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.

Where Sorrow and Beauty Meet

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I am here in Ukraine again—walking familiar cobblestone streets beneath wide Lviv skies, hearing the hum of trams and the laughter of children, watching flower stalls open and elderly women selling fresh herbs on street corners. The city is alive. It pulses with color, scent, and sound.

And yet, I carry the weight of war in my chest.

This land holds both the ache and the resilience of its people. There is trauma here that lingers in the nervous system of the nation—stories that are not mine to tell, but that I bear witness to with reverence. And still, in the very same breath, there is joy. There is worship. There is laughter over coffee. There are songs sung loudly and prayers whispered in corners. Somehow, all of it lives here together.

I find myself holding deep contrasts—safety and threat, beauty and brokenness, courage and weariness, faith and unanswered questions. One moment I am watching golden light filter through chestnut trees during our morning walk, and the next I am sitting in a room listening to someone describe the horror of displacement and fear.

It would be easier, I suppose, if the world were simple. If there were clear lines between good and bad, safe and dangerous, holy and profane. But it isn’t. The real world—the one Jesus entered—is layered and complex, filled with both pain and hope, sometimes in the same story. Sometimes in the same breath.

And I believe that’s exactly where Christ meets us.

When I walk these streets, I think of Psalm 34:18—“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” Not just as a theological truth, but as something I see unfolding in front of me. God is not distant from this place or its pain. He is right here, in the middle of it—closer than breath.

So I carry it all. I don’t rush to resolve the tension. I let myself feel the sting of it and the strange, holy ache that comes when sorrow and beauty touch. And I keep coming back to the table—to listen, to learn, to offer what I can.

Jesus, too, held all the contrasts. Fully God and fully man. Lamb and Lion. He walked among the grieving and fed the hungry, healed the sick and wept over the city. He didn’t avoid the pain—He entered into it, with love.

And so I will do the same. I will keep showing up, even when I don’t have answers. I will keep honoring both the grief and the strength I see. I will hold the contrasts—not because I am strong enough, but because Christ is.

And in the holding, I am held.

When the News Feels Like Too Much: Holding Steady in a World That Hurts

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There are days when I have to brace myself before opening the headlines.

It’s as if the world is groaning—under the weight of war, injustice, corruption, and grief—and all of it somehow ends up in the palm of my hand, glowing from a screen, demanding to be read. A missile hits a city. A child is harmed. A leader lies. A people are displaced. Another story of abuse, betrayal, loss.

And sometimes I wonder: Is there any part of this world that isn’t unraveling?

There’s a particular kind of soul-tiredness that comes from hearing hard news day after day. It wears on your compassion. It pulls your focus. It makes you question if anything you’re doing is enough—or if it even matters at all.

But here’s the thing I’m learning, slowly: our hearts were never meant to carry everything, all at once. We were created as image-bearers, yes—but not as omniscient or omnipotent ones. That’s God’s role, not ours.

Even Jesus, in His earthly body, stepped away from the crowds. He withdrew to quiet places. He rested, He wept, and He prayed.

So maybe part of following Jesus in a world that’s aching is learning how to live with both eyes wide open and heart firmly rooted. We can grieve deeply without being undone. We can be present to pain without drowning in it. We can speak truth without being consumed by despair.

Because even in the flood of heartbreak, God has not left the building. He is still Emmanuel—God with us. Still the One who collects every tear. Still the Redeemer, still the Restorer, still the Risen One who defeated death and says, “Behold, I am making all things new.”

So when the news feels like too much, we can:

  • Pause and breathe. Not as an escape, but as an act of trust.
  • Lament. Cry out like the psalmists did. “How long, O Lord?” is a holy question.
  • Light candles. Pray names out loud. Send money or meals or letters.
  • Hold tight to what is still good and still beautiful.
  • Remind each other that love is not lost.
  • Keep planting seeds of peace in our little corners of the world.

And maybe, most of all, we can remember that Jesus does not look away. He sees it all. And He sees you, too—your tender heart, your exhaustion, your fierce love, your quiet prayers.

