I just returned from a six-day vacation at a very large theme park.

You can probably guess which one.  Let’s just say there were fireworks, parades, sugary drinks with glowing ice cubes, and enough themed lands to make your head spin long before the rides did.

And honestly? It was wonderful. Truly wonderful.

There’s something about walking through those gates that makes you feel eight years old again. The music, the colors, the costumes, the little pops of imagination that show up in the most unexpected corners. Everywhere you look, there’s a detail someone cared about. A story someone built. A world someone dreamed.

The technology alone left me shaking my head more than once. Animatronics that blink and breathe like real creatures, rides timed so perfectly you forget gravity is even a thing, lands that look like someone carved a piece of a movie set straight out of the screen and dropped it into Florida soil. I just kept thinking, People made this. Human minds actually dreamed all of this up and then figured it out.

It’s astonishing what we’re capable of sometimes.

But here’s the thing no brochure warns you about:  you can absolutely over–theme-park.

And we did it. We went too hard, too fast, too long.  By day three, we were running on fumes and churros.  By day five, even the cheerful background music sounded like it needed a nap.  And by day six? Well, by day six I officially wore myself and my kids out. And my apologies to bystanders who witnessed me limping toward a bench with the desperation of someone looking for an oasis in the desert.

On that last evening, I had one ride left on my wish list. One big finale. The kind of ride you talk about for months afterward. I was determined, but my body had other opinions. Somewhere between the crowds and the travel and the sheer over-theme-parking of it all, I came down with a head cold that flattened me at the finish line. I wanted to push through. I really did. But I hit a wall made of tissues and exhaustion and the realization that I am, in fact, a human being with limits.

Still, as I bandaged my blistered feet and downed my cold medicine, I had this moment.  This strange little moment in the middle of the neon and the noise.  I looked around at all the people laughing, at the sky-high buildings themed within an inch of their lives, at the engineering marvels disguised as whimsical adventures.  Surprisingly, it wasn't a thought of regret over missing my big ride.  Instead it was:  

I miss God.

Not because He wasn’t there, He was. He always is. But because nothing around me pointed back to Him. Everything was beautiful, but the beauty wasn’t anchored. Everything was joyful, but the joy wasn’t eternal. I found myself longing for something I couldn’t put my finger on. Something familiar. Something holy.

In the middle of the crowds, the sugar, the music, the lights, I missed the One who gave me the ability to feel joy in the first place.  And I started imagining, because my mind does that, what it would be like if all this human creativity, all this imagination, all these talents were used for one purpose: to honor God.

Can you imagine a theme park designed around worship instead of entertainment?  Not cheesy. Not forced. But breathtaking. A place where every color, every sound, every story pointed straight back to the Creator of everything beautiful.

I know it would never happen here. But I wondered, What about heaven?  Will there be places like this, only better?  Places where man’s imagination isn’t limited by physics, budgets, or sin? Where creativity is pure, and joy doesn’t run on a schedule, and every experience teaches you something deeper about God’s heart?

What if there’s a “ride” that lets you experience the parting of the Red Sea, not as a spectacle, but as worship? Not as a thrill, but as awe? What if there’s something even better, something beyond what we can imagine because our imaginations down here only scratch the surface of what they were originally designed for?

I don’t mean to make Bible stories feel casual. That’s not my intent. I just find myself wondering what God-honoring creativity will look like when it’s finally unhindered. When all of humanity’s gifts are restored and perfected and pointed in the right direction.

Because as much fun as the week was, and as many memories as we made, there were moments I felt this ache, this homesickness, for my forever home.  Scripture says God knew us before we were born. Maybe that’s why the longing feels so familiar, because somewhere in the beginning, before our first breath, our souls knew His presence in a way we haven’t fully experienced since.

I know Him now, but heaven will be something else entirely.  A fullness. A wholeness. A joy that doesn't fade with exhaustion or crowds or head colds.  And no theme park on earth, no matter how magical, will ever come close.

A Glimpse of Glory

John sat alone on the rugged coastline of Patmos, the island Rome reserved for men they feared or wanted to erase. Patmos wasn’t a place people visited, it was a place people survived. Its hills were sharp and unforgiving, its stones hot under the sun, its nights cold enough to make old bones ache. The wind came off the Aegean in sudden gusts, sometimes gentle, sometimes cruel, always carrying the scent of salt and isolation.

John’s hands, weathered, scarred, and marked by a lifetime of following Jesus, rested against the rock beside him. He was old now. Much older than he had ever expected to be. His beard had turned white, his back had grown stiff, and he often woke in the night with memories he couldn’t outrun: the face of Jesus on the cross, the empty tomb, the flames of persecution, the cries of believers hunted and killed.

Patmos was quiet, but not peaceful.  It was the quiet of exile, of being pushed out, cut off, unwanted.  And yet John prayed, because prayer wasn’t a duty to him.  It was a breathing memory.  It was the thread that connected him to the One he loved more than life itself.  He prayed to the Jesus he once walked beside in dusty streets, the Jesus whose laughter he had heard, whose miracles he had touched, whose robes he had leaned against during the Last Supper. He prayed to the Jesus who called him “beloved.”

