Gratitude can sneak up on you.

It doesn’t always arrive with bright lights or easy circumstances. Sometimes it shows up in the middle of the hard, the complicated, the not-what-I-would’ve-chosen parts of life. And somehow, that’s where some of the most meaningful thanks begin.

Today, I’ve been reflecting on the things I’m thankful for—not just the obvious blessings, but also the unexpected gifts that have shaped me. Some of them I didn’t recognize as gifts at the time. Some I still don’t fully understand. But all of them, in one way or another, have formed the person I’m becoming.

Here’s a glimpse into what I’m giving thanks for today:

1. I’m thankful for the things I never wanted to experience… but did anyway.

The things I begged God to remove. The things that felt unfair, painful, and even unbearable. Because it’s through those very experiences—where I didn’t get what I wanted—that I’ve grown the most.

2. I’m thankful for the full range of human emotion.

From joy that feels like sunlight on my face to grief that takes my breath away. I’ve learned to sit with both. I’ve come to see that wholeness doesn’t mean avoiding the lows—it means embracing the entire spectrum of being human.

3. I’m thankful for the people who walked out of my life.

Not because it didn’t hurt, but because their leaving taught me how to be fully present with what—and who—is in front of me. Nothing is guaranteed. Every moment matters.

4. I’m thankful for those who returned.

Because life isn’t linear. It moves in circles and spirals and sometimes messy, unpredictable loops. I’m learning to hold people with open hands, not clenched fists.

5. I’m thankful for the broken pieces of my heart.

They’re not just remnants of pain—they’re part of my story. And they’re shaping the puzzle of the person I’m still becoming.

6. I’m thankful for the moments that knocked me flat.

The ones that left me feeling paralyzed and undone. Because they taught me how deeply I had loved—and reminded me that some things are worth that kind of heartache.

7. I’m thankful for the strength I had to find in myself—with God’s help.

Not something handed to me. Not something I borrowed from someone else. But something I had to dig deep to discover, pulled up with trembling hands and divine help.

8. I’m thankful for faith that still flickers in my soul.

Even when I’ve doubted. Even when I’ve felt forgotten. I’ve always known—somewhere deeper than words—that God hasn’t given up on me. And I’m so grateful for the gift of that faith.

9. I’m thankful I can’t go back and rewrite the past.

Even on the days I wish I could. The mistakes I’ve made are now part of my story—scars that have become sacred chapters.

10. I’m thankful for rejection and humiliation.

Not because they were easy to endure, but because they’ve shaped my resilience and given me perspective I couldn’t have gained otherwise.

11. I’m thankful for a God who has always loved me.

Even in the moments when I’ve been most unlovable. He has never stopped calling me His own.

12. I’m thankful for a husband who takes care of me.

Even when I stubbornly resist. Even when I say, “I’ve got it,” and don’t. His persistence in loving me has taught me that asking for help isn’t weakness—it’s wisdom.

13. I’m thankful for the funny, quirky, life-giving moments that happen every day.

If I’m paying attention, life is hilarious and heartwarming and full of glimmers. I just have to slow down long enough to notice.

14. I’m thankful for the people who love me well.

The ones who reach out even when I disappear into my introverted cave. The ones who pray, text, check in, and just sit with me. As much as I recharge in solitude, I was made for fellowship—and I’m not whole without it.

15. I’m thankful for this very day.

Each day is a gift. A wild, unfolding, grace-soaked gift. Like unwrapping a present every single minute of every single day.

Thank You, Father.

Thank You for all the above and for so many things I didn’t mention.
You know what I need more than I do.
Thank You for your patient, thoughtful love.
Thank You for growing me slowly but surely.
You have begun a good work in me—and I trust that You’ll be faithful to finish it.

“Being confident of this, that He who began a good work in you
will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus.”
— Philippians 1:6

“Every day, every hour, people disclose to us the most disturbing and dysfunctional behaviors imaginable. After a while we lose the ability to be shocked…”
— Jeffrey Kottler

Kottler’s words are honest. Stark.
And if you’ve ever sat in the therapist’s chair, they’re painfully accurate.

Day after day, people bring us the most hidden parts of themselves—trauma, secrets, shame, compulsions, grief, violence, regret, despair. They hand us their wounds, sometimes raw and still bleeding, and ask us to help them make sense of it all.

They trust us with the things they’ve never spoken aloud.
And we hold it. All of it.
We hold it quietly, reverently, with no one else in the room to help carry the weight.

