When the Wound Came from Within: Faith, Forgiveness, and Family Pain

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They say blood is thicker than water, but what do we do when the very blood that runs through our veins carries the memory of betrayal?

For many survivors of abuse, the pain didn’t come from a stranger. It came from someone within the family—someone who should have been safe. And sometimes, the deepest cut isn’t only the abuse itself. It’s what came afterward: the silence, the denial, the insistence to “forgive and forget,” to “keep the peace,” to “move on” for the sake of the family.

But what if that peace costs a survivor their voice? Their safety? Their healing?

As Christians, we often talk about forgiveness—and rightly so. Jesus calls us to forgive, just as we have been forgiven (Ephesians 4:32). But forgiveness is not the same as forgetting. And it’s certainly not the same as reconciling with someone who remains unsafe or unrepentant.

Forgiveness is an internal act between our soul and God—a releasing of bitterness, a handing over of justice into divine hands. But too often, survivors are told that forgiveness must look like restored relationship. That to “really let it go,” they must pretend the abuse never happened. This is not only unbiblical—it’s deeply harmful.

Scripture never asks us to ignore evil. It doesn’t command us to minimize harm to keep family bonds intact. In fact, Jesus said that following Him might bring division even among families (Luke 12:51-53)—not because He desires conflict, but because truth often threatens systems that are built on silence.

To the survivor who feels torn between your healing and your family’s comfort, hear this: you are not required to shrink your pain to protect someone else’s denial.

You can forgive without forgetting.

You can release bitterness without allowing abuse to continue.

You can honor God without re-entering unsafe relationships.

And if your family doesn’t understand—if they accuse you of being unforgiving, dramatic, or divisive—remember that Jesus sees the whole story. He knows what happened in the dark. He knows the tears you’ve cried alone. And He calls you beloved still.

Healing from family-based trauma is often a long, layered process. It can feel lonely at times, especially in faith communities that haven’t yet learned how to hold both justice and mercy, both grace and truth. But you are not alone. There are others walking this path with you. And more importantly, God walks with you—not demanding silence, but inviting honesty… not requiring performance, but offering presence.

So may you take the time you need.

May you listen to the wisdom of your body and the discernment of the Spirit.

May you let go of bitterness—but not boundaries.

And may you find, in Christ, the One who never demands your silence and never minimizes your pain.

You are not too much. You are not unforgiving. You are healing. And heaven is cheering you on.

A Prayer for the Fragile and the Sacred

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God of all tenderness,
You who walk gently among the broken and beautiful,
I bring before You the image that lingers —
a home in the woods,
a gathering of the young,
a table being set,
and a glass pumpkin — delicate, lovely, and broken in my hands.

I don’t always know what to do with the fragile things.
Not in dreams,
and not in waking life either.
I try to carry them well —
the stories, the callings, the hearts entrusted to me.
But sometimes they slip,
sometimes they crack,
and I don’t know how to make it right.

Still, You are the One who sees even what I try to hide.
You do not shame me for what was broken.
You do not rush me to fix it.
You just stay with me,
gentle and unafraid of the mess.

Teach me, Lord,
to live unashamed in my imperfection.
To name what has cracked without hiding.
To trust that even in the breaking,
Your grace is still enough.

Let the home I build — in dreams and in life —
be a place where the wounded are welcome,
where the vulnerable are safe,
and where even the broken things
can be set out without fear.

Amen.

More Than What You Produce: Breaking Free from Hustle Culture

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In the U.S., hustle is a badge of honor. We measure success in late nights, early mornings, jam-packed calendars, and multi-tasking prowess. “Busy” is worn like a trophy, and rest can feel like a guilty indulgence. Productivity isn’t just a priority—it’s become a measure of identity.

And many of us—especially those who care deeply, serve faithfully, or long to make a difference—get caught in this current without even realizing it. We answer emails at stoplights, fill our weekends with catch-up tasks, and wake up wondering if we’ve done enough.

Somewhere along the way, we started believing a dangerous lie:
That our worth is tied to our output.
That rest must be earned.
That slowing down is failure.
That being needed is the same thing as being loved.

But friend, God never designed us to live this way.

