I’ve been under the weather this past week, and let me tell you—whatever viruses are making the rounds this year, they are downright relentless. It’s as if they’ve taken up residence and refuse to leave. Maybe it’s just me getting older, and my body doesn’t bounce back as quickly as it used to. Either way, I’ve had my fill of sniffles, sore throats, and lingering fatigue. This cold and flu season has overstayed its welcome, and I am more than ready to turn the page on it.

After three days confined to bed, I finally dragged myself back to work today. The thought alone filled me with dread. I knew what awaited me.  A mountain of unread emails stacked like a digital tower of doom. My calendar didn’t offer any mercy either. Two high-stress meetings loomed ahead, both promising uncomfortable confrontations.  Those are exactly the kind of scenarios I loathe. My body was still aching, sluggish from the lingering effects of this relentless virus. 

I whispered a prayer, my heart heavy and anxious. I asked God for help—begging Him to give me the strength I lacked, to carry me through the day that loomed ahead. I pleaded with Him to let things go smoothly, especially those two meetings that had been gnawing at my peace for days. And in the quiet of that moment, God—steadfast and endlessly loving—met me right where I was. He reminded me, as only He can, that He bestows favor on His children. I wasn’t alone. I had nothing to fear.

It’s a familiar rhythm, one that God and I know all too well. The cycle begins with me, anxious and overwhelmed, heart pounding under the weight of failure. I cry out to Him, desperate for help, fully aware that I can’t make it on my own. And then, as He always does, He steps in with quiet power and lavish grace. He smooths the path before me, grants me favor in the very places I feared would undo me, and carries me through the day with a strength that isn’t mine. By the end, I’m left in awe—again—at how everything turned out just fine. Not because of me, but because my God is endlessly good, relentlessly faithful. I often wonder how many times we’ve danced this same dance. Hundreds? No… more likely thousands.

God is, in every sense of the word, a Savior—and not just once, but continually, faithfully, relentlessly. He is always stepping in to rescue us: from the snares of the enemy, from the weight and corruption of the world, from calamities we never saw coming, and often, from the wreckage of our own making. Over and over again, He comes through—shielding, guiding, redeeming. The more I reflect on His role as Savior, the more I’m overwhelmed by the depth of His love and the power of His deliverance. Scripture is full of stories that showcase His dramatic, tender, and awe-inspiring acts of salvation. Here are three of my favorites—narratives that beautifully reveal just how far He will go to rescue those He loves.

1.  King Jehoshaphat

King Jehoshaphat stands out as one of the most compelling rulers in Judah’s history—a man of courage, conviction, and deep devotion to God. Unlike many of the kings who came before him, Jehoshaphat didn’t chase after idols or rely on political cunning. Instead, he aligned himself with the legacy of King David, passionately seeking the Lord with a whole heart. At a time when the northern kingdom of Israel had plunged headlong into idolatry and spiritual decay, Jehoshaphat chose a different path. He led Judah in a spiritual revival, tearing down pagan altars and calling the people back to the worship of the one true God.

But wholehearted devotion didn’t spare him from hardship. Far from it. In the midst of his faithful leadership, Jehoshaphat received news that shook him to the core: a massive alliance of enemy armies was marching straight toward Judah. They were vast in number—far too many for Judah to stand against. Their intentions were clear and brutal—destruction, conquest, and complete annihilation. Humanly speaking, there was no hope. Judah was outnumbered, outmatched, and facing what looked like certain defeat.  

News of the approaching armies spread quickly through the land, stirring panic and dread. Jehoshaphat could have reacted like many kings might—by scrambling to rally his forces, calling for military reinforcements, or trying to negotiate a desperate alliance. But instead, he did something far more powerful.

He called the nation to seek the Lord.

Jehoshaphat proclaimed a fast throughout all Judah. People from every town gathered in Jerusalem, standing shoulder to shoulder in the temple courtyard. Children, elders, families—they all came, eyes wide with fear, hearts aching with uncertainty. And there, in front of the entire assembly, their king stood—not in armor, not behind a war table, but with hands lifted in surrender and a voice lifted in prayer.

“O Lord, God of our fathers, are You not the God who is in heaven? You rule over all the kingdoms of the nations... We have no power to face this vast army that is attacking us. We do not know what to do, but our eyes are on You.”
—2 Chronicles 20:6,12

It was a prayer not of pride, but of raw honesty. No strategic plans. No false bravado. Just total dependence on the only One who could save them.

And God answered.

Through a prophet named Jahaziel, the Spirit of the Lord spoke words that must have sent chills down every spine:

“Do not be afraid or discouraged because of this vast army. For the battle is not yours, but God’s.”

The next morning, instead of sharpening swords or preparing for bloodshed, Jehoshaphat did the unthinkable—he appointed singers to go ahead of the army, praising the beauty of God’s holiness. As the first notes of worship rose into the air, something miraculous happened.

God set ambushes among the enemy armies. Confusion spread like wildfire. They turned on each other in chaos and fury until not one enemy remained.  By the time Judah reached the battlefield, all they found were lifeless bodies and untouched plunder. Not a single sword had to be lifted. Not a single drop of Judah’s blood was spilled.

When the dust settled and the battlefield lay silent, Judah stood in awe of what had just occurred. Not only had God delivered them from what seemed like certain destruction, but He had turned their battlefield into a blessing field. For three days, the people gathered the spoils—riches, goods, and valuables the enemy had left behind. It was far more than they could carry. The battle they never had to fight left them more blessed than broken, more enriched than emptied.

On the fourth day, they assembled in a valley that would be forever known as the Valley of Berakah—which means blessing. There, they praised the Lord with grateful hearts and lifted voices. What began in fear ended in worship, not because of what they had done, but because of what God had done on their behalf.

From that day forward, surrounding nations heard what had happened—how the God of Judah had fought for His people. And fear fell on them. None dared attack, because it was clear that Judah's God was not just present—He was powerful, protective, and faithful.

Jehoshaphat's story isn’t just history—it's a mirror. It shows us what it means to be human and holy at the same time: to feel fear, yet choose faith. He didn’t pretend to be strong; he admitted his weakness. He didn’t hide behind a throne; he stood before God in humility. And that posture, one of surrendered trust, became the platform for a miracle.

How often do we face battles where the odds feel stacked against us? Where anxiety creeps in, and our plans seem powerless? Like Jehoshaphat, we may say, “I don’t know what to do…” But also like him, we can declare, “…but my eyes are on You.”

God still fights battles for His children. He still responds to hearts that seek Him. He still brings victory through worship, peace through surrender, and blessing through brokenness.  The same God who parted seas, knocked down walls, and scattered enemy armies is still moving today. And He’s not waiting for us to be strong.  He’s waiting for us to look up and believe.