Sometimes, it’s more than disturbing—it’s devastating.
And yet… I love my job.

Our pastor, Hollie Miller, has been encouraging us to choose a verse for the year—something we can return to, pray through, and anchor ourselves in as the months unfold.

My husband has asked me several times if I’ve figured mine out yet. Each time, my answer has been a consistent no.

Until today.

This morning’s sermon shifted something in me.

Pastor Hollie preached from Psalm 32—a psalm of confession, release, and the deep, holy joy of forgiveness. His message landed right where my heart has been sitting for a while now. He shared four points for those who want to truly experience the joy of forgiveness:

1. Confess honestly

2. Pursue urgently

3. Listen carefully

4. Rejoice loudly

And goodness… I needed that Word.

The past few years have been challenging for me spiritually. Not necessarily in a loud, obvious way—but in the quiet, aching spaces of my soul. I’ve wrestled with silence. With shame. With wondering if I’ve strayed too far to still be useful.

So when Pastor Hollie read these words from David, I felt my own heart echo them:

“When I kept silent, my bones grew old through my groaning all the day long.
For day and night Your hand was heavy upon me;
my vitality was turned into the drought of summer.”
— Psalm 32:3–4

That was me.

Trying to carry the weight alone.
Trying to pretend I was fine while slowly withering inside.
Letting the voice of the accuser whisper louder than the voice of the Savior.

But then came the reminder I needed so deeply:
I can rest in the finished work of the cross.

“There is no unpardonable sin except for unbelief in Christ,” Pastor Hollie said.
“You are a child of God through Jesus Christ.”
And to those who carry shame:
“You don’t understand the concept of grace.”

He’s right.
Sometimes I forget.
Sometimes I carry burdens that Christ already paid for.

But today, grace found me again.

A Few Things I’m Holding Onto from Psalm 32

As I’ve continued to reflect on this Psalm throughout the day, here’s what God has been showing me:

1. Confession is not a ritual. It’s a heart posture.
   I can’t treat confession like a checklist. My heart must be aligned with His—grieved by what grieves Him, surrendered in honesty.

2. Once forgiven, always forgiven.
   If I’ve truly repented and confessed, any lingering shame is not from God—it’s from the accuser.
   God does not hold my sin over my head.
   And neither should anyone else.

3. Grace invites me to stay close.
   I don’t have to clean myself up to come back to God.
   I am already covered in the righteousness of His Son.
   That’s who He sees when He looks at me. And that’s why I can stay in His Word and in prayer—no matter what.

4. God can still use me.
   My past doesn’t disqualify me from worship or witness.
   His grace covers all sin.
   I can praise Him privately and publicly—because that’s what grace does. It makes worship rise.

5. The deeper I see my sin, the deeper I see His love.
   When I recognize the depth of what He’s rescued me from, my gratitude deepens.
   My love grows.
   And I begin to understand, just a little more, the power of the cross.

So Yes… I’ve Found My Verse

Actually, God found it for me.

“Blessed is he whose transgression is forgiven,
whose sin is covered.
Blessed is the man to whom the Lord does not impute iniquity,
and in whose spirit there is no deceit.”
— Psalm 32:1–2

This is my verse for the year.
My reminder that I am forgiven.
That I am free.
That I am blessed.

Not because of anything I’ve done, but because of what Jesus finished.

Thank You, Father

Thank You for grace that never runs out.
Thank You for chasing me with kindness when I want to hide.
Thank You for lifting the weight when I’ve forgotten how to let go.
You know what I need better than I do.
And You love me still.

You’ve begun a good work in me.
And I trust You to complete it—grace upon grace.

There’s a movie I’ve loved for years. One I return to again and again.

Each time I place the DVD in the player, I find myself asking the same question: What is it about this story that speaks to me so deeply?
And every time, the answer goes beyond the cinematography or the dialogue—though the dialogue certainly has its moments:

“They are an intriguing people. From the moment they wake, they devote themselves to the perfection of whatever they pursue. I have never seen such discipline.”
“The perfect blossom is a rare thing. You could spend your life looking for one, and it would not be a wasted life.”

There’s something about these lines—about the entire story—that stirs something in me.

A Mirror for My Heart

This movie challenges me.

It presses against my moral foundations and makes me take a hard look at what drives me.
What am I really fighting for?

• Recognition?

• Self-worth?

• Achievement?

• Or something more eternal? Something I can’t see but know is worth everything?

Some battles in life aren’t worth fighting. Others absolutely are.
And I find myself asking—Am I living with the kind of focused dedication and purpose that reflects the One I claim to follow?

