When did we stop believing that words matter?

I found myself asking that question this week.

Scrolling through news articles, skimming human interest stories, glancing at headlines and comments and conversations online—I realized something that quietly unsettled me:
Words that were once considered vulgar, cruel, or even abusive have now been normalized. They’ve taken up permanent residence in our cultural vocabulary.
And it’s not just the words themselves—it’s the attitude behind them.

In our attempt to appear sophisticated or edgy, we’ve reached for the lowest common denominator. In doing so, we’ve lost something vital.
Respect.
Reverence.
And perhaps most heartbreakingly—love.
For our world.
For others.
And for ourselves.

We’ve traded sacredness for sarcasm.
Meaning for mockery.
We’ve become a culture that numbs itself through screens and noise, feeding on a constant diet of distraction—and we wonder why we feel hollow.

We’ve mistaken cynicism for intellect and cruelty for power.
And it’s all left us… feeling anything but powerful.

As a counselor, this hits close.
It’s not just something I see—it’s something I feel.
This disconnection, this cultural erosion, is personal. It shows up in the language we use, in the way we speak to ourselves and others, in the environments we create and call “normal.”

Words carry weight.
And when the words we use are laced with sarcasm, hostility, and disregard, we create spaces where love cannot flourish.

Many of the expressions we casually toss around today would’ve once been labeled abusive, sexually harassing, or discriminatory. They would’ve been considered verbal assault. And yet now, we call it “just being real” or “telling it like it is.”

But love—real love—has never been reckless with words.
And it never will be.

People who truly love us are called to create spaces of safety and honor, not harm and hostility. If our environments are marked by toxic language and degrading tones, they cannot be safe. Not emotionally. Not spiritually. Not relationally.

Yes, I’ve heard the defenses—“I’m just blowing off steam,” “I need to express myself,” “This is how I stand up for myself.” But when our expression becomes oppression, when our catharsis becomes someone else’s pain—something has gone wrong.

This mindset reveals something deeper:
A preoccupation with self.
A desire to be heard over a desire to heal.
A belief that our feelings matter more than someone else’s dignity.

We’ve created a culture that celebrates temper tantrums and rewards entitlement.
We perform for invisible audiences, starring in our own reality shows, demanding love and respect—yet feeling none of it.
We’ve become more concerned with asserting ourselves than becoming ourselves.

Paul warned us of times like these.

“There will be terrible times in the last days. People will be lovers of themselves… abusive, disobedient… ungrateful, unholy… without love… slanderous…” (2 Timothy 3)

And we wonder why we feel unseen, unloved, unsafe.

But there is another way.

The way of love.

Love is patient. Love is kind.
It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud.
It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered.
It keeps no record of wrongs.
Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. (1 Corinthians 13)

Love is bold—but never brutal.
It doesn’t excuse evil; it confronts it with grace and truth.
It is a force strong enough to silence darkness, not through louder shouting—but through stronger empathy.

Bold love disarms evil through generosity.
Tender love surprises hardness with kindness.

Love doesn’t lash out—it lifts up.
It guards its tongue.
It chooses its words like they matter—because they do.

God’s love is both fierce and tender.
Holy and healing.
Strength that disciplines.
Grace that restores.
And if we are to reflect Him, our love must be the same.

So we ask ourselves today:

Am I strong enough to guard my tongue?
Am I tender enough to bless even those who’ve hurt me?
Am I willing to speak life instead of noise?

Because the words we speak—especially in the ordinary, unscripted moments—reveal the kind of love we carry.

What kind of atmosphere am I creating?
What kind of environment am I cultivating in my home, my relationships, my community?

One filled with performance and pretense?
Or one where love is real—felt, seen, and safe?

Words build worlds.
We can curse or we can bless.

Today, which will it be?

That’s the word that keeps surfacing.
Not in a dramatic way—but in the quiet, creeping way that steals balance while convincing you you’re doing something worthwhile.

I’m someone who sees a task, a need, a gap—and jumps in with both feet. I want to do it well. I want to do it excellently. I crave knowledge. I hunger to do things right and keep reaching for that next level of competence. I’ve always held myself to a high standard. Some might call it perfectionism. Maybe that’s fair. Maybe it’s just how I’m wired. These parts of me aren’t inherently good or bad—they’re simply there. A part of how I was created.