He is not overwhelmed, even when we are.

So take heart, weary one. You were never meant to carry the whole world. But you are invited to carry hope.

Even here. Even now.

The Sacred Gift of Empathy: Seeing with the Eyes of Christ

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In a world full of noise, empathy is the quiet gift that whispers, “I see you.”
It is not the same as agreement.
It is not fixing.
It is not advice.

Empathy is presence.

It is the willingness to enter someone else’s story without trying to edit it. It’s what Jesus did so often—sitting with sinners, touching the unclean, asking gentle questions, listening beneath the surface. He didn’t rush to correct their theology. He led with compassion.

And isn’t that the way love always begins?

“Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn.”
— Romans 12:15

Paul doesn’t tell us to analyze with those who mourn. Or lecture those who rejoice. He says to feel with them. To let our hearts stretch wide enough to hold their joy or sorrow. That’s holy work.

In the Gospels, Jesus consistently practiced this kind of heart-deep compassion. When he saw the widow whose only son had died, He “was moved with compassion.” When Mary wept at Lazarus’ tomb, He didn’t begin with a resurrection. He began with tears.

Empathy is what gives our faith weight. Without it, our theology can become brittle—true on paper but cold in practice. But with empathy, our beliefs take on flesh and bone. They become incarnational.

To follow Jesus is to move toward others in their pain, not away from it. To sit with someone in the ashes without rushing them toward beauty. To acknowledge wounds even when we cannot mend them.

And yes, it’s costly.

Empathy requires something of us. It costs time, energy, emotional bandwidth. It means we might feel uncomfortable. It means we don’t get to stay on the surface of life. But it also means we become a living testimony to the love of Christ—a love that didn’t remain distant but stepped into our humanity.

In this way, empathy is a form of worship.

When we choose to slow down and listen—when we honor the sacred in someone’s pain—we echo the very heartbeat of our Savior.

So today, may we resist the temptation to rush in with answers.
May we listen more than we speak.
May we enter stories gently.
And may we remember that the ministry of presence is never wasted.

Because to be like Christ is not just to preach truth, but to embody grace.

“Bear one another’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ.”
— Galatians 6:2

Empathy is not soft. It is strong enough to carry what others cannot carry alone.
And it is sacred enough to reflect the One who always sees us—fully, tenderly, and without turning away.

Love Wears Work Boots, Not Just Wings

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When we picture love, we often imagine something soaring and effortless — like wings lifting us into joy and beauty. And sometimes, love really does feel that way. But much of the time, love is grittier. It’s kneeling low, bearing burdens, and walking through hard places. Real love doesn’t just float on good feelings; it ties on a pair of work boots and shows up, day after day. The love Christ calls us to isn’t measured by how high we soar in emotion — but by how faithfully we walk in compassion, sacrifice, and truth.

In a world that often tells us that love is a fleeting feeling — a rush of emotion, a swelling of the heart — Scripture offers us a deeper, sturdier vision. Love, at its core, is not just something we feel. It’s something we do.

Jesus didn’t say, “Feel warm affections toward one another.” He said, “Love one another as I have loved you.” (John 13:34). His love was not a passive sentiment. It was an embodied choice — a willingness to sacrifice, to serve, to show up again and again even when it hurt. His love was action in motion: bending low to wash dirty feet, forgiving failures, healing wounds, welcoming the outsider, and ultimately laying down His life.

If love were only a feeling, it would falter when emotions waver — when frustration sets in, when grief weighs heavy, when anger, disappointment, or exhaustion threaten to take over. But because love is an action, it has a steady, resilient strength. It holds fast even when feelings fluctuate.

Love is showing up when it’s inconvenient.
Love is choosing kindness when irritation is easier.
Love is speaking truth when silence would be more comfortable.
Love is forgiving when resentment feels justified.
Love is listening, comforting, sacrificing — even when there’s no applause or immediate reward.