And then, without warning, the veil lifted.

One heartbeat John was staring at the stubborn blue of the sea.  The next, he was swept into a realm no mortal words could shape.  A voice, not a whisper, not a human call, but a sound like a trumpet, spoke his name. It didn’t echo. It resonated. It filled the space around him like light fills a sunrise.

John turned, and everything changed.

Before him stood One like a Son of Man, familiar, yet beyond recognition. There was no mistaking who He was, but this was no longer the Jesus who walked the earth in humility.  His eyes burned with flame, not anger, but purity so fierce it revealed everything and hid nothing.

His feet glowed like bronze refined in a furnace, as though He had walked through suffering and come out victorious.  His voice thundered like rushing waters, like every ocean wave John had ever heard multiplied into music.  His face shone like the sun in all its strength. Looking at Him felt like looking at glory itself.  John, who had seen miracles, who had seen Jesus raise the dead, who had stood at the foot of the cross, fell at His feet as though dead.

But Jesus, still Jesus, reached out His right hand and touched him.  The same hand that once broke bread, the same hand that lifted Peter from the sea, the same hand that carried the scars of love rested gently on John’s shoulder.

“Do not be afraid.”

Strength filled John’s bones again. Vision returned. And suddenly, majestically, he was taken higher.  He found himself in the throne room of heaven.  A throne not carved by man, not adorned with jewels found in earthly mines, but radiating with glory itself.

Upon it sat the Almighty, beyond form, beyond comparison, His appearance like jasper and carnelian, colors so intense they seemed alive.  Around the throne was a rainbow, not thin or distant, but full and encircling, glowing like emerald light woven into living air.

Lightning flashed, not chaotic, but controlled, declaring God’s power.  Thunder rolled, not frightening, but announcing His majesty. Seven blazing lamps stood before the throne, the fullness of God’s Spirit shining.

And stretching out like a great expanse was something John could only describe as a sea of glass.
Clear. Still. Untouched by wind, storm, or time.  John, the fisherman, the man who once battled waves on the Sea of Galilee, stood before a body of water finally at peace.

Around the throne were living creatures unlike anything earth had ever seen. Covered in eyes, wisdom, perception, unending awareness, they cried day and night, not in monotony but in worship:

Holy, holy, holy
is the Lord God Almighty,
who was, and is, and is to come.

Every time they cried out, twenty-four elders fell to their knees, casting their crowns, surrendering every honor, because in the presence of God, even glory bows.

John saw colors he had no names for.  He heard sounds that weren’t music, but worship made audible.  He felt the atmosphere pulsing with holiness, love, justice, mercy, power, all at once.  He saw a world where God is not distant or questioned, but central. Where light comes not from a sun but from the Lamb. Where nothing decays. Nothing threatens. Nothing dies.

He saw the world we were made for.

And he wrote it down, not to give us a puzzle to solve, but a promise to cling to.  Through John’s eyes, we get to see what he saw:  the home our hearts recognize, the glory we long for, the God who will one day make all things new.

The Journey Home

We awoke early the final morning of our vacation.  It was still dark outside, the kind of dark that feels deep and heavy, indicating morning was still hours away. The room was quiet except for the soft hum of the air conditioner and the rustling of suitcases being zipped shut. Our flight was early, painfully early, and we had squeezed every last drop out of the night before. We’d stayed in the theme park until closing, determined to make the most of our final hours, which meant we’d slept only a few hours at best.

We had enjoyed ourselves. Truly. We’d laughed, we’d ridden rides, we’d eaten more sugar than any human body is designed to process, and we’d made memories I’ll treasure. But we were exhausted, physically, mentally, emotionally, and I was sick. The head cold that had been stalking me finally settled in, heavy and unmistakable. My body felt like it was waving a white flag.

Leaving felt like relief and sadness holding hands.  The magic had faded.  The sugar high had long since evaporated.  Reality was waiting at the airport, along with crowds, security lines, luggage, and the nagging worry of wondering whether we’d packed our liquids correctly or were about to donate all our toiletries to TSA.

We stepped out into the humid Florida morning and said goodbye to the palm trees, their silhouettes swaying gently against a sky that was only beginning to lighten. There’s something iconic about those trees, something that whispers vacation and sunshine and escape. But as we slid into our Uber, I felt something else too, a strange emptiness I hadn’t expected.

I have been to countless theme parks in my lifetime.  They feel like an American rite of passage, summer trips, family outings, childhood nostalgia wrapped in churros and fireworks. But I’ve never felt an emptiness in the middle of them like I did on this trip.

But in a way, I’m grateful for it.  I always want to long for my Savior.

As we drove toward the airport, headlights reflecting on wet pavement, I found myself thinking not about the rides we hadn’t gotten to, or the shows we missed, or the souvenirs we didn’t buy, but about home. Not just my own bed, though that sounded heavenly at the moment, but my forever home.