From the very beginning, we see a different rhythm. In the creation story, God speaks the world into being in six days—and on the seventh, He rests. Not because He’s tired or limited, but because He is showing us something profound:
Rest is holy.
It isn’t a reward for hard work—it’s part of the work.
It isn’t weakness—it’s wisdom.

God built Sabbath into the very fabric of time—not just for a day off, but as a spiritual practice of trust. It’s a declaration that we are not God, and we don’t have to be. That the world keeps spinning even when we pause. That we are held, even when we’re not striving.

But hustle culture tells us otherwise. It whispers:

“You’ll fall behind.”
“You’re only as good as your performance.”
“If you stop, people will forget you.”
“You have to earn your place.”

And those whispers can get tangled up with our deepest wounds—childhood experiences of conditional love, adult seasons of invisibility, fear of failure, or old church teachings that confused busyness with godliness. For many of us, it’s not just about doing more—it’s about trying to be enough.

But hear this:
Your value has never been up for negotiation.

You are not valuable because of what you produce.
You are valuable because you are created.
Because you bear the image of a God who delights in being, not just doing.

Jesus didn’t live a hustle-paced life. He moved slowly enough to notice people, to touch the sick, to bless children, to stop for the woman at the well. He rested. He withdrew. He even napped in a storm.

He knew His identity wasn’t tied to crowds, miracles, or outcomes.
It was rooted in this truth:

“This is my Son, whom I love; with Him I am well pleased.” (Matthew 3:17)

Before He had preached a single sermon, healed a single person, or completed His mission—He was already beloved.

And so are you.

What would it look like to live from that place?

To unhook your worth from your to-do list.
To stop measuring your days in output and start noticing your soul.
To say no without shame.
To rest without guilt.
To believe that being fully human is not a flaw to overcome—but a gift to embrace.

In Christ, you are already chosen, already loved, already worthy—not because you got it all done, but because He did.

So if you’re tired, friend—really tired—consider this an invitation. Not just to take a break, but to step into a deeper kind of freedom. A counter-cultural, gospel-shaped life where your value is not earned, but received.

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.” (Matthew 11:28)

This isn’t permission to quit everything. It’s a reminder that you don’t have to prove your worth by doing everything.

You are not behind.
You are not failing.
You are not forgotten.
You are beloved.

Maybe the holiest thing you can do this week isn’t to hustle harder.
Maybe it’s to breathe.
To pause.
To delight in something unproductive.
To believe, deep down, that God delights in you.

Not for what you do—but simply for who you are.

Called to the Light: Speaking the Truth in a Culture of Silence

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There’s a sacred ache that stirs in the hearts of those who’ve been told to stay silent in the name of peace. For those who have suffered abuse—spiritual, emotional, physical—and were then told by the Church that to speak up would be to “sow division,” that ache deepens. When spiritual authority is used to suppress truth, protect reputation, or shame the wounded into silence, we must pause and ask: whose peace are we preserving?

Too often, survivors are told that speaking out is gossip. That calling abuse what it is would damage the reputation of the Church. That naming their experience would make others “stumble.” But Scripture tells a different story.

Ephesians 5:11 says, “Have nothing to do with the fruitless deeds of darkness, but rather expose them.”
Not minimize them.
Not hide them for the sake of appearances.
Not silence them to protect a ministry.

Expose them.

This is not a call to vengeance. It’s a call to truth. Because the Kingdom of God is not built on secrecy—it’s built on light. And light cannot fellowship with darkness.

Calling out abuse isn’t gossip. It’s spiritual obedience.

Jesus Himself did not shy away from naming injustice. He flipped tables when worship was corrupted by greed (Matthew 21:12–13). He publicly confronted religious leaders who burdened others while protecting their own power (Matthew 23). He stood with the wounded and exposed the structures that caused them harm.

When we speak truth—especially the kind that risks rejection or pushes against institutional comfort—we’re not being disloyal to the Church. We’re being faithful to Christ.

Because silence protects the abuser.
But truth sets the captives free.

If your story makes others uncomfortable, it might be because they benefitted from your silence. Maybe your pain threatened the image they wanted to project. Maybe they saw your healing as a disruption instead of a deliverance. But friend, God never called you to protect image—He called you to walk in truth.

