Tag Archives: love

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

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

Empathy is presence.

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

And isn’t that the way love always begins?

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

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

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

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

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

And yes, it’s costly.

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

In this way, empathy is a form of worship.

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

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

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

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

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

Love Wears Work Boots, Not Just Wings

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Reflecting Mercy: Who Would Receive My Care This Week?

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“If I were to reflect God’s mercy more fully, who among those I know would I show special care for this week?”

It’s a question that both unsettles and awakens me.

Wayne Grudem defines God’s mercy as “God’s goodness toward those in misery and distress.” Not just kindness in general—but goodness toward suffering. A particular tenderness that bends low to lift the burdened. A holy compassion that sees pain and moves toward it.

Mercy is not passive pity. It’s movement. Intention. Engagement. It is God’s heart stooping to meet us in our weakness, not with condemnation, but with comfort.

And if we’re being honest, that’s not always the heart we carry into our own weeks.

We’re busy. We’re hurt ourselves. We’ve been disappointed or overlooked. We’ve grown calloused, even unintentionally, to the silent aching in the people around us.

But mercy invites us back. Not to hustle, but to presence. Not to rescue, but to care.

So again, I ask myself—and I invite you to join me in asking:

If I were to reflect God’s mercy more fully, who would receive my special care this week?

Maybe it’s the single mom at church whose eyes don’t shine like they used to.

Maybe it’s the coworker whose jokes are getting darker—humor covering hurt.

Maybe it’s your own spouse, your child, or your aging parent. Not someone far away, but someone close—and maybe a little forgotten.

Maybe—if you’re brave enough—it’s the person you’ve grown bitter toward. The one who doesn’t deserve your kindness. And yet, mercy isn’t about deserving. It never has been.

Maybe it’s you.

Sometimes the most radical act of reflecting God’s mercy is extending it inward—to the parts of yourself that are still aching, afraid, or ashamed. Mercy toward your own soul is not selfish. It’s sacred.

This week, I’m praying for eyes to see as God sees: To recognize distress where it’s hidden. To offer gentleness where it’s needed. To embody mercy—not as an abstract virtue, but as a way of walking through the world.

Because mercy isn’t just something we receive from God. It’s something we’re called to reflect.

So—who comes to mind for you?

And what might it look like to show them special care this week?

Truth and Tenderness: A Love That Holds Both

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“Our love grows soft if it is not strengthened by truth, and our truth grows hard if it is not softened by love.”
— John Stott

There are moments in life—quiet, aching moments—when we realize how easy it is to drift into extremes. Maybe you’ve felt it too. The pull toward love that avoids the discomfort of honesty. Or the pull toward truth that forgets the sacredness of gentleness.

In a world so often divided, Stott’s words feel like a compass. A reminder that truth and love are not opposites to be balanced, but partners meant to walk hand in hand.

Jesus modeled this perfectly.

He was truth in human form—unapologetic, unwavering, crystal clear. He called out injustice, confronted hypocrisy, and held to the Father’s will without flinching. But His truth never came without love. He wept over Jerusalem. He knelt to wash dusty feet. He offered mercy to the woman caught in adultery before telling her, “Go and sin no more.”

His love was not flimsy. It was not passive. It did not shy away from the cost of confrontation. And His truth was not harsh. It was never cold. It never forgot the human heart it was speaking to.

This is the tension we’re invited to live in.

Because love without truth is license. It offers warmth but with no direction. It soothes but doesn’t sanctify. It may feel kind, but it ultimately leaves people unchanged.

And truth without love is harshness. It might be technically correct, but it’s spiritually incomplete. It may win arguments, but it wounds hearts.

If our love is not strengthened by truth, it becomes sentimentality. It avoids hard conversations. It chooses comfort over courage. And eventually, it loses its power to transform.

But if our truth is not softened by love, it becomes a weapon. It bruises instead of builds. It condemns rather than restores. And it forgets that every person we speak to is beloved by God.

In counseling, in friendship, in ministry, in marriage—in every relationship—we are constantly asked to choose: Will I speak the truth? Will I do so in love?

Scripture doesn’t leave us guessing.

“Speak the truth in love,” Paul writes in Ephesians 4:15, “so that we may grow up in every way into Him who is the head—Christ.” Not one or the other. Both. Always both.

Because it is in that holy fusion—truth and love together—that real transformation happens.

Love alone can comfort, but it can’t correct.
Truth alone can challenge, but it can’t heal.
But together?
Together, they change everything.

So maybe the invitation today is simple, but not easy:
To ask the Spirit for the courage to be truthful—and the tenderness to be kind.
To speak not for the sake of being right, but for the sake of restoring what’s been broken.
To love deeply enough to tell the truth, and to tell the truth lovingly enough that it becomes an act of love.