I look forward to the day when I get to explore the wonders of His creation for eternity. I love exploration, and learning, and seeing new things. My heart comes alive when I discover something beautiful or fascinating. And the thought of an eternal life where that never ends, where boredom doesn’t exist, where every moment reveals something new and breathtaking, fills me with such joy.

Not to mention being in the presence of the Savior Himself.  Finally knowing what perfect love actually looks like, and feels like.  How can you not be excited about something like that?

John saw it for himself.

Can you imagine being John, sitting on an island meant for exiles, surrounded by silence and salt spray, and suddenly being transported into a place so beautiful, so overwhelming, so utterly beyond anything the human mind can dream up? Standing in the midst of God’s story, seeing eternity unfold before your very eyes?

And then, being sent back.

I think about the adjustment he must have faced returning to that barren island. One moment surrounded by glory, the next staring again at stone and sea and loneliness. In my heart, I believe Jesus saved this vision for John toward the end of his life. Because can you imagine the longing he would have battled if this had happened when he was young? If he had decades left on earth while holding the memory of heaven so vividly in his mind?

It was mercy.

John loved Jesus so very, very much. And that’s how I want to live my life too.  I am certainly nowhere close to the great Apostle, but I understand that kind of love, at least in small ways. I understand the loyalty that grows when you know you are truly and wholly loved. When grace has changed you. When the Savior has reached into your life and claimed your heart.

And in the end, heaven is going to be the biggest reward of all.

Working downtown brings its own strange beauty and chaos, sirens echoing off glass towers, people rushing by with earbuds in, a man asleep on the sidewalk as a woman in heels steps past without even glancing down. For someone who grew up surrounded by open fields and sunrise skies, I never expected to love the hum of a city. But I do. There’s something fascinating about the rhythm of it all, the energy, the pace, the people.

Still, there are moments when I miss the wide-open spaces. I miss watching the sun rise over rolling hills or seeing it dip low behind the horizon. I don’t miss mowing those hills or the upkeep that came with them, but I do miss how the light stretched across the land, those quiet minutes that felt like the whole world was breathing. The city doesn’t give me that. The sky here is smaller, broken by buildings. And sometimes, that’s hard.

City life has taught me a lot about contrasts, beauty beside brokenness, movement beside stillness. Most days, it all blends together into something almost ordinary. But every so often, something happens that reminds me how fragile that balance really is.

Last week, there was a threat made against one of the buildings where I work. It turned out to be an empty one, no real danger, but for a time, we didn’t know. There were long minutes filled with uncertainty. At first, I didn’t quite believe that someone was threatening to harm us. Then time seemed to slow, and I found myself on edge, waiting, for sirens, for security, for someone to say something certain. I remember thinking, Why isn’t anyone moving faster? But they were. It just takes time for help to arrive when your heart is pounding and your mind is racing ahead.

Eventually, the police did come. They escorted us out to our cars, and the threat proved to be nothing. But even after it was over, I couldn’t shake the unease. Maybe it’s because I’ve lived through hard things before, a house fire, moments when safety disappeared in an instant, but I didn’t just bounce back this time. I’ve worked and functioned and smiled since then, but inside I’ve felt shaky, unsettled. Fear has a way of revisiting old rooms in your mind.

The Bible says, “Do not fear,” 365 times, once for every day of the year. But sometimes fear doesn’t feel like a choice. It feels like something that rises uninvited, a deep-down reaction that you can’t always reason away. Still, even in that moment, standing in uncertainty, wondering what might come next, I felt something else: peace. A quiet reminder that if the worst did happen, I would be with my Savior immediately.

That realization didn’t erase the fear, but it steadied me. It reminded me that even if the world feels fragile, the promise of eternity is not. And isn’t that the heart of the gospel?  That death has lost its finality? That in the midst of fear, we can still rest in the truth that it’s already been defeated?

Peace Be With You

They had locked the doors.

The bolts slid into place with a dull scrape, the kind of sound that feels final. No one said much after that. The room was small, heavy with the smell of oil and sweat, the same room where they had shared bread and wine with Him just days before. Now the walls felt closer, the air thick, the light from a single oil lamp flickering shadows across anxious faces.

Someone whispered that the Roman guards were still searching. Someone else said the Pharisees wanted every trace of His followers gone. A cup tipped over, startling them all, nerves frayed, hands trembling. Peter sat apart from the rest, his jaw tight, his eyes hollow. John leaned against the wall, silent tears tracing lines down his face. They were all replaying the unthinkable: the nails, the cross, the moment hope seemed to die.

Jerusalem was still loud outside, merchants calling, carts creaking, life pretending nothing had changed, but inside that upper room, fear had made time stop. They didn’t know what came next. Maybe arrest. Maybe death. Maybe silence forever.

That upper room had been a place of laughter once. Just days earlier, they had argued over who was greatest, passed bread from hand to hand, listened to Jesus speak words they didn’t fully understand, “This is my body… this is my blood.” He had washed their feet there. He had prayed for them there. And now they were back in the same place, but everything felt broken, emptied of meaning.

