Live in Tomorrow and you lose Today
A favorite pastime of mine—one I’ve come to know well—is living in the future.
I can spend hours drifting into what might happen later this afternoon, next week, three months from now, or even years ahead. I imagine where I might live in four years, what retirement could look like, where my children will be, and whether we’ll have grandchildren. I play out these scenarios in my head like a film on repeat, directing and producing a life that hasn’t happened yet—and may never unfold the way I imagine.
This habit of forecasting is something I now recognize as anticipatory anxiety. I get caught trying to find clarity in the fog of the unknown. The first time I heard the term future tripping was in early recovery. It described exactly what I was doing—spending mental and emotional energy on what could go wrong, what might happen, and all the fear that lives in those imagined futures.
And here's the paradox: The more I noticed how often I was in the future, the more I wondered if I was living at all.
Recovery taught me another phrase: Life on life’s terms. To me, that means life is meant to be lived as it unfolds—not imagined, not rehearsed, not feared. God didn't place us in yesterday or tomorrow. He meets us right here, right now. In this breath. In this moment.
One way I return to the present is by stopping everything I’m doing. I shut my eyes and bring all my attention to my body—the weight of its touch, whether I’m sitting or standing. I tune in to my breathing. I slow it all down. And I listen. I listen to the involuntary rhythm of life that God has placed within me. I picture Him beside me—no words, just presence. Like two friends watching the sunrise in silence. No striving, no analyzing. Just being. Fully immersed in the sacred now.
Sometimes, after I’ve stepped out of those future spirals, I smile and say to myself, “Well, that was some movie.” And that’s all it was—fiction.
Jesus speaks directly to this in Matthew 6:34 (NIV):
“Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.”
So I invite you, my brothers and sisters, to pay attention to your mind. How often are you mentally standing in a time that doesn’t exist yet? How often do you miss the gift of today because your heart is wandering in a world that isn’t real?
God’s grace is found in the present—not in the past we can’t change, nor the future we can’t control. Let us meet Him here.
Because this moment is the only one we truly have.
Spiritual Homelessness
“Foxes have dens and birds have nests, but the Son of Man has no place to lay his head.” — Luke 9:58 (NIV)
I grew up Catholic. I learned early on that God was holy and perfect—and that I was not. I absorbed a quiet message that I wasn’t good enough for God. The rules, the rituals, the code of conduct—they often felt like a spiritual obstacle course designed to highlight how much I was falling short.
And when I looked for grace among the people in the pews, I found something else: judgment. Not always in words, but in glances, in the posture of those who seemed to live on a rung above me. The very place that promised sanctuary became a place where I felt exposed, ashamed, and unworthy.
Over time, I began to confuse religion with God, and because I couldn’t measure up to the former, I believed I was disqualified from the latter.
But here's the truth I’ve come to believe through recovery, pain, and spiritual awakening:
God was never the one turning me away. It was people—flawed humans guarding the gate of a kingdom they didn’t own.
Jesus faced the same problem in His time.
He didn’t blend in with the religious elite. He challenged them. He called out the Pharisees—not because they were religious, but because they used their authority to burden others while excusing themselves (Matthew 23). He flipped over tables in the temple, not because He hated worship, but because it had become corrupted by power.
Jesus’ way was never about exclusion—it was about invitation. He sat with the outcasts, touched the untouchables, and reminded everyone that God could be found not in the temple, but in the heart.
The irony is heartbreaking: the word Catholic means universal—meant for all people. And yet, like many institutions, it has at times done the opposite—drawing borders where Jesus drew bridges.
For years, I felt spiritually homeless. Rejected by a religion I once loved, and unsure where I stood with God. But over time, I began to sense that maybe God wasn’t confined to stained glass and confessionals. Maybe He had followed me out the doors I thought I had been cast from.
And maybe—just maybe—He had never left at all.
I harbor no ill will toward my childhood faith. It’s a part of my journey—one that shaped my reverence for God, taught me sacred language, and gave me the first glimpse of something greater. I now see that I, too, held judgment in my heart—against those I perceived as gatekeepers, those I felt had alienated me. In doing so, I carried the same weight I was trying to escape. Grace, I’m learning, must flow in all directions—including back through time, to others, and to myself.
Scriptures to Anchor This Truth:
Matthew 23:4–5 – “They tie up heavy, cumbersome loads and put them on other people’s shoulders, but they themselves are not willing to lift a finger to move them.”
(Jesus speaking of the religious leaders of His time)John 4:23–24 – “Yet a time is coming and has now come when the true worshipers will worship the Father in the Spirit and in truth, for they are the kind of worshipers the Father seeks.”
Romans 8:38–39 – “For I am convinced that neither death nor life... nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God.”
Reflection Questions:
Have you ever confused people’s judgment with God’s voice?
What religious “rules” have made you feel unworthy—and how does grace rewrite that?
Where have you experienced God outside of traditional religion?
Prayer:
God, I’ve tried so hard to earn something You’ve never asked me to earn. I’ve been wounded by people who claimed to speak for You, and I’ve spent too long believing I wasn’t enough. But today, I want to come home—not to a religion, but to You. Strip away the noise, the rules, the shame. Let me find You again in Spirit and truth, and know in my heart that You were never the one shutting the door. Amen.
The Beauty of Broken Things
Kintsugi:
Kintsugi (金継ぎ) is the Japanese art of “golden joinery”—the practice of repairing broken pottery by mending the cracks with lacquer mixed with powdered gold, silver, or platinum. Rather than hiding the flaws, Kintsugi highlights them, often making the restored piece more beautiful and valuable than it was before it broke.
