Tag Archives: love

A Friday Evening Practice of Gratitude

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Friday evenings have a way of inviting honesty. The pace slows just enough for the week to catch up with us, not as a list of tasks completed, but as moments lived. Tonight, gratitude feels less like a spiritual discipline and more like a gentle noticing.

I’m grateful for a full week of meaningful work. For clients who trusted me with their stories and their nervous systems. For conversations that mattered, not because they were dramatic, but because they were real. For the quiet privilege of sitting with suffering and resilience side by side, and for the reminder (again) that healing is rarely loud or flashy. It’s steady. Faithful. Human.

I’m grateful for meetings that were grounding rather than draining. For collaborative spaces where wisdom was shared, not postured. For colleagues and friends whose integrity is felt as much as it is spoken and people who don’t require performance, only presence. Steady might be the better word here. Solid, yes, but also rooted. The kind of relationships that hold when the wind picks up.

I’m grateful for coffee with like-minded people and those sacred little windows of connection where ideas breathe and souls exhale. For sitting across from someone who understands both the clinical language of trauma and the spiritual language of hope and knows when to let silence do the talking. These moments remind me that loneliness isn’t cured by crowds, but by attunement.

I’m grateful for the gift of seeing people in person again such as friends from out of town whose faces I’ve known mostly through screens lately. There’s something holy about proximity. About laughter landing in the same space. About shared space and unhurried conversation that no bandwidth can replicate.

I’m grateful for warm weather and a body that is cooperating today. For health that allows me to travel, teach, listen, write, and still have enough left to enjoy the evening. For the quiet miracle of stamina in this season of life and the grace to honor my limits without shame.

And tonight, I’m especially grateful for quiet time on the patio with Macon. A fire glowing low. The week loosening its grip. No agenda beyond being together. These are the moments that re-anchor me – the small liturgies of marriage, companionship, and rest that preach the gospel without words.

Scripture tells us to “give thanks in all circumstances,” not because everything is good, but because God is present in all of it. Gratitude doesn’t deny the weight of the world or the grief, or the complexity. It simply refuses to let those things have the final word.

So tonight, my prayer is simple: Thank You.
For work that has meaning.
For people who are safe.
For conversations that nourish rather than numb.
For warmth, health, love, and a fire that reminds me light still gathers when evening comes.

This is enough for today. And tonight, that feels like grace.

The Days We Don’t Count

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We live like we have time.

We scroll, we schedule, we save. We put off the hard conversations and shelve the dreams for “someday” as if someday is a guaranteed destination. But then the news breaks. A name we recognize. A story cut short. A headline that shakes us just enough to remember: we don’t know which day will be our last.

This week, the loss of Malcolm-Jamal Warner hit hard for many. He wasn’t just an actor. He was a familiar presence, a face we grew up with. And now he’s gone — too soon, too suddenly. And it makes us stop and ask: Am I living the life I want to be remembered for? Am I loving the way I was created to love?

The Psalmist wrote, “Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom” (Psalm 90:12). Not to scare us into frenzy. Not to provoke panic. But to re-center us in wisdom — the kind of wisdom that sees clearly what really matters.

Because the truth is, we don’t have forever.

But we do have today.

And today is where love becomes action. Where grace becomes visible. Where values turn into decisions. Where faith walks, not just talks.

We may not get to choose the length of our days but we absolutely get to choose their substance. Will we hoard our energy, time, and resources for our own comfort, or will we pour it out to make this world a little softer, a little safer, a little more just? Will we stay numbed and distracted, or will we wake up to the sacred responsibility we hold: to be a light in the lives of others?

God never promised us a long life. He promised us eternal life. And between now and then, He’s given us a mission that’s rooted not in fear of the end, but in love for the present.

So let’s show up for it.

Let’s stop assuming there will always be more time.
Let’s forgive faster, listen longer, reach wider.
Let’s put down our pride, pick up our cross, and serve somebody.
Let’s make peace with our limitations, and use what we do have — our words, our presence, our hands — to bring healing.

Let our legacy be this: that we did not waste the time we were given.

Because while we don’t know how many days we’ll get, we do know what we’re here for:

To love God.
To love people.
To make the broken places a little more whole.