2.  Daniel

Daniel was a man of unwavering devotion—steady, faithful, and fearless in his walk with God. Over the years, he had risen through the ranks of Babylon’s vast empire, eventually earning a place of high honor under King Darius. His reputation was spotless. He was known for his wisdom, integrity, and excellence in every task. Not even his enemies—those who watched him closely, hoping to uncover some flaw or scandal—could find a single blemish in his character.

But their jealousy burned hotter with each promotion he received, their resentment festering in the shadows. It wasn’t enough that Daniel was blameless—they wanted him gone. Silenced. Removed from the king’s favor once and for all. And since there was no fault to be found in his conduct or leadership, they turned their eyes to the one place they knew he’d never compromise: his faith. If they were going to trap Daniel, it would have to be there—at the very heart of who he was.

With careful words and cunning smiles, Daniel’s enemies approached King Darius, appealing to his pride. They proposed a decree cloaked in flattery: for thirty days, no one in the kingdom could pray to any god or human being—except the king himself. Anyone who disobeyed would be thrown into a den of lions. It sounded like a show of loyalty, a way to unite the kingdom under the king’s authority. Blinded by their praise and unaware of their true motives, Darius agreed and signed the order into law, sealing it with the weight of royal authority. It was a trap, crafted with precision, and Daniel was the target.

But Daniel didn’t flinch.

When he heard the decree had been signed, he didn’t run.  Instead, he climbed the stairs to his room, where the windows opened wide toward Jerusalem—the city of his heart. And there, in plain view, he knelt down. Not once. Not hurriedly. But three times a day, as he had always done. With steady hands and a quiet spirit, he gave thanks to his God, lifting his voice in worship and prayer.

It didn’t take long for the trap to spring.

Daniel’s enemies, lying in wait, wasted no time. The moment they saw him praying—just as they knew he would—they raced to the king, cloaking their malice in concern for the law. “O King, didn’t you sign a decree?” they asked, voices slick with false reverence. “A law stating that anyone who prays to any god or man other than you must be thrown into the lions’ den?”

The king, not yet sensing the trap, affirmed the decree. And then they sprang it.

“Daniel,” they said. “That Hebrew exile. He continues to pray to his God—three times a day.”

In that moment, realization washed over Darius like a wave of dread. He saw it—the setup, the betrayal—and worst of all, he knew he’d been outmaneuvered. He was devastated. Though Daniel was his most trusted official, the law of the Medes and Persians could not be revoked. All day long, the king tried to find a loophole, a way to save Daniel, but by sundown, he had no choice.

With a heavy heart and reluctant hands, King Darius ordered that Daniel be brought forward.

Soldiers led him through the torch-lit corridors, past the hushed whispers of onlookers. They brought him to the edge of a massive pit, the stench of wild animals thick in the air. Below, the lions stirred—restless, hungry.

As they prepared to lower Daniel into the den, the king spoke—his voice breaking with emotion:

“May your God, whom you serve continually, rescue you.” —Daniel 6:16

Then, the stone was rolled over the opening, sealing Daniel inside. The king’s signet was pressed into the wax, binding the decree. Darius returned to his palace, but sleep fled from him. He refused food, music, or comfort. His thoughts were with Daniel, tormented by the consequences of his own actions.

All through the night, the lions roamed. But Daniel did not scream. He did not perish. Because God had already stepped in.

As the first light of dawn crept over the city, King Darius rose from a sleepless night and hurried toward the lions’ den. He didn’t wait for his royal attendants or protocol—his steps were urgent, his heart pounding with a mixture of fear and fragile hope.

When he reached the sealed stone, his voice rang out into the darkness, cracking with desperation:

“Daniel, servant of the living God, has your God, whom you serve continually, been able to rescue you from the lions?” —Daniel 6:20

For a moment, there was only silence. Then, rising from the depths of the den came a calm and steady voice—the voice of the very man he feared had been lost:

“May the king live forever! My God sent His angel, and He shut the mouths of the lions. They have not hurt me, because I was found innocent in His sight. Nor have I ever done any wrong before you, Your Majesty.” —Daniel 6:21–22

Relief flooded the king’s face. He immediately ordered that Daniel be lifted from the pit. As the ropes pulled him up into the light, everyone could see—there wasn’t a single scratch on him. No claw marks. No wounds. No bruises. Because Daniel had trusted in his God, and God had sent an angel to protect him through the night.

But the story didn’t end there.

King Darius, now fully aware of the wicked scheme, commanded that Daniel’s accusers—the very men who had plotted against him—be thrown into the lions’ den themselves. And this time, no divine angel stood guard. The lions overpowered them before they even touched the floor.

Then, Darius did something remarkable. He issued a new decree—not one of pride or punishment, but of praise:

“I issue a decree that in every part of my kingdom people must fear and reverence the God of Daniel.
For He is the living God and He endures forever;
His kingdom will not be destroyed, His dominion will never end.
He rescues and He saves;
He performs signs and wonders in the heavens and on the earth.
He has rescued Daniel from the power of the lions.” —Daniel 6:26–27

Daniel’s story is a breathtaking testimony of what God will do for His children. Even when the law is against you. Even when you’re thrown into the pit. Even when the night is long and the danger is real.

God does not forget His own.
He still sends angels.
He still shuts the mouths of lions.
And He still brings His people out of dark places, untouched and unshaken.

3.  Jesus

I cannot speak of God’s faithfulness to save without turning to the most extraordinary rescue narrative of all—the heart of Scripture, the center of our hope. From the dawn of time, even before the first sin stained Eden, God had already written a plan of redemption. A plan not scribbled hastily in response to our failures, but lovingly designed before the foundations of the world—a plan to send His Son.

Long before Roman soldiers drove nails through His hands or sealed His lifeless body behind a stone, Jesus had already chosen the path of sacrifice. He stepped out of heaven, not with trumpet blasts or royal procession, but in the stillness of a Bethlehem night. No crown adorned His head—just straw and swaddling clothes. The King of Kings was born in a manger, wrapped not in silk, but in humility.

He walked among us, breathing the same air, feeling the same dust beneath His feet. His hands reached for the sick, the shunned, the forgotten. His eyes saw hearts others overlooked. He spoke truth so piercing it unsettled the proud, yet so tender it restored the broken. He never sinned. Not once. And yet, with every step, He carried the weight of a mission no other soul could bear—a mission to redeem all of humanity.

But the rescue would cost Him everything.

On a dark hill outside Jerusalem, the innocent Son of God hung on a Roman cross. Nails tore through His hands and feet. Thorns crowned His head. And as He hung there, bruised and bloodied, the full weight of humanity’s sin crushed down on Him. He could have called angels. He could have stepped down. But He stayed.

“No one takes it from me, but I lay it down of my own accord.” —John 10:18

Jesus died willingly—in our place—so that we could be free.

