeps. This is the God who meets us in lament.

As we move toward Easter, we’re spending intentional time learning how to lament. Not because lament is a detour, but because it’s part of the road. There are no shortcuts through grief. We don’t get to resurrection by skipping the tomb. We can’t celebrate resurrection without first naming what needs resurrecting. Lament matters because you can’t heal what you won’t name. Because God meets us in the places we’d rather hide. Because Jesus Himself lamented—love enters pain before it lifts pain. Because lament forms us into people who walk with God in the real world. Because Easter is for people who know what loss feels like and need God to make things new. Lament is not weakness. Lament is discipleship.

If lament is so important, why do so few of us practice it? Because most of us have been taught—explicitly or implicitly—to rush past our pain. Pressure sounds like: “Be strong.” “Don’t cry.” “You should be over this by now.” Pressure makes grief feel like a problem to solve instead of a wound to tend. But God doesn’t meet us with pressure. God meets us with compassion. He doesn’t rush grief. He doesn’t set a timeline. He doesn’t say, “You should be better by now.” He says, “I’m here.”

Six months after my daughter died, I told a friend I was still struggling—still sad, still waking up in the night, still wrestling with guilt and questions. She said, “I thought you would have gotten over it by now.” She wasn’t trying to be cruel. She was just living in a world that had moved on. Her life was normal again. Mine was still in the wreckage. But while people moved on, God didn’t. God wasn’t waiting for me to “get over it.” He wasn’t disappointed in my tears. He wasn’t frustrated that I wasn’t “stronger.” God sat with me in sackcloth and ashes—holding my hand, wiping my tears, not rushing me out of the pain but choosing to be with me in it. This is the God who meets us in lament.

Photo by Christophe Leclaire

Romans 12:15 says, “Weep with those who weep.” Job’s friends, before they got it wrong, got it right. They sat with him in silence for seven days. Sometimes the holiest thing we can do is sit down next to someone and stay. Not to fix them. Not to rush them. Just to be with them. There’s a story I love about a man who fell into a deep hole. A psychiatrist walked by, wrote a prescription, and kept walking. A pastor walked by, prayed a prayer, and kept walking. Finally, a friend walked by, saw the man, and jumped in. The man panicked: “Now we’re both stuck!” But the friend said, “It’s okay. I’ve been here before. And I know the way out.” That’s presence. That’s compassion. That’s what makes lament possible.

A few years ago, I got a call from the mother of a young man in my youth group. He was very sick—multiple complications, on life support. She asked if I could come. As I drove to the hospital, something inside me tightened. It was the same hospital, the same ward where my daughter had been when she passed. Grief has a way of collapsing time. I prayed in the car: “Lord, help me. I don’t know if I can do this.” But I walked through the door. I spent the day with the family. And the next day too. I prayed with them. I listened. I cried with them. I held her hand in her hurt and confusion. And here’s the part that still humbles me: I was more blessed by that experience than I can express. God took my pain, my loss, my broken pieces—and He used them. Not because I was strong. Not because I was healed. Not because I had answers. But because God had sat with me in my own ashes long enough to shape compassion in me. And then He let that compassion become a gift for someone else. This is what restoration looks like. Not forgetting the pain. Not pretending it didn’t happen. But letting God redeem it.

So what do we do now? We tell God the truth. Not the polished version. Not the “I’m fine” version. The real version. God can only meet us where we actually are. We let God be close to our broken hearts. We don’t have to pretend. We don’t have to be strong. We don’t have to rush. We let God sit with us in the ashes. And we let lament soften us and send us. We stop asking why this is happening and begin asking what God is forming in us through this loss. Then we let that compassion move us toward others.

Lament doesn’t erase the loss. It doesn’t make the pain tidy. But it keeps us moving toward God instead of away from Him. It keeps us tender instead of numb. It keeps us connected instead of isolated. It keeps us hopeful instead of hopeless. And in all of it, God is close. God is compassionate. God is transforming us. God is restoring us. And God is giving us one another. Lament is how we bring our real pain to a real God who really listens and never leaves. Lament is not a detour. And God meets us right there.

Please help me share the good news of Jesus and how He can change your life, and our world!

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