But when I’m not careful, they overtake me.
I get out of alignment.
I start chasing the doing and lose track of the being.

Many of you know that in recent years, I’ve been so deeply focused on work that my health—especially my physical and spiritual well-being—has quietly taken the back seat. I told myself it was for good reasons. And in true task-oriented fashion, I even justified the overwork in very organized, very efficient ways. I did it well.

I mean… when your bosses start telling you to take a vacation and insisting you unplug—maybe that’s a clue. But even in rest, my thoughts would spin back to what needed to get done.

Here’s the thing: I have a God who loves me—so much so that He gave His Son for me. I have a husband who truly cherishes me—who lives out kindness and generosity in ways that bring me to tears. I have a family that loves me, friends who care, a home filled with peace, and a job that fits me like a glove—designed around my strengths and passions. I have more blessings than I can count.

And yet… I still didn’t choose better priorities.
I knew I was off course. I prayed that God would rekindle my hunger for Him. That He would help me put Him first again. That my love for Him would deepen and lead the way.

And in His kindness, He responded.

Sermons. Devotionals. Songs. Conversations. All echoing the same invitation: Set your heart back on Me. Be still. Come close.

And still—I resisted. I told myself, “Tomorrow, I’ll start. Tomorrow, I’ll reorient.”
But my thoughts remained tangled in work.
Hard-headed, I know.

So I fell.
Literally.

A little over four weeks ago, while heading to church, I tripped—one of our sweet little dogs underfoot—and I fell down the stairs. Hard. I broke my pelvis. Just moments after praying that I would glorify God through our orchestra rehearsal… I ended up on the floor, unable to walk.

Since then, life has looked very different.
I’ve been still. I’ve had to be still.
I can’t shower without help. Can’t cook. Can’t fetch a glass of water without asking. And while I’ve been able to continue working remotely, everything else has come to a screeching halt.

And my husband? He’s been… remarkable.
Gentle. Selfless. Steady. Never once complaining.
He’s cared for me in every way, showing love through every meal made, every shower assisted, every ride to the doctor. And while he has quietly delighted in serving me, I’ve sat here—frustrated, ashamed, emotionally exhausted.

Eventually, I did what I always do. I started strategizing how to “do recovery” really well. Researched healing protocols. Started chair boxing for fitness. Counted calories. Began a structured Bible study. I was going to be excellent at healing.

And then, in the middle of one of those Bible lessons, I heard it.

Be still and know that I am God.
Be still and trust that I have you.
Be still and let Me order your days.
Be still.

That voice—tender, firm, unmistakable.
I heard You, Lord.

So I’ve tried. I’ve softened. I’m not clenching my jaw at night. I’m not obsessing over my inbox. I’m noticing beauty again. But—true to form—I was also a little proud of how well I was “being still.”

And today, at a follow-up appointment, the doctor told me I’ve got 2–4 more weeks of recovery. And in that moment, it hit me:

I’m still not ready to do this on my own.
I won’t ever be ready to do this on my own.
Stillness… surrender… trust… these aren’t checklists to master.
They are invitations to dependency.

And that’s when it really clicked: the joy I’ve seen in my husband’s eyes as he’s helped me—that’s a reflection of God’s joy in being near, in helping, in walking with me through weakness and learning. God is not rolling His eyes at my need. He delights in carrying me. He delights in showing His faithfulness.

And I? I will always need Him.
To help me still my soul.
To reset my priorities.
To remind me who I am and whose I am.

Because, truly, He is the only One who can.

So I’ll say it again…

Please, Lord. Help me be still.
Help me know You more each day.
Let You be what consumes me.

“Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed,
for His compassions never fail.
They are new every morning; great is Your faithfulness.
I say to myself, ‘The Lord is my portion; therefore I will wait for Him.’
The Lord is good to those whose hope is in Him, to the one who seeks Him;
it is good to wait quietly for the salvation of the Lord.”
—Lamentations 3:22–26

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.

Justified. Just as if I’d never sinned.

On the way to Sunday School last week, Macon and I were talking about justification by faith. I reminded him of that familiar line so many of us were taught as kids: Justified means “just as if I’d never sinned.”

That phrase has stayed with me all week.
Just as if I’d never sinned.
What a stunning, almost unthinkable truth.