And that truth? It might tremble in your throat. It might crack your voice. It might cost you relationships or respectability. But it is holy. It is weighty with heaven’s presence. It echoes the voice of the One who said, “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me… to proclaim liberty to the captives, and recovery of sight to the blind, to set at liberty those who are oppressed” (Luke 4:18).

You were not created to carry someone else’s secrets so they can maintain control.
You were not created to be a scapegoat for another person’s shame.
You were created to bear God’s image—and to be restored to wholeness.

Let me say it plainly:
You are not divisive for naming what is true.
You are not bitter for saying, “That hurt me.”
You are not destructive for seeking justice.

You are brave.
You are rising.
You are answering the call to walk in the light.

And to the Church? May we listen. May we repent for the times we’ve asked survivors to shield us from discomfort. May we be a place where wounds are not buried but bandaged, where image is not worshiped, but integrity is, and where healing is not hindered by silence, but supported by love.

Jesus is not afraid of the truth.
And neither should we be.

When Heaven Sings: How Music Tunes Our Brains and Souls

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“God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble… therefore we will not fear.” – Psalm 46:1

Have you ever felt a song stir something deep within you—like it was written just for your heart? Science now affirms what faith has long proclaimed: music doesn’t just move us emotionally; it moves us physiologically, aligning our very brain rhythms with its melodies.

A groundbreaking study published in Nature Reviews Neuroscience introduces Neural Resonance Theory (NRT), which suggests that our brains don’t merely process music—they resonate with it. (ScienceAlert article) This means that when we listen to music, our brain’s natural oscillations synchronize with the rhythms and pitches we hear. It’s as if our minds and bodies become one with the music, dancing in harmonious unity.

This resonance isn’t dependent on musical training. From infants instinctively swaying to a lullaby to elders finding solace in cherished hymns, our brains are wired to respond. This universal human experience points to something sacred—a design that goes far beyond biology. Music, it seems, is a bridge between the tangible and the transcendent, a divine fingerprint woven into our neurology.

Consider the concept of “groove”—that irresistible urge to move with the beat. NRT explains that our brains find joy in rhythms that strike a balance between predictability and surprise. This mirrors the spiritual life: a dance between trust and mystery, between the steady faithfulness of God and the wondrous unpredictability of grace.

Music also heals. Research continues to show the benefits of music therapy for people with dementia, where melodies can spark memory, calm anxiety, and enhance connection. What else but divine mercy could create something so beautiful and accessible, able to reach hearts when words fall short?

And here’s where it becomes even more powerful: when music is offered not just as art or comfort, but as worship.

When we sing praise or sit quietly in reverent awe, we’re not simply participating in a religious ritual—we’re aligning ourselves with the rhythm of heaven. Worship through music is a sacred transaction: our hearts pour out adoration, longing, grief, or gratitude, and in return, we are met with the presence of the One who made us.

Scripture tells us, “God inhabits the praises of His people” (Psalm 22:3). That isn’t metaphor—it’s a spiritual reality. When we worship, we invite God’s nearness. And through music, our bodies, brains, and spirits begin to resonate not just with melody, but with the heartbeat of God Himself.

Think of King David playing the harp to soothe Saul’s tormented spirit. Or the walls of Jericho falling to trumpet blasts and praise. Or Paul and Silas singing in prison—chains breaking open, not just around their wrists, but around their souls.

Music softens our defenses. It bypasses the mind and speaks directly to the spirit. In worship, it becomes a holy language—a way our souls cry out, “You are worthy,” and hear God reply, “You are Mine.”

So the next time a song stirs something in you, don’t dismiss it. That rising lump in your throat, that sudden calm, that warmth behind your eyes—it may very well be your soul responding to a divine call. It may be the Spirit whispering, “I’m here. I hear you. I delight in your worship.”

This is the sacred gift of music: not just that it moves us, but that it meets us—and in doing so, draws us closer to the One who created us to sing.

Hymn Reflection: “It Is Well With My Soul”

When peace like a river attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll;
Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say,
It is well, it is well with my soul.

This hymn, penned by Horatio Spafford in the wake of unthinkable personal tragedy, has traveled through generations as a song of faith that resonates deep within the human heart. Its melody is soothing. Its words are steadying. But what makes it truly powerful is that it helps us align our internal chaos with a higher truth.

