Category: christian

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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Come back and visit at ListenLearn.Live Ministries

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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Come back and visit at ListenLearn.Live Ministries

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!

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

Come back and visit at ListenLearn.Live Ministries

No Isn’t a Bad Word

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Photo by Ahmed

In the middle of the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus says something almost shockingly simple: “Let your ‘Yes’ be yes and your ‘No,’ no.” He’s speaking into a culture where people used oaths to make their words sound more believable. Swearing by heaven meant one thing. Swearing by earth meant another. Swearing “by God” was the ultimate guarantee. It was a whole system built around managing trust because everyday speech wasn’t reliable.

Jesus steps into that and essentially says, “Stop performing. Stop manipulating. Stop trying to make your words sound more true than they are. Just tell the truth.” He’s not banning legal oaths. He’s not being rigid. He’s calling His followers to integrity — the kind of integrity where your everyday yes and no are so trustworthy that you don’t need to dress them up with promises or emotional guarantees. This is holiness in its simplest form: a heart made whole by grace, expressed in a life that is honest, simple, and aligned.

Scripture has always tied holiness to truthfulness. Psalm 15 describes the kind of person who can dwell in God’s presence as one “who speaks truth from the heart.” Colossians 3 calls us to “put off falsehood” because we’ve “put on the new self.” Zechariah 8 paints a picture of a restored community where people “speak the truth to each other.” Truthfulness isn’t a side issue — it’s part of the life God forms in us.

And yet, “no” is one of the hardest truths for us to speak. Even though “no” is a complete declarative sentence — one word, no emotional freight attached — most of us don’t experience it that way. From childhood, we’re taught, often without anyone meaning to, that “no” is a bad word. A toddler says “no,” and we correct them. A child says “no,” and we discipline them. A teenager says “no,” and we accuse them of disrespect. So we grow up believing that “no” creates conflict, disappoints people, threatens relationships, and should be avoided.

Because of that, we learn to hide from it. We say yes when we’re tired. We say yes when we’re scared. We say yes when we know full well we won’t follow through. We say yes because we don’t want to hurt someone’s feelings — only to hurt them more later when we back out, disappear, or make excuses. A dishonest yes becomes a form of bondage. It’s lying — even if we didn’t intend it to be. And once we lie, we feel pressure to lie again to protect the first lie.

This is exactly the cycle Jesus is addressing. When our yes and no lose their weight, we start adding verbal padding: “I promise,” “Honestly,” “I swear,” “I swear to God.” Those additives only exist when our words can’t stand on their own. Jesus is calling us back to simplicity, to truth, to freedom.

This has become real for me in the last season of my life. I’ve learned that I have to be far more intentional about my responses when people ask things of me. I’m a full‑time bi‑vocational pastor with a family. My life is full — beautifully full — and that means my time, energy, and emotional bandwidth are not unlimited. For years, my knee‑jerk reaction was to say “yes,” “sure,” or “absolutely” without pausing to consider whether I actually had the margin to follow through. I wasn’t trying to deceive anyone. I was trying to be kind. I didn’t want to disappoint people or seem unavailable. I didn’t want to hurt feelings.

But the truth is: I said yes when I didn’t mean it. And that yes became a lie. A dear friend finally called me to account — gently, honestly, lovingly. They helped me see that my quick yeses were unintentionally causing harm. I was overcommitting, underdelivering, and stretching myself thin in ways that hurt others, my family, and myself.

So now, I’m learning a new rhythm. I try — imperfectly — to pause. To ask for time. To check with my family. To look at my work calendar. To evaluate my emotional state. To discern whether I can give myself away without breaking something inside me. I want my yes to be a real yes — “yes, I’m all in.” And I want my no to be a clean no — “no, I don’t have the ability to do that right now.”

“No” is not negative. It’s not rejection. It’s not a commentary on my love or care. It’s simply a statement about the state of my life in that moment. This is holiness in real time — not perfection, but alignment. A heart made whole by grace. A life where truth is not something we perform but something we live. A dishonest yes fractures us. A clean no keeps us whole. A dishonest yes damages relationships. A clean no protects them. A dishonest yes steals from our families. A clean no honors them. Jesus isn’t trying to make us rigid. He’s trying to make us real.