Romans 3:23—one of the very first verses I ever memorized—reminds me that all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God. And that “all”? It includes me. I was born into sin, inheriting that broken nature all the way back from Adam. Every day, I make choices that violate God’s heart. Some of those choices are known only to God and me. Others are painfully visible to those around me. Some sins look “bigger,” others smaller—but all of them fall short.

There’s not a single thing I could do to save myself.
No act of goodness, no measure of self-sacrifice, no string of “right choices” could bridge the gap between my sin and God’s holiness. But I am not without hope. I have been justified freely by His grace (Romans 3:24). And Galatians 2:16 makes it clear: the only way I can be justified is through faith in Jesus—not by works, not by striving, not by pretending.

And still… I struggle.

I know I’ve been justified, but there are days I don’t live like I believe it.
There are moments when I feel the weight of shame creeping back in, whispering reminders of past failures. Sometimes I hold onto guilt that God has already released. Sometimes I hold others to standards I couldn’t keep myself. And that phrase returns: just as if I’d never sinned. Not just for me. For them too.

Why is it so hard to extend to others the same grace we receive?

“She lied once—don’t trust her.”
“He went to jail—watch out.”
“He’s acting like he’s never done anything wrong.”
Well… if he’s repented and placed his trust in Christ, then yes—he is acting like he’s never done anything wrong. Because that’s what justification means.

It means the charges have been dropped.
The guilt is gone.
And we are declared righteous.

When I continue to carry shame over sins I’ve confessed and repented of, I’m essentially saying that God’s word isn’t enough—that Christ’s sacrifice didn’t fully cover me. That’s not humility. That’s disbelief. He said it is finished—and it was.

If I truly believe I’ve died with Christ, then I also believe I live with Him.
If I believe I’m united with Him in His resurrection, then I must also believe that I’ve been set free from the reign of sin and the fear of death.

I don’t have to carry around a scarlet letter.
I don’t have to prove my worth to a world that loves to keep score.
I can walk—freely, boldly—as one who has been made new.

There have been times when I’ve tried to imprison myself in guilt.
There have been times when I’ve tried to keep others there too.
Times when I’ve thought someone should feel guiltier.
Times when I’ve felt too dirty or too unworthy to open my Bible, forgetting that it was always for people like me that Christ came.

If I’m waiting to feel righteous before I act like I’m righteous, I’m missing the whole point.
Which is the greater hypocrisy:
Trying to clean myself up before I come to God—or coming to Him as I am, trusting His Word over my feelings?

So I’ve started asking myself:
What if I actually lived like I was justified?

What if I walked in the kind of boldness that comes from knowing I am clothed in His righteousness?
What would I do differently if I wasn’t afraid of people remembering my worst moments?
Would I speak up more? Step in more?
Would I serve more freely, love more deeply, witness more boldly?

What if I viewed others through that same lens of redemption?
What if, when I saw someone who had sinned—or sinned against me—I looked for the Jesus in them rather than the offense?
What if I saw them not as what they’d done, but as someone Christ died for?
Wouldn’t that change everything?

Wouldn’t that be… just as if they’d never sinned?

Because if grace is real for me, then it must be real for others too.
And if I truly trust His Word, then I must let it reshape the way I live, love, and see the world.

Justified—just as if I’d never sinned.
I am His. He is mine.
And neither of us is ashamed.

“And can it be that I should gain
An interest in the Savior’s blood?
Died He for me, who caused His pain—
For me, who Him to death pursued?
Amazing love! How can it be,
That Thou, my God, shouldst die for me?”

No condemnation now I dread;
Jesus, and all in Him, is mine;
Alive in Him, my living Head,
And clothed in righteousness divine,
Bold I approach the eternal throne,
And claim the crown, through Christ my own.
—Charles Wesley

No truth is more glorious to a prisoner than this:
You are no longer condemned.
You are free.

This is the message Christ brings to the weary, the shackled, the sin-sick:
That His sacrifice is enough. That the chains of condemnation no longer have the final word.

“There is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.” (Romans 8:1)

No condemnation.
That means I will not be separated from God—not now, not ever.
That means I am no longer bound by the tyranny of sin.
That means freedom. Life. Hope.

And yet… I sometimes still live like I’m behind bars.