He was nailed to rough timber, suspended between earth and sky. The crowd jeered, the sky darkened, and even the earth trembled. Every breath was agony. Every heartbeat a sacrifice. And yet, He endured it all. For us. For love.

“It is finished,” He cried—not in defeat, but in victory. The debt of sin, paid in full.
And then He gave up His spirit.

His lifeless body was wrapped and laid in a borrowed tomb. A heavy stone sealed the entrance. Roman guards stood watch. And for three days, it seemed like darkness had won.

But heaven was not silent.

On the third day, the stone was rolled away. The grave could not hold the Author of Life. Jesus rose—not as a battered victim, but as a conquering King. He defeated sin. He crushed death. He shattered the grip of the enemy once and for all.

This wasn’t just a rescue—it was the rescue. The turning point of history. The moment when mercy triumphed over judgment, and love proved stronger than the grave.

And yet, the story doesn’t end in death. On the third day, the stone rolled away, and the tomb stood empty. Jesus rose, victorious over sin, death, and the grave. The greatest rescue mission in history was complete. Through His sacrifice, God stepped in—not just to save us from temporary danger, but to offer eternal life to all who believe.

If that isn’t a Savior, I don’t know what is.

His sacrifice wasn’t a one-time act locked in history—it echoes through eternity, reaching into today, into this very moment. His love, poured out on the cross, still flows with power. It saves us now, and it will save us tomorrow. It covers every sin, every failure, every wound we try to hide.

This kind of love is otherworldly—too pure for our shadowed world, too steadfast for the shifting sands of human affection. And yet, it endures. Through every betrayal, every doubt, every broken promise, His love remains—unshaken, unyielding, unmatched.

Our God is not distant. He does not shrink from the dark corners of our lives. He steps in—boldly, lovingly—to save us from it all. From the secrets we’re too ashamed to speak aloud. From the sins that weigh us down and whisper lies. From the tragedies that threaten to steal our hope.

He doesn’t just save our souls, He restores our hearts. He meets us in the mess, walks with us through the fire, and promises that one day, every scar will be healed.

There will come a day—soon—when every tear we’ve cried will be wiped away by His own hand. A day when grief gives way to glory. When suffering dissolves into joy. When we stand face-to-face with the One who rescued us, not because we earned it, but because He couldn’t bear to leave us lost.

And we will live with Him. Forever. Whole. Free. Loved.

Adjusting to city life is like learning to drive a stick shift—awkward at first, but eventually, you figure out the rhythm. There are definite perks to apartment living. For example, when my blinds refused to cooperate the other day, I didn’t have to pretend I knew what I was doing with a toolbox. Nope. I simply called maintenance, and voilà! A guy showed up, fixed them, and left, all without me having to lift a finger. That, my friends, is the height of luxury.

However, there is one thing my apartment lacks: a yard. No grass, no open space—just a balcony that screams, “Congratulations, you now own 12 square feet of the great outdoors!” But I refused to be defeated. I scoured Amazon and found a deal on some fake grass tiles. Click, buy, deliver. A few days later, I had my own lush, green (plastic) oasis right on my balcony. And the best part? No mowing, no watering, and no fear of stepping barefoot onto something nature never intended.

But then, the weather decided to remind me who’s boss. It’s storm and tornado season in this fine part of the U.S. of A., and last night, the wind roared through the city like it was auditioning for a role in Twister 2. As the gusts howled, I suddenly realized my “yard” wasn’t exactly anchored to the earth. A troubling vision struck me: my beloved fake grass tiles taking flight like a flock of synthetic geese, scattering across the street, while I, clad in pajamas and wild hair that might indicate questionable life choices, scrambled downstairs in the middle of a tornado warning to reclaim my backyard.

Thankfully, the tiles stayed put. This time. But now, I have a new fear to add to my list—losing my entire lawn to a particularly aggressive gust of wind. Turns out, even maintenance-free grass has its downsides.

There are times when fake is perfectly acceptable—sometimes even preferable. I’ve got fake grass tiles creating the illusion of a lush little yard. My nails? Also fake, because let’s be honest, they look way better than my natural ones ever could. And for those who enjoy a little luxury on a budget, a knockoff Rolex or a designer-inspired handbag can do the trick without breaking the bank.

But when it comes to God, an imitation will never suffice. There’s no substitute, no convincing replica, no close second. Nothing in existence can even begin to resemble the real thing. God is the real deal—unchanging, unmatched, and impossible to duplicate.

Humanity will grasp at anything to fill the emptiness in our hearts. We chase after money, hoping it will buy happiness. We turn to a variety of endless vices, searching for escape. We crave approval, obsess over attractiveness, and scroll endlessly through social media, convincing ourselves that validation lies just one more like or comment away.

But no matter how tightly we cling to these things, they never quite settle in the soul the way we expect. Because when the storms of life come rushing in—when hardship, heartbreak, or loss blow through—these flimsy substitutes scatter like my balcony tiles in the wind, leaving us right back where we started.

If you want to stay firmly grounded in what’s real—strong enough to withstand the storms life throws your way, whether it’s the loss of a loved one, the heartbreak of divorce, the devastation of financial ruin, or any of the countless trials that come with being human—here are a few essential truths to hold onto.

1.  Healing Is Often A Slow Miracle

When you’re walking through the storms of life, remember that healing and freedom don’t always come in an instant. Sometimes, God works in steps, peeling back layers of pain, reshaping your heart, and teaching you lessons along the way. The process may feel long, even frustrating, but trust that He is working in ways you can’t always see. You can’t rush His timing, but you can remain faithful—praying, trusting, and holding onto the truth that God is still a God of miracles, no matter how long the journey takes.

Healing from my divorce has been a slow, unfolding miracle—one that has tested my patience and my faith in ways I never expected. The pain and anxiety had a way of dragging me back, forcing me to relive the worst moments over and over again, like a cruel loop I couldn’t escape. My mind became a battleground of “what ifs” and unanswered questions. What if we had done this differently? What if I hadn’t said that? Why did he make that choice? I searched desperately for an alternate ending, one that never existed, replaying every detail as if I could rewrite the past.

Night after night, sleep slipped through my fingers. Day after day, I carried the weight of it, exhausted from a battle I fought entirely within my own mind. Healing didn’t come all at once. It came in slow, quiet moments and choices—through prayers whispered in the dark, through tears that eventually ran dry, and through the steady realization that no amount of revisiting the past would ever change it.

I also had to learn to extend grace to myself. Healing isn’t a straight path, and it certainly isn’t a test of endurance where I either pass or fail. Some days, I felt strong, full of hope, ready to move forward. Other days, I felt like I was drowning in grief, wondering if I’d ever feel whole again. And that’s okay. God never expected me to have it all together. He wasn’t measuring my progress against some invisible timeline. He simply asked me to keep trusting Him, even on the days when I felt like I was falling apart.