In light of Neural Resonance Theory, we might even say this hymn doesn’t just feel peaceful—it creates peace. It speaks into the deepest rhythms of our minds and bodies and teaches them how to rest. It helps our brains settle into hope. It invites our nervous systems into a holy exhale.

And in worship, it does even more—it becomes a declaration. A melody of resistance against despair. A harmony of trust in a faithful God. A soul’s echo of eternity.

So the next time you hear this hymn—or any song that wraps around you like a blanket—pause and notice: your brain is listening, yes, but your soul is singing. And somewhere in that sacred resonance, God is near.

A Table Big Enough for Every Story — A Mother’s Day Reflection

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Today, we celebrate Mother’s Day—a day overflowing with love and layered with complexity.

For some, it’s a day of joy, laughter, and gratitude for the women who raised us with strength, tenderness, and faith. We honor the mothers who packed lunches, held us through tears, prayed over us in the quiet hours, and offered the kind of love that shaped our very view of God’s mercy.

But this day holds more than one kind of story. It always has.

So today, we make room at the table for all the stories.

To the mother who has buried a child—whose arms ache with emptiness and whose heart still holds every birthday, every memory—you are not forgotten. God draws near to the brokenhearted (Psalm 34:18), and your grief is holy ground.

To the woman who longs for a child, whose prayers are met with silence or loss—your tears are seen by the God who wept outside Lazarus’s tomb. You are not less than. You are deeply loved.

To the adoptive mom, who chose love in a different shape—you reflect the very heart of the gospel, which is always about grafting in, about claiming as beloved, about family formed in grace.

To the foster mom, who steps into the ache and stands in the gap—you are doing kingdom work. Thank you for showing up, again and again, with fierce, self-giving love.

To those who mother in ways that don’t come with a title—teachers, aunts, mentors, church leaders, neighbors, sisters—you are spiritual mothers, sowing seeds that will outlast you.

To the ones for whom today feels hollow because your mother is gone—you are held. May you find comfort in the One who promised never to leave you, even in the valley of shadows.

To those estranged or wounded by mothers who could not love well—God sees the child within you and offers the nurturing care you didn’t receive. His love is safe, steady, and healing.

To the mothers who are estranged from their children—who live with the ache of distance, misunderstanding, or silence—you carry a grief that is often invisible. Whether the rupture was your choice or theirs, God sees the tenderness and torment of your love. He is a Redeemer of broken things and a Comforter to those who wait in sorrow and hope.

And to those who have beautiful relationships with their moms—celebrate that gift. Hold it close. Give thanks.

Mother’s Day is not a single story. It’s a mosaic of joy and grief, presence and absence, celebration and longing. And Jesus—who gathered the grieving, the barren, the forgotten, and the beloved—makes room for every story.

So today, may we honor the mothers in our lives.
May we carry tenderness for the stories we don’t know.
And may we remember that God holds all things together—including the places that feel fractured and the prayers that still linger unanswered.

You are loved. You are seen. You are not alone.

“As a mother comforts her child, so will I comfort you…” — Isaiah 66:13

From “What’s Wrong With You?” to “What Happened to You?”: A More Christlike Way of Seeing

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For much of my life, I’ve heard the question — spoken or implied — What’s wrong with you?
Why are you so sensitive? Why can’t you let it go? Why do you keep messing up?

It’s a question that shames before it seeks to understand.
It assumes flaw, not story. Brokenness, not battle.

But there’s a better question. A more faithful one.
A question that reflects the posture of Jesus.

What happened to you?

This question doesn’t excuse harm or sidestep responsibility.
But it does create space for understanding.
It honors the truth that behavior is often a symptom of deeper wounds — that anger may mask fear, that withdrawal may be a shield, that perfectionism may be the last thread someone’s holding to stay upright.

Jesus never started with, What’s wrong with you?
He touched the leper, spoke with the Samaritan woman, wept at Lazarus’ tomb.
He saw through the mess and straight into the ache.
He knew what had happened.
And He responded with compassion, not condemnation.

Isaiah 42:3 reminds us:

“A bruised reed He will not break, and a smoldering wick He will not snuff out.”