The total devotion of the Samurai depicted in the film strikes me. Their discipline. Their intentionality. Their way of life that says, “This matters. This is worth my everything.”

And then I think of my own life.
Of following Christ.
Of what it means to be that focused—not in ritual or rigidity, but in heart. In calling. In love.

Algren’s Journey—and Mine

So much of what the Samurai represent—clarity, honor, peace—Algren, the main character, has lost.
He’s haunted by trauma, drowning in regret, numbed by disappointment.
He’s a man at war not only with the world, but with himself.

And I’ve been there.

That sense of being untethered. Disillusioned. Wondering what’s worth fighting for anymore.
His journey to find peace—first externally, then inwardly—is one that resonates with me.

He finds it, eventually, in a quiet mountain village, cared for by a grieving Samurai widow and slowly drawn into a life marked by reflection and purpose.
No, I can’t run off to a mountainside village.
But I understand the craving for quiet.
The longing to step out of the chaos.
The desperate need to rediscover meaning.

An Invitation to True Rest

That’s where my heart turns again to Christ.

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.
Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart,
and you will find rest for your souls.”
— Matthew 11:28–29 (NIV)

That’s the invitation.

Not just to rest, but to learn from Him.
Not just peace for peace’s sake, but purpose.
A life of focused dedication—not to a code of honor, but to a Savior who leads with gentleness, humility, and grace.

Jesus doesn’t call us into a life of meaningless motion.
He calls us into a life of alignment.
One where the yoke fits—because it was made for us.
One where we walk with Him—learning, growing, and living in step with His Spirit.

What I’m Longing For

When I watch this film, I’m reminded that my soul longs for more than noise and speed.
It longs for depth.
For focus.
For purpose that transcends recognition and approval.
For rest that goes deeper than sleep.

And that’s what Christ offers.

A life of learning.
A life of rest.
A life of meaningful, focused dedication.

That’s what speaks to me.
That’s what I’m still learning to live.

A reminder to speak life, not destruction

Some people in the Bible only appear once—just a brief mention in a few verses.
And yet, the lessons from their lives echo for generations.

Sometimes they stand as heroes of faith.
Other times… they serve as cautionary tales.

Take Diotrephes, for example.

His name shows up only once, in a short letter written by the apostle John. And yet, what we learn from that single mention is powerful—and sobering.

“I wrote to the church, but Diotrephes, who loves to be first, will not welcome us.
So when I come, I will call attention to what he is doing,
spreading malicious nonsense about us…”
— 3 John 1:9–10 (NIV)

Diotrephes had become a leader in the early church—but leadership, in his case, went to his head.

He wasn’t leading to serve. He was leading to dominate.
Scripture tells us he “loved to have the preeminence.” He craved recognition and control. And when anyone else showed up who might challenge his authority—even faithful church leaders like John—Diotrephes responded with hostility.

He refused to offer hospitality to traveling preachers. He discouraged others from welcoming them. And worst of all? He slandered the very people God had sent to shepherd His church.

The Poison of Malicious Words

Diotrephes didn’t just disagree—he actively maligned other leaders.
John calls it “malicious nonsense.”

And sadly, many in the church were either too spiritually immature to recognize the damage—or too afraid to speak out against it.

His gossip sowed division. His pride created fear. His words weakened the very body of Christ he claimed to lead.

And still today, the echoes remain.

Gossip: A Small Spark with Great Power

Gossip is defined as idle talk or the sharing of information—true or not—about someone else’s private matters.
And more often than not, it’s done with questionable motives.

Even if it sounds innocent—“I’m just concerned,” or “I thought you should know”—gossip rarely serves to heal or build up. It tends to wound, divide, and unravel trust.

“A whisperer separates close friends…”
— Proverbs 16:28
“Where there is no wood, the fire goes out; and where there is no whisperer, strife ceases.”
— Proverbs 26:20

Gossip is destructive—even when whispered.
It spreads like wildfire, leaving devastation in its path.

The Fire We Should Spread

The truth is, we’re all faced with sparks every day.
The question is: what are we igniting?

When a juicy piece of news comes our way…
When we’re tempted to speak against someone we dislike or distrust…
When we feel the urge to share what “we heard”…
We have a choice.

We can spread a fire of destruction.
Or we can pass along the only spark that should be contagious:

The warmth of Christ’s love.

That fire?
It doesn’t consume—it comforts.
It doesn’t divide—it invites.
It doesn’t destroy reputations—it restores hearts.