My balcony tiles, those little patches of fake grass, had no roots to hold them down, and when the winds howled through, they had nothing to stop them from scattering like leaves in a storm. But God is doing the opposite in me—He’s planting something real, something lasting. With every step of healing, He’s growing roots deep within my soul, anchoring me in His truth, in His presence, in His love.

And that’s what He wants for all of us—not a surface-level faith that lifts away the moment hardship strikes, but a deeply rooted relationship with Him, one that holds firm no matter how fierce the winds may blow.

2. Roots Must Develop First

Have you ever watched a towering oak tree stand firm during a raging storm? These trees can live for hundreds of years, their massive branches stretching toward the sky, unshaken by the wind. But what makes them so strong isn’t just what you see above the ground—it’s what’s hidden beneath.

Oak trees are known for their deep, intricate root systems that anchor them securely in the earth, allowing them to survive droughts, storms, and shifting seasons. But here’s something remarkable: before they ever produce a single acorn, they spend 20 to 30 years growing and establishing their roots. That’s right—decades pass before any fruit appears. While their growth may seem slow to the outside world, beneath the surface, something powerful is happening. They are building a foundation strong enough to sustain them for centuries—some living between 600 to 1,000 years.

Their resilience isn’t an accident. It’s a result of the time and patience it took to grow deep roots before anything visible took shape. The tree had to be established before it could bear fruit.

In the same way, don’t get discouraged if your spiritual life doesn’t appear “successful” by outward standards. Growth isn’t always flashy. Sometimes, it’s quiet, slow, and unseen—happening deep within the soul, where God is strengthening and preparing you. The hardest seasons, the ones that feel like nothing is happening, are often the very moments when God is planting the deepest roots. And just like the oak, in time, you’ll bear fruit—but only after the foundation is strong enough to hold it.

Think about my fake grass tiles. They’re vibrant, perfectly green, and effortless to maintain. They never need watering, never grow weeds, and always look pristine. But here’s the thing—they’re not real. They’ve never pushed roots into the earth, never drawn life from the soil, never endured a single season of growth. So when the wind comes roaring through, they don’t stand a chance. They lift, scatter, and disappear like they were never there at all.  And by the way, they can't produce fruit.  

We can be the same way. We can show up to church every Sunday, say all the right things, and flash the biggest, most convincing smile. On the surface, it looks good—polished, effortless, put together. But if our faith is only for show, if it’s never been rooted deep, it won’t sustain us. When the storms of life hit, a plastic, surface-level faith won’t hold. It won’t keep us steady. It won’t heal our wounds.

Real faith, the kind that lasts, isn’t about looking the part—it’s about being deeply anchored in God. It’s about trusting Him in the unseen, in the struggles, in the waiting. Because only faith that has taken root will stand firm when the winds begin to blow.

3.  We Need To Be In God's Presence.

Divorce in particular has a way of cracking open a door that temptation is all too eager to slip through. Rejection always does. It whispers lies, offering easy exits and quick fixes to numb the pain. It tells us there’s a way to outrun the heartbreak, a way to silence the ache without ever having to face it.

The temptation comes in many forms. The urge to rush into a relationship with someone—anyone—just to fill the empty space where love used to be. The pull toward substances we never would have considered before, just to dull the weight of reality. The quiet compromise of our values, our boundaries—our very selves—just to feel wanted again. The endless distractions we pile on, keeping our hands busy and our minds preoccupied, hoping that if we just keep moving, we won’t have to feel the depth of our loss.

And that’s exactly how the enemy works. In times of distress, his greatest tactic is to convince us that anywhere is better than the presence of God. That staying where we are—sitting with our grief, waiting on healing, trusting in a slow miracle—is unbearable. That we need something else, something faster, something to make us feel better right now. He whispers that relief is just one impulsive decision away.

Feeling restless? Maybe a new job, a new city, a new relationship will fix it. Feeling empty? Chase the next thrill, the next distraction, anything to fill the void. Feeling pain? Numb it. Escape it. Avoid it at all costs. Do whatever it takes to sidestep the discomfort, to avoid pressing into God, because surely, anywhere is better than waiting in His presence… right?

That’s the lie. And it’s a convincing one. Because when we’re hurting, the last thing we want to do is sit still and trust. But no quick fix, no counterfeit comfort, no temporary relief will ever bring real healing. They only delay it. The only One who can truly restore, truly mend, and truly redeem our brokenness is the Lord Himself. His presence isn’t just a place to endure the pain—it’s the only place where true healing begins.

I don’t know about you, but I’d rather face the heartache head-on and let it shape me into something stronger. Let it do its work. Let it dig deep and grow roots that will hold steady, even if that growth is painfully slow. Even if it takes years before I see any fruit, at least I’ll know I’ve started down the road to real healing.

If the beginning is slow, so be it. If it takes time—more time than I want—so be it. Because five years from now, I can either find myself stuck in the same place, circling the same pain, grasping for the same empty comforts, or I can look back and see how far I’ve come. I can see roots that have pushed deeper, strength that has multiplied, and faith that has held firm through every storm. The choice isn’t in how fast the healing comes. 

The choice is in whether I let it take root at all.

For more study, download my free study guide here.  

Last weekend, church felt very meaningful to me. From the first note of worship to the final amen, something stirred within me. The sermon wasn’t just words—it was a call to reflection, a gentle but firm nudge to look at my life through the lens of eternity. It made me pause, made me think. Was I truly living with purpose, or had I let the weight of routine dull the significance of each day?

By the time I walked back out into the afternoon air, I felt different—renewed, challenged. It was the kind of service that reminds you that God is God, that our time here isn’t just about the daily grind. We are meant for more. We are here for a purpose. And that realization changes everything.

I arrived home to our small apartment, the familiar creak of the door welcoming me as I stepped inside. But before I could set down my keys, something unusual caught my eye. Just beyond the glass, perched on the edge of my little balcony sitting couch, sat a mourning dove.

For a moment, I stood frozen, taken aback by the sight. Birds aren’t a common presence here in the city—not like they were in the countryside, where I used to scatter seed and watch them gather. That was one of the things I had missed the most since we sold our home, the simple joy of their company.

And yet, here she was. Soft gray feathers, dark eyes watchful, her tiny body still as if she belonged there. She sat so close to the window that, for a fleeting second, it felt as though I could reach out and touch her. It was a quiet, unexpected gift—a reminder of something I thought I had left behind, finding its way back to me.

Curious, I reached for my phone and began searching. Mourning doves, it seemed, carried deep spiritual meaning. They were symbols of peace, renewal, and—most striking of all—new beginnings. Some even associated them with the resurrection of Jesus Christ.