We sat in the bowling alley, taking turns sending bowling balls wobbling down the slick wooden lane. It still amazes me how someone from Ukraine, who has bowled maybe three times in his life, can step up and throw a clean, confident strike like it’s nothing. Meanwhile, my kids and I… well, coordination has never exactly been our family legacy. 

Unfortunately, I have no such excuse, so when the ball leaves my hand and heads straight into the gutter like it’s been personally assigned there, I've got nothing to blame but bad genetics.

We were getting absolutely creamed by the Ukrainian dad. Every time his ball connected just right, pins scattering like startled birds, his kids burst into cheers, loud and high and full of surprise-delight. My son responded by looking down at his rental shoes, turning one foot sideways as if inspecting it for design flaws. “It’s definitely these shoes,” he said with solemn authority. “Something’s off with them.” The Ukrainian dad just grinned at our lengthy excuses.

We were there to celebrate the birthday of one of their boys.
The younger one, big brown eyes, shy smile, bouncing on the balls of his feet, could hardly keep still between turns. When he bowled a spare, the whole group erupted like he’d just clinched the final point of a championship match.

The place smelled like hot pizza, fryer oil, and warm dough, the familiar scent of every bowling alley in America. Trays of cheese pizza arrived first, steaming and stringy. Then baskets of greasy fries, the kind you know you’ll regret later but somehow keep reaching for. Napkins disappeared and the baskets emptied.

It was a rainy Saturday afternoon and the alley was busy, families and birthday parties and teenagers in hoodies. Bowling balls thudded. Pins crashed. A loudspeaker crackled every so often, though no one could understand what it said. Sports flickered on the TVs overhead, college football on one screen, some bowling championship on another. The sound of conversation, blurred and layered, rose and fell like tidewater.

And somewhere in the middle of that noise and laughter and pizza grease, peace settled quietly in my heart.

For those who have followed my writing, you may remember the second Ukrainian family I walked alongside, the family I helped about a year after the war broke out, was the family who eventually left due to being unable to renew their legal documents.
This is not that family.
This is the first family I helped, the first story God placed in my path and the family who lived with us for four months.

And their story is still unfolding.

They are still here, still navigating court dates and government letters and attorney calls. Still trying to learn English fast enough to keep up. Still figuring out stores and schools and how insurance works. Still hoping for good news. Still praying for the right to stay.

Which made the laughter in that bowling alley feel like holy ground.  Sometimes miracles don’t look like parting seas or sudden deliverance.  Sometimes they look like children laughing over pizza on a rainy Saturday afternoon.  Sometimes they look like a father who can still smile, still hope, still bowl strikes.  Sometimes they look like God stitching stories together one birthday party at a time.

And sitting there, watching those kids laugh,  I knew:

We were in the presence of a miracle.

Joseph’s Dream

Night had fallen over Bethlehem. The narrow streets were quiet now, emptied after the noise and crowds of the census weeks before. A stray dog barked somewhere in the distance, then silence again. Inside a small house, Joseph finally let his shoulders rest. The oil lamp flickered, casting long, trembling shadows on the wall. The baby, their baby, slept in Mary’s arms, his tiny chest rising and falling in a rhythm that calmed them both. For the first time in a while, there was peace.

Joseph’s hands, strong, work-worn, the hands of a man who built things for others, lay open beside him as he drifted toward sleep. The smell of wood still clung faintly to his skin. His last thought before sleep came was simple and content: They are safe. We are safe.

Then the dream came.

At first, there was light.  Not the gentle kind that seeps through cracks at dawn, but fierce and living, so sudden that Joseph shielded his eyes even in sleep. The light moved, and within it a voice spoke, steady and clear.

“Joseph, son of David,” the angel said.
“Get up. Take the child and his mother and flee to Egypt. Stay there until I tell you, for Herod is searching for the child to destroy him.”
(Matthew 2:13)

When he woke, his heart was pounding. The night was utterly still, but the echo of that voice filled the room like thunder. He turned toward Mary, who stirred and blinked awake, instantly alert, because when an angel speaks, you remember it. This was not the first time for either of them. They both knew the sound of heaven’s call, and they both knew that when it came, you didn’t hesitate. 

You obeyed.

“Mary,” he whispered, already reaching for the satchel. “We have to go. Tonight.”

There was no question, no resistance. Only trust.
Mary gathered Jesus close, wrapping Him in cloths. Her hands moved quickly, quietly, practiced by now in the art of faith under pressure. Joseph packed what little they had: tools, bread, a waterskin, a spare cloak. The small house smelled of oil and dust and fear. The lamp guttered low.

Outside, the world was wrapped in darkness. The air was cold, the kind that bites your lungs when you breathe too deeply. Overhead, the stars were sharp and bright, scattered like promise across the sky. They moved quickly through narrow streets, footsteps soft on the packed earth. The only sound was the faint rustle of cloth, the creak of leather straps, the small sighs of a sleeping child.

They passed homes where other families slept, unaware of the danger rising in the heart of a king. Somewhere, soldiers stirred in their barracks. Somewhere, a plan of violence was already being written. And between those two worlds, power and innocence, a young family fled into the night.

