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.