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.

The time had come.

We had prayed and hoped for a last-minute change, but it didn’t come. I have been walking alongside two families from Ukraine, helping them settle into life here in the United States for the past few years. For one of them, their permission to stay was expiring. And now, it was no longer possible for them to remain.

So, before the departure and the heartbreak of separation, we decided to gather for a proper send-off, a final American meal at a local steakhouse. It felt like the right thing to do. If they were going to step into an uncertain future, they should at least leave with a memory of friendship, laughter, and a good meal. Yet beneath the clinking of glasses and the soft hum of conversation around us, there was no escaping the heaviness. Parents were going one direction, their adult son another. Not just goodbye, but goodbye and separation, scattered into different countries, different futures.

The room was dimly lit, the kind of warm glow that usually feels romantic or celebratory, but that night it carried a quiet ache. The flicker of candles danced across their faces as they leaned over plates of steak and potatoes. And then, in that small pocket of time, their words surprised me.

They said they were grateful.

Not bitter, not angry, not resentful. Grateful. They promised they would never speak ill of America, because here, they had experienced kindness. Yes, they were sad to leave, but their gratitude spilled out in waves. Again and again, they thanked me, not just for paperwork and rides and help with the details of life, but for standing with them, for seeing them. Their words pressed into me like a weight I wasn’t sure how to carry.

And then came the words I least expected: “We saw Christ through you, and it has made us rethink everything.”

I froze for a moment. It was a staggering compliment, especially because they were not Christians. I was humbled. The thought pressed on my heart: if they knew even a fraction of the goodness of Christ, they would never dare compare me to Him. And yet, somehow, in His mercy, God allowed me to be a glimpse of His love in their story. A shadow. A reflection. A flicker of His light in a dark, uncertain season.

Since returning from Guatemala, my emotions have been a whirlwind, already stretched thin with goodbyes, change, and the weight of transition. And that night, as I drove home and later prayed over this family, I found myself echoing the very same prayer a driver in Guatemala had once prayed over me. He had prayed with confidence over my pilot, over my journey, over God’s hand guiding the details I could not see. And there I was, whispering those same words over them, that God’s hand would be upon their journey, that His protection would cover their pilot and their flight, that He would lead them into the unknown with a care deeper than any of us could imagine.

God weaves threads between stories in ways we often don’t recognize until later. What was once spoken over me in a moment of sadness and sorrow became the prayer I now carried for someone else. And maybe that is how His love works, passed on, multiplied, echoing from one story into another.

Paul's Goodbye

The harbor described in Act 20 at Miletus was restless that morning. The cries of sailors echoed against the stone wharves, ropes groaned as they were pulled taut, and the smell of brine and tar hung thick in the air. A ship swayed gently against the dock, waiting for its passengers, waiting for Paul.

He had sent word to the elders of Ephesus to meet him there, too pressed by time to travel back to their city, yet too bound by love to leave without one last farewell. They came quickly, their sandals stirring the dust, their faces carrying the weight of men who knew this would be the final meeting with their beloved shepherd.

Paul stood among them, weathered by years of travel, persecution, and unrelenting devotion. His eyes were steady, but his heart heavy. He began to speak, his voice carrying over the clamor of the port, anchoring every soul to his words.

“You yourselves know,” he began, his hand lifting as if to point back over the years, “how I lived among you the whole time from the first day I set foot in Asia, serving the Lord with all humility and with tears and with trials that happened to me through the plots of the Jews.”

A murmur ran through the group. They remembered. They had seen his tears, heard his prayers, watched him endure. Paul’s gaze swept across them, and his voice deepened.

“I did not shrink from declaring to you anything that was profitable, and teaching you in public and from house to house, testifying both to Jews and to Greeks of repentance toward God and of faith in our Lord Jesus Christ.”

He paused, the breeze tugging at the edges of his cloak. “And now, behold, I am going to Jerusalem, constrained by the Spirit, not knowing what will happen to me there, except that the Holy Spirit testifies to me in every city that imprisonment and afflictions await me.”

The elders shifted uneasily, grief pressing against their chests. Paul’s eyes shone with a fire that no chain could quench. “But I do not account my life of any value nor as precious to myself,” he declared, “if only I may finish my course and the ministry that I received from the Lord Jesus, to testify to the gospel of the grace of God.”

A silence fell. The men looked at one another, their throats tight.

“And now,” Paul continued, his voice softening, “I know that none of you among whom I have gone about proclaiming the kingdom will see my face again.”

At those words, the sorrow broke. The elders lowered their heads, some weeping openly, others pressing fists to their mouths to stifle sobs. The air itself seemed to grow heavy, thick with grief.

But Paul pressed on. His words, though tender, carried the urgency of a final charge. “Pay careful attention to yourselves and to all the flock, in which the Holy Spirit has made you overseers, to care for the church of God, which He obtained with His own blood. I know that after my departure fierce wolves will come in among you, not sparing the flock. And from among your own selves will arise men speaking twisted things, to draw away the disciples after them.”

He let the warning sink in, then lifted their eyes to hope. “And now I commend you to God and to the word of His grace, which is able to build you up and to give you the inheritance among all those who are sanctified.”

The men nodded, tears still spilling but hearts steadied by his faith. Paul reminded them of his own example: “In all things I have shown you that by working hard in this way we must help the weak and remember the words of the Lord Jesus, how He Himself said, ‘It is more blessed to give than to receive.’”

When he had finished speaking, Paul sank to his knees there on the stone. The elders fell beside him, surrounding him in a circle of prayer. Their arms wrapped around him, their tears staining his shoulders, their voices breaking as they pleaded with God to keep him safe.

Luke records it simply, but the moment was anything but simple: “There was much weeping on the part of all. They embraced Paul and kissed him, being sorrowful most of all because of the word he had spoken, that they would not see his face again.”

At last, the ship’s captain called out, the sails straining against the wind. The elders walked with Paul to the water’s edge, their hands lingering on his arms until the last possible moment. And then, with one final embrace, they let go.

The ropes were loosed. The ship pushed off. And Paul was carried away, his figure growing smaller against the horizon, while the elders stood rooted on the shore, hearts heavy, yet strengthened by the charge he had given, and the grace of the God who would never leave them.

The Farewell