The road to Egypt stretched far ahead of them.
More than two hundred miles through desert and wilderness.
Days of walking, sleeping under stars, eating what they could carry, hiding when they must.
No maps, no caravans, no assurance except God’s command: Go.

By day, the sun would burn against their backs.
By night, the air would turn bitter and cold.
They would pass through Judea, skirt the edges of Sinai, and cross into the land that had once held their ancestors in bondage, now the land that would hold them in safety. Egypt, of all places. The same soil that had once meant slavery would now mean shelter.

Isn’t that just like God?
To redeem even geography.

Days blurred into one another, sand, sun, stars.
At last, after miles of barren wilderness and long silences broken only by the cry of the child, they saw the faint outline of palm trees and stone rising in the distance. Egypt.

The air felt different there, warmer, heavier, scented faintly with spices and dust. The language sounded like music they didn’t know the tune to. The roads were wider, lined with painted markets, unfamiliar gods carved into stone. Everything about it whispered, You are not home.

I imagine Joseph leading the donkey through a narrow street, the child cradled in Mary’s arms, both of them too tired to speak. The color of the buildings was strange, sunbaked clay the shade of cinnamon. The garments people wore were bright and flowing, patterned in ways Mary had never seen. The merchants shouted words she couldn’t understand, their voices rising and falling in rhythm with the clang of bronze.

Everywhere they looked, the world was new, and they were foreigners in it.

Perhaps they found shelter near a small Jewish settlement, others who had fled or migrated years before. Maybe it was there that Joseph began to work again, repairing tools, building furniture, shaping wood into things that would help others feel at home. Work had always been his way of worship. And Mary, with the child growing and laughing now, must have looked out at that strange skyline and wondered when, or if, they’d ever go back.

Home wasn’t Bethlehem anymore.
Home was wherever God’s presence rested.

Imagine the ache that never fully left, the longing for their own language, their own hills, the smell of bread baking in Bethlehem. But with every sunrise, I think they began to realize: God was here, too. The same God who spoke in dreams now spoke through daily provision, a roof, a meal, a kind face in a market.

And maybe that’s what faith becomes when the journey stretches longer than expected: learning to trust that God’s presence is not tied to place, but to promise.

The Cost of Beginning Again 

We said our goodbyes there in the parking lot, rain misting through the air, headlights flickering against the wet pavement. The pizza was gone, the fries had vanished, and the sound of bowling balls crashing into pins had faded behind us. Everyone seemed content, a little tired, smiling in that warm way people do after a simple, good day.

We hugged quickly, laughed about who would need ice packs tomorrow for sore arms, and promised to see each other again soon. They drove one direction, we drove the other—two families who, on paper, share almost nothing in common, yet were brought together by a Savior who knew what we all needed.

As the windshield wipers swept back and forth, I couldn’t help but think of how easily we might have missed each other. Different countries, different languages, different stories, but God had a plan that crossed every one of those lines. He has a way of threading lives together like that, weaving something far larger and more beautiful than we could ever plan for ourselves.

Joseph and Mary probably didn’t understand their own path either. The road to Egypt must have felt endless at times, dust in their sandals, fear in their hearts, and questions they didn’t know how to voice. But step by step, God led them. Every moment of exhaustion, every unfamiliar mile, every turn they couldn’t see ahead, He guided them exactly where they needed to be.

And that’s the same truth that threads through the lives of this Ukrainian family. It’s the truth that runs through mine, too. We make plans, but God directs our steps. Sometimes those steps lead through places that feel foreign or uncomfortable, seasons that stretch our patience or test our faith, but they always lead somewhere purposeful.

We don’t always get to see where the story is going, but we’re never walking it alone.

The God who guided a carpenter and his young wife through the desert, the God who carried a modern family across an ocean, is the same God guiding you and me through every uncertain season. He knows where we’re headed. He knows what we need.

And sometimes, if we pause long enough to notice, we find that the miracles aren’t always in the dramatic rescues or the parted seas. Sometimes they’re in the small, quiet things:
A shared meal.
A child’s laughter.
The sound of rain in a parking lot after goodbye.

All the ordinary moments that prove God is still guiding, still providing, still redeeming geography, one story, one step, one faithful “yes” at a time.

It was Sunday.

Sunday following a long, demanding week, a week filled with meetings, public speaking, and more stress than I care to admit. At one point, it all left me trembling, a quivering ball of fear and anxiety. But by the end of it, God turned my weakness into victory.

When I woke that Sunday morning, gratitude met me before my feet even touched the floor. Saturday had been a day of quiet recovery, but Sunday, Sunday felt different. I was overwhelmed by the faithfulness of God.

As I sat there, coffee in hand, I realized again how it’s not our discipline, motivation, or even our desire to change that truly transforms us. Those things matter, of course, but they’re not the source. The thing that changes a person, really changes them, is the love of God.

Realizing how deeply He loves you.
Realizing how faithfully He shows up, day after day.
Realizing how gently He calls you toward a path of righteousness.

It’s His love that makes you want to live differently.

