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.

Each Life, a Reflection of the Creator

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Right now, I’m sitting quietly in the Charlotte airport, my coffee cooling beside me as I wait for my friends Clay and Rebekah. I’m partway through the journey to Lviv, and as I watch the streams of people passing by — rolling suitcases, clutching coffee cups, adjusting backpacks — I find myself drawn into reflection.

There’s a certain beauty in airports that I often miss in the rush to get where I’m going. Here, gathered under one roof, are men and women from every walk of life. Different races, different languages, different ways of dressing and carrying themselves. Some in suits, striding with urgent purpose. Some in jeans and t-shirts, wandering a little wide-eyed. Some tired, some excited, some lost in their own thoughts.

And yet — in every face, a story. In every life, the sacred imprint of God.

Scripture tells us, “So God created man in his own image, in the image of God he created him; male and female he created them.” (Genesis 1:27, ESV).
It’s easy to affirm that in theory. But here, in the hum of announcements and the shuffle of footsteps, it feels tangible. Real.
Every person carrying hopes, fears, burdens, dreams.
Every person beloved by the Creator who shaped them with care.

It humbles me. It softens me.

Because if I’m honest, it’s easy to slip into my own little bubble — to see only my own journey, my own mission, my own people. But sitting here, watching the ebb and flow of humanity, I’m reminded: no one here is an extra in the story of the world. No one is invisible to the eyes of God.

The businessman tapping away at his laptop.
The weary mother juggling a toddler and a stroller.
The older couple holding hands as they find their gate.
The teenager traveling alone, earbuds tucked in, face serious.
The gate agent calling names over the loudspeaker.

Every single one — a reflection of divine creativity.
Every single one — a soul for whom Christ came. “For we are his workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand, that we should walk in them.” (Ephesians 2:10, ESV).

And so I sit here, heart open, breathing a prayer for the strangers I will never meet again.
A prayer that they will know — somehow, some way — that they are seen, known, and deeply loved by the One who knit them together. (Psalm 139:13-14)

Maybe the next time you find yourself in a crowd — at the airport, in the grocery store, at a concert, or just in traffic — you’ll feel it too.
The quiet awe of realizing: we are surrounded by image bearers.
We are walking among the handiwork of God.
And maybe that realization will change the way we look at each other — with more tenderness, more patience, more wonder.

Even here.
Even now.
Especially now.

The Night Before I Go

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The house is quiet tonight. Suitcases stand zipped and ready by the door. My passport rests on the counter beside a worn leather Bible. Maci, ever intuitive, moves softly through the house, sensing the shift. And my heart—well, my heart is carrying a blend of peace, urgency, and something that feels like holy ache.

There’s always a weight to the night before.

Not fear, exactly. But reverence. The kind of solemn awareness that rises when you know you’re about to step onto sacred ground again—where trauma runs deep, where suffering is not abstract, and where the call to love is not theoretical.

It would be easier to stay. That truth lives quietly in my body too. Home is warm. Familiar. Safe. And if I’m honest, I’m tired. The last trip was beautiful, yes—but heavy. The stories stayed with me long after I returned. They still do.

But I also know this: my life is not my own.

And when you know you’re called—when you believe with your whole self that love is not just something we feel but something we do —then there’s no question. The path becomes clear, even when it’s hard.

I go because I love the people there. I go because I’ve seen firsthand the resilience and faith of students and counselors and community members who show up day after day to heal others while still healing themselves. I go because God is there—in every classroom, in every story of loss and redemption, in every sacred moment of connection that reminds us we are not alone.

I go because Jesus did.

He didn’t stay in comfort. He entered our pain. He walked toward the wounded, the frightened, the outcast. And in doing so, He showed us what love looks like: Incarnate. Present. Willing.

So tonight, I breathe deep and steady. I let the tears come as they need to. I hold both the joy and the gravity of this calling. And I entrust all of it—my family, my team, my own fragile heart—into the hands of the One who goes before me.

Will you pray with me?

Pray for peace in Ukraine. For safety on the roads and skies. For students who are holding so much as they learn to hold space for others. For churches and counselors who serve tirelessly in a war-weary land. And pray that we, as a team, would be vessels—gentle and willing, filled not with our own wisdom, but with the compassion and presence of Christ.

This is holy work.

Thank you for sending me with your prayers. Thank you for loving us as we go.

