Category: faith & Spiritual Formation

#TheStruggleIsReal

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Several years ago, I participated in a leadership development program through my company. One of our assignments was to create a timeline of our lives and share our stories with the group.

I sat down expecting to list the major milestones, achievements, and significant moments. But as I mapped out the years, I noticed a pattern I hadn’t expected. The story wasn’t a steady climb upward. Alongside the successes were disappointments, failures, losses, and seasons when doors closed unexpectedly.

Yet when I stepped back and looked at the whole picture, something stood out. Again and again, growth seemed to emerge from difficulty. Some of the seasons I would never have chosen became the very seasons that prepared me for what came next.

Not because those seasons were enjoyable. Not because I would want to repeat them. But with the benefit of perspective, I could see that God had been at work in ways I never recognized while I was living through them.

Eventually, I realized something I couldn’t see in the moment: the difficult seasons of our lives are not interruptions to God’s plan. Very often, they become part of God’s plan.

The challenge is that most of life isn’t lived with the benefit of hindsight.

Most of us don’t experience our struggles from the perspective of ten years later. We experience them in real time. We face unanswered questions, difficult circumstances, and burdens we wish we didn’t have to carry. We don’t know how the story will unfold. We don’t know what God is doing behind the scenes.

That’s what makes Paul’s words in 2 Thessalonians so compelling.

The believers in Thessalonica were not reflecting on a difficult season from the safety of the future. They were living through one. They were facing persecution, opposition, and pressure because of their faith. Yet when Paul writes to them, he begins in a surprising place. Rather than focusing on their suffering, he points to their growth.

He tells them that their faith is “growing more and more” and that their love for one another is increasing (2 Thessalonians 1:3-4).

I often wonder if that’s how they would have described themselves.

My guess is they would have talked about the persecution.

The uncertainty.

The fear.

The exhaustion.

But Paul sees something they cannot yet see. He sees evidence that God is still at work.

In many ways, Paul is writing with hindsight while the Thessalonians are living without it.

Paul can identify growth they probably don’t recognize. He can see perseverance developing in them even while they are struggling to endure. He can see God’s work in places that probably feel painful and confusing.

Sometimes that’s exactly what Scripture does for us. It helps us see realities that our circumstances tend to hide. It reminds us that God may be doing something in us long before we recognize it ourselves.

One of the most encouraging truths in this chapter is that suffering is not proof that God has stopped working. In fact, Paul suggests the opposite.

While the Thessalonians were focused on what was happening to them, Paul was focused on what God was doing in them. Their suffering had not interrupted God’s work. God was using it to deepen faith, increase love, and build endurance.

That doesn’t mean suffering is good.

It doesn’t mean loss doesn’t hurt.

It doesn’t mean Christians should pretend everything is fine.

Paul never minimizes their pain. Their suffering is real. Their struggle is real. Their grief is real.

Likewise, faith does not require us to deny disappointment or hide our questions. The Christian response to suffering is not denial. It is bringing our pain honestly into the presence of God and trusting Him in the middle of it.

James writes that “the testing of your faith produces perseverance” (James 1:2-4). Paul sees exactly that happening in Thessalonica. Their suffering is difficult, but it is not meaningless.

That brings us to the second truth Paul wants these believers to understand: God has not forgotten them.

Suffering has a way of narrowing our vision. We become consumed by the problem immediately in front of us. The unanswered prayer. The diagnosis. The uncertainty. The loss.

The Thessalonians could see today’s struggle.

Paul reminds them to remember tomorrow’s hope.

Their suffering was not evidence that God’s plan had failed. It was evidence that God’s story was still unfolding. The future still belonged to Christ.

As Paul writes elsewhere, “the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory that will be revealed in us” (Romans 8:18). Notice what he does not do. He does not deny the suffering. He simply refuses to let suffering be the whole story.

That matters because some of us are looking for an explanation when what we really need is reassurance.

We need to know that God sees.

God knows.

God has not forgotten us.

And perhaps most importantly, God is present with us.

The God who shapes us through suffering never abandons us in suffering.

The psalmist reminds us that “the Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit” (Psalm 34:18). God is not waiting for us on the other side of the valley. He walks with us through it.