So here’s the practice I’m learning. Pause before responding. You don’t owe anyone an instant answer. Give yourself space to breathe and think. Check your real capacity. Look at your calendar. Talk to your family. Pay attention to your emotional state. Your humanity is not an inconvenience. Tell the truth kindly: “Yes, I can do that,” or “No, I’m not able to take that on right now.” Short. Clear. Honest. Trust that “no” is not unloving. It’s not rejection. It’s not selfishness. It’s not a lack of care. It’s simply truth. Let your words be enough. No padding. No promises. No emotional gymnastics. Just truth spoken in love.

A life of honest yeses and honest nos is a life of integrity, freedom, and Christlike love — a life where your words are enough because your heart is whole.

And this is the freedom Jesus is offering. Not a burden. Not a rule to perform. A way of living that keeps us honest, keeps us whole, and keeps us grounded in the kind of love that doesn’t need to pretend.

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!

Come back and visit at ListenLearn.Live Ministries

The Lies That Bind, The Truth That Frees

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Photo by AHMED AQEELY

We all want freedom. Real freedom. The kind that lets us breathe without fear or pretending. But most of the time, the thing holding us back isn’t someone else. It’s the lies we tell ourselves — the ones we repeat so often they start to feel like truth.

Jesus said, “Then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free” (John 8:32). He wasn’t giving a slogan or a threat. He wasn’t handing out a weapon for people to use on each other. He was inviting us into freedom — the kind that only comes from Him.

People love to quote this verse. Sometimes they use it to “call someone out” or to justify being harsh. But Jesus wasn’t talking about blasting people with “truth.” He wasn’t talking about winning arguments. He wasn’t talking about exposing someone else’s flaws. He was talking about Himself — “I am the way, the truth, and the life” (John 14:6). When this verse is used out of context, it becomes a tool for judgment. When it’s used the way Jesus meant it, it becomes a lifeline.

Most of the lies that keep us stuck aren’t loud. They’re quiet. They sound reasonable. They sound like coping. They sound like survival. “I’m fine.” “It’s not that bad.” “I can handle it.” “They’re not that bad.” “I’m not that bad.” “This is just who I am.” “It could be worse.” These lies feel small, but they shape everything. They keep us from facing what’s real. They keep us from healing. They keep us from growing. They keep us from God. We don’t just tell these lies — we build our identity around them.

Nobody wakes up one day and decides to hide. We learn it. Somewhere along the way, someone rejected you when you were honest. Someone made fun of something real about you. Someone taught you that being accepted meant being “good enough.” Someone told you to hide the parts that might make people uncomfortable. So you learned to protect yourself. You learned to show only the parts that felt safe. You learned to keep the rest tucked away. You learned to manage your image so no one could hurt you again.

But here’s the truth: you cannot be fully loved where you are not fully known. And the version of yourself you’ve been protecting — the edited, filtered, careful version — becomes a cage.

I remember being a kid and telling my mom I was nervous about my first speaking role in a school play. My stomach was in knots. My hands were shaking. I was convinced everyone would stare at me and see every flaw I had. She gave me the classic line we’ve all heard: “Just picture everyone in the audience in their underwear.” It sounded ridiculous, but the idea behind it was simple: if you could see everyone else as vulnerable as you feel, you wouldn’t be so afraid.

There’s a silliness to it, but also a truth. If we could see people as they really are — no pretending, no posturing, no hiding — the whole playing field would level out. All the pressure would fall away. All the lies we tell to protect ourselves would lose their power. Imagine the freedom we’d feel if everyone showed up as their real, unfiltered selves. No masks. No roles. No “I’m fine.” Just people being people.

That’s what it’s like with God. He already sees every part of us. He’s the One who made us (Psalm 139:13). He’s the One who counted the hairs on our head (Luke 12:7). He knows every secret we’ve tried to bury (Psalm 139:1–4). He knows the thoughts we wish we didn’t think. He knows the fears we hide behind jokes and busyness. He knows the lies we tell to make ourselves feel safer. And He loves us just the same (Romans 5:8).

We don’t have to pretend with Him. We don’t have to perform. We don’t have to hide the parts we’re afraid people won’t accept. God isn’t shocked by our humanity. He isn’t disappointed by our weakness. He isn’t surprised by our struggles. He sees us fully — and loves us fully.

The lies we believe about ourselves are really lies about Him. Lies that say we have to hide. Lies that say we’re too much. Lies that say people will leave if they know the real us. Lies that say we have to earn love. But God speaks a different truth.

Photo by Min An

The lie says, “Hide so you won’t be rejected.”
The truth says, “Come into the light so you can be healed” (1 John 1:7; Ephesians 5:13).