I know I’ve been set free.
But guilt can be persuasive.
Sometimes it whispers that I haven’t done enough. That I’m still too flawed. That I should have grown out of this struggle by now. That I’m failing Him.

I find myself rehashing the past, agonizing over my imperfections, punishing myself for what’s already been forgiven. And while guilt can be a healthy nudge to course-correct when we’ve sinned—it can also become a weight that crushes joy, silences worship, and keeps us from living in the freedom Christ already purchased.

The law, in its perfection, reveals just how far I fall short.
It shines a light on my weakness—and in doing so, it brings guilt.
But Jesus didn’t come to leave me in that guilt.
He came to rescue. To redeem. To set me free.

The law convicts.
But grace covers.

Through Christ’s death on the cross, I have been forgiven—fully.
Eternally.
Irrevocably.

If Christ, who knows me completely, no longer condemns me—
Why do I still condemn myself?

All I accomplish by replaying my guilt and shame is chaining myself to a cell He already unlocked.

Years ago, a wise friend—Vicki Dye—shared something with me that I’ve never forgotten. She reminded me of this breathtaking truth: all of my sin was future to the cross.
Every past mistake. Every present struggle. Every future failure.

From the vantage point of Calvary, every sin I would ever commit was known.
And still, Jesus died for me.

If the cross wasn’t sufficient for all my sin—past, present, and future—then I have no hope.
But if it was—and it was—then I can stop trying to earn what’s already been given.
I can stop trying to perfect what He has already declared righteous.
I can live in the freedom of being not guilty because of Jesus.

God has promised me glory in Christ.
Not because I’ve earned it.
But because He has declared it.

And that promise?
I can count on it.
I can rest in it.
I can live free because of it.

Christ has set me free.
Let me not live like I’m still bound.

Created on purpose, for a purpose.

I’ve always been an introvert.
And that has made me different.
Sometimes deeply misunderstood.

The way I speak, the way I show up in the world, the way I process life—it doesn’t always land how I mean it to. Today, I received an email that stirred something in me. It caused me to pause and reflect again on how I relate to others and how others relate to me.

I’ve always been a bit blunt—never mean-spirited, just… direct. And paired with introversion, that straightforwardness has often led to misinterpretation. Still, I believe—deeply—that I was formed this way on purpose. That none of it is an accident.

People don’t grow out of introversion. This quiet, inward-focused wiring doesn’t just appear one day in adulthood—it’s been there since the beginning.
So yes, this introverted adult was once an introverted child.
And what’s true of one is true of both.

There are still a lot of misconceptions about introverts. We’re not anti-social. We’re not friendless. We’re not broken extroverts who just need to “get out more.” We simply experience social life differently.

Getting to know someone new costs us energy. It’s not that we don’t want meaningful relationships—we do. We just don’t need many. One or two close, trusted friends is enough. Still, we’re often judged for not being “more social,” for not casting a wider net.

We need solitude like others need air.
A room with the door closed isn’t a red flag—it’s a refuge.
It’s not withdrawal; it’s restoration.
Time alone helps us recover, reflect, and reconnect with ourselves. It gives us space to breathe, to think, to simply be.

When we do attend gatherings, we’ll likely stick close to the few people we already know and dive into deep conversations. Small talk? Not our favorite. Give us something rich, something real, and we’ll stay all night.

As kids, many of us found joy in solitary or creative play. Books were safe places. Stories made sense. Writing, music, art—these were our languages. Even now, we often prefer quiet forms of expression and observation. Before jumping into a group activity, we hang back—not out of shyness, but so we can get a feel for the space first.

We tend to be quiet, especially in unfamiliar settings.
We don’t crave the spotlight.
We don’t brag, even if we’ve achieved something meaningful.
And sometimes, we hide what we know—because attention can feel heavy, even when it’s kind.

Introverts often have two selves: the private one and the public one.
So if we seem animated at home but reserved in public, it’s not duplicity—it’s safety.

We listen deeply.
We make eye contact when others speak and rarely interrupt.
But when it’s our turn to talk, we may need a moment—because we tend to think before we speak. Sometimes we even rehearse what we want to say in our minds before saying it out loud. This can make us seem slow to respond, but it’s not hesitation—it’s care.