Paul closes the chapter by praying that God will continue accomplishing His purposes in the lives of these believers (2 Thessalonians 1:11-12). That’s an important reminder because God’s goal is not merely helping us survive difficult seasons. His goal is transformation.

The Thessalonians may have felt like they were simply trying to make it through another day. Paul sees something bigger. He sees God shaping them, strengthening them, and preparing them.

As Paul reminds the Philippians, “He who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus” (Philippians 1:6). God is still at work.

Looking back on my own timeline today, I can see evidence of God’s faithfulness in places where I once saw only frustration. I can see His presence in seasons when I wondered if He was absent. But I only know those things because I am looking backward.

Most of life isn’t lived that way.

Most of life is lived in the middle of the story.

Maybe that’s where you are today.

Maybe you’re carrying grief, disappointment, uncertainty, or questions that have not been answered.

If so, remember this: we cannot yet see the whole timeline, but God can.

Faith is not built on having all the answers. Faith is built on knowing God’s character.

Faith says, “I don’t yet see what God is doing, but I know who God is.”

And because we know who He is, we can trust that He is growing our faith, securing our hope, and accomplishing His purposes, even when we cannot yet see it.

Because even now, even here, even in this chapter, God is still at work.

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

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Stupid Question or The Wrong Question

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There are certain conversations that seem to find their way back into the church every few years.

Sometimes it’s sparked by a war. Sometimes it’s an election. Sometimes it’s a natural disaster, a cultural shift, or a technological advance that feels like it belongs in a science fiction novel. Whatever the catalyst, it doesn’t take long before someone asks the question.

“Do you think we’re living in the end times?”

I understand the question. I’ve asked versions of it myself.

The older I get, the more I understand that the question is usually about more than biblical prophecy. Beneath it sits something much more personal. We want to know whether things are going to be okay. We want to know where history is heading. We want reassurance that the chaos we see around us is not actually chaos at all, but part of a story that remains firmly in God’s hands.

The Christians in Thessalonica carried some of those same concerns.

When Paul wrote his first letter to them, they weren’t merely curious about the future. They were worried about people they loved. Some believers had died, and the church was struggling to understand what that meant in light of Christ’s promised return. Had those people missed something? Would they somehow be absent when God’s promises were fulfilled?

Paul responds with one of the most hope-filled passages in the New Testament. He reminds them that Jesus is coming, that death is not the end of the story, and that those who belong to Christ will not be forgotten. The promise rests not on human understanding but on God’s faithfulness.

It’s a comforting answer.

What comes next is what surprises me. Because after addressing their concerns, Paul turns toward the question that naturally follows. If Christ is returning, then when?

You can almost feel the anticipation building. This is where we expect more details. This is where we expect the timeline, the explanation, the clues that will help everything make sense.

Instead, Paul essentially says that there is nothing more he needs to write.

The day will come. You don’t know when. Live accordingly.

Every time I read that passage, I find myself slightly dissatisfied.

I want more than that. I want details. I want clarity. I want God to fill in the blank spaces.

And maybe that’s why Paul’s response is so important. He understands something about human nature that hasn’t changed in two thousand years. We are often fascinated by questions that allow us to postpone the ones that actually require action.

Knowing when Jesus might return feels significant. Deciding how I should live today is harder. One invites speculation. The other demands obedience.

Years ago, I learned that lesson in an arena full of teenagers.

At the time, I was serving as a youth pastor in Flagstaff. Our youth group had traveled to a large revival event at the Skydome. If you’ve ever attended one of those large gatherings, you know the atmosphere. There is a particular kind of energy that develops when thousands of students gather in one place.

Music fills the room long before the service begins. Groups of teenagers move through the concourse in clusters. Youth pastors exchange the same exhausted smiles that communicate both excitement and concern.

Everyone is trying to make sure the students they brought with them leave with the same group they arrived with.

My daughter was four years old at the time.

She loved going wherever I was going. Looking back now, I realize those years pass far more quickly than they seem when you’re living them. At the time, it felt normal that she wanted to walk beside me everywhere. Now it feels like a gift I didn’t appreciate nearly enough.