The lie says, “You’re too much.”
The truth says, “You are mine” (Isaiah 43:1; 1 John 3:1).

The lie says, “If they knew the real you, they’d leave.”
The truth says, “I will never leave you nor forsake you” (Hebrews 13:5; Psalm 34:18).

The lie says, “You have to hide the real you to be loved.”
The truth says, “You are fully known and fully loved” (Psalm 139:1; Romans 5:8).

Every lie we tell ourselves is really an identity lie. “I’m fine” becomes “I don’t need help.” “It’s not that bad” becomes “I can manage this alone.” “This is just who I am” becomes “God can’t change me.” “I have to keep people happy” becomes “Their opinion defines me.”

But here’s the truth: your identity is not found in the world. Your identity is not found in people. Your identity is not found in their expectations, opinions, or conditions. Your identity is found in Christ — and Christ alone (Galatians 2:20; Colossians 3:3). And that is the only identity that cannot be taken from you.

People change. Opinions change. Reputations change. Circumstances change. Jesus does not (Hebrews 13:8).

Choosing Christ as your identity is the hard part. It means letting go of every other voice that has tried to name you. It means letting go of what people think, what people expect, what people assume, what people demand, what people say you should be. Their opinions are not your truth. Their expectations are not your identity. Their labels are not your name.

Only Jesus gets to tell you who you are. And when you choose Him — when you root your identity in Him — the lies lose their grip. The fear loses its voice. The world loses its claim on you.

That is the freedom Jesus was talking about. Not freedom to do whatever you want. Freedom to finally be who you were created to be. Fully known. Fully loved. Fully free.

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

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The God Who Cannot Be Absent

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Photo by cottonbro studio

There are moments in life when the silence feels louder than God’s voice. When the weight of what we’re carrying makes us whisper the same question people have asked for thousands of years: “Where are You, God?”

It’s not a question of doubt. It’s a question of being human. And the Bible doesn’t hide that question. It gives us the words for it. It shows us people who felt the same way we do — even though God had never left them.

Psalm 31 is one of those places. It’s honest and unfiltered. The writer feels abandoned, overwhelmed, forgotten. But underneath all of that emotion is a truth he keeps coming back to: God is present, even when we can’t feel Him. That tension — between what we feel and what is true — is part of the life of faith.

The psalmist says things like, “I am forgotten as though I were dead” (Psalm 31:12). “My strength fails” (Psalm 31:10). “I am in distress” (Psalm 31:9). These aren’t the words of someone who has lost faith. They’re the words of someone trying to hold onto it. And then, right in the middle of all that fear, he says, “But I trust in You, Lord… My times are in Your hands” (Psalm 31:14–15). He’s basically saying, “I don’t feel You, but I know You’re here.” That’s the tension most of us live in.

This morning I woke up because the wave machine I sleep with suddenly shut off. The silence was so loud it startled me awake. I didn’t realize how much I’d gotten used to the steady sound of waves until it disappeared. And as I lay there, it hit me: this is exactly what God’s silence has felt like in some seasons of my life. Not that He left. Not that He stopped caring. Just that the “sound” of His nearness felt harder to sense. The silence was real. But the absence wasn’t. Psalm 31 gives us permission to name that feeling without confusing it for truth.

We use the word “omnipresent” in church, but most people don’t use that word anywhere else. So here’s the simple version: omnipresent means God is always present everywhere. Not sometimes. Not when we feel it. Always. Everywhere. All the time. It’s not something God does. It’s who He is. Which means the idea of God being absent, silent, or checked out isn’t just painful — it’s impossible. If God could step away from us, even for a moment, He would stop being God. His presence isn’t a mood. It isn’t a reward. It isn’t something we earn. It’s His nature.

Photo by molochkomolochko:

The Bible doesn’t just say God is “around.” It says something much deeper. From the very beginning, God breathed

His own life into us (Genesis 2:7). That breath wasn’t a one‑time moment — it’s the breath that keeps us alive. Paul puts it this way: “In Him we live and move and have our being” (Acts 17:28). We don’t just live near God. We live in the God who holds everything together.

And Jesus makes it even clearer: “He lives with you and will be in you” (John 14:17). “We will come to them and make our home with them” (John 14:23). “Remain in Me, as I also remain in you” (John 15:4). Jesus isn’t describing a God who pops in and out. He’s describing a God who has made His home in us. A God whose presence is the very thing that keeps us alive. So when we say “God feels far,” we’re talking about our feelings, not His location.