Even if the world forgets our name, may they remember our impact.

One day at a time. One act of love at a time.

Self-Awareness & the Fruit of the Spirit: A Life that Reflects Jesus from the Inside Out

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There’s a quiet kind of strength that comes from knowing yourself—not in a self-centered way, but in the Spirit-centered way. The kind that allows you to pause when you’re triggered, to hold a boundary with grace, to laugh at your flaws without shame, and to lean in with curiosity when someone offers you feedback. It’s called self-awareness, and when it’s anchored in Christ, it becomes one of the clearest reflections of spiritual maturity.

In Galatians 5:22-23, Paul describes the fruit of the Spirit—the outward evidence of an inward life yielded to God:

“But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.”

It’s easy to treat these like a checklist. But when we stop striving and start abiding, something beautiful happens: these fruits grow naturally. And often, the soil they grow in? It’s self-awareness.

Let’s look at how the fruits of the Spirit show up in the everyday rhythms of a self-aware life:

Pausing and Recalibrating → Self-Control & Peace

Self-aware people don’t react on impulse. They pause. Breathe. Re-center. That pause isn’t weakness—it’s Spirit-empowered self-control in action. And when we make space to recalibrate, peace becomes the undercurrent instead of chaos.

Receiving Compliments with Calm Acceptance → Humility & Joy

A self-aware person doesn’t shrink or deflect when someone offers praise. They smile with quiet joy, knowing their worth isn’t puffed up by applause or torn down by silence. That’s Spirit-born joy rooted in identity, not performance.

Labeling Emotions Clearly → Gentleness & Kindness

When we can name our own feelings, we can tend to them with gentleness—and extend that same grace to others. Kindness often begins with the inner gentleness of emotional honesty.

Humor That Turns Inward Before Outward → Goodness & Gentleness

There’s a sacred kind of humor that isn’t at anyone’s expense. Self-aware people can laugh at themselves without self-contempt. That humility is rooted in goodness—a desire not to harm, even in jest.

Feedback Triggers Curiosity, Not Defensiveness → Faithfulness

Rather than dodging correction, self-aware believers lean in with openness. They’re faithful stewards of their growth. They ask, “Is there something here God wants to show me?” That’s spiritual faithfulness expressed through emotional courage.

Boundaries That Are Firm Yet Kind → Love & Patience

Love without boundaries isn’t biblical—it’s burnout. Self-awareness allows us to say yes and no with intention, choosing relationships that are marked by love and patience, not people-pleasing or resentment.

Owning Mistakes Without Shame Spirals → Self-Control & Kindness

Mistakes don’t lead to hiding. Self-aware people take responsibility quickly—not because they’re self-loathing, but because they’re Spirit-led. There’s kindness in accountability, especially when shame no longer holds the mic.

Letting Conversations Orbit Back to Others → Love & Gentleness

Self-awareness allows us to notice when we’ve taken up too much space in a conversation—and lovingly turn it back. This posture reflects gentleness, and a love that listens more than it lectures.

Flexible Routines → Peace & Patience

Spirit-filled self-awareness creates space for structure and spontaneity. There’s peace in not needing everything to go your way. There’s patience in allowing life to ebb and flow without losing your center.

Growth-Oriented Goals → Faithfulness & Joy

Self-aware believers don’t aim for perfection—they aim for progress. They know sanctification is a process, not a performance. That’s faithfulness to the journey and joy in the unfolding.

When the Holy Spirit lives within us, He doesn’t just transform our theology—He transforms our tone, our timing, our triggers, and our tenderness.

Self-awareness isn’t secular. It’s sacred. It’s the ability to see yourself clearly enough to surrender fully. And when that surrender becomes a rhythm, the fruit of the Spirit becomes more than a memory verse—it becomes your way of being.

Lord, make us people who know ourselves, so we can reflect You. Help us pause, soften, listen, grow, and love—because we are deeply known and loved by You.

The Chemistry of Kindness: What Science and Scripture Agree On

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Have you ever done something kind for someone—a thoughtful text, a meal dropped off, a moment of listening—and walked away feeling unexpectedly joyful? Like something inside you softened or lit up?