As the event was ending, the arena became increasingly chaotic. Students were moving toward the altar area. Friends were saying goodbye. Small groups were praying together. Volunteers were trying to direct traffic. And I was doing what youth pastors do during moments like that. I was counting heads. I knew where most of my students were. Most of them.

Which, if you’ve ever worked with teenagers, is not the same thing as all of them.

I remember scanning the crowd repeatedly, trying to make sure nobody had slipped away unnoticed. Mentally, I was already solving the next problem before it arrived. Who was riding with whom? How long would loading take? Did everyone know where to meet?

In the middle of all that, Alex tugged on my sleeve.

“Mom, I want to go to the altar and pray.”

I barely looked down.

Not now.

I don’t remember my exact words. I only remember my mindset. I was occupied with things that felt urgent.

A few minutes later she asked again.

Then again.

Each time I gave some variation of the same response.

Later.

Soon.

Not right now.

The uncomfortable thing about remembering that moment is recognizing that my reasons were not selfish reasons.

I wasn’t scrolling my phone.

I wasn’t distracted by something frivolous.

I was doing ministry.

I was trying to take care of people.

I was carrying out responsibilities that genuinely mattered.

Which is precisely why I didn’t recognize what I was missing.

Eventually my senior pastor took her by the hand and offered to walk her to the altar himself.

I gladly accepted the help.

At the time it felt like one problem solved.

Only later did I realize it was actually an opportunity surrendered. When he returned, he found me and said something that immediately got my attention.

“You need to know what your daughter just did.”

As it turns out, after arriving at the altar, Alex had gathered several children around her age, sat down with them, and led them in a prayer to accept Jesus.

Even now, years later, I can still feel the mix of emotions that hit me.

Pride… Joy… Gratitude… And conviction… A lot of conviction.

Because while I had been focused on managing ministry, a four-year-old had been participating in it. While I was worrying about everything that was happening next, she was responding to what God had placed directly in front of her. I would give almost anything to go back and watch that moment unfold.

Not because it changed the course of history.

Not because it became a famous story.

But because it revealed something important about the kingdom of God.

God is often present in moments we overlook while pursuing things we consider more important. The older I get, the more I wonder how much of the Christian life is simply learning to pay attention.

Not attention to headlines.

Not attention to predictions.

Not attention to endless speculation about the future.

Attention to God.

Attention to people.

Attention to the quiet promptings of the Holy Spirit that can be drowned out by noise, busyness, and even good intentions.

When Paul moves through the rest of 1 Thessalonians 5, his focus isn’t on helping believers understand hidden mysteries. It’s on helping them become the kind of people who remain awake to God’s activity in the world. He talks about encouragement, patience, gratitude, prayer, discernment, goodness, and responsiveness to the Spirit.

In other words, he moves from prophecy to presence… From information to formation.

From speculation about what God will do someday to faithfulness in what God is doing today.

And maybe that’s because readiness for Christ’s return has never primarily been about possessing the right information.

Maybe readiness is learning to live with our eyes open.

Jesus is coming.

That promise remains certain. But until He does, I don’t want to miss another altar moment because I’m busy trying to figure out what comes next.

Maybe Paul was right. Maybe the timing was never the most important question. Maybe the better question is whether we’re paying attention today, in this moment, with what is right in front of us.

Just maybe.

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

My Lime Tree Is Preaching Better Than Most Christians

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The lime tree in my backyard is ugly.

I don’t mean that cruelly. It’s just an objective observation. It’s short, gangly, and determined to grow in every direction except the one I would prefer. If trees had personalities, this one would be the awkward kid in middle school who never quite figured out what to do with his arms.

And yet every year it produces an absurd amount of fruit. Not just a lot of fruit, but genuinely good fruit. The kind of fruit that actually gets used.

One of my favorite things to do is walk outside, pick a lime, cut it open, and squeeze it into a Diet Coke. It doesn’t matter which lime I grab. They’re all excellent. Every one of them is packed with juice and flavor. Which makes the whole thing even more annoying because if I were judging these trees by appearance alone, this one would finish dead last.

  • Not the orange tree.
  • Not the lemon tree.
  • The lime tree… The ugly one.
  • The one nobody would pick first.