I absorbed the significance. Just minutes ago, I had been moved by a church service that stirred something deep within me, urging me to live with greater purpose. And now, here was this gentle creature, a quiet messenger, as if to reinforce the very thing I had been reflecting on.

I sat by the window, watching that little mourning dove for more than an hour, unable to pull myself away. I wasn’t sure why, exactly. It wasn’t as if she was doing anything remarkable—just perching there, ruffling her feathers now and then, tilting her head as if she were watching me, too. 

Tears welled in my eyes, not from sadness but from the overwhelming realization of just how intimately God knows me. That He would send something as simple as this—a quiet, unassuming bird—to sit outside my window, as if just for me. As if to say, I see you. I know you. I delight in you.

It wasn’t a grand miracle or a thundering revelation, but it didn’t need to be. It was a whisper of love, a reminder that I am never alone. That He is always with me, understanding me in ways no one else ever could. And in that still moment, with only the dove and my thoughts, I felt loved.

Our God is a God of love, woven into the very fabric of our lives in ways we often overlook. How many times do moments like this unfold—small, quiet happenings that we dismiss as mere coincidence? A familiar song playing at just the right time, a kind word from a stranger on a hard day, a delicate mourning dove appearing where she shouldn’t be.

But if we pause, if we look beyond the surface, we begin to see the deeper truth. These aren’t random occurrences. They are whispers of love from a God who knows us intimately, who delights in showing us He is near. They are gentle reminders that we are never forgotten, never unseen. And when we truly open our hearts to notice them, we realize—we are deeply, unfathomably loved.

(Side note - this is my daughter's YouTube channel and I thought her videos fit perfectly into my blog posts.)

With that thought, a few truths rose to the surface.  Important, encouraging reminders about the nature of His love. Love that is constant, not fleeting. Love that sees us, even in our quietest moments. Love that reaches us in ways we might not expect.  

1. His Love is Never-Ending

God’s love is unwavering, constant as the rising sun. It does not shift with the tides of our failures or fade with the weight of our mistakes. 

Imagine being Peter in those final, heavy hours before the crucifixion. The air was thick with tension, a weight pressing down on the disciples as the reality of Jesus’ words began to sink in. For three years, Peter had walked beside Him—watching, learning, believing with all his heart that this was the Messiah. And now, Jesus was speaking of His departure, of suffering and death. It was unthinkable. Impossible.

Peter’s heart clenched as he listened. He couldn’t bear the thought of losing Jesus, of standing in a world where his Savior was no longer beside him. But then Jesus turned to him, His eyes steady, His voice solemn.

"Before the rooster crows, you will deny me three times."

The words hit like a blow. Peter shook his head, heat rising in his chest. No. Impossible. Never, Lord. His loyalty was unshakable, his faith unbreakable. He would die before he denied the One he loved.

And yet, Peter could not have imagined what was coming. The chaos, the fear, the sheer terror of that long, dark night. The betrayal, the torchlight flickering in the garden, the sound of soldiers’ footsteps against the earth. He had drawn his sword to fight for Jesus—he was ready to defend Him to the death. But then, in the blink of an eye, Jesus was taken. Arrested. Bound. Led away.

And in an instant, the bravest disciple found himself swallowed by fear.

Peter had probably always imagined that if he were ever tested, it would be in some grand, defining moment—a trial before the Romans, where he would boldly stand for Jesus, unshaken, unwavering. Perhaps, if that had been the case, he would have steeled himself, ready to fight, ready to die. But the enemy is cunning, striking not with brute force, but with subtlety.

Peter’s test didn’t come in the form of a courtroom or a council of powerful men. No shackles were placed on his wrists, no blade pressed to his throat. Instead, it came in the form of a servant girl—a figure so insignificant that Peter hardly thought before he spoke.

"You were with Him, weren’t you?"

The words caught him off guard. The firelight flickered, shadows dancing on the walls. Eyes turned toward him. For the first time that night, fear curled its fingers around his throat.

"I don’t know what you’re talking about."

The words left his lips before he even realized he was saying them.

And then, again. Another voice, another accusation.

"You’re one of His disciples."

"No, I am not."

A third time. Urgent now, insistent.

"I can tell by your accent—you were with Him!"

And then, the final, crushing denial—loud, forceful, desperate.

"I swear, I do not know the man!"

And as the last syllable fell from his tongue, the night split open with the sharp, piercing cry of a rooster.

The sound must have sent ice through his veins. The words of Jesus came rushing back like a tidal wave, drowning him in shame. His shoulders slumped, his breath caught in his chest. He had done the unthinkable.

Not in battle. Not before rulers or soldiers. But in the quiet deception of an ordinary moment—just as the enemy had planned.  Surely, a betrayal of this magnitude—against God Himself—should warrant the gravest punishment. High treason. Condemnation. Execution, even.

Imagine it for yourself. One of your closest friends, your most trusted confidant—the one who swore loyalty above all others—turning his back on you in your moment of greatest need. Not just once, not twice, but three times. And not under threat of torture or death, but at the mere questioning of a servant girl who posed no threat, no consequence.

"I don’t know Him."

Perhaps that’s what makes it all the more astonishing. Of all the things the angel could have said at the empty tomb, of all the names he could have mentioned, he spoke a message both specific and deliberate:

"But go, tell His disciples—and Peter—that He is going ahead of you into Galilee. There you will see Him, just as He told you."
—Mark 16:7 (NIV)

And Peter.

Why Peter? Of all people? The one who had failed Jesus so completely? The one who had sworn undying loyalty, only to crumble under pressure? Shouldn’t his name have been erased from the list of disciples, his place among them revoked? He had denied his Lord—not just once, but three times. If ever there was a moment that revealed a man’s true colors, surely, it was that night in the courtyard. 

But we forget, this is a God whose love is never-ending.

The angel’s words weren’t a mistake. They were intentional. Jesus knew Peter’s shame. He knew the weight of regret was crushing him. And yet, instead of condemnation, He sent an invitation. Instead of rejection, He extended restoration.

Peter’s failure wasn’t the end of the story.

Because grace had the final word.

And that same grace writes our story, too. No failure is too great. No betrayal too deep. No shame too overwhelming for the love of a Savior who calls us by name, even when we least deserve it. 

2. His Grace is Sufficient

If there’s one lesson God has been weaving into the fabric of my heart, it’s this: His grace is enough.

I wish I could say I embrace that truth easily, but the reality is, I’m a classic Type A personality. I thrive on structure, on schedules, on things being done the right way—the first time, every time. There’s a certain comfort in control, in knowing that everything is in its place, running on time, meeting expectations. But that same drive can be a relentless taskmaster.