That morning, I thought about how blessed I am, my little apartment, my job, my kids, and even my disobedient Husky who keeps life interesting. Gratitude welled up until it spilled over as tears. I’m not a crier, but lately I seem to tear up easily, and maybe that’s not such a bad thing.

There was something stirring in me, a longing to do more for God. I don’t even know what “more” looks like, but I felt it deep down. Maybe it’s because fifty isn’t far off and I’ve started asking bigger questions:

Is there more to life than working and saving and waiting for retirement?
Is there more to faith than routines and resolutions?
There must be more.

I rummaged through my closet for something decent to wear to church, still teary-eyed, and when I arrived, the sermon was about generosity, of all things.  Generosity of time, money, and self. It felt like God was whispering, This is the path forward. Stay open. Keep listening.

Right now, I don’t have all the answers. I still go to work, still pay the bills, still wait for whatever comes next. But I sense something on the horizon. And in the waiting, I want to stay faithful, to keep showing up for God as He has always shown up for me.

I love Him so much. Sometimes, if I'm honest, I get bored with ordinary life, but never with the adventures He writes into it. So I wait, with a full heart and an open hand, trusting that whatever comes next will be worth the waiting.

When God Calls You “Mighty”

Gideon was hunched low in the hollow of a winepress, sweat running down his temples, the smell of crushed grapes still clinging to the stones around him. The air was thick with dust. Every sound made him flinch,  a shifting branch, a goat’s distant bleat, the imagined thunder of approaching hooves. Each swing of the flail was small, cautious, almost hopeless. He wasn’t threshing wheat the way it was meant to be threshed. Wheat was supposed to be tossed high into the open air where the wind could separate grain from chaff.

But open fields weren’t safe anymore.

The Midianites had been raiding the land for years, sweeping in like locusts, taking everything they could lay hands on, livestock, harvests, tools, hope. The people of Israel had taken to hiding in caves and ravines just to survive. And so Gideon worked in secret, inside a winepress carved into the ground, just trying to salvage enough grain to live another day.

This was not the posture of a warrior, instead this was the posture of a man trying to disappear.

Then, without warning, he was no longer alone.

Gideon didn’t hear footsteps. No rustling. No voice clearing in greeting. The figure simply was there, standing at the edge of the winepress as though He had always been waiting. His robe was clean, too clean for a place like this. His posture was calm, unhurried, untouched by fear or hunger.

Gideon straightened slowly, heart pounding, flail hanging limp at his side.

The stranger’s voice was steady, warm, sure:

“The Lord is with you, mighty warrior.”

The words did not match the moment. Gideon, dusty, anxious, and hiding, must have stared in disbelief. Mighty warrior? He was a man avoiding battle, not walking toward it. He was a man protecting crumbs, not claiming victory. Gideon said the most honest thing he could:

“If the Lord is with us, then why has all this happened?”

All his questions, all his doubt, all his disappointment poured out at once. Where was God in the famine? Where was God when the raiders came? Where was God when His people cried out in the night?

The stranger did not scold Gideon or silence his questions. God never shames the hurting. Instead, the reply came in a voice that was calm and steady, but carrying a kind of weight that made the very air seem to hold its breath:

“Go in the strength you have and save Israel out of Midian’s hand. Am I not sending you?”

The words did not sound like encouragement, they sounded like an assignment. An impossible one. Gideon’s hand tightened on the flail. Save Israel? He had come to this winepress simply to keep himself and his family alive for one more day. His entire world had narrowed to survival. And now, in this dark, carved-out pit, God was naming him deliverer.

Not someone stronger.
Not someone braver.
Not someone already proven.

Gideon.

The truth of the words seemed to sink straight into his bones, heavy and undeniable, like something that changes a person from the inside out. His mouth went dry. His voice, when it finally came, was thin and almost breaking:

“But my clan is the weakest in Manasseh… and I am the least in my father’s house.”

(Judges 6:15)

It was not false humility. It was simply the truth of how he saw himself, a man whose past and circumstances had taught him to stay small. The kind of small that keeps its head down. The kind of small that doesn’t expect to be chosen. The kind of small that cannot imagine being used for anything that matters.

But God did not debate Gideon’s identity with him. He did not explain why Gideon was worthy. He did not point to hidden talent or latent courage waiting to emerge. He did not say, “No, Gideon, you are stronger than you think.”

He simply said:

“I will be with you.”
(Judges 6:16)

And in that one sentence, the calling shifted.
It was no longer about Gideon’s ability, or lack of it.
It was about God’s presence.

The task ahead was still overwhelming, but it was no longer impossible, because Gideon was not being asked to save Israel for God, but with Him. Deliverance would not come from Gideon’s strength but from God’s nearness.

Even so, Gideon did not leap from the winepress full of courage. He did not suddenly feel heroic or prepared. What took root in him first was smaller, quieter, more human.  It was a willingness to take the first step, even if that step was trembling.

And God, in His wisdom, did not send Gideon straight into battle. The first command was closer to home. He was told to tear down the altar of Baal his own family had protected, to confront fear, not out there on the battlefield, but here, in the place where he lived. Gideon did it under the cover of night because he was afraid, but he did it all the same. And God honored that kind of courage, the kind that acts even while the heart is still shaking.