A Final Word

Diotrephes left behind a legacy of control, pride, and toxic speech.
One brief appearance in Scripture—and yet his name is now remembered as a warning.

Lord, let that not be said of us.

Let us be known instead for gentleness, truth spoken in love, hospitality extended freely, and a commitment to unity.
Let our words bring warmth—not wounds.
Let us choose to be a spark of grace in a world full of careless flame.

Father,
Guard my tongue.
Help me to speak only what brings life, not division.
When gossip comes my way, help me be brave enough to stop it.
Let my words reflect Your heart, and let my speech carry the warmth of Your love.
Make me a spark of grace.
Amen.

God is the master of the unexpected invasion.

He knows how to break through our defenses—our excuses, our arguments, our distractions. And He’ll use whatever tools necessary to do it. Personal crisis. Someone else’s suffering. Even a national disaster. Not because He wants to conquer us—but because He wants to free us.

We think we’re building walls to keep pain out.
But more often, those same walls keep Him out… and keep us trapped within.

When a Nation Shook, So Did a Prophet

When King Uzziah died, it marked the end of an era for Judah. It was a time of national grief and uncertainty. But in that moment, Isaiah didn’t just see political instability—he saw heaven.

“I saw the Lord, high and exalted, seated on a throne…” (Isaiah 6:1)

He was reminded: God is still on the throne—even when everything around us feels like it’s falling apart.

Before Isaiah could be sent, before he could speak, before he could serve—he had to see.
Not just the condition of his nation.
But the condition of his own heart.

“Woe is me, for I am undone!” (Isaiah 6:5)

In the holiness of God’s presence, Isaiah was undone.
But he wasn’t rejected.
Instead, grace met him there.

A burning coal from the altar touched his lips—a symbol of cleansing, a sign of forgiveness.
Only then—after confession, after grace—could Isaiah say, “Here am I. Send me.”

Grace Before Mission

What strikes me most is this: In a time of national upheaval, God didn’t begin by giving Isaiah a list of what was wrong with the kings, the laws, or the culture.

He started with Isaiah’s own heart.

God didn’t commission Isaiah to rail against the sins of others until He had first helped Isaiah see his own sin clearly—and understand the depth of God’s grace even more.

Before Isaiah could speak for God, he had to be changed by God.

My Own “Woe Is Me” Moment

I relate to Isaiah’s story more than I used to.

For many years, I pointed at the sins of others. Before I knew Christ, I pointed at the hypocrisy of Christians. After I became one, I still pointed—just at different targets. People who did things differently. Believed differently. Struggled with sin that didn’t match my own.

I wasn’t harsh about it—not openly. But inwardly? There was a quiet, self-satisfied undertone of “Well, at least I’m not like that.”

But then a few years ago, God allowed me to come face-to-face with my own sin. Not just the surface-level struggles, but the deeper issues beneath—the pride, the fear, the judgment, the desperate need for grace.

Like Isaiah, I cried out, “Woe is me. I am undone.”

And like Isaiah, I was met not with rejection, but with grace.

Used Anyway

Now, I find myself struggling with a different question—not “Am I better than them?” but “Can God really use someone like me?”

And here’s what I’m learning:
It’s not about my worthiness.
It’s not about my perfection.
It’s about His grace.
His choice to show strength through weakness.
His ability to use the flawed and the failing for His glory.

A Call for Our Time

We live in a world that’s quick to point fingers.
We talk endlessly about hot-button issues—abortion, sexuality, politics—and yes, these things matter. But they are symptoms.
They point to a deeper need.

What this world needs most is not louder condemnation.
It needs the gospel of grace.

It needs people who love unconditionally.
Who speak kindness.
Who see themselves clearly and still choose compassion.
Who live with the awareness: “I was lost. I was broken. I was far off. And He welcomed me anyway.”

That’s the gospel.
That’s what our nation—and our world—desperately needs.

“For as by one man’s disobedience many were made sinners,
so also by one Man’s obedience many will be made righteous…
Where sin abounded, grace abounded much more.”
— Romans 5:19–21

Grace abounds.
And that’s the only reason I can say:

I come broken to be mended
I come wounded to be healed
I come desperate to be rescued
I come empty to be filled
I come guilty to be pardoned
By the blood of Christ the Lamb
And I’m welcomed with open arms
Praise God, just as I am.

It’s been a long time since I’ve written here.