Psalm 31 shows us a God who sees and stays, but Scripture goes even further: God is not just present — He is active. Jesus said, “My Father is always at His work” (John 5:17). Paul reminds us that God is working “in all things” for our good (Romans 8:28), and that He is working in us to shape our desires and actions according to His purpose (Philippians 2:13). And long before that, Isaiah declared that God “works for those who wait for Him” (Isaiah 64:4). God is not a passive observer of our lives. He is moving, shaping, sustaining, redeeming, and working in the very places where we feel most alone.

When Jeremiah was terrified of what God was asking him to do, God didn’t give him a pep talk. He simply said, “Do not be afraid… for I am with you” (Jeremiah 1:8). God’s presence is His answer. His nearness is His reassurance. His character is His promise. And Jesus echoes the same truth: “I am with you always” (Matthew 28:20). Always.

Psalm 31 gives us the language of fear and trust, of feeling abandoned and choosing to cling to God anyway. But the psalmist’s feelings are not the foundation of our hope. God’s nature is. Our emotions may shout, but they do not define reality. God does.

And Scripture tells us who He is:
The God who breathed life into us (Genesis 2:7).
The God in whom we live and move and have our being (Acts 17:28).
The God who makes His home in us (John 14:23).
The God who works in all things for our good (Romans 8:28).
The God who cannot deny Himself (2 Timothy 2:13).

This is the God who holds us.

So here is the truth we stand on: God’s absence is impossible. Not unlikely. Not rare. Not “mostly untrue.” Impossible. Because if God could be absent — even for a moment — He would stop being omnipresent. He would stop being faithful. He would stop being holy love. He would stop being who He is. But He cannot deny Himself.

So even when we feel abandoned, we are held. Even when we feel forgotten, we are seen. Even when we feel alone, we are surrounded. Even when we hear silence, we are not without Him.

This is not wishful thinking. This is not emotional comfort. This is not “God will show up eventually.” This is the unchanging reality of the God who is always present, always active, always sustaining, always working, always God. Anything less would violate His nature.

Psalm 31 begins with trembling hands reaching for help. But the final word does not belong to our trembling. The final word belongs to the God who cannot leave.

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“Don’t Judge Me” — A Phrase Worth Retiring

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Photo by Nathan J Hilton:

I hear the phrase almost every day now — from family, from friends, from people at work, even from people at church. It shows up in casual conversations, serious conversations, and everything in between. I was having conversations with friends in their homes and communities recently, and before they shared something personal about their lives — the kind of car they drive, the school their kids attend, the neighborhood they live in — they would pause and say, almost automatically, “Don’t judge me,” and then tell me the detail.

It wasn’t said as a joke. It wasn’t said lightly. It was said as protection. Protection from being measured. Protection from being misunderstood. Protection from being reduced to a single choice.

And it made me wonder why this phrase has become so common. Why do so many people feel the need to guard themselves before they’ve even spoken? And what does Jesus actually mean when He says, “Do not judge, or you too will be judged” (Matthew 7:1)?

Because I’m convinced we’ve misunderstood both the phrase and the Scripture — and in doing so, we’ve missed the freedom Jesus offers.

The New Testament uses the word “judge” in two very different ways. If we don’t separate them, everything gets confused. The first kind is discernment — the ability to see clearly and tell the difference between what is healthy and what is harmful. Jesus encourages this when He says, “Judge with right judgment” (John 7:24). Paul says something similar when he writes that a mature believer “discerns all things” (1 Corinthians 2:15). Discernment is not harsh. It is not about ranking people. It is about wisdom, clarity, and truth.

The second kind is condemnation. This is the kind Jesus warns against in Matthew 7. It is the impulse to measure people, to assign worth, to assume motives, to reduce someone to a verdict. James speaks strongly about this when he says, “Who are you to judge your neighbor?” (James 4:12). Condemnation is not about truth. It is about superiority. It is about deciding someone’s value based on your own standards.

Jesus illustrates this difference with the image of a person trying to remove a speck from someone else’s eye while ignoring the plank in their own (Matthew 7:3–5). His point is not that we should never help someone see clearly. His point is that we cannot help anyone if we refuse to see ourselves honestly. Condemnation blinds us. Discernment requires humility.