Jesus sees the bruise. He sees the wick struggling to stay lit.
And instead of scolding the fragility, He nurtures it.
He comes close. He listens. He heals.

When we adopt the question What happened to you?
—we begin to see as He sees.
We move from judgment to curiosity.
From quick labels to holy listening.
From shame to story.

And maybe, just maybe, we begin to offer to others what we ourselves most need:
The assurance that we are not broken beyond repair.
That our pain is not too much.
That we are not problems to fix, but people to love.

If you’ve been asked what’s wrong with you?
Or asked it of yourself…
May you hear another voice rising stronger:
Tell Me your story. I want to know what happened. I will not turn away.

Jesus does not flinch at the truth of our pain.
He enters in. He stays.
And from that place, healing begins.

Safe, But Not Settled: Holding Heartache and Hope Across Borders

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This morning I woke up in a place where my power works, where sirens are rare, and where safety is so constant I forget to notice it. My coffee brewed without interruption. My phone didn’t buzz with emergency alerts. The people I love most are accounted for, safe and sleeping peacefully under a quiet sky. And yet—my heart is not settled.

Just days ago, I stood alongside students, friends, and fellow counselors in Ukraine—people whose lives are marked by bravery, burden, and a fierce commitment to hope. Their resilience humbles me. Their vulnerability invites me. Their suffering unsettles me in the most holy of ways.

And then, I come home. To safety. To abundance. To ease.

It’s a disorienting thing to hold two realities at once. To scroll the news and see missile attacks near where I just stood… while sitting in a quiet living room where my biggest decision is what to make for dinner. There is an ache in this returning. A tension in being safe while others remain in danger.

Sometimes I feel like I’m cheating grief by being far away.

But I am reminded—again and again—that presence is not limited by geography. That prayer is not weakened by miles. That love stretches farther than the reach of war.

Jesus Himself wept over Jerusalem, grieving a people He longed to gather under His wings like a mother hen gathers her chicks (Luke 13:34). He didn’t ignore the pain of a place just because He wasn’t in it. He entered it—with compassion, with truth, and with unwavering nearness.

So today, I choose to stay tender. I choose not to grow numb just because I am safe. I choose to carry the names and faces of my Ukrainian brothers and sisters into my prayers, my advocacy, and my daily decisions. I choose to live with open hands, asking God how I can keep showing up—even from afar.

There is no easy way to carry this tension. But perhaps we aren’t meant to resolve it. Perhaps we are simply meant to feel it—to let it soften us, deepen us, and move us toward love.

“For if one part suffers, every part suffers with it…” (1 Corinthians 12:26). And if one part heals, we all move a step closer to wholeness.

I am safe, but I am not indifferent.

I am home, but I am not done.

And though my feet may be here, part of my heart still beats on Ukrainian soil—and always will.

“I Choose Love” — A Quiet Revolution of the Heart

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Inspired by the words of Max Lucado: “I choose love. No occasion justifies hatred; no injustice warrants bitterness. I choose love.”

Some choices change the course of a day. Others change the course of a life.

This is one of those choices.

Max Lucado’s words echo like a gentle rebellion in a world that often feels fueled by outrage, division, and despair. To say, “I choose love” in today’s climate is not sentimentality—it is spiritual courage. It’s a quiet revolution of the heart.

And it’s exactly what Christ modeled for us.

Jesus, unjustly accused, mocked, tortured, and crucified, did not respond with hatred. Instead, He prayed, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do” (Luke 23:34). Love was not just His message; it was His method. And it’s the method we’re called to imitate.

But let’s be honest—it’s easier to talk about love than to live it. Especially when we’ve been wounded. Especially when we see injustice, betrayal, or cruelty. Bitterness feels like a shield. Hatred can masquerade as strength. And yet, the Gospel turns that thinking upside down.

“No occasion justifies hatred.”

Not even betrayal.
Not even injustice.
Not even when the world says, “You have every right to be angry.”

Because when we choose hatred, we become the very thing we despise. But when we choose love—especially when it costs us something—we reflect the heart of God. We say to the world: There is another way. A higher way. A Kingdom way.

“No injustice warrants bitterness.”

Bitterness is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to suffer. It corrodes the soul from within. But love? Love cleanses. Love releases. Love heals. Love remembers that even the one who wronged us is an image bearer in need of grace.