That’s not just a warm fuzzy feeling. It’s biology.
And it’s biblical.

Researchers have discovered that when we perform even one act of kindness, our brains release a cocktail of feel-good chemicals—dopamine, oxytocin, serotonin—all associated with pleasure, connection, and well-being. In fact, the release of oxytocin in particular (often called the “love hormone”) is the same chemical surge we experience when we fall in love. That means holding the door for someone or offering a word of encouragement can light up your brain the same way a romantic connection does.

But we didn’t need neuroscience to tell us that kindness is powerful. Scripture has been saying it all along.

“A generous person will prosper; whoever refreshes others will be refreshed.” — Proverbs 11:25

“It is more blessed to give than to receive.” — Acts 20:35

God designed our bodies and souls to thrive when we pour love out toward others. In a world obsessed with self-promotion and self-protection, this is quietly radical. Kindness is not weakness. It’s powerful, transformative, and contagious.

When we love well—through a listening ear, a kind gesture, or an undeserved grace—we don’t just make someone else’s life better. We imprint love into our own nervous system. We feel more connected, more at peace, and more alive. That’s not by accident. That’s design.

It’s divine design.

And the beautiful part? You don’t have to wait for a special moment. A single act of kindness today—holding someone’s hand through grief, sending a kind message, letting someone go first in line—can become a vessel of holy healing. Not just for them, but for you too.

Because love, when given away, doesn’t run out.
It multiplies.

You Can’t Build What You Won’t Own

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There’s a sobering truth that Scripture and life experience agree on: you can’t build something real with someone who refuses to take responsibility. You can extend grace, offer forgiveness, and hold space for growth—but if a person continually hides behind blame, defensiveness, or denial, intimacy will always be out of reach.

And here’s the deeper layer: the same is true within ourselves.

We often think about accountability as something that matters in relationships with others, and it does. Trust cannot thrive where ownership is absent. If someone refuses to acknowledge harm they’ve caused, refuses to say, “I was wrong,” or continually spins excuses instead of showing humility, what can you actually build with them? Not much that’s healthy. Not much that’s whole. As Proverbs 28:13 says, “Whoever conceals their sins does not prosper, but the one who confesses and renounces them finds mercy.”

But what about our own hearts? What about the ways we spin stories to protect our egos? The times we shift blame or minimize our choices because honesty feels too exposing?

The truth is—you can’t build a healthy relationship with yourself if you’re unwilling to take accountability. You can’t grow toward healing or wholeness while clinging to justifications for behavior that dishonors your values or wounds those around you. You can’t fully receive the mercy of God while refusing to face the places where you’ve missed the mark.

In Psalm 51, after the weight of his own failure caught up with him, David prayed: “You desire truth in the inward being; therefore teach me wisdom in my secret heart.” (v.6)

That’s the place where real healing begins—not in performance, not in image, not in curated explanations, but in truth. Deep, raw, humbling truth. The kind that doesn’t try to be impressive, just honest. The kind that says, I did that. I hurt someone. I crossed a line. I’ve avoided looking at this—but I’m done running.

There is so much grace available when we come clean. Not shame. Not condemnation. Grace. But that grace doesn’t bypass the process of taking ownership. Jesus said, “The truth will set you free,” (John 8:32) but He never promised that it wouldn’t hurt a little first.

If you’ve been trying to build connection with someone who won’t take responsibility, it’s okay to name that. It’s okay to stop trying to build something that keeps crumbling under the weight of their denial. You are not unloving for requiring accountability. You are not unforgiving for drawing boundaries. Accountability is not punishment—it’s the soil of restoration.

And if you feel the Spirit gently pressing on your heart today—inviting you to look at something you’ve been hiding from—don’t run. There is healing on the other side of that honesty. Not perfection, but peace. Not shame, but freedom.

Because you can’t build what you won’t own.
But the moment you do?
God meets you there—with mercy in His hands and a new foundation beneath your feet.