When my friends said, “Don’t judge me,” they weren’t afraid I would point out sin. They weren’t afraid of moral correction. They weren’t afraid of discernment. They were afraid of condemnation — afraid I would measure them, place them somewhere on the invisible social ladder, or decide who they are based on a single detail.

This fear is not limited to one culture. In many parts of the world, people feel pressure to present a certain image — to appear successful, respectable, educated, or strong. Social media has made this even more intense. We are constantly aware of how others might see us. So “don’t judge me” becomes a way of saying, “Please don’t lower my value in your eyes.”

But beneath that fear are deeper roots. Some people say it because they feel exposed. Some say it because they have been judged harshly before — by family, community, religious leaders, or society. Some say it because they fear being misunderstood. But underneath all of these is the same truth: we fear judgment because we have learned to tie our worth to human perception.

When worth is fragile, judgment feels dangerous. When worth is earned, judgment feels threatening. When worth is comparative, judgment feels crushing.

This is where Jesus offers a completely different way to live. In the world’s system, worth is assigned by perception. In God’s kingdom, worth is given by love. Scripture shows this again and again. We are created in God’s image (Genesis 1:27). That means our worth is built into us before we ever speak, act, succeed, or fail. It is not something we earn. It is something we receive.

We are also known and loved by God long before we perform for anyone. Psalm 139 describes a God who sees us, forms us, and understands us completely. Nothing about our story surprises Him. Nothing about our weakness disqualifies us. Nothing about our past lowers our value in His eyes.

And for those who follow Jesus, there is an even deeper truth: we are free from condemnation. Paul writes that “there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus” (Romans 8:1). Jesus tells the woman caught in adultery, “I do not condemn you” (John 8:11), and then invites her into a new way of living. He does not excuse sin, but He refuses to define people by it. He lifts shame instead of adding to it. He restores dignity instead of taking it away.

Jesus frees us from the world’s verdicts. He frees us from the fear of being measured by human standards. He frees us from the pressure to prove our worth. Choosing to follow Him is choosing to live in that freedom — to step out of the world’s system of comparison and into God’s truth about who we are.

This freedom is not abstract. It changes how we see ourselves and how we move through the world. When our worth is rooted in Jesus, we no longer need to chase approval. We no longer need to defend every choice. We no longer need to hide parts of our story. We no longer need to fear being misunderstood. Our value is secure because it rests in the One who made us, loves us, and calls us His own.

Keeping our focus on Jesus keeps us grounded in this truth. When our eyes drift back to the world’s standards, fear returns. But when our eyes stay on Him, confidence grows. We remember who we are. We remember whose we are. And we remember that no human opinion has the authority to define us.

When our worth is secure, it doesn’t just change how we feel — it changes how we live. When we know our worth in Jesus, we make decisions that don’t always make sense to people around us. We choose generosity over status. We choose forgiveness over revenge. We choose humility over self‑promotion. We choose faithfulness over convenience.

These choices can look foolish in a world that measures worth by success, wealth, or image. Paul writes that the message of Jesus looks like “foolishness” to many (1 Corinthians 1:18). But when our worth is secure, we no longer need the world to validate us. We are free to live differently. We are free to live faithfully. We are free to live without fear of being judged by human standards.

Here is the challenge — and it may feel uncomfortable: it is time for followers of Jesus to stop saying “don’t judge me.” Not because people won’t misunderstand us. Not because the world suddenly becomes kind. Not because judgment disappears. But because the phrase reveals something deeper: that we still believe human perception has power over our worth.

Jesus has already removed condemnation. Jesus has already secured our identity. Jesus has already declared our value. We do not need to fear human judgment because our worth is not in human hands. Instead of saying “don’t judge me,” we can say, “My worth is in Jesus. I am free to live faithfully, even if it looks foolish.”

We say “don’t judge me” because we fear condemnation — the world’s kind of judgment that ranks and reduces. But Jesus offers a different kind of judgment: discernment that sees clearly and restores gently. When we root ourselves in His truth, we no longer need to fear being exposed or misunderstood. His discernment frees us. His lack of condemnation heals us. And that is the kind of freedom the world is desperate to see.

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

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With You Always: The God Who Co-Missions

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Photo by Erik, A van Dijk: https://www.pexels.com/photo/golden-morning-27421320/

There are moments in Scripture when Jesus speaks words so steady and so simple that they become anchors for our whole lives. Matthew 28:20 is one of those moments:

“And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age.” (Matthew 28:20, NIV)

We love this verse. But it becomes even more powerful when we remember when Jesus said it — and why. He spoke these words immediately after giving His disciples the most daunting assignment of their lives. Before He promised His presence, He handed them a mission far beyond their human ability.