I’ve found myself staring at it a lot lately. Not because I have some strange fascination with citrus trees, but because every time I walk past it, I feel like it’s trying to tell me something.

The problem is I don’t particularly like the lesson.

I’ve spent most of my life trying to become impressive. Not consciously, at least I don’t think so. But when I look back, I can see how much energy I’ve invested in being competent, respected, capable, and successful. I like doing things well. I like seeing results. I like feeling like progress is happening. I suspect most of us do.

Nobody wakes up in the morning hoping to be average. Nobody sets out thinking, “Today I’d like to be completely unnoticed.”

The older I get, the more I realize there’s a difference between the things I claim to value and the things that actually impress me.

  • I say I care about faithfulness.
  • I say I care about character.
  • I say I care about becoming more like Jesus.

But if I’m not paying attention, I’ll still find myself admiring influence more than faithfulness, visibility more than character, and success more than fruit.

That’s why that stupid lime tree keeps bothering me.

Lately, I’ve found myself paying more attention to things that don’t look particularly impressive at all. Patience. Kindness. Faithfulness. Gentleness. Love. The kinds of things that rarely make headlines, never trend, and don’t show up on a résumé. Which is probably why they matter so much.

I’ve been preparing a sermon from 1 Thessalonians 4, where Paul says something that is either incredibly comforting or deeply inconvenient, depending on your perspective:

“It is God’s will that you should be sanctified.” 1 Thessalonians 4:3

I wish Paul had been a little more specific.

“It is God’s will that you get that promotion.”

“It is God’s will that your kids turn out great.”

“It is God’s will that everything goes according to plan.”

Instead, he talks about sanctification?

It’s one of those church words that sounds much more complicated than it actually is. At its core, it simply means that God is making us more like Jesus.

The trouble is that sanctification seems to happen at about the same pace as citrus trees grow.

Which is to say, annoyingly slow.

You can look at a tree every day and be convinced nothing is happening. Then one day you realize it isn’t the same tree you started with.

Maybe people are like that too.

Maybe that’s why Paul could write with such confidence:

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

Maybe that’s why we’re often the worst judges of our own spiritual growth. We’re too close to it. We see every inconsistency, every failure, every unfinished corner of our character. We notice the fruit we don’t have rather than the growth that is already taking place. We focus on what still needs work while God may be seeing something entirely different.

One morning while I was watering those trees, I had a thought that genuinely stopped me in my tracks.

I’m not frustrated with any of them.

I don’t walk out into the backyard disappointed in the lemon tree because it hasn’t produced fruit yet. I don’t get irritated with the orange tree because its fruit is still maturing. And I certainly don’t criticize the lime tree for being awkward-looking.

I understand that growth takes time.

I understand that seasons are different.

I understand that roots matter even when I can’t see them.

Maybe that’s why Scripture so often describes God as patient:

“The Lord is compassionate and gracious, slow to anger, abounding in love.” Psalm 103:8, NIV

And then came the uncomfortable realization:

If I can be patient with a tree, why do I assume God is impatient with me?

For some reason, that’s harder to believe.

Maybe because I know myself too well.

I know where I’m inconsistent.

I know where I’m immature.

I know the things I thought I would’ve figured out by now.

I know the places where growth still feels painfully slow.

Yet somehow I assume God sees all of that and responds with frustration.

The lime tree has me wondering if that’s true.

Maybe the Gardener is more patient than I imagine. Maybe He understands exactly what season I’m in. Maybe He isn’t discouraged by the pace of growth. Maybe He knew from the beginning this wasn’t going to happen overnight.

That’s good news.

Because I suspect there are a lot of people walking around exhausted from trying to become impressive.

  • Trying to become successful.
  • Trying to become enough.
  • Trying to become whatever they think everyone else already is.

Meanwhile, God may simply be inviting us to stay rooted. To abide. To remain connected to Him. To trust that fruit grows where life is present.

The funny thing is that nobody visits my backyard and comments on the shape of the lime tree.

They comment on the fruit.

Which, when I think about it, sounds a lot like Jesus.

“If you remain in me and I in you, you will bear much fruit…” John 15:5,

Maybe there’s a lesson in that.