Kindness Isn’t Always Nice

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In a culture that prizes politeness, smiles, and keeping the peace, it can be easy to confuse niceness with kindness. The two may look similar from the outside, but at their core, they are very different—and as followers of Christ, we are called to something deeper than surface-level pleasantness.

Niceness often seeks approval.
Kindness seeks alignment with love.

Niceness avoids discomfort.
Kindness is willing to enter discomfort for the sake of truth, healing, and grace.

Nice people don’t rock the boat.
Kind people sometimes flip the boat over if injustice is drowning someone beneath it.

The Fruit We’re Called to Bear

Galatians 5:22–23 lists kindness—not niceness—as a fruit of the Spirit. That’s not an accident. Kindness, in the biblical sense, is active, Spirit-empowered love. It is rooted in compassion and often requires courage. It means showing up with integrity, even when it’s awkward or inconvenient.

Kindness is what moved the Good Samaritan to stop and care for a man beaten and left for dead. It cost him time, resources, and comfort—but he was moved by compassion (Luke 10:25–37). Kindness requires action. It doesn’t simply feel sorry. It does something.

Niceness might have walked by and whispered a prayer.
Kindness crossed the road and bound up wounds.

Niceness Can Be a Mask

Many of us, especially those raised in environments where “good Christian girls” or “strong Christian men” were expected to always smile, always submit, always agree, learned to value niceness above truth. We learned to shrink our voice, sidestep tension, or smooth things over to keep others comfortable.

But Jesus never asked us to be agreeable at the cost of truth.

He challenged the Pharisees. He told the rich young ruler to give up everything. He asked hard things of His disciples. He didn’t perform niceness to be accepted—He embodied truth in love. And love sometimes sounds like:
“No more.”
“That hurt me.”
“I won’t enable this behavior.”
“I’m stepping away.”
Or simply: “I disagree.”

Kindness in Practice

Kindness doesn’t mean being a doormat. It doesn’t mean ignoring red flags, tolerating abuse, or abandoning boundaries. In fact, kindness is what helps us set boundaries and hold them with grace.

Kindness says:

  • “I respect you enough to be honest.”
  • “I love you enough to say what’s hard.”
  • “I see your dignity, and I will not participate in harm.”
  • “I trust the Holy Spirit to work in your heart, even if I step away.”

Whether you are leading a ministry, parenting a child, setting boundaries with a toxic family member, or sitting beside a friend in pain—kindness means showing up with truth, humility, and love.

It means speaking the hard word gently.
It means holding someone accountable without shaming them.
It means being slow to anger, but not passive in the face of harm.

The Church Needs Kindness More Than Niceness

There’s a particular danger when the church confuses niceness with Christlikeness. We silence victims to “keep the peace.” We avoid conflict in the name of unity. We hide broken systems behind friendly smiles. But this is not the gospel.

The gospel doesn’t offer shallow peace. It offers shalom—wholeness, justice, healing. That kind of peace comes through truth, not around it.

The church should be the safest place for people to be seen, known, and told the truth in love—not a place where people are placated or dismissed with pleasantries. That kind of “niceness” doesn’t heal. It hurts.

Jesus didn’t call us to be pleasant. He called us to be peacemakers. And peacemakers—real ones—aren’t afraid to name what’s broken before they begin to mend it.

When You’re Tired of Being Nice

If you’ve grown weary of performing niceness… if you’re learning to use your voice after years of silence… if you’ve confused going along with going the extra mile—take heart.

It is not unchristian to say no.
It is not unloving to speak truth.
It is not sinful to walk away from people or patterns that damage your soul.

Kindness may look like grace. It may look like truth. Often, it looks like both.
Sometimes kindness is a warm meal.
Sometimes it’s a hard conversation.
Sometimes it’s a boundary.
Sometimes it’s walking with someone through their valley—not because it’s convenient, but because love compels you.

Kindness is not always nice.
But it is always loving.

A Closing Prayer

Jesus, You are the perfect embodiment of kindness—full of grace and truth.
Teach us to love like You.
Give us wisdom to know when to speak, and when to be still.
Give us courage to be kind even when it costs us.
Help us shed the need to be nice in order to be faithful.
Let Your Spirit grow kindness in us—strong, rooted, and real.
Amen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.