We’d usually rather write than speak.
And when we do speak, we hope it matters.
If we’re passionate about a topic, we’ll talk about it for hours—but we really don’t want to be interrupted mid-thought or mid-task. Focus is sacred.

Socializing, especially in large or unfamiliar groups, can be draining. Even if we enjoy it, we’ll feel it later—emotionally and physically. We may need time to decompress or simply sit in silence for a while. Crowded places, too much noise, too many people… it can feel overwhelming.

We’re territorial.
We like our space.
We can be slow to share feelings, and public mistakes? Mortifying.

But we’re also deeply observant. We notice the little things—tone, body language, undercurrents others miss. We carry rich inner worlds and are often processing more than we let on. It may take days, even weeks, before we’re ready to talk about something that happened. But when we do, it’s been sifted, reflected upon, and held with intention.

We crave consistency more than change—but when change is necessary, we navigate it best with time and clarity.

Being an introvert hasn’t always been easy.
It’s made me vulnerable to judgment, criticism, and misunderstanding.
It’s left me feeling out of place in spaces that celebrate loudness, quickness, or performance.

But I wouldn’t trade it.
Because I believe I was created with intention—crafted by the same God who knit together extroverts in all their vibrancy. He formed me, too. With quieter colors. With slower rhythms. With deep wells of thought and fierce loyalty that may not be loud, but are profoundly real.

Thank You, Father, for making me who You wanted me to be.
Introversion is not a flaw to fix—
It’s a design to honor.

“Inside myself is a place where I live all alone, and that is where I renew my springs that never dry up.”
— Pearl S. Buck

Healing takes time. And sometimes, it doesn’t look like healing at all—until one day, it does.

At the beginning of the summer, I noticed a small sore on my nose that wouldn’t go away. It wasn’t painful—just there. A quiet, irritating presence. Occasionally, it would bleed. Mostly, it was just a nuisance.

A couple of months ago, I finally mentioned it to my doctor. She sent me to get it biopsied. When the results came back showing it was a small basal cell tumor, I was referred to a specialist.

The specialist was kind and clear. He explained what was going on and told me plainly: it wouldn’t go away on its own. It needed to be removed before it grew into something more serious. So, a few weeks ago, I had it removed.

Afterward, the doctor gave detailed instructions for caring for the wound: apply Vaseline daily, keep it bandaged, and be patient. He gently warned me that it would look worse before it looked better—but that around week three or four, I’d see a noticeable change. The healing would come if I stayed faithful to the care.

So I did just that.
Every day, Vaseline and a fresh bandage.
But day after day, it still looked raw, messy—even worse than before. At one point in the fourth week, I found myself staring at it in frustration, wondering if it was ever going to heal.

And then, this morning, I took off the bandage—and almost couldn’t believe what I saw.
The wound looked almost healed.
It felt like it happened overnight.
But of course, it hadn’t.

Standing there in the mirror—yes, all up in that mirror (a post for another day on vanity, ha!)—I realized what I was looking at wasn’t just my nose. It was a living metaphor of my spiritual journey over the past few years.

There was a season—not so long ago—when I felt torn open by sin.
Some of it mine. Some of it done to me.
Either way, it left its mark.

Sin had crept in and unraveled relationships, distorted my sense of self, and created a distance I didn’t know how to close—between me and others, between me and God, even within my own heart. I became increasingly self-reliant. I didn’t know how to trust, how to need, how to receive care without flinching.

And so I isolated.
I armored up.
I decided it was safer to fend for myself.

But God doesn’t leave us in our self-protection.
He invites us into healing. And sometimes, that healing feels like surgery.

In order to restore what was broken, He had to expose what was festering beneath the surface—sin I’d justified, pain I’d buried, lies I’d believed. He didn’t come to scold or shame. He came to remove what was harming me. He came to heal.

And like that stubborn little tumor, the sin in me wasn’t going away on its own. I couldn’t fix it by trying harder or covering it up. It had to be surrendered. Removed. And then cared for tenderly, day after day.

And in this slow, imperfect, holy process—I wasn’t left to do it alone.

God gave me a husband who, with gentle faithfulness, reminds me every day to tend to what needs tending. He’s not only been my wound care accountability partner (Vaseline and bandages included), but also my encourager, reminding me to stay connected to church, to community, to the heart of God. He sees where I’m tempted to withdraw, and he invites me back to presence.

