Tag: faith

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!

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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

When You Obey the Small, God Writes the Big

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

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

I want to share a recent experience with you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Paul saw this same pattern in the Thessalonians.

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

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

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

They didn’t plan that.

They didn’t intend that.

They didn’t strategize that.

They didn’t imagine that.

God amplified it.

I saw that same pattern again this past week.

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

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

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

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

He wasn’t trying to be significant.

He wasn’t trying to be recognized.

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

And God multiplied it.

Just like the Thessalonians.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Trust God with the outcomes.

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

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

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

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!

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

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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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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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!

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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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Love Fiercely, but Hold Loosely

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Photo by Daniel Pérez

There is a kind of love Jesus calls us to that feels both beautiful and terrifying. A love that is wholehearted, self‑giving, and without favoritism. A love that doesn’t wait for people to earn it. A love that doesn’t shrink back when relationships get complicated or painful. A love that keeps showing up even when the story takes a turn you never wanted. A love that looks like Jesus kneeling on the f

loor, towel in hand, washing the feet of the one who would betray Him. “Having loved His own who were in the world, He loved them to the end” (John 13:1). Jesus washed Judas’ feet. He loved fiercely — but He never clung.

And that’s the tension we’re invited into: loving people with the fullness of Christ while holding them with open hands. God alone is the center. God alone is constant. God alone holds the outcomes of our lives. Every relationship — no matter how precious — is a gift, not a god.

I’m not writing this from a distance. I’m writing this in the middle of real loss, real heartbreak, and real relational unraveling — the kind of season where loving people fiercely and holding them loosely isn’t a concept, it’s survival. And I know I’m not the only one. Our church family, our community, and our world are full of people trying to love well while watching relationships fracture, shift, or disappear. This tension is not theoretical. It’s where many of us are living right now.

And here’s the truth we rarely admit: when people sit in God’s place, we cling. We cling because we’re afraid — afraid of losing them, afraid of being alone, afraid of not being enough. We call it love, but underneath it is fear. And fear‑based attachment is not love. It’s bondage. Scripture says, “There is no fear in love… perfect love drives out fear” (1 John 4:18). When fear rules the heart, love becomes distorted. We grip relationships too tightly. We bend ourselves into shapes God never asked of us. We tolerate what wounds us. We silence our convictions. We lose our ability to hear God because we’re too busy trying to keep someone close. Clinging is not Christlike love. It’s a sign someone has taken a seat that belongs only to God.

But when God is the One we cling to, everything shifts. We are no longer driven by fear of loss or controlled by the need for approval. We are no longer paralyzed by the thought of someone walking away. Jesus said, “Seek first the Kingdom of God…” (Matthew 6:33). When God is first, relationships stop being idols and start being blessings. We can love people fiercely because our identity isn’t tied to their response. We can hold them loosely because our security isn’t tied to their presence. Only when God is in His rightful place are we free to love as Jesus did — freely, generously, sincerely, without manipulation or fear.

Photo by Sergio Zhukov

One of the biggest obstacles to loving like Jesus today is something Scripture describes in principle: co‑dependency — relying on others for what only God can give. Paul asks, “Am I now seeking the approval of man, or of God?” (Galatians 1:10). We live in a world that constantly tells us what matters — image, success, productivity, popularity. And if we’re not careful, we start shaping our relationships around those values instead of the values of the Kingdom. John warns us, “Do not love the world… The world and its desires pass away” (1 John 2:15–17). When the world’s voice becomes louder than God’s voice, we lose the ability to think, act, and love like Jesus. We become distracted, reactive, spiritually disoriented. We start loving people for what they give us, not for who they are in God’s eyes. Co‑dependency is not fierce love. It’s fear wearing the mask of loyalty.

Jesus shows us a different way. He withdrew to pray when crowds demanded more of Him (Luke 5:15–16). He refused to be controlled by others’ expectations, even from His own family (John 7:1–6). He stayed focused on His mission, even when people begged Him to stay where He was (Luke 4:42–44). He let people walk away when His teaching was too hard for them (John 6:66–67). And He entrusted Himself to no one because He knew the human heart (John 2:24–25). Jesus loved with His whole heart — but He never clung. That is the freedom He invites us into.

When we cling to relationships God is loosening, they become heavy. When we force connections God is not sustaining, they become draining. When we try to hold people in place, we end up carrying a weight we were never meant to bear. Paul acknowledges this reality: “If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone” (Romans 12:18). You can love. You can forgive. You can show up. But you cannot force closeness, connection, or continuity. Forced relationships are burdensome. Real love — God‑centered love — is life‑giving.

When God is the center, relationships become what they were meant to be: gifts to enjoy, not idols to protect; people to love, not outcomes to manage; fellow travelers, not sources of identity; blessings to steward, not anchors to cling to. Paul captures this beautifully: “Let your love be sincere” (Romans 12:9). Sincere love is free. It is honest. It is unforced. It is rooted in God, not in fear. And it is only possible when our hands are open.

So love fiercely — the way Jesus loved. Serve generously. Forgive freely. Show up wholeheartedly. But hold loosely — trusting God with the shape, length, and outcome of every relationship. Because only when people are in their right place, behind God, can we truly enjoy them. Only when our hearts are anchored in Him can our love be life‑giving instead of burdensome. Only when God is the center can our relationships be what He intended them to be.

Love fiercely. Hold loosely. Cling only to the One who never leaves.

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

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