This doesn’t mean we ignore injustice. Love does not turn a blind eye to evil. But it refuses to let evil define the response. Love can confront with clarity. Love can say “no more” with holy fire. But it does not root itself in hatred—it roots itself in truth, and grace, and dignity.

Paul reminds us in Romans 12:21: “Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.”

This is not weakness. It’s warfare of the most powerful kind.

So today, I choose love.
Not because it’s easy.
Not because the pain is gone.
Not because the world makes it simple.

I choose love because He first loved me (1 John 4:19).
Because love is what makes me whole.
Because love is the only path that leads to peace.

May we be people who walk in that kind of love—firm, courageous, redemptive love. A love that refuses to mirror the darkness and instead becomes a light that cannot be hidden.

From Sirens to Silence: Returning from War-Torn Ukraine to the Safety of Home

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There’s a holy kind of disorientation that comes when you leave a war zone and step back into peace.

In Ukraine, the soundscape is unforgettable. It’s not just the sirens—though those pierce your chest like a cold wind—but the in-between silence that follows them. The kind of quiet that feels like holding your breath. The kind of quiet that wonders, “Will it come here next?” And when the silence is broken, it’s by news of another strike, another village leveled, another family forever changed.

You learn to move through your day holding invisible weights. Not just your own responsibilities, but the stories of those beside you. Stories of sons on the front lines, of homes destroyed twice, of trauma that doesn’t wait for a break to speak. And yet—there is laughter. There is resilience. There are old women planting tomatoes near the trenches and children playing soccer next to bomb shelters.

Somehow, hope and horror live side by side.

And then, just like that, you’re on a plane back to the United States. You land in a clean, calm airport. No soldiers, no checkpoints. You stand in line for coffee and no one is scanning the exits. Your bag rolls smoothly over polished tile instead of cobblestone. The barista asks how your day is going.

And you almost forget how to answer.

There’s this peculiar guilt that rises when safety returns too quickly. A feeling that something must be wrong with you for enjoying a warm bed when you know the person you sat across from yesterday might sleeping in a shelter with sandbags for walls. You feel joy at being home—and grief for ever having left. You feel relief—and restlessness. You carry stories that others can’t see, and it makes ordinary life feel… blurry.

I’m learning not to run from that tension.

Because Scripture doesn’t tell us to choose between joy or sorrow. It invites us to hold both. “Rejoice with those who rejoice, and weep with those who weep.” (Romans 12:15)

That’s what Jesus did. He wept at the tomb of Lazarus even though He knew resurrection was coming. He sat with the suffering and also multiplied bread at a wedding feast. He knew how to live between heaven and heartbreak.

So I’m asking myself: how do I live faithfully in between?

Here’s what I’m finding:

I breathe deeper here. Not with guilt, but with gratitude—and remembrance. Every quiet night’s sleep is a gift. Every dinner shared around a peaceful table is holy ground. I don’t want to forget that.

I keep my heart soft. I don’t numb out or move on. I name their names when I pray. I tell their stories when I speak. I don’t let convenience steal my compassion.

I let the discomfort teach me. The pull between two worlds is not a flaw—it’s an invitation. It reminds me that I belong to a global body, and that the peace I enjoy should fuel my advocacy, not silence it.

I practice presence. Not performative urgency. Not performative guilt. But true presence. I listen when someone tells their story. I show up for people who are tired. I stay grounded in what’s real, even when it hurts.

Most of all, I trust that God is near.

Near to the weary pastor still pastoring in a war zone.
Near to the widow who still sets out two plates.
Near to the child coloring in a basement lit by a generator.
And near to me, as I return to a quiet home and try to keep my heart from closing.

It’s tempting to believe that faith means we must always feel strong. But I’m learning faith can look like tears. Like trembling hands still reaching out. Like choosing to stay tender when it would be easier to forget.

This world is broken in ways that are too heavy for words. But the kingdom of God is here, too—in the resilience of those who remain, in the compassion of those who return, in the breath that fills our lungs even after sirens.

So I will rest. And I will remember. And I will return—whether in body or in prayer or in voice—again and again.

Because love doesn’t look away.

And neither will I.