“All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me.” (Matthew 28:18)
With those words, Jesus establishes His unmatched authority. Then He sends them:

“Go and make disciples of all nations… baptizing them… teaching them to obey everything I have commanded you.” (Matthew 28:19–20a)

A global mission entrusted to ordinary people. It’s overwhelming. And Jesus knows that.

So He ends with the only promise big enough to hold the weight of the mission:
“And surely I am with you always.” (Matthew 28:20)
It’s as if He’s saying, You cannot do this without Me — and you don’t have to. I am sending you, and I am going with you.

Jesus never commissions without co‑missioning.

This isn’t a new idea Jesus introduces in Matthew. This is who God has always been.

When God calls Moses to confront Pharaoh, Moses immediately feels inadequate: “Who am I that I should go?” (Exodus 3:11)
God doesn’t respond with a pep talk. He simply says, “I will be with you.” (Exodus 3:12) 

That’s the whole strategy. God sends — and God stays.

The same pattern continues with Joshua. When Joshua steps into leadership after Moses, he feels the weight of the task. God calls him to lead Israel into the Promised Land, a mission filled with uncertainty and danger. And God gives him the same promise He gave Moses:

“Do not be afraid… for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go.” (Joshua 1:9)

Joshua’s courage isn’t rooted in his personality or confidence. It’s rooted in God’s covenantal presence. God isn’t asking Joshua to be brave on his own — He’s asking Joshua to trust the God who goes with him.

Jesus continues this pattern in His ministry. When He sends out the Twelve, He gives them His authority and promises the Spirit will speak through them:

“It will not be you speaking, but the Spirit of your Father speaking through you.” (Matthew 10:20)

When He sends out the Seventy‑Two, He sends them to places He Himself intends to go (Luke 10:1), gives them authority (Luke 10:19), promises provision (Luke 10:7), reminds them the harvest belongs to God (Luke 10:2), and rejoices with them when they return (Luke 10:21).

The pattern is unmistakable: God calls, God sends, God accompanies. God commissions — and God co‑missions.

If this is who God is — if this is how God works — then the question becomes: Do we believe Him? Do we trust that His presence is enough for what He’s calling us to do?

This is the same question Paul raises in Romans 8:31:“If God is for us, who can be against us?”
Not meaning nothing will come against us, but meaning nothing that comes against us can overcome the God who goes with us.

God’s grace goes before us. God invites us to respond freely. God empowers us by His Spirit to obey. God’s holy love accompanies us in every step of the journey. Faith is choosing to trust the God who co‑missions.

And this co‑missioning isn’t just for the heroes of the faith. It’s not reserved for pastors or missionaries or evangelists. This is for all of us. I don’t know about you, but I need the Holy Spirit with me to go to Walmart. God is with us in whatever He’s calling us to do — teaching, parenting, spousing, peopling. In our work, our homes, our neighborhoods, our conversations, our commutes.

Scripture says, “Whatever you do… do it in the name of the Lord Jesus.” (Colossians 3:17)
Whatever you do. God doesn’t just co‑mission the extraordinary moments — He co‑missions the ordinary ones too.

So what does this mean for your real life — your home, your work, your relationships, your calling?

It means you are never the one walking in alone. Whether it’s the workplace, the family gathering, the hard conversation, or the unknown future, Jesus walks in with you.

It means the weight you carry quietly is not carried quietly by you alone. He is with you in the questions you don’t voice and in the places where you feel unseen.

And it means whatever God is asking of you — in your family, your work, your healing, your next step — you are not sent alone. The One who calls you is the One who equips you, and the One who equips you is the One who accompanies you.

And maybe you know what it feels like to walk into a room alone — a job interview, a new school, a social gathering where you didn’t know a soul. That moment when you thought, “I wish my person were here with me.” You could almost picture the two of you strolling in together to your favorite walk‑on song, suddenly braver because you weren’t alone. Jesus is that presence for you. Your confidence isn’t in yourself — it’s in Him. And honestly, who could compare to that.

As you move into the days ahead, may you go with confidence — not in yourself, not in your strength, not in your certainty, but in the presence of the One who goes before you, beside you, and within you. Hear His promise as if He is speaking it directly to you:

“And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age.” (Matthew 28:20)

And may this promise echo in your spirit:
He is with you. Always.