To be honest, I’ve been in a pretty difficult place the last couple of years—spiritually, emotionally, and even creatively. The words just haven’t come easily. My thoughts have mostly poured out in scattered Facebook posts, bits and pieces of processing. The other day, my husband gently pointed out, “You know, I think you’ve been blogging on Facebook.”

And you know what? He’s right. (Don’t you just love it when that happens? 😄)
So, here I am again, back in this space—for now—with a heart that’s tender and a voice that’s slowly returning.

Learning to Begin Again

There’s a quote I’ve come back to often lately—one that seems to capture where I’ve been and where I’m heading:

“Have patience with all things, but chiefly have patience with yourself.
Do not lose courage in considering your own imperfections,
but instantly set about remedying them—every day begin the task anew.”
— Saint Francis de Sales

That last line—“every day begin the task anew”—has been like balm to my soul.
Because some days, that’s the best we can do.
Begin again.

From Bible Study to Worship… and Wrestling

This morning, we finished our study of Hebrews in our Bible Fellowship group. My husband has been leading this series, and it’s been such a gift. Then during the worship service, we participated in a commitment service—a beautiful time of dedicating ourselves, our resources, and our lives to the Lord.

The orchestra didn’t play this morning. Instead, we stood with the choir, adding our voices to the hymns being sung.

And that’s where everything started to stir.

The first hymn was “Before the Throne of God Above.”
A song I’ve sung countless times.
But today… it undid me.

As the opening line appeared on the screen—“Before the throne of God above…”—Romans 14:10–12 sprang to mind:

“For we shall all stand before the judgment seat of Christ…
Each of us shall give an account of himself to God.”

Suddenly, that familiar undercurrent of unworthiness came rushing in.
My old, legalistic mindset reared its head and struck deep.

Who was I to be standing here, singing in the choir, helping lead worship?
I’m no spiritual giant. I’m a sinner—flawed, broken, failing far more often than I’d like to admit.
Every good thing I’ve ever tried to do still feels like filthy rags compared to His holiness.

I felt like the tax collector in Luke 18, beating his chest in the back of the temple, crying out, “Lord, have mercy on me, a sinner.”

And then… the choir began to sing.

Truth That Sings

Before the throne of God above
I have a strong and perfect plea:
A great High Priest whose name is Love,
Who ever lives and pleads for me.

Tears began to form.

My name is graven on His hands,
My name is written on His heart…
I know that while in heaven He stands,
No tongue can bid me thence depart.

I listened. I sang. I received.

When Satan tempts me to despair
And tells me of the guilt within,
Upward I look, and see Him there
Who made an end to all my sin.

And I remembered:
I do not and will not face the throne of God on my own.

He Lives and Pleads for Me

While we were singing, I could hear my husband’s voice in my mind, reading from Hebrews 4:

“Seeing then that we have a great High Priest who has passed through the heavens, Jesus the Son of God, let us hold fast our confession.
For we do not have a High Priest who cannot sympathize with our weaknesses, but was in all points tempted as we are, yet without sin.
Let us therefore come boldly to the throne of grace…”
— Hebrews 4:14–16

Jesus knows what it is to be human.
He understands my struggles—because He experienced weakness and temptation too.
But unlike me, He was without sin.
And now, He stands as my advocate.
He pleads for me.

I don’t have to sneak into the throne room quietly, hoping not to be noticed.
I can approach boldly.
Because of Him.

A Gospel That Still Wrecks Me

Because the sinless Savior died,
My sinful soul is counted free.
For God the just is satisfied
To look on Him and pardon me.

That’s the gospel.
Not that I got it all right—but that He did.
Not that I’ve been worthy—but that He made me righteous.
Not that I’ve earned it—but that He paid for it in full.

One With Himself, I Cannot Die

One with Himself I cannot die,
My soul is purchased by His blood.
My life is hid with Christ on high,
With Christ, my Savior and my God.

Amen.

A Final Thought

So, if like me, you’ve been in a hard place—feeling unworthy, weary, or unsure if you even belong in the room…
Let this be your reminder:

You are not alone.
You are not unredeemable.
And you don’t have to stand silent at the edge of grace.

He lives.
He pleads for you.
And you can come boldly, just as you are.

Praise God, just as I am.

I’ve been learning something lately.
Actually, re-learning might be a better word.

It’s one thing to trust God with my eternal destiny.
To say, “Yes, Lord, I trust You with my soul.”
To believe in heaven, in salvation, in the promises of eternity.

It’s another thing entirely to trust Him with my everyday.