This is not weakness. It’s not compromise.

It’s Christlikeness.

And it’s the kind of love this world is aching for.

The Kind of Difference We Make

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“You cannot get through a single day without having an impact on the world around you. What you do makes a difference, and you have to decide what kind of difference you want to make.” — Jane Goodall

It’s easy to believe that our lives are small. That our choices slip quietly through the cracks of the day, unnoticed and unseen. But Jane Goodall’s words call us back to something truer: whether we intend to or not, we leave a mark. Every day. Every one of us.

That mark might look like the smile we offer a stranger—or the one we withhold. It could be the gentle way we greet our children, or the edge in our tone when we feel overwhelmed and under-slept. It might show up in the way we speak about people who are different than us, the way we show up (or don’t) for those on the margins, the way we care for creation, or the way we care for ourselves.

We’re always in motion, always rippling outward.

Some days, I find that thought heavy—like the weight of responsibility is too much. Other days, it feels like a gift: the holy reminder that my life is not meaningless. That even the unseen moments, the quiet kindnesses, the small repairs I offer in my relationships, matter.

We all shape the world with our presence. With our purchases. With our posts. With our prayers. With our patterns.

And if we’re going to make a difference anyway—why not choose the kind that leans toward healing?

What if we asked ourselves at the start of each day:

  • What kind of difference do I want to make today?
  • What would it look like to leave people more whole, not less?
  • How can I be part of mending what’s been broken—whether in my family, my community, or my own heart?

We don’t need a grand platform or a perfect plan. Just the willingness to be intentional. To be kind when it costs something. To be present when it would be easier to disengage. To be a little braver, a little softer, a little more loving.

This isn’t about perfection. It’s about participation.

You matter. You always have.
And today—like every day—you’re already making a difference.
May it be the kind that brings a bit more light into the world.

The Sunshine Where Virtue Grows

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“Kindness is the sunshine in which virtue grows.” — Robert Green Ingersoll

There’s something quietly profound about the way kindness works. It’s not flashy or forceful. It doesn’t demand applause. It doesn’t parade itself as power. And yet, kindness has a way of transforming the very soil of our lives—softening what’s hardened, nourishing what’s withered, and drawing out the beauty of things buried deep.

Robert Green Ingersoll’s words remind me that kindness isn’t just an isolated act—it’s a kind of atmosphere. The sunshine in which virtue grows.

We live in a world where virtue is often reduced to performance or principle—something to be proven, defended, or displayed. But real virtue, the kind that lasts and bears fruit, is relational. It grows best in warmth. It grows when people are safe to be human. When mistakes are met with grace. When pain is met with compassion. When we are given room to become.

Without kindness, virtue withers. It becomes brittle, harsh, even prideful. But with kindness? With kindness, honesty becomes healing. Courage becomes contagious. Humility becomes strength.

In my work—sitting with people in the ache of trauma, grief, and unmet longing—I’ve learned that few things are more healing than simple kindness. The kind that doesn’t try to fix or rush or preach. The kind that sits beside you in silence. That looks you in the eye and says, “You matter.” That believes in your goodness even when you can’t see it for yourself.

Kindness is not weakness. It’s not passivity. It’s not naïve. Kindness is a choice. A strength. A discipline. And perhaps, most importantly, a witness—a quiet protest against the cruelty of a world that too often teaches us to compete, harden, and hide.

If you’ve ever bloomed under someone’s kindness, you know this truth firsthand. You know how it loosens shame’s grip. How it opens your heart. How it changes your story. And maybe—just maybe—you’ve also seen how offering kindness, even in small ways, has the power to shift a room, mend a heart, or grow something sacred in someone else.

So today, may we remember:
The sunshine of kindness is not wasted.
It may not always be returned. It may not always be seen.
But still, it nourishes. Still, it matters.
And in time, it grows virtue—in us, and through us.

Let’s be the ones who bring the sunshine.
Let’s be the ones who make it easier for others to grow.

When the World Feels Too Big and I Feel Too Small

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Some days, the world just feels like too much.
Too much war.
Too much grief.
Too much injustice.
Too many systems that harm instead of heal.
And sometimes, too much noise in my own head.

I watch the news or sit with the pain of someone I love—or maybe I just scroll a little too long—and suddenly I feel it. That ache. That helpless, sinking feeling. Like I’m standing on the edge of something vast and chaotic, and I’m just… small. Like anything I could do wouldn’t matter. Like my voice is too quiet. Like my efforts are too fragile. Like I’m just one soul trying to stay upright in a storm too big to stop.

Have you felt it too?