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

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Anchored in El Sali

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Photo by Alexey Demidov

Years ago, when I was leading a customer service department at a newspaper, I used to tell my team something that always surprised them: “I would rather have a customer call angry than have one who silently cancels.”

An angry customer is still engaged.
They still care enough to reach out.
They still want the relationship to work.

But a silent customer — the one who quietly walks away without a word — that’s the one you’ve truly lost. Because silence means disconnection. Silence means they’ve given up.

I’ve thought about that a lot over the years, especially when I read Psalm 42. Because the psalmist is not calm, collected, or cheerful. He’s overwhelmed. He’s hurting. He’s confused. But he’s still talking to God. He hasn’t silently canceled the relationship. And that alone is a powerful picture of faith.

Not perfect faith.
Not polished faith.
But faith that refuses to disengage.

The writer of Psalm 42 says, “My soul is downcast within me.” He feels forgotten and shaken. He says, “Your waves and breakers have swept over me,” describing life crashing in from every direction. But instead of letting the waves define who God is, he brings his fear and confusion straight to God.

That’s something many of us struggle with. When life gets heavy, it’s easy to let our pain tell us who God is. It’s easy to assume that if we feel overwhelmed, God must be far away. But the psalmist does something different. He names his feelings honestly, but he doesn’t let them become the whole story.

He keeps talking to God.
He keeps reaching.
He keeps holding on.

One of the most important truths in this psalm is something the writer never says directly, but shows in every verse: we are all holding onto something. When life gets hard, we reach for something to steady us — our emotions, our own strength, the approval of others, the stories we tell ourselves, or the distractions that help us escape for a moment. But none of those things can carry the weight of a human soul.

That’s why the psalmist keeps turning back to God. He calls God “my Rock” — in Hebrew, El Sali. It’s a name that means stability, safety, and strength. In the ancient world, a rock wasn’t a pebble. It was a massive cliff — a place you could hide, a place that didn’t move when everything else did.

So the psalmist is making a choice:
I will not anchor myself to the waves. I will anchor myself to the Rock.

And that choice changes everything.

There’s a moment in the New Testament where a father brings his suffering son to Jesus and says, “I believe; help my unbelief.” It’s not a confident prayer. It’s not a triumphant prayer. It’s the prayer of someone who is exhausted and afraid, but still reaching for God. Jesus receives that prayer. And that matters, because many of us think faith has to be strong to count. But Scripture shows us something different: faith that trembles is still faith. Faith that struggles is still faith. Faith that comes with questions is still faith. What matters is that we bring it to God.

Even Jesus prayed this way. In the Garden of Gethsemane, He said, “My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death.” He asked the Father if there was another way. He brought His anguish honestly, without hiding or pretending. And He stayed in the conversation. If Jesus — the Son of God — prayed that honestly, then there is room for us to do the same.

The psalmist ends with a line that feels like a deep breath: “Hope in God, for I shall again praise Him.” He’s not saying everything is fixed. He’s not saying the storm is over. He’s saying, “I know who my God is, and I know this won’t be the end of my story.” That’s the heart of this psalm. Not that life is easy. Not that faith is simple. But that God is steady, even when we are not.

God is not shaken by what shakes you.
God is not confused by what confuses you.
God is not moved by what overwhelms you.

He is El Sali — the God who is your Rock.

Maybe you’re reading this from a place of exhaustion. Maybe life has been harder than you expected. Maybe you’ve been carrying more than you can say out loud. If that’s you, hear this: you are not standing in the storm alone. El Sali — your Rock — is steady beneath your feet. You don’t have to be strong. You don’t have to have the right words. You don’t have to pretend you’re okay. You can lean toward the One who is strong for you.

The same God who held the psalmist in his despair…
the same God who met the father in Mark 9…
the same God who strengthened Jesus in Gethsemane…
is holding you now.

And because He does not move, you can have real hope — not the kind you have to manufacture, but the kind that comes from being held by the God who will not fail you.

El Sali — God my Rock.
The One who holds me when I cannot hold myself.

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

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El Roi – The God Who Sees Me

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Photo by Elif Kübra yaşar

There are moments in life when being unseen feels heavier than being hurt. You know the moments I mean — the ones where you’re surrounded by people but feel invisible, the ones where you’re carrying something no one else knows about, the ones where you’re trying to hold your life together with shaking hands. Every culture, every country, every generation knows this ache. It’s part of being human.