I have a son who reminds me that laughter is holy, too. Who sends jokes and memes and silly movies that tug me back into joy—and who doesn’t let me get away with shallow faith. He challenges me to really know what I believe, to own my identity in Christ, not the version others may expect me to be.

And then there are the stepkids, family, coworkers, friends—the ones who show up to love, challenge, correct, and pray. God has even given me a little dog who insists I stay tethered to affection and routine, no matter how tempted I am to turn inward.

In sermons and conversations, in unexpected moments, God keeps sending reminders of His grace. He keeps gently whispering, You’re mine. I’m not finished. Stay with Me.

And slowly, day after day, healing has taken root.
Even when I couldn’t feel it.
Even when all I saw was the wound.

This morning, as I looked in the mirror, I didn’t just see a healing nose.
I saw a woman who is still in process.
Still tender in places. Still scarred.
But also being restored—daily—by the One who knows how to bring life out of brokenness.

“I am in His hand,” He reminds me.
“And no one—no one—can take me from Him.”

That’s what I see now.
Not just a body healing—but a heart being mended, piece by piece, by a faithful God who finishes what He starts.

What a beautiful, relentless, redeeming God I serve.

The quiet destruction of careless words.

It starts so subtly.

A whisper when a colleague is let go.
A glance exchanged when a young woman mentions her weight.
The subtle shift when people begin choosing sides in a friend’s divorce.

Gossip rarely announces itself.
It weaves its way in through sighs, silence, and sideways glances.
And before long, it has reshaped how we see others—often without our full awareness.

It’s not easy to resist.
Let’s be honest—people love a good story, especially one with a hint of drama. Our culture feeds this appetite. Just glance at the magazine covers in any checkout aisle or scroll through social media. There’s an insatiable curiosity about other people’s lives, and gossip promises to satisfy it. But at what cost?

The truth is—gossip is never just “talk.”
It wastes time. It fractures trust. It sows division. It fuels anxiety. It can unravel friendships, reputations, families.

So why do we do it?

Sometimes, it’s about trying to make sense of something that feels unclear. We don’t know the full story—so we speculate. We talk. We fill in the blanks with fragments of truth and assumptions dressed up as fact. A rumor is born, and as it travels, it gathers speed and detail—often shaped by personal agendas and unconscious biases.

Other times, it’s about power.
Being “in the know” gives us a momentary sense of significance. For those who feel unheard or unseen, sharing a juicy tidbit can feel like holding influence. But it’s a counterfeit version of connection—and it comes at the expense of someone else’s dignity.

Then there’s the deeply personal kind of gossip—the kind that disguises itself as concern but is really judgment wrapped in curiosity. These stories spread fastest. They damage deepest.

And once a rumor takes root, it can become a lens through which everything is interpreted.

“She drinks too much,” someone says.
And suddenly, when she’s tired or distracted or off her game—it must be the drinking. No one pauses to consider she might be hurting. Or grieving. Or just having a human moment.

Everything she says or does becomes evidence that the story is true.
Truth is no longer the goal—confirmation is.
And somewhere along the way, we start to believe our own distortions.

Gossip doesn’t just harm the one being talked about.
It changes us—those of us doing the talking, and those of us quietly listening.

Charles Stanley put it plainly:

“God hates gossip. He wants our speech to be pleasing to Him… Gossip achieves no good in anyone’s life, which is why the Lord warns against it. Instead, our words should build up, comfort, and encourage others.”

Scripture doesn’t minimize the impact of our words.
Colossians 3:8 calls us to put away “anger, wrath, malice, slander, and obscene talk.”
Romans 1 includes gossip in a sobering list of sins that reflect hearts turned away from God.

Why? Because gossip is not harmless.
It can cost someone their job, their reputation, their peace of mind.
It can cost us our witness, our credibility, our connection with God.
Malice and intimacy with the Lord cannot share the same space.

So if we’re going to be people of grace—if we’re going to reflect the heart of Jesus—our words have to matter. Our speech should be a sanctuary, not a weapon.

Let’s be known for the way we protect, not expose.
For the way we pause before speaking.
For the way we speak life.

And when we fail—and we all do—may we be quick to repent.
Quick to repair.
Quick to restore.

Because what we say has power.
Let’s choose to use it well.