To trust Him with the things that keep me up at night.
With the situations I can’t figure out.
With the pain I don’t understand and the decisions I don’t know how to make.

To trust Him even when I can’t see how anything good could possibly come from what I’m facing.

Trust Beyond Eternity

If I really want to know God’s will—not just for my life in the big-picture sense, but for my actions, my attitude, my next step—I have to start with trust.

Real, day-by-day, detail-level trust.

“Trust in the Lord with all your heart,
and lean not on your own understanding;
in all your ways acknowledge Him,
and He shall direct your paths.”
— Proverbs 3:5–6

This verse has comforted me since I was young. But lately, it’s been confronting me, too.

It reminds me that trust isn’t partial.
It’s not “some of your heart.”
It’s all.

And it asks something hard of me:
To acknowledge Him in all my ways.
Not just the tidy ones. Not just the Sunday morning ones.
But in the messy, confusing, painful, and overwhelming ones, too.

He Cares About It All

If I believe that God is truly good…
If I believe that He is involved, attentive, and loving…
Then I must also believe that He cares about the details of my life—not just my soul, but my schedule.
Not just my salvation, but my sorrow.
Not just my future, but my right now.

He doesn’t promise to do things my way.
(And honestly, I’ve come to be thankful for that.)
He promises to direct my path—to lead, to guide, to be faithful.
Even when I can’t see how.
Even when it doesn’t look the way I thought it would.

Still Learning, Still Trusting

I’m still human.
Still figuring this out.
Still discovering that God is more trustworthy than I ever imagined.

When I’m hurting, He knows.
When I’m uncertain, He’s still in charge.
When I can’t see the way forward, He’s already gone ahead of me.

No, He doesn’t always handle things the way I would.
But He sees the whole story.
He knows the weight of my heart and the work He’s doing in me through every twist and turn.

And that—honestly—is something I’m extremely grateful for. 😊

Years ago, when I turned 40, a friend gave me a coffee mug that made me laugh out loud. Painted on the front were these words:

“In our 20’s we thought we could change the world.
In our 30’s we thought we could rule the world.
In our 40’s we just wish we knew what in the world is going on.”

At the time, it felt funny and true.
Now that decade is behind me, I realize—it was also profoundly insightful.

Especially when it comes to my spiritual walk.

In My 20s: Strong, Capable, and Just Getting Started

I came to know Christ in my 20s. That season of life was full of ambition, passion, and the deep desire to be enough. I wanted to do big things for God. I wanted to be strong, capable, wise, respected. I wouldn’t have said I wanted to be perfect—but in hindsight, I lived like I did.

And if not perfect, then at least perceived that way.

But somewhere along the way, God allowed my life to be turned upside down—more than once.

Not to punish.
Not to shame.
But to teach.

To teach me that the pursuit of perfectionism in my own power was actually keeping me from relying on Him.

To remind me that I need Him—not just for salvation, but for everything.

The Hard but Holy Gift of Dependence

When life unravels, so does our illusion of control.
And in that unraveling, God began showing me the truth:

I can’t do anything apart from Him.
Not really.
Not anything that matters.
Not anything that lasts.

He is the only One who is truly good.
The only One who is perfect.
And the only One who can perfect me—not through effort, but through grace.

When Weakness Becomes a Portal for Power

Paul understood this better than anyone. In 2 Corinthians 12:9, he writes:

“And He said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for My strength is made perfect in weakness.’
Therefore most gladly I will rather boast in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me.”

It’s not when I feel strong that His power is most evident.
It’s when I’m aware of just how weak I am.

It’s when I realize I can’t hold it all together.
When I finally stop pretending I’ve got it all figured out.
When I fall, confess, cry, and lean fully into Him.

That’s when His strength meets me.
That’s when His grace holds me up.
That’s when the power of Christ begins to rest on me and in me—not because I’m good enough, but because He is.

A Better Kind of Righteousness

There’s such freedom in realizing that I don’t have to produce my own righteousness.
That I don’t have to perform, impress, or strive my way into God’s affection.
That I’m already loved.
Already chosen.
Already covered by the only righteousness that truly matters—His.

“He is all the righteousness I will ever need.”

What a beautiful, humbling, glorious truth.

So Where Am I Now?

I’m still learning.
Still growing.
Still discovering that my dependence on Him isn’t weakness—it’s the way of strength.

And every day, I’m more and more grateful that He didn’t leave me in my perfectionist striving.
That He let things fall apart, just enough, to teach me how to lean.
To show me that His grace really is sufficient.

Not just for eternity—but for today.