Into that ache comes one of the most surprising stories in Scripture — a story that speaks across borders, languages, and life experiences. It’s the story of a woman named Hagar in Genesis 16, and it reveals a God who sees what others overlook. A God who sees you. A God who stays. A God who meets you where you are, but loves you too much to leave you there.

This God has a name: El Roi — “The God who sees me.” And Hagar is the first person in the entire Bible to speak that name. Not a king, not a prophet, not a priest. A mistreated, pregnant, enslaved woman running into the desert with nowhere to go. That’s who God reveals Himself to. And that matters.

Hagar’s story begins with pain. She is used, blamed, mistreated, and finally driven out. She runs into the wilderness — not because she’s rebellious, but because she’s desperate. Many of us know that feeling. Running doesn’t always look dramatic. Sometimes it looks like shutting down emotionally, avoiding hard conversations, numbing ourselves, pretending we’re fine, or returning to old patterns simply because they feel familiar. Running is often a survival instinct, but it rarely leads us to healing.

And yet, this is where the story turns. While Hagar is running away from everything that hurt her, God is running toward her. Genesis says, “The angel of the Lord found her.” Not by accident. Not by coincidence. He went looking for her. And He goes looking for you too.

When God finds Hagar, He calls her by name. No one else in the story has done that. She has been treated like property, like a problem, like a burden — but God sees her as a person. He sees her pain, her story, her fear, her dignity, her future. And He sees the truth — the whole truth — about her situation. Not just the wounds she carries or the injustice done to her, but also the choices she’s made, the running she’s done, the fear that drives her. And He doesn’t turn away.

This is one of the most hopeful truths in Scripture: God sees the truth about you — and He stays with you. Most of us are used to people who stay only when we’re doing well, when we’re strong, when we’re easy to love. But God stays when we’re messy. He stays when we’re hurting. He stays when we’re running. He stays when we’re not at our best. He stays because His love is not fragile.

Then comes the part of the story that challenges us. God tells Hagar to return. It’s easy to misunderstand this moment. God is not sending her back into danger. He is not minimizing her pain. He is not saying, “Just go back and everything will be fine.” Sometimes people talk about obedience like it’s a shortcut to comfort — as if doing the right thing will make life smooth or painless. But that’s not the story the Bible tells, and it’s not the story most of us live.

The truth is that obedience is often hard. It may hurt. It may require humility you don’t feel ready for. It may lead you straight into the places you’ve been avoiding. Going back didn’t magically fix Hagar’s situation. It didn’t erase the tension. It didn’t guarantee that the people who hurt her would suddenly change. And the same is true for us. Doing what God asks doesn’t mean everything will get easier. Sometimes it gets harder before it gets better. Sometimes obedience feels like walking through fire.

But here’s the difference — and it’s everything: you don’t walk through the fire alone. You don’t walk through it in

Photo by Johannes Plenio

your own strength. And you don’t walk through it without purpose. God doesn’t promise ease. He promises presence. He promises grace. He promises strength for the step you’re taking — not the one you’re imagining five steps ahead. And He promises that on the other side of the fire, there is freedom. Not freedom from pain, but freedom from the patterns that keep us stuck. Not freedom from difficulty, but freedom from the fear that keeps us running. Not freedom from suffering, but freedom from the lie that we are alone in it.

Obedience doesn’t guarantee that bad things won’t happen. But it does guarantee that God will give you what you need to walk through whatever comes — and to come out more whole, more healed, and more free. Hagar didn’t return because it was easy. She returned because God met her in the wilderness, called her by name, and promised to go with her. And that’s the only reason any of us can take the hard path too.

So let me ask you gently: where do you need to hear, “God sees you”? Where have you been running? What step of obedience is God inviting you to take — even if it scares you? And who can walk with you so you don’t take that step alone?

Here’s the truth: you are not unseen. You are not forgotten. You are not alone. God sees the parts of your story you’ve never said out loud. He sees the nights you cried yourself to sleep. He sees the moments you almost gave up. He sees the choices you regret and the choices you never got to make. He sees the wounds you carry and the walls you’ve built to protect them.

And He does not turn away. He comes toward you. He calls you by name. He speaks into your wilderness. He gives you a promise alongside His command. And as you take the next step — even a small one — grace meets you where you are, and strength comes as you obey.

The God who sees you is the God who stays with you. Always.

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

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