Maybe a life filled with love, kindness, grace, patience, and faithfulness is far more beautiful than we realize. Maybe fruitfulness and visibility aren’t the same thing after all. Maybe the measure of a life isn’t how impressive it appears from a distance, but what it consistently produces over time.

The lime tree certainly seems to think so.

It will probably never be the prettiest tree in the yard. It doesn’t seem particularly concerned about that. It just keeps growing. Keeps producing. Keeps being what it was created to be.

The funny thing is that when people come to my house, nobody asks about the shape of the lime tree.

Nobody comments on how awkward it looks.

Nobody seems bothered by the fact that it grows in directions I never would’ve chosen.

  • They care about the fruit.
  • That’s all they care about.
  • They want the lime.

They’re interested in what the tree produces, not how impressive it appears. And the more I think about it, the more I wonder if that’s true of us too.

Maybe one day nobody is going to care about how successful we looked.

  • How important we seemed.
  • How many people knew our names.
  • How carefully we curated the image.

Maybe what will matter is whether there was any fruit.

  • Whether we learned to love.
  • Whether we became more like Jesus.
  • Whether the Spirit actually changed us.

Because I’m starting to suspect the ugliest tree in my yard understands something that I often forget:

Fruitfulness and visibility are not the same thing.

And if that’s true, then some of us may need to rethink what success actually means.

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

She Thought She Was Just Being Obedient

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I don’t know if she remembers that conversation. Honestly, I doubt it.

She probably thought she was being obedient. She probably thought she was saying something kind and then moving on with her day.

Instead, I carried those words for years.

Looking back, what strikes me isn’t simply that her words encouraged me. It’s how ordinary the whole thing was. No sermon. No position of authority. No dramatic moment. Just one person paying attention long enough to speak courage into someone else’s uncertainty.

Maybe that’s why this has stayed with me.

I spent years assuming impact came from doing something big. A title. A position. A platform. Something people could point to and say, “Look what they accomplished.”

Yet one of the most significant moments in my life came from a conversation that lasted less than a minute.

Reading 1 Thessalonians 3, I keep seeing the same pattern. God strengthens His people through His people. He encourages His church through His church. He matures us together rather than in isolation.

If I’m honest, I find that a little frustrating.

I’d much rather God give me a book. Or a conference. Or a podcast. Or some kind of five-step plan. I like plans. Plans feel controllable.

People don’t. Instead, God keeps handing me people.

  • People who encourage me.
  • People who challenge me.
  • People who occasionally annoy me.
  • People who see things in me that I can’t see in myself.

Apparently one of God’s favorite tools for shaping us is other human beings.

Paul told the Galatians,

“Carry each other’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ.” Galatians 6:2

The older I get, the more surprising that verse feels. I tend to think of spiritual growth as something between me and God. Yet Scripture keeps dragging other people into the picture.

Apparently carrying one another’s burdens isn’t an optional part of discipleship. It’s one of the ways discipleship actually happens.

The same thing is true in Proverbs:

“As iron sharpens iron, so one person sharpens another.” Proverbs 27:17

Which sounds inspiring until you remember that sharpening usually involves friction. Maybe that’s why growth is so often uncomfortable. Maybe that’s why God so often chooses people instead of formulas. Maybe that’s why the conversations we assume are insignificant aren’t insignificant at all.

The writer of Hebrews says, “Encourage one another daily…” Hebrews 3:13

Daily.

Which tells me two things:

  • First, people need encouragement far more often than I realize.
  • Second, God knew that long before I did.

I don’t know if that woman remembers what she said to me.

But I do.

And that’s what I haven’t been able to stop thinking about. How many opportunities have I missed because I assumed something small couldn’t possibly matter? How many encouraging thoughts have I kept to myself? How many times has God nudged me to say something and I’ve decided it probably wasn’t important enough?

Maybe that’s one of the lies we tell ourselves.

  • That impact has to be dramatic.
  • That significance has to be visible.
  • That if we can’t see the results, nothing meaningful happened.

But what if some of the most important things we ever do are things we’ll never know we did? What if the conversation you barely remember becomes the conversation someone else never forgets?

I don’t know… But I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it.

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

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!

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

Come back and visit at ListenLearn.Live Ministries

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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Come back and visit at ListenLearn.Live Ministries

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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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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