I don’t tolerate imperfections in myself well. Every mistake feels magnified. Every missed deadline, every flaw, every shortcoming sits heavy on my shoulders. And it’s not just with myself.  I struggle with unmet expectations in others, too. It’s a stressful way to live, always chasing a standard of perfection that was never mine to reach in the first place.

But then, God whispers: My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness. (2 Corinthians 12:9)

Grace. Undeserved, unearned, freely given.

God doesn’t demand perfection from me. He doesn’t measure my worth by my productivity or my ability to hold everything together. He sees the striving, the exhaustion, the pressure I put on myself—and He offers something better.

Rest.

Freedom.

Grace that meets me in my imperfection and says, You are still loved. You are still mine. And that is enough.

Whatever the struggle, whatever the battle raging within you, God’s grace is sufficient.  The enemy is relentless. He prowls like a lion, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. He whispers lies, plants doubt, and sends storms meant to shake our foundation. But here’s the truth he doesn’t want us to remember: he is already defeated.

The trials you face are not just random hardships; they are calculated attempts by Satan to wear you down, to steal your joy, and to pull you away from the One who holds you steady. But there is a place where he cannot reach you—a refuge beneath the protective cloud of God’s glory and grace.

"Resist him, steadfast in the faith." (1 Peter 5:9)

Satan may roar, but he has no real power over a heart that is anchored in Christ. He can shake the ground beneath you, but he cannot break you when you stand firm in faith. He can try to wound, but he cannot destroy. Because when you keep your eyes on Jesus, when you trust in the strength of His grace, you stand under the covering of a God who never loses a battle.

So walk in faith. Rest in His protection. And know that no scheme of the enemy can ever separate you from the love and power of your Savior.

3. His Love Has No Record of Wrongs

About a decade ago, I had an idea—one that, at the time, seemed like a great way to strengthen my faith. I decided to keep a prayer checklist. I would write down every prayer request and place a little checkbox beside each one, ready to mark them off as God answered. I wanted to measure His faithfulness in a tangible way. Was He answering one prayer a week? Ten? I was determined to find out.

At first, it felt purposeful, even exciting. But before long, my time with God became more of a transaction than a relationship. Night after night, I would go through my list, reading off my requests like a grocery receipt, tallying up the ones that had been fulfilled. I’d drone through my prayers, repeating the same words, and more often than not, I’d find myself struggling to stay awake before I even reached the end of my list. If I was bored, I could only imagine how God felt.

And then, something hit me.

Who was I to keep score on God?

A prideful heart doesn’t seek the Lord.  It seeks results. I wasn’t coming to God in surrender; I was coming with expectations, as if He were a cosmic vending machine meant to produce answers on my timeline. But God isn’t interested in being measured. He isn’t in the business of filling quotas or proving Himself to me like some kind of divine statistic.

Because love keeps no record of wrongs—and neither does He.

God never holds my failures against me. He doesn’t keep a ledger of my mistakes, tallying up my wrongs like some kind of divine accountant. He doesn’t weigh my worth against my achievements, waiting to see if the good will somehow outweigh the bad. His love isn’t transactional; it’s relational. It’s not about perfection. It’s about grace.

And thank goodness for that.

Because if He did keep a record, my list wouldn’t be pretty.

Cheeto addiction? Check.
Short-tempered?  Check.
Unforgiving? Check.
One too many margaritas in my twenties? Double check.

And those are just the light offenses, the things I can admit without cringing. The deeper failures, the ones I’d rather not say out loud, the regrets that still sting if I think too long about them—oh, I don’t even want to imagine them written down.

But here’s the miracle: God doesn’t write them down. He doesn’t hold them over my head. He doesn’t point to my past and say, Look what you did.

Instead, He says, Look at what I’ve done for you.

Because His love isn’t about keeping score.  It’s about wiping the slate clean. And without that grace, I could never survive.

For more study on these points, you can download my free study guide here.  

I grew up in a town so small, if you blinked while driving through, you’d miss it—and maybe even the next town over. Population? A whopping three thousand. Yes, three thousand. We didn’t have a stoplight because, honestly, who needed one? If two cars met at an intersection, it was either divine intervention or a five-minute rush of traffic after the football game on Friday night.

But what we did have was a gas station and the crown jewel of our culinary scene—a tiny Mexican restaurant that somehow managed to employ every single teenager in town at some point. It was the place to be on Friday and Saturday nights, where families, first dates, and old-timers with a lifetime of town gossip all crammed into booths that had seen better days. And let me tell you, everyone swore up and down that it was the best Mexican food they'd ever had. And they were right. To this day, I refuse to believe otherwise. Some things are just sacred.

Isn’t this just the faintest glimpse of what heaven will be like for us? No matter how much we try to imagine its beauty, its wonder, and its glory, it will far exceed our wildest dreams. It will never disappoint—not for a moment. Instead, we will stand in perpetual awe, overwhelmed by the brilliance of God’s presence, the fullness of joy, and the perfection of all things.

Every Sunday, she sits in the row just ahead of us, a solitary figure amidst the congregation. An elderly woman with an air of quiet grace, she is always impeccably dressed. Today, her choice is a black cardigan, its sleeves adorned with shimmering sequins.  I look down at my sweatshirt and think about how I need to dress nicer for church.  

My son reaches over, puts his hand on her shoulder, and tells her hello.  She greets me warmly, as she always does.  "He's such a sweet boy," she tells me, and she’s right. There’s kindness in her eyes, a depth that speaks of years lived.

When the music begins, she worships with her whole heart. Sometimes, tears fall down her cheeks. There’s a dignity about her, but more than anything, she radiates strength—the kind that comes from an unwavering trust in Christ.  She is somebody’s grandmother, a beloved relative, a cherished friend. 

I want to be strong like her. The kind of strength that isn’t just about endurance but about grace, resilience, and an unshakable faith. Maybe that strength is already in me, beginning to taking root. After all, I did single-handedly assemble a TV stand a few months ago with nothing but a screwdriver and sheer determination. That project tested my faith and patience in new ways.

When I look at her, I see a story, a lifetime woven into the lines on her face. She makes me look forward to the years ahead and faith that deepens with time. If growing older means becoming more like her, then I welcome it. 

Life has surely taken her down winding roads, through seasons of joy and moments of heartbreak. Yet, whatever trials she has faced, whatever burdens she has borne, gratitude stays with her.  She is a living testament to the beauty of a thankful heart.

You know, the greatest minds aren’t just deep thinkers—they’re grateful ones. Gratitude sharpens the soul, keeping it alive to the beauty of scripture and creation. I want to carry that same wide-eyed thankfulness well into my eighties, to remain fully awake to the miracles hidden in ordinary moments. 

Remaining in a mindset of gratitude is no easy feat when the world around us seems determined to spotlight the worst of everything. Negativity echoes from every direction—headlines brimming with bad news, conversations laced with complaints, and the pull of comparison that tells us, you don’t have enough, you aren’t enough.