Because calling does not begin with confidence.
It begins with obedience.
One small yes at a time.

Saying Yes to the Next Thing

When I awoke that Sunday morning, there was a quiet stirring inside me, not a plan, not a mission, not a vision with sharp edges or clear direction.  Just a whisper:

There is more.

Not more to accomplish.
Not more to earn.
Not more to prove.
Just… more of Him.

As I sat in the stillness, coffee warm between my hands and gratitude filling the room with me, I thought about what it means to say yes to God. Not to grand gestures. Not to life-changing, history-making moments. Not to some sweeping, cinematic transformation.

Just the next yes.

God rarely calls anyone to save the world in a single step.  He calls us to small faithfulness, one decision at a time.  Even with Gideon, the call was not to charge into battle with blazing courage. It started quietly, almost privately. His first assignment was not to face armies, but to tear down an altar in his own backyard. To make a single act of obedience in the dark, while his heart still trembled.

God did not ask him to be fearless.  He asked him to be willing.  And that is what I felt stirring in me that Sunday morning, not a commission to run toward some unknown battlefield, but a soft invitation to be faithful to whatever God places in front of me next.

Maybe faith looks less like knowing the plan and more like trusting the Guide.  Maybe calling does not arrive with clarity, but with quiet invitation.  Maybe the life God is shaping in us begins not with answers, but with openness.

We do not become courageous all at once.  Instead, we learn to say yes in small ways.

Yes to listening.
Yes to slowing down.
Yes to compassion.
Yes to generosity.
Yes to quiet obedience.
Yes to the prompting we don’t fully understand yet.

Like Gideon, we don’t have to feel mighty to be called mighty.  We don’t have to feel strong to step forward.  We just have to stop arguing with the One who calls us.

And say yes to the next thing.

I awoke on this Monday morning with a lot of nerves, anxiety screaming through my mind. This is a hard week for me. Introverted by nature and happy to spend my days behind a screen with a keyboard, I find it difficult when I must play the role of an extrovert. Not that I’m complaining. I’m lucky there are people who want to be around me, who care about what I have to say.

But this week involves speaking publicly in front of about sixty people or so. With a microphone. In a suit. All very triggering for an introvert, even though I’m genuinely grateful for the opportunity.

Outside, the weather is beginning to change. Gone are the dog days of heated summer, and in their place comes that cool, crisp shift that always makes me breathe a little deeper. The air carries hints of wood smoke and the sound of leaves starting to rustle loose. I love fall, the way the world feels like it’s exhaling after holding its breath all summer long.

And maybe that’s what I’m trying to do too, exhale.

There’s a strange kind of grace in being asked to do something that scares you. It’s as if God says, “I know this isn’t your comfort zone, but I’ll meet you there.” The very thing that feels like weakness is often where He chooses to show His strength.

I keep thinking of 2 Corinthians 12:9“My grace is sufficient for you, for My power is made perfect in weakness.” I’ve read that verse hundreds of times, but this week it feels personal. Maybe courage isn’t the absence of nerves. Maybe it’s simply the decision to show up, trembling hands and all, and trust that grace will take over where confidence runs out.

So I’ll step forward, microphone, suit, and all, knowing that the God who paints the trees with color also promises to equip the people He calls. And when it’s all over, maybe I’ll find that courage was never about being fearless after all, but about being faithful.

The Reluctant Voice

The desert was quiet that day, the kind of quiet that hums with heat and wind and the far-off bleating of sheep. Dust swirled in lazy spirals at Moses’ feet as he guided his flock across the rocky hills of Midian, the sun heavy and relentless above him. It was an ordinary day for a man who had long since traded palace corridors for solitude, a man who had made peace with being unseen.

And then he saw it, a flicker of something impossible.

A bush, fully alive with fire. Not the dry crackle of desert brush going up in flame, but a steady blaze that glowed without burning. The branches curled and danced, yet never turned to ash. The light of it pulsed against the rocks, wild and holy. Moses stopped, squinting, the shepherd’s staff still in his hand. Curiosity drew him closer, a few hesitant steps across the sand, one hand shielding his eyes from the brightness.

Then came the voice.

“Moses, Moses.”

He froze. Every hair on his arms stood up.

“Here I am,” he managed to say.

“Do not come any closer. Take off your sandals, for the place where you are standing is holy ground.”

And so he did, sandals off, bare feet pressed against the earth, standing before a fire that should not have existed and a God who had not spoken in centuries. The air itself seemed alive.

God introduced Himself as the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, and then laid out the unthinkable: Go to Pharaoh. Tell him to let My people go.

That’s when the panic started.

Who would want to go to Pharaoh and confront him? It sounded like a death sentence. But it wasn’t just the danger that terrified him, it was the familiarity. Moses had grown up in a palace just like Pharaoh’s, very likely the very same one. He knew the throne room’s cold stone and gold, the precise stillness of its guards, the way the air felt heavy with power.