Feelings are a beautiful part of our humanity — but they are not the foundation of Biblical love. True love is built on the sturdier ground of covenant, commitment, and Christlike service.

Paul describes it plainly in 1 Corinthians 13:
“Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. … It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.” (1 Corinthians 13:4,7-8)

Notice how every description is about what love does.
Not what it feels — but how it acts.

In our friendships, marriages, families, churches — even toward strangers — we are called to love actively, not passively. Sometimes love feels sweet and light. Other times, it feels heavy, costly, even painful. Yet both are love. Both are obedience.

Love, at its truest, mirrors Christ Himself — who loved us not because it was easy or because we had earned it, but because His nature is love. And now, through His Spirit, He empowers us to love others not merely when we feel like it, but as a daily reflection of His love toward us.

Today, maybe you’re facing a relationship where the feelings aren’t easy to summon.
Maybe you’re weary. Maybe you’re hurting. Maybe you’re feeling numb.

Take heart, dear one.
Love isn’t proven by what you feel — it’s shown by what you do.
And every small, unseen act of love echoes the very heart of God.

“Dear children, let us not love with words or speech but with actions and in truth.” (1 John 3:18)

Some days love may feel like soaring on wings; other days it feels like lacing up worn work boots. But either way, when we love like Christ, we are moving the heart of heaven into the dust of this earth.

When Kingdoms Clash: God, War, and the Politics of Our Hearts

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Before battles rage on the earth, they rage within us — in the quiet war for our hope, our loyalty, and our love.

In a world riven by war and political upheaval, it’s easy to feel caught between competing loyalties — to our nations, to our leaders, to our own wearied hopes. Every news cycle seems to sharpen the edges of division. Every war reminds us of how fragile peace can be. Every election tempts us to believe that salvation might be found in the rise or fall of a human government.

But Scripture tells a deeper story.

Our true citizenship is not of this world.
“But our citizenship is in heaven. And we eagerly await a Savior from there, the Lord Jesus Christ.” (Philippians 3:20)

When we lose sight of this, politics becomes an idol. Nations become idols. Power becomes an idol.
We find ourselves aligning more passionately with parties and policies than with the heart of God Himself.

And yet — God is not indifferent to the suffering of people under war and unjust rule. He is not passive toward violence, oppression, or the misuse of power.
“He upholds the cause of the oppressed and gives food to the hungry. The Lord sets prisoners free, the Lord gives sight to the blind, the Lord lifts up those who are bowed down.” (Psalm 146:7-8)

Throughout Scripture, we see that God weeps with those who suffer under violence.
He hears the cries of the war-torn.
He sees the injustice that politics often worsens, rather than heals.
And He calls His people not to be mere bystanders, but to be reflections of His justice, His mercy, and His steadfast love — even in the darkest of times.

So where does that leave us?

It leaves us in a place of both action and humility.

We are called to seek justice and peace — but not to stake our hope on political outcomes.
We are called to pray for leaders — but not to worship them.
We are called to be active in the world’s pain — but not to lose ourselves to the world’s rage.

There are times when politics must be engaged with courage, because policies can either protect or harm the vulnerable.
There are times when war must be resisted, mourned, and decried, because every human life bears the image of God.

But our highest allegiance is not to a flag, or a ruler, or a party.
It is to a Kingdom that cannot be shaken.
It is to a King whose throne is established on righteousness and justice.

“The Lord reigns forever;
He has established His throne for judgment.
He rules the world in righteousness
and judges the peoples with equity.” (Psalm 9:7-8)

When wars rage, when political climates darken, when the world feels unrecognizable —
We remember: God is not swayed by elections.
He is not unseated by tanks or tyrants.
His purposes are not at the mercy of human pride.

He remains.
He reigns.
He is at work — even in the chaos we cannot understand.

And so, we do not despair.

We lament.
We pray.
We act where we can.
We anchor our hope where it was always meant to be — not in human systems, but in the hands of a faithful, eternal God.