With a full and steady heart,
Sandy

“You are not sent to do easy work. You are sent to do holy work. And holy work will stretch you, cost you, and ultimately shape you into someone more like Christ.”
— Unknown

Faith Amid the Rubble: Holding Fast in the Wake of Kyiv’s Darkest Night

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This morning, as the sun rose over Kyiv, it illuminated a city scarred by devastation. In the deadliest assault on Ukraine’s capital since last summer, Russia launched a massive missile and drone attack overnight, killing at least eight people and injuring more than 70, including six children. The barrage, which lasted approximately 11 hours and struck at least five neighborhoods, used over 200 aerial weapons, including ballistic missiles, cruise missiles, and drones.

Rescue workers are still searching for survivors beneath the rubble, while fires continue to burn in residential areas. President Volodymyr Zelenskyy, cutting short his diplomatic trip to South Africa, condemned the attacks and emphasized that ongoing peace negotiations depend on Russia’s willingness to commit.

As people of faith, we are called to respond to such tragedies with compassion, prayer, and action. The Psalmist reminds us, “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit” (Psalm 34:18). In times of immense suffering, we must hold fast to the belief that God’s presence is with those who grieve, offering comfort and hope amidst despair.​

Let us pray for the victims and their families, for the first responders working tirelessly, and for leaders on all sides to seek peace and justice. May we also reflect on our own roles in promoting peace, standing against aggression, and supporting those in need.

In the face of darkness, may our faith be a beacon of light, guiding us toward compassion, unity, and unwavering hope.

What We Post Matters: Reflecting Christ in a Digital World

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There’s a quiet kind of influence that happens every time we tap “share.”
With just a few keystrokes, we offer the world a glimpse into our hearts—our humor, our opinions, our frustrations, and our values. And in a world overflowing with voices, every post is an echo that either builds up or tears down.

As followers of Christ, our online presence is more than a personal outlet—it’s a reflection of the One we claim to follow.

That doesn’t mean we have to be perfect.
It means we’re invited to be intentional.

Scripture reminds us that “the mouth speaks what the heart is full of” (Luke 6:45). In today’s terms, we might say, the keyboard types what the heart carries. Our posts and comments become modern-day testimonies—either drawing people closer to the heart of God, or pushing them away.

It’s tempting sometimes to post something sarcastic or biting, especially when it feels like a funny joke or a clever jab. But humor that comes at someone else’s expense—even if it’s anonymous or generalized—often seeds harm rather than healing. It’s worth asking:
Would I say this if the person I’m mocking were sitting across from me, made in the image of God?

Kindness isn’t weakness.
Discernment isn’t censorship.
And choosing gentleness doesn’t mean we’re less honest—it means we’re deeply committed to loving truth.

In Ephesians 4:29, Paul urges, “Do not let any unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building others up… that it may benefit those who listen.” Today, that extends to what we post, tweet, or meme.

What if we became known as people who make the internet kinder?

What if our social media pages were places of refuge, laughter without cruelty, truth without venom, conviction without condemnation?

We don’t always get it right—I know I haven’t. But we can start asking better questions before we hit “post”:
• Does this reflect the love of Jesus?
• Would I want this said about me or someone I love?
• Is this helpful, hopeful, or healing?

The world doesn’t need more snark. It needs more light.

Let’s be the people who bring it.

When We Love the Least, We Love the Lord

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In a world that often celebrates power, platform, and influence, it’s easy to forget that Jesus never once told us to chase after any of those things. Instead, He pointed to the margins. To the overlooked. The unheard. The hurting. And then He said something wild:

“Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.” — Matthew 25:40

It’s not just a poetic thought. It’s a deeply political, deeply spiritual reorientation of value and worth.

Because in Christ’s kingdom, the least are not less.

They are Him.

So Who Are “The Least of These” Today?

They’re not hard to find. They’re in our headlines, our neighborhoods, and our churches:

  • The child in foster care, bouncing between homes, craving stability.
  • The asylum seeker at the border, fleeing war, clutching hope in both hands.
  • The single mom deciding between groceries or rent.
  • The elderly neighbor whose name no one seems to remember.
  • The man sleeping under the overpass—cold, forgotten, human.

In a climate of culture wars and weaponized faith, it’s tempting to reduce “the least of these” to a charity category. But Jesus didn’t. He made it personal. What you do to them… you do to Me.

Faith That Looks Like Something

It’s not enough to say we love Jesus if we don’t love the ones He called His own. And love, biblically, is not abstract. It shows up.

It shows up in how we vote—not just for personal gain, but for the flourishing of the vulnerable.

It shows up in how we speak—not with contempt, but with compassion, especially when the world chooses cruelty.

