I have a new car.

Not just any car, but a Mustang convertible.
I’ve wanted one since I was ten years old, and—after more than a biblical generation (yes, over 40 years!)—I finally have one.

The weather hasn’t exactly been convertible-friendly lately, but yesterday I took it out for a drive to Nashville, and today I wandered from one used furniture store to another, hunting for office furniture. Long drives. Good miles. Open sky.

And friends… it drives like nothing I’ve ever owned.

My Saturn Vue—a trusty mid-size SUV—has been faithful and dependable. I bought it after a serious car accident years ago, and it’s done everything I’ve asked of it. I know that car like the back of my hand—when a tire is low, when to tap the brakes, how far I can push the gas light. It’s never flashy, but it has always shown up and done what I needed it to do. A reliable workhorse.

But the Mustang? Oh, it’s something else entirely.
I sit lower. The hood stretches out in front of me. It hugs the road with ease, like it’s on rails. It corners with sharpness. It feels like it’s gliding. Like a thoroughbred trained to run. There’s power in it. Precision. And joy. I didn’t buy this car for utility—I bought it for pleasure. A little reminder to myself that joy is part of balance, too.

And as I often do, I started thinking while driving.

Both vehicles serve a purpose. They were made with different strengths and intentions, but both are exactly what they were created to be. The Saturn has protected me, and now it will be passed on to my stepdaughter—safe and steady. The Mustang, meanwhile, is my reminder that life is to be savored too. I’ll take it from facility to facility, bearing the weight of serious work while feeling the wind and letting a little light in.

But the question that stuck with me was this:
Am I living out the purpose for which I was created as faithfully as these vehicles are?

What was I made for?
What am I moving toward?

If I believe my ultimate purpose is to know, serve, and glorify God—then my life decisions, daily choices, and internal compass must be pointed toward that goal.

Paul knew his purpose with clarity. He wrote:

“I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. Finally, there is laid up for me the crown of righteousness…” (2 Timothy 4:7-8)

His entire life was built around one mission: knowing and serving Christ.
He didn’t just drift into purpose—he pursued it.
And Barnabas, in Acts 11:23, reminded the early church to “remain true to the Lord with purpose of heart.”

That phrase gets me. Purpose of heart.
A heart determined. Anchored. Focused on what matters most.

It doesn’t matter if I’m a metaphorical sports car or a dependable SUV.
What matters is this: Am I living out the purpose for which I was called—and for which Christ paid the highest price?

Am I responding to His voice the way my vehicle responds to the road—sensitive, willing, responsive to every nudge?

Paul wrote:

“[For my determined purpose is] that I may know Him… that I may progressively become more deeply and intimately acquainted with Him.” (Philippians 3:10, AMP)

That’s the kind of life I want.
Not one just filled with accomplishments or checklists or good intentions—but one that’s pointed straight toward knowing Him. Not just knowing about Him, but knowing Him—deeply, personally, and daily.

Because if I don’t know where I’m going, how will I ever know if I’ve arrived?

So today, I’m asking Him again:
Lord, make Your purpose my purpose.
Help me live the life You dreamed for me.
Help me know You more and more every day.

Whether I’m driving a Saturn or a Mustang, leading in serious spaces or soaking up moments of joy—may it all be part of knowing Him, loving Him, and following where He leads.

I’m beginning to learn to be content.

It hasn’t been easy.
It’s come through tears and wrestling, through sorrow and surrender.
And while I’m far from “there,” I can feel the Spirit slowly shifting something in me.

I still grieve.
I still ache over things lost or never found.
But even in that ache, I’m beginning to sense a quiet settling.
A deepening.
A seed of contentment taking root.

Contentment feels like an endangered virtue these days.
We live in a world that tells us we need more—more success, more security, more affirmation. And if we believe that message, we’ll always feel like something is missing. We’ll live with an undercurrent of deprivation, unable to fully enjoy what we have because we’re fixated on what we don’t.

But true contentment isn’t about what we lack.
It’s about trust.
It’s about anchoring our satisfaction—not in circumstances, but in confidence in God.
It’s a quiet celebration of life that flows from knowing He is enough.

And let me be honest: contentment does not come naturally for me.

Paul says in Philippians that he learned to be content—and I find such comfort in that.
It wasn’t automatic for him either.
He had to grow into it.
So do I.

I’m naturally a doer. I like to act, fix, cross things off a list. But I’m learning that contentment doesn’t come from doing—it comes from becoming. It grows as I develop a new way of seeing, a new way of thinking, a deeper way of trusting.

It’s a slow, sacred work.

Paul said he learned to be content not just in abundance but in scarcity—not just in joy, but in sorrow. His peace wasn’t tethered to the ease of his life. It was grounded in the unshakable presence of Christ.

“Godliness with contentment is great gain…” (1 Timothy 6:6)

This kind of contentment doesn’t ignore pain or pretend everything’s fine.
It holds space for heartache.
It acknowledges the losses, the disappointments, the unanswered questions.
But it also says, even here, I trust You.

And let’s be honest: there are days it’s hard to feel satisfied.

When I’m misunderstood.
When life takes a sharp left turn.
When people I love walk away.
When prayers go unanswered, or grief comes crashing in.

But Paul also said, “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” (Phil. 4:13)
And I’m beginning to understand—he wasn’t talking about superhuman feats.
He was talking about endurance. Joy. Contentment. In all things.

My contentment isn’t found in what I possess or how life unfolds.
It’s rooted in Christ.
And that changes everything.

Because I know what I deserve—and it isn’t grace.
It isn’t belonging.
It certainly isn’t peace.
But that’s exactly what I’ve been given in Jesus.

I deserve to be separated from God, but I’ve been welcomed in as family.
I deserve judgment, but I’ve been handed mercy.
I am one of the richest people on earth—not because of what I have, but because of Who holds me.

Lately, I’m realizing that contentment is closely tied to presence.
Not presence as in company—but being present in this moment.

Discontentment often lives in the “what ifs”—what could’ve been, what should be, what might come. But contentment invites me to find joy in the now. To savor what is.
To not miss the beauty of this moment by mourning the one I imagined instead.

I want to learn to love Christ more than I love control.
More than I love outcomes.
More than I love feeling like I’ve gotten it right.

Less of me.
More of Him.
That’s the path to contentment.
That’s the path to joy.

I have a long way to go.
But I’m learning to run with patience.
To take each step with my eyes fixed on Jesus—the Author and the Finisher of my faith.

As I turn my gaze to Him, the demands of this world begin to quiet.
The disappointments shrink in the light of His grace.
And I find myself more able to trust each day, each situation, as part of His wise and loving plan to grow me up in Him.

I’m still a work in progress.
But thank God—the Author of my story is also the Finisher.
And He’s not finished with me yet.