“The Lord gives strength to His people; the Lord blesses His people with peace.” (Psalm 29:11)

Come, Lord Jesus.
Teach us how to live in these days — with courage, with tenderness, and with eyes set firmly on You.

Ashes and Altars: The Holy Courage of Ukraine

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“He will give them beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, and a garment of praise for a spirit of despair.”
— Isaiah 61:3

There is a fierce, sacred resilience in the soul of Ukraine—a resilience not born overnight, but carved through generations of sorrow, hope, and unyielding faith.

To understand the anguish of today, we must first remember the long ache of yesterday.

For seventy years, Ukraine lived beneath the heavy shadow of Soviet rule. Life under the Union was a life of scarcity, suspicion, and silence.
Faith was not free; it was feared.
Church doors were barred shut. Bibles were banned.
Believers gathered not in grand cathedrals but in the hidden places—the basements, the forests, the still corners where prayers could be whispered without being overheard.

It was dangerous to belong to Christ.
And yet, the Church lived.

Even the common rhythms of daily life bore the brand of oppression.

  • No private shops to build dreams.
  • No market stalls to trade goods with a neighbor.
  • No commerce that was not state-sanctioned and state-controlled.

Every salary was the same, a dull echo of effort with no reward.
Every home bore the same government-issued furniture, stripping homes of personality, families of dignity. Creativity was suspect. Ownership was dangerous.

If you needed bread—or sugar, or a pair of worn boots—you stood in line.
And waited.
And hoped the supply would not run dry before your turn.

There was a hunger deeper than the stomach’s ache.
A hunger for freedom.
A hunger for the dignity of choice.
A hunger for God.

And even so—the Spirit was never absent.

Faith took root underground like seeds buried deep in winter, hidden but not dead. Believers memorized Scripture because paper could betray them. They sang songs without raising their voices. They built altars in their hearts where no regime could reach.

This is the soil from which Ukraine has grown—a people who know what it is to suffer, to endure, and still to believe.

And now, once again, the land is groaning.

The war that erupted in 2022 has carved deep wounds into the body of Ukraine.

  • Cities once bustling with life now lie in ruins.
  • Families scatter like leaves before a bitter wind.
  • Children learn the sound of air raid sirens before the sound of bedtime stories.

The trauma is not just physical. It is spiritual. It is generational.

Grandparents who once whispered prayers under Soviet rule now whisper them again, this time for sons and daughters gone to the front lines.
Mothers rock children to sleep in underground shelters.
Fathers build barricades from the ruins of their own homes.

Still—hope presses through the cracks like green shoots after a fire.
Still—they endure.

They rebuild gardens in the rubble.
They gather for worship in the ruins.
They teach their children to sing songs of hope, even when the skies are heavy with smoke.

The need for peace—and a swift and lasting victory—is desperate.
Each day of delay deepens the wound. Each moment of continued violence hardens the soil where healing should already be taking root.

As followers of Christ, we are not called to observe from a distance.
We are called to carry the burdens of the suffering (Galatians 6:2).
We are called to defend the oppressed (Isaiah 1:17).
We are called to move toward the broken places with love in our hands and hope in our hearts.

Ukraine’s suffering is not foreign to the heart of God.
It must not be foreign to ours.

We must:

  • Remember.
  • Pray.
  • Give, advocate, go when called.
  • Hold the line of hope when the battle is long.

The people of Ukraine know what it is to sing hymns when the chains rattle loudest.
They know what it is to hold the light when the night is thick with fear.
They know what it is to build altars among the ashes.

And now, as they fight once more for the dignity of freedom, may we be the ones who lift their arms when they falter (Exodus 17:12).
May we be the ones who stand beside them until the day peace reigns over their beloved land.

God is not silent in Ukraine.
Even now.
Especially now.

Through us—His Church—may the people of Ukraine know:

They are seen.
They are loved.
They are not forgotten.

Lord, make beauty from these ashes.
Bring healing to this land.
And find us faithful, bearing Your light into the darkest valleys.