It shows up in what we protest, what we post, and what we prioritize.

It shows up when we refuse to dehumanize people for their poverty, their identity, their trauma, their history, or their politics.

Because Christ does not call us to agreement. He calls us to love.

What If the Test of Our Faith Isn’t What We Think?

What if, when we finally meet Jesus face to face, He doesn’t ask how loud we sang in church or how many Bible verses we memorized?

What if He simply asks:

Did you love Me when I was hungry? Did you visit Me when I was alone? Did you fight for Me when I was mistreated? Did you see Me in the ones your world said didn’t matter?

The Invitation

This isn’t guilt. It’s invitation.

To live the Gospel not as a theory, but as a posture. To stop spiritualizing cruelty and call it what it is: sin. To see the sacred in every face we’re tempted to overlook.

Because when we love the least, we love Jesus.

And when we ignore them, we risk ignoring Him too.

Dear Little One,

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You were so confused, weren’t you?
Trying to make sense of a world that didn’t make sense.
Trying to be good enough, invisible enough, quiet enough—
just to stay safe.

I know now why you drifted away into stories.
Why you lived half-in and half-out of your body.
It wasn’t weakness.
It was your way of surviving when no one came to explain or protect.

If I could sit beside you now, I wouldn’t rush to change anything.
I’d just hold you.
Let you lean in.
Let you know—
you don’t have to figure everything out.

You have such a kind, compassionate soul.
You always did.
And even though you couldn’t see it back then,
you were already growing into someone strong and wise—
someone very unlike the adults around you.
Someone you could be proud of.

You didn’t become hard.
You didn’t become cruel.
You became someone who heals.
Someone who listens.
Someone who makes space for others in the way you always longed for.

I see you now.
And I carry you with so much love.

-Me

Why Sexual Abuse Prevention Must Be a Priority in Our Churches, Organizations, and Culture

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Last night, I sat with two men—wise, thoughtful, and honest—talking about something that should never have to be discussed, and yet must be: sexual abuse.

The conversation was sobering. We spoke of statistics—how many people have been harmed, how often it happens, and how rarely it’s addressed with the depth and seriousness it deserves. But there was a moment that stopped me: we were looking at the numbers of victims, and my heart asked, “Then how many perpetrators does that mean?”

It was a gut-punch.

Because if we listen to the data—and more importantly, if we listen to survivors—then we must acknowledge that sexual abuse is not a rare, distant horror. It is a widespread, near-at-hand reality. It is not always some dramatic “stranger danger” moment; most often, the perpetrators are known and even trusted by the victims. They are youth volunteers, family members, coaches, neighbors, teachers, ministry leaders. They are often not visibly monstrous—they can seem disarmingly normal. Some aren’t driven by deep, deviant fantasies; they’re opportunists. They act when they think no one will notice, no one will stop them, no one will believe the child or the vulnerable adult they target.

And too often, they’re right.

The Church, of all places, must be where this cycle ends—not where it hides.

Because abuse isn’t just a crime or a psychological wound. It is a sin—an assault against the image of God in another human being. It is a desecration of innocence. It’s a betrayal that shatters trust and buries people in shame that never belonged to them in the first place.

As Christians, we are compelled—by love, by justice, by the very heart of Christ—to act.

We are called to:

  • Believe the wounded when they speak.
  • Break the silence that too often protects the perpetrator more than the victim.
  • Build systems of protection that are not reactive, but preventative.
  • Train our staff and volunteers, not with checkbox policies, but with trauma-informed, survivor-centered wisdom.
  • Create cultures of safety, where abuse cannot thrive and where power is stewarded with integrity.
  • Hold perpetrators accountable, not hide them in hopes they’ll just go away or “repent quietly.”
  • Tend to the healing of survivors, not just spiritually, but emotionally, physically, and communally.

Jesus never turned away from the brokenhearted. He never protected the powerful at the expense of the vulnerable. He flipped tables. He fought for justice. He restored dignity. He invited the wounded near.

So must we.

This isn’t just about protecting our reputations or checking off legal requirements. It’s about reflecting the heart of Christ. It’s about building churches, ministries, and communities where survivors are safe and seen, not silenced or shamed. It’s about acknowledging that for every statistic, there is a story—and that story deserves not just our awareness, but our action.

If we say we follow Jesus, we cannot ignore this.

The cost of silence is too high.

The need is urgent.

And the time is now.

“The systems we build either protect the vulnerable or preserve the powerful. They rarely do both.”
— Diane Langberg