There’s a deep helplessness that can settle in when we face the brokenness of this world with open eyes. When we truly see how much suffering exists. When we acknowledge how little control we actually have.

And yet, somehow, this smallness isn’t the whole story.

The Scriptures are full of people who felt small and overwhelmed. People who stood trembling before giants, or walls, or sea waves, or kings. People like Moses, who told God he wasn’t enough. Like Mary, who said yes to an unthinkable calling. Like the boy with a few loaves and fish, offering what seemed so meager in the face of so much need.

But over and over again, we see something remarkable: God never mocked their smallness. He never asked them to be more than they were. He simply asked them to show up with what they had.

Because small doesn’t mean insignificant.

Jesus said the Kingdom belongs to the poor in spirit. That faith the size of a mustard seed can move mountains. That the last will be first. That the meek will inherit the earth. In God’s economy, smallness is not a problem—it’s a posture. A place where we can be honest, vulnerable, and open to grace.

When I feel helpless, I try to remember: I am not the Savior. I was never meant to carry the whole weight of the world. But I am held by the One who does. And He is not overwhelmed. Not surprised. Not out of options. He is near to the brokenhearted. He bends down to lift the weary. He sees even the sparrow.

Psalm 46 reminds us, “Be still and know that I am God.” That word still can mean “cease striving.” Let go. Unclench. Exhale. Trust.

So when I feel small, I try to do one small thing. Send one message. Offer one prayer. Make one meal. Sit with one person. That’s how love moves—small and steady, like yeast in dough or seeds in soil.

Maybe it’s okay to be small. Maybe that’s where God does His best work.

Beauty and Ashes: A Journey Through Ukraine

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A reflection from the front lines of grief, resilience, and hope

After a week of travel, teaching, and countless sacred conversations, I’m sitting in Nashville reflecting on all I’ve seen and felt. My journey to Ukraine this time was unlike any other—a collision of beauty and brokenness, resilience and sorrow, silence and song.

It began on a crisp Friday morning in Nolensville, Tennessee. My senior dog, Maci, seemed to know I was leaving. Her eyes followed every movement as I packed, full of the kind of knowing that only comes with years of companionship. The airport goodbye was tender—quiet, weighty. And from that moment on, I was caught in the current of something much larger than myself.

A turbulent flight to D.C. almost caused me to miss my connection, but grace intervened and I made it to Krakow. Slavik and his young son greeted me, and we drove the three hours to the Ukrainian border, winding through quiet villages and rolling fields. A stop at McDonald’s for cheeseburgers and coffee felt oddly grounding—one last moment of Western normalcy before stepping across the threshold into war-torn Ukraine.

We crossed the border on foot.

Each step on the cobblestones carried weight—leaving peace behind and walking into grief. The change in atmosphere was immediate, not just politically, but spiritually. In Lviv, I returned to the same hotel I stayed in last time. Familiarity helped, even as the city felt different. The golden domes still caught the light, but the air was heavier. The grief more palpable.

Each morning in Lviv began the same: a beautiful, generous breakfast followed by a moment of collective stillness at 9 a.m.—a city-wide pause to remember the fallen. Forks rested. Conversations ceased. For one minute, all of Ukraine stilled to honor those lost in the Great War.

It became a ritual that shaped the rhythm of my day. A sacred reminder that even amid the ordinary—coffee, eggs, chatter—grief walks with us.

At the seminary, I met 24 students training to become counselors in a country still at war. These were not theoretical learners—they were survivors. One student had a prosthetic leg. Another was a combat medic. A young woman had fled Kherson alone. Another had watched her hometown be destroyed.

They brought their full selves to the classroom—grief and hope, pain and persistence. And together, we created space for deep learning: neurobiology of trauma, treatment planning, post-traumatic growth, and narrative healing.

The classroom became holy ground.

Tears came freely. One student broke down mid-case presentation. Another asked, “How do I keep going?” after months of serving on the front lines. And yet, laughter showed up too—in role-plays, over coffee, and in the quiet joy of shared understanding. Hope insisted on making space.

Outside the classroom, beauty met me again and again.

Late-night walks on cobblestone streets where violinists played in the open air. Dinners at Jewish-Ukrainian fusion restaurants. Candles flickering during quiet conversations. One woman said, “There is more to save in Ukraine than has been destroyed.” I saw that truth lived out in every corner.

My translator had been sent to the front three times. He carried trauma in his body but translated with such care—turning pain into something redemptive. A young assistant in the department became a steady source of joy, always ready with help and encouragement.

Students offered small but deeply meaningful gifts—bananas, coffee, earrings, handwritten notes. One told me, “You are Ukrainian now.” I felt the weight of that blessing.