The Pharaoh he was being sent to confront wasn’t a stranger, he was almost certainly family. Most historians believe this Pharaoh was Moses’ adoptive brother or at least a man from the same royal line. Moses would have known his face, his voice, his pride, his temper. He might even have remembered sitting at the same table with him as a boy, learning Egypt’s language and laws.

And now, after forty years in exile, God was sending him back there, to that same palace, to that same family, carrying the command to dismantle everything they stood for.

Worse still, Moses wasn’t returning as a hero. He was a fugitive. He had killed an Egyptian decades earlier and fled for his life. To walk back into Egypt was to walk straight into a place where he was wanted for murder. The fear must have been unbearable, the knowledge that obedience could very well cost him his life.

It’s one thing to be called somewhere new. It’s another thing entirely to be sent back, back into the place of your deepest failure, your greatest fear, your most painful memory.

Moses stood there, the desert wind tugging at his robe, the fire still burning steady. I wonder how long he stood in silence after God’s words faded into the air, how long it took for his pulse to slow, for him to catch his breath. Because when you’re asked to do something that scares you to death, time seems to stop. You hear your own heartbeat, and all the old fears come rushing back.

Moses found his voice again, though it came out small and unsteady.
“Who am I,” he asked, “that I should go to Pharaoh and bring the Israelites out of Egypt?”

The question hung there in the heat, half disbelief, half plea.

And God’s answer came like a steady heartbeat in the silence:
“I will be with you.”

No list of credentials. No persuasive argument. Just His presence.

But Moses wasn’t done. Fear rarely gives up that easily.
“Suppose I go,” he said, “and they ask me, ‘What is His name?’ What shall I tell them?”

And God replied with a name so vast it still echoes through every age:
“I AM WHO I AM. Tell them ‘I AM has sent me to you.’”

The ground must have trembled beneath those words. Firelight flickered across Moses’ face, and still he hesitated.

“What if they don’t believe me? What if they say, ‘The Lord did not appear to you’?”

So God gave him signs, the staff that turned to a serpent, the hand that turned leprous and then whole again, the promise of proof when his faith faltered.

But still, Moses stammered, “Pardon your servant, Lord… I have never been eloquent, neither in the past nor since You have spoken to Your servant. I am slow of speech and tongue.”

And here, I imagine the voice of God softening, steady and patient:
“Who gave human beings their mouths? Who makes them deaf or mute? Who gives them sight or makes them blind? Is it not I, the Lord? Now go; I will help you speak and will teach you what to say.”

Yet even then, Moses’ fear clung to him. He looked at the fire, at the holiness that did not consume, and whispered the words we’ve all said in our own ways:
“Please, Lord. Send someone else.”

Scripture says God’s anger burned against him, but not the kind of anger that destroys. More the ache of a Father who knows His child is capable of more than he believes. So God offered a mercy: “Your brother Aaron can speak well. He will go with you. I will help both of you speak and will teach you what to do.”

And that was it. The conversation was over. The fire still burned. The call still stood.

Moses had run out of arguments, but God had not run out of grace.

Holy Ground of My Own

By the end of the week, the moment had come. I had practiced my speech, rehearsed my points, and gone over the opening line in my head more times than I could count. Usually, when I stand in front of people, my nerves take over, my throat tightens, my hands tremble, and I can feel my heart pounding in my ears. But this time felt different.

I stood when my name was called. The sound of chairs shifting and murmurs fading seemed to stretch into slow motion. The microphone waited, tall, black, ordinary, but it felt like a mountain. I walked toward it anyway.

The room was bright, the air just cool enough to keep me aware of every breath. I could feel the fabric of my suit jacket against my shoulders, the faint click of my heels on the floor. I took my place behind the podium, smoothed the notes I didn’t really need, and looked up. Sixty faces. Some friendly, some unreadable.

I took one long breath. Then another.

And when I spoke, I heard my own voice, amplified, steady, clear. The sound startled me for a split second, but then it grounded me. My voice filled the room, and somehow, I didn’t shake. The words came as if they’d been waiting there all along.

As I kept speaking, a calmness began to spread through me, not the kind that comes from confidence, but the kind that comes from Presence. I even found myself smiling, adding a few small jokes that earned some laughter. The crowd leaned in. The tension that had lived in my shoulders all week quietly dissolved.

When I finished, there was a pause, and then applause. A rush of warmth moved through me, but not pride. Gratitude. Deep, quiet gratitude.

What I said wasn’t earth-shattering, but what happened inside me was. Knowing that I can lean hard on God in the places where I’m weakest, that’s the miracle. That’s the lesson Moses learned long ago, and the one I’m still learning.

Most people in that room will never know how much I battled just to take those steps forward, just to face the microphone. But I know. And I know who was with me.

He saw me through it.

He is so faithful, even when we don’t deserve it.

Our God doesn’t just send us into hard places; He goes with us. And sometimes, the holy ground isn’t a desert glowing with fire. Sometimes it’s right under our feet, in a conference room, behind a podium, in a trembling heart that finally finds its voice.