It takes effort, an intentional shifting of perspective, to hold onto gratitude when the weight of the world begs us to focus on what’s missing, broken, or uncertain. But choosing to see the good—to recognize the hand of God—is what keeps our hearts light, our faith strong, and our joy unshaken.

Here's a few things to keep in mind to remain in a mindset of gratitude:

1.  Look for God every day.  We cannot be grateful for what we cannot see.  

Imagine stepping into Job’s life—a life of abundance, prosperity, and unwavering faith. Everything is falling into place. His fields are flourishing, his livestock multiplying, his home filled with the laughter of children. He is a man of great wealth, but more importantly, a man of deep gratitude and steadfast devotion to God. Despite his success, he remains humble, always acknowledging that his blessings come from above.

And then—disaster strikes.

Not gradually, not over the course of years, but in mere days, everything crumbles. His vast wealth vanishes as raiders plunder his livestock and servants. His home, once a place of joy, becomes a place of mourning as a fierce wind collapses the house where all his children had gathered, taking their lives in an instant. As if that weren’t enough, his own body betrays him—painful, oozing sores cover him from head to toe, leaving him in unbearable agony.

This wasn’t mere misfortune. It was a full-scale attack, orchestrated by his enemy—Satan himself. (A sobering lesson for us, too: when trials seem to pile up all at once, we must recognize the unseen battle at play.)

Yet, through it all, Job does not waver. Grief-stricken but resolute, he refuses to curse God. Instead, he clings to the truth: his enemy may be relentless, but he is already defeated. Job lifts his eyes to the heavens, not with bitterness, but with faith—because he knows the Author of his story has not abandoned him.

"I know that my Redeemer lives,
and that in the end he will stand on the earth.
And after my skin has been destroyed,
yet in my flesh I will see God;
I myself will see him
with my own eyes—I, and not another.
How my heart yearns within me!" (Job 19:25-27, NIV)

Even as his world fell apart, as his body ached and his friends misunderstood him, Job clung to the certainty of who he was—a man of faith—and, more importantly, who his God was—a just and sovereign King. He did not allow his pain to cloud his vision. With every agonizing moment, with every unanswered question, Job continued to search for God, reaching out through the darkness, knowing that somewhere beyond his suffering, God was still there.

In order to remain grateful, we must first look for our Redeemer. We cannot be thankful for what we do not see. Job's gratitude was not dependent on his circumstances but on God’s goodness. Even in the midst of pain, he searched for the Lord, and in the end, he found that God had never left him. True gratitude is born from this kind of vision—not just seeing God in the blessings, but also in the trials, knowing that He is always near.

2.  Make time for gratitude.  

Isn’t it true that all our hurrying only leaves us feeling worn and weary? We rush through the days, racing to keep up, trying to outrun the clock, only to find that time isn’t what we’re losing. We’re losing ourselves.

Slowing down never killed time. It’s the frantic pace, the endless striving, that steals it from us. In the whirlwind of responsibilities and distractions, gratitude must become a priority—not an afterthought, but a steady companion. Gratitude steps into the chaos, places a gentle hand on our shoulder, and whispers, Pause. Look around. Remember what matters.  Gratitude doesn’t demand time; it gives it back—turning ordinary moments into something sacred.

Making time for gratitude isn’t just beneficial for us—it matters deeply to God. So much so that He highlights it in Scripture, showing us that thankfulness is more than a polite response; it’s a reflection of our hearts.

Now, imagine stepping into the past, standing along the rugged border between Samaria and Galilee. Tensions run high between Jews and Samaritans—two groups who would normally avoid each other at all costs. But suffering has a way of dissolving boundaries, and here, on the outskirts of society, ten lepers stand together, united by their affliction.

From a distance, they cry out to Jesus, desperate for healing, their voices raw with hope and longing. In response, Jesus doesn’t touch them or immediately cleanse them—instead, He gives them a command: “Go, show yourselves to the priests.” It’s a test of faith, a step of obedience before the miracle arrives. And so, they turn and walk away, their hearts pounding with uncertainty.

Then, as they take each step forward, something incredible happens. Their skin begins to clear. The pain fades. Fingers once lost to disease are whole again. Their healing unfolds before their eyes—not in an instant, but as they move in faith.

But only one of the ten, a Samaritan, stopped, turned back, and fell at Jesus' feet, praising God and thanking Him.

Jesus responded:
“Were not all ten cleansed? Where are the other nine? Has no one returned to give praise to God except this foreigner?” (Luke 17:17-18, NIV).

Then He told the man, “Rise and go; your faith has made you well.”

The fact that the one who returned to give thanks was a Samaritan makes the story even more powerful. While the Jewish lepers may have gone to fulfill their religious duty by showing themselves to the priests, the Samaritan—a foreigner, an outsider—recognized something greater. He didn’t just seek cleansing; he sought the Healer. His gratitude brought him back to Jesus, where he received not just physical healing, but something even deeper—spiritual wholeness.

Gratitude doesn’t happen by accident.  It’s a deliberate choice. Life rushes forward, pulling us from one moment to the next, and it’s all too easy to accept blessings without pausing to acknowledge them. But true gratitude requires intentionality, a slowing down to recognize the hand of God in our lives.

Like the one leper who turned back while the others hurried on, choosing gratitude redirects our hearts. It shifts our focus from what we’ve received to who gave it. It keeps us anchored in God’s presence, sharpening our vision so we don’t just pass through life—we truly see His goodness woven into every moment.

Looking for more info on gratitude?  Here's a link to my free practical application worksheet.  

Yesterday morning, the alarm blared at 5:15 a.m., shattering the warmth of sleep and pulling me into the dim, early hours. I reached for my phone, squinting at the screen to check the temperature outside. Subzero. The kind of cold that stings your skin before you even step out the door and seeps in around your windows. My body craves hibernation, which I feel should be legal during winter months. Hibernation.  A political agenda I can get behind.  But, not today because meetings loomed on the horizon, and I needed to start on my morning routine.

I began my five steps, the familiar rhythm of my morning prayer, and once again, I poured out my troubles to God. The same burdens, the same worries—repeated so often that He must be tired of hearing them by now. I’m overwhelmed. I’m exhausted. My to-do list feels endless. I just want to stay in bed. But time doesn’t pause for fatigue. Whether I rise or not, the day will unfold, pressing forward with or without me. But just once, I wished He would stop time for a few hours while I hibernated.

As He always does, He reminded me that my day isn’t defined by checklists, deadlines, or the weight of my responsibilities. It’s not about how much I accomplish or how productive I appear. Each day is a gift, an opportunity to extend love, to lean on Him, and to deepen my faith. While my mind fixates on upcoming meetings and pressing tasks, He shifts my perspective.  The most meaningful moments aren’t found in the structured agenda of my day. Instead, they exist in the quiet, unplanned spaces—when I pause to listen, when I offer kindness, when I allow my faith to stretch and grow in the simple, ordinary interactions that He places before me.