As the week ended, I was given a rushnyk—a traditional embroidered cloth used in Ukrainian weddings. Couples step onto it as they take their vows. Receiving one felt like a vow had been made between myself and this land, these people, this sacred work.

The journey back across the border was long—five hours in cold rain, every bag searched, every body tired. But still, kindness lingered. Strangers held umbrellas for one another. No words needed—just shared humanity.

In Krakow, I allowed myself one quiet day. I wandered through medieval streets. I watched a parade from a glass-walled café. I listened to the trumpet call from St. Mary’s Basilica—its abrupt ending a centuries-old tradition honoring a fallen hero.

It felt fitting.

Now, back in Nashville, I carry a strange mixture:

  • The deep trauma entrusted to me by students who are still living in the storm.
  • The ache of uncertain news from the front.
  • The warmth of dinner with Macon.
  • The soft glow of patio lights I strung with tired hands when I couldn’t fix anything else.
  • The anticipation of tomorrow’s table, where stories and laughter will meet again.

This work is heavy.
But it is holy.
And it is not finished.

How You Can Pray

  • For my students at UBTS, who are learning to help others while carrying their own unhealed wounds.
  • For those on the front lines and the families waiting for their return.
  • For the children growing up in war—may they one day know safety, peace, and joy.
  • For the church in Ukraine—that leaders would be renewed with strength and hope.
  • For the restoration of Ukraine.
  • And for my own heart—that I may hold these stories with reverence and release them with trust.

To those who prayed, who followed, who lifted me up from afar—thank you.
Your love was felt in every step, in every word.
Your prayers made space for this sacred work.

With love and deep gratitude,
Sandy

When the Air Still Bites: Holding Steady in the In-Between

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A reflection on presence, patience, and the quiet work of staying grounded

The day began with sunlight—bright and clean—the kind of clear sky that stretches wide over Middle Tennessee and makes the world feel a little more alive. But the air? The air still held a bite. A firm reminder that winter isn’t quite done, no matter how much I want it to be.

I stepped outside with a jacket pulled tight, bracing for the contrast between the sun’s golden light and the chill that clung to everything. The trees, still mostly bare, looked like ink sketches drawn across the sky. The red maples that had bloomed so bravely last week seemed stunned by the sudden cold, their tiny buds curling inward, hesitant.

I get it.
Sometimes, I’m hesitant too.

The work of the day was full.
Nine clients.
Nine stories.
Nine distinct ways trauma shows up and shapes a life.

It’s sacred work—and some days, it feels like standing on the edge of a vast ocean, watching wave after wave of sorrow roll toward me. The temptation is always to brace or retreat, but I’ve learned something better: to stay anchored.

Today, my anchor was simple.
Crocheting.

The quiet loop of yarn in my hands during sessions, the feel of soft fiber slipping over my fingers—it’s more than a habit. It’s a tether. A rhythm that holds me steady so I can keep holding space for others.

By afternoon, I knew I needed a shift.
So I took two sessions outside, wrapped in an afghan, settled on the porch.

Maci curled beside me, her small, warm presence grounding me in the moment. The air was brisk, but the sunlight on my face was soothing. I listened to the wind rustling through the trees and the faint sound of squirrels rustling through the leaves—remnants of autumn still clinging to oak branches, stubborn in their own way.

And in that stillness, I noticed something: the conversations outside felt different.
Softer.
Less heavy.
Maybe because the sky was above us.
Maybe because the earth was holding us too.

Late in the day, a shift in my timeline threw everything off.

The kind of unexpected change that doesn’t quite feel like a crisis, but still leaves you a little unsteady. A plan I had been preparing for—mentally, emotionally—suddenly delayed. The uncertainty wrapped itself around my chest, tight and unwelcome.

Was I relieved? Frustrated? Tired?
Yes.
All of it.

Macon and I went out for dinner to our usual spot. The sun had dipped, and the air had turned sharper again. Still, it was good to be out. To eat something warm. To let the day settle.

As I sat there, I reminded myself:
This is just another wave. It will come, and it will pass.

Tonight, I feel… not resolved exactly, but steady.

I’m learning that contentment doesn’t always arrive with clarity.
Sometimes it comes in small reassurances:
The warmth of the sun on your face.
The weight of your dog resting beside you.
The simple comfort of doing meaningful work, even when the outcome is uncertain.

Spring is still coming—
Hesitant. Slow.
But coming.

And for tonight, that’s enough

If you’re in a season of waiting…
If you’re walking through cold days while hoping for warmth…
If the work is heavy and the way is uncertain…

Let the small things steady you.

The sun still rises.
The trees still bud.
The next season is making its way toward you, even if it hasn’t quite arrived.

Hold fast.
Breathe deep.
And remember: this wave, too, will pass.