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.

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.

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.

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.

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 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

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.

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.

I came across Oswald Chambers’ words this morning with my coffee still warm in my hands and my heart just beginning to settle. The reading was titled, “Have You Slandered God?” — and honestly, I wasn’t ready for the question to hit me that hard.

At first glance, I thought, Of course not. I would never slander God. I’m a follower of Jesus. I preach grace and cling to hope. But as I read on, Chambers drew the definition out from beneath the surface: “Slandering God means giving the impression that He is not altogether good.”

And that stopped me cold.

Because I realized I’ve done that—not with loud declarations, but in the quiet places. In the sighs too deep for words. In the moments when prayers went unanswered the way I hoped. When grief lingered longer than it felt like it should. When suffering felt unfair and silence felt cruel.

Without saying it aloud, I’ve sometimes lived like I believed God had let me down. I’ve told others God is trustworthy, but in my private doubts, I’ve questioned His timing, His ways, even His love.

I’ve slandered Him with my suspicion.
I’ve whispered accusations with my disappointment.
I’ve wondered if maybe He forgot me.

And yet—He’s never slandered me.

He has never once turned His face away in disgust.
He has never misrepresented my story.
He has never held my weakness against me.

Instead, He keeps inviting me back. To see Him as He truly is—not as my weary heart sometimes imagines Him to be, but as He has always been:
Faithful.
Merciful.
Present.
Good.

Even when I’m struggling to believe it, He is still good.

This isn’t about shame—it’s about clarity. About confession that heals instead of condemns. Chambers isn’t trying to make us afraid of God’s disappointment; he’s pointing us back to trust. A trust that doesn’t rely on our feelings, but on God’s unchanging character.

So today, I’m asking myself a new question—not just “Have I slandered God?” but “What would it look like to honor Him with my trust today?”

It might mean sitting with my grief, but still calling Him good.
It might mean praying again, even after silence.
It might mean choosing to believe that His “no” or “not yet” is love I don’t yet understand.

Friend, if you’ve been struggling too—if you’ve questioned His goodness in the quiet—this isn’t a reprimand. It’s a hand on your shoulder. A gentle voice saying, “Come back. Remember who He is.”

He can handle our honesty. He meets us in our doubt. But He also wants to remind us that He is not like us. He does not wound and withdraw. He stays. He restores. He redeems.

Let’s be people who speak of His goodness, not just when life is good, but when life is hard and we choose to believe anyway.

Let’s honor Him with our trust.

Even here.
Even now.
Even when.