Each day carries a weight of significance that extends beyond the superficial busyness of meetings and appointments. I find myself questioning how to permanently imprint this truth into my everyday thoughts. Amid the constant pull of immediacy, how can I consistently center my attention on what truly matters instead of being swept away by what is urgent?

1.  Stay rooted in the present moment. The mind prefers to race ahead, tangled in worries about the future.  When it is not racing ahead, it will drift backward, lost in shame or regret. It clings to distractions, weaving an illusion of control.  And let me tell you, I love some control, almost as much as I love Cheetos.  But, what good does it actually do?  Dissecting what was or obsessing over what could be does nothing to shape the current reality.  But the present? The here and now?  It unfolds freely,  unpredictable and uncontainable. And what the mind cannot control, it often dismisses—overlooking the beauty, the clarity, and the quiet power found in simply being.

If we really think about it, the only moment that truly matters is the present moment.  

God taught me this lesson in a way I would never forget during my marathon training a decade ago. My routine was a structured run/walk cycle—I would run for 75% of the time and walk for 25%, conditioning my body to endure the grueling distances. But as you can imagine, marathon training was exhausting. The fatigue settled deep into my muscles, pressing down on me with every step.

I quickly realized something: I didn’t have the luxury of letting my mind wander ahead to the miles still waiting for me. I was too drained to think about the next hill, the next stretch, or even the next running interval. All I could do was focus on the moment I was in—one step, one breath at a time. And in that focus, I uncovered something powerful. When I stayed present, when I kept my mind anchored to the rhythm of my current run or walk, it wasn’t nearly as bad as I had feared. I wasn’t as exhausted as I had convinced myself I was. The real battle wasn’t my physical fatigue, it was my mind’s tendency to dread what was coming next.

The moment—the very second—my thoughts drifted ahead to the next interval, the next incline, the miles still stretching out before me, a wave of overwhelm hit me like a wall. I wanted to quit. The task seemed impossible. But I learned that if I disciplined my mind to stay present, to take each moment as it came, I could keep going. And step by step, I did.

The same struggle plays out in my daily life. The moment my thoughts race ahead, toward the next appointment, the endless to-do list, the looming financial goals, or even the plans for the weekend—I can feel the weight of it all pressing down on me. It doesn’t take much for the overwhelm to creep in, making even the simplest tasks feel daunting. The pressure builds, heavy and relentless, until I find myself once again asking God, please stop time, just for a little while.  But time marches on, and I am left with a choice: drown in the weight of what’s ahead or anchor myself in the only place I truly have—the present moment and a Savior who promises to never leave my side.

2.  Ground yourself in your purpose. Pause and ask, "Does this activity align with God's calling for my life?" Without a clear sense of purpose, decisions become unsteady, dictated by shifting circumstances, external pressures, and fleeting emotions. But when your purpose is firmly rooted in God’s plan, it becomes the foundation for how you spend your time, invest your resources, and navigate each choice with intention and clarity.  If an activity doesn't align with your purpose, it carries less importance and needs to be given appropriate attention, not excessive attention.  

God’s calling for your life isn’t always a rigid path you must decipher like a puzzle or a hidden mystery waiting to be solved. Instead, His calling is rooted in something constant and unchanging. At its core, we are all called to love. We are called to forgive.  We are called to care for others with compassion and grace. We are called to stand for what's right and be set apart from the rest of the world.  The ways in which we fulfill this calling may differ—our gifts and talents shaping how we serve—but one truth remains steadfast: God’s purpose always revolves around love, peace and righteousness. Anything that pulls us away from these foundational principles leads us away from Him, because these are the very essence of His nature.

Daniel in the old testament understood his purpose with unwavering clarity. As he grew older, his wisdom and integrity elevated him to positions of great authority under multiple rulers. Yet, when a royal decree forbade prayer to anyone but the king, Daniel did not waver. He remained steadfast, kneeling in prayer three times a day, fully aware of the deadly consequences. 

This was no small sacrifice.  He wasn’t merely risking disgrace or imprisonment; he was facing the terrifying reality of being thrown into a den of ravenous lions. Choosing the easy path was well within his grasp.  He could have obeyed the king, secured his power, and lived a life of comfort. But Daniel refused. He knew his purpose was not about personal success, wealth, or influence. His loyalty belonged to God alone, and no earthly decree could shake that devotion. 

We could use a few more Daniels in the world today.

Walk the path of purpose one step at a time, trusting God to illuminate the way in small, steady increments. Rather than striving to change the world in a single day, focus on what He has placed before you, faithfully tending to the work at hand. Never allow your tasks to overshadow the One you serve, or define the purpose in your life. Martha, in her busyness, lost sight of the true purpose of the meal—it was meant to honor Jesus, not herself. Likewise, our work is not meant to glorify us but to bring honor to God. When we keep our eyes on Him, our efforts become acts of worship in line with our purpose rather than mere accomplishments.  

3. Surrender to God.  Aren’t we all works in progress, continually growing in faith? True faith is more than just belief.  It’s the deep conviction that what God has promised will come to pass, even when we cannot yet see it. Faithful people are surrendered people. They choose obedience, even when life’s demands press in on them from every side.

You know you’ve truly surrendered when you trust God to work things out instead of grasping for control—manipulating others, forcing your own plans, or struggling to orchestrate every detail. Surrender is releasing your grip, stepping back, and allowing God to move in His perfect timing. It’s realizing that you don’t always have to be in charge, because He already is. When you let go and let God work, you walk in the freedom of faith, knowing that His plans far exceed anything you could arrange on your own.

Surrender is not a passive act.  It is a battle, a fierce struggle against the deeply ingrained desires of our self-centered nature. It demands that we lay down our need for control, our impulse to defend ourselves, and our urgency to dictate the timing of our lives. You know you have truly surrendered when criticism no longer rattles you, when you feel no need to rush to your own defense, and when you find peace in God’s perfect timing rather than your own hurried expectations. Anything that vies for dominance in your heart, anything that steals your focus from Him, stands in direct opposition to a life fully surrendered. To yield to God is to loosen your grip on everything else, trusting that His way is not only better—but the only way to true freedom.

If a fully surrendered life feels like a distant goal, you’re not alone.  We’re all on this journey together. But take heart, because even the smallest seed of faith has the potential to grow into something strong and unshakable. Surrender isn’t an instant transformation; it unfolds gradually, one small act of trust at a time. Each step, no matter how small, draws you closer to a deeper reliance on God, shaping your faith into something steadfast and unwavering.

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