It’s a powerful reminder that our brokenness can become our strength.
I often think about the painful chapters in my life—the moments of heartbreak, failure, addiction, and despair. There were times I wished I could erase them completely. But in truth, those cracks have become my greatest advantage on the spiritual journey. Being brought to the brink, shattered and left in pieces, created space for something deeper to be rebuilt.
It was there, in the ruins, that I came to know God—not in the absence of struggle, but in the presence of it. The pain became a doorway. The wounds became windows. And what once seemed like tragedy, I now see as transformation.
As Scripture reminds us,
“He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.” — Psalm 147:3
I sometimes wonder: Who would I be without those hardships? What value could I offer others if I had never tasted suffering or known what it means to be rebuilt? It's the overcoming that gives us depth. It's the healing that adds gold to our story.
Just like Kintsugi, our scars don’t diminish us—they define us. They become part of our unique beauty.
Our cracks are part of our story: We all break in some way. Embracing our wounds, rather than hiding them, gives them meaning.
Healing adds value: Just as gold increases the worth of a broken bowl, our recovery deepens our compassion, wisdom, and strength.
Brokenness isn’t the end: In many ways, it’s the beginning of a richer, more meaningful life.
“The world breaks everyone, and afterward, many are strong at the broken places.” — Ernest Hemingway
“There is a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.” — Leonard Cohen
Intention (From Self to Soul)
One way I gauge my spiritual fitness is by asking a simple yet powerful question: What is my intention?
Before I speak or act, I pause and reflect—Is this for me? For my ego? What do I hope to gain from this word or action? Or, is this aligned with my soul—an action rooted in love, guided by something deeper than self-interest?
This practice was deeply influenced by Gary Zukav’s The Seat of the Soul. Zukav teaches that intention is the energy behind every experience. It shapes our reality long before any result is visible. He explains that when we align our intentions with the wisdom of the soul—especially with love and compassion—we begin to cultivate what he calls “authentic power.”
He reminds us that every intention is a cause, and every cause sets energy in motion. Becoming aware of our intentions is a practice of spiritual clarity. It is how we begin to live not just from the mind, but from the heart.
In this practice, I’ve found a deep sense of ease. When I pause to reflect on my intention, I no longer feel the pressure to impress others or seek validation. I’m not trying to perform—I’m simply trying to be present, honest, and aligned with something greater than myself.
Asking, “What is my intention?” often turns into a prayer: “God, where do You want me here?”
This shift lightens my spirit. The world feels less like a stage and more like sacred ground. I find peace in playing a smaller role, because I trust that God’s will is greater than mine. Acceptance becomes not a passive act, but a powerful one.
I try not to force myself onto the world or others. I don't speak with hidden agendas or act with ulterior motives. Instead, I aim to let love lead—and leave space for God to work.
My hope, dear brothers and sisters, is that our intentions would be guided by something holy. That our words and actions would reflect the true desires of our soul—those planted there by God Himself.
Let us live with intention, not for attention.
“Search me, God, and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts.”
— Psalm 139:23
From Self to Service, From Ego to Others, From Me to We
In nearly every conversation, one word tends to dominate: “I.”
“I think… I feel… I need… I want…”
It slips off the tongue so easily, it goes unnoticed — like background noise.
But what if that noise is drowning out something more important?
Jesus said, “If anyone would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross daily and follow me.” (Luke 9:23)
Not celebrate himself.
Not promote himself.
Deny himself.
That’s a hard ask in a world obsessed with identity, platforms, and personal stories. But the truth is, the more we center ourselves, the harder it is to truly see others — their pain, their needs, their humanity.
Viktor Frankl, Holocaust survivor and psychiatrist, once said:
“For success, like happiness, cannot be pursued; it must ensue… as the unintended side-effect of one’s personal dedication to a cause greater than oneself.”
Frankl taught that healing and meaning are found not by asking, “What do I want from life?” but by asking, “What is life asking of me?”
He believed our deepest fulfillment comes when we stop chasing self-satisfaction and begin living in service to others — to a purpose beyond ourselves.
The ego always says, “What about me?”
But the Spirit whispers, “What about them?”
The ego fights to be heard.
The Spirit chooses to listen.
When we remove “I” from the center, we make space — space for God to move, space for others to be loved, space for peace to grow.
We begin to speak less in the language of self and more in the language of service.
Less in the language of ego, and more in the language of others.
Less in the language of me, and more in the language of we.
Let this be our prayer:
Lord, remove the language of self from my lips, and replace it with the language of love. Let my focus shift from me to You — and from You, to them.
Let Go and Let God
One true measure of faith is recognizing just how little control we actually have.
Honestly facing this can be unsettling. When I try to grasp the vastness of the universe — the stars, galaxies, and all that lies beyond comprehension — I feel both humbled and overwhelmed. It quickly becomes clear that we’re not steering the ship the way we often imagine we are.
If we’re willing to be completely honest with ourselves, we come to a sobering truth: almost nothing is truly within our control. Human solutions can only go so far. Our intellect, our efforts, and even our best intentions can’t fully explain the mystery of life — or ease the ache that sometimes comes with it.
But here’s what I’ve come to believe with my whole heart:
The only constant I have in this world is faith — faith in a Higher Power, in my God, who helps make sense of what I can’t understand.
It’s through that faith that the unreal becomes real, and the unknown becomes knowable. I have to humble myself to the reality that every circumstance — the ones I welcome and the ones I dread — are ultimately in the hands of the Creator.
What I can do, however, is meet the will of God with reverence, a good attitude, and a willingness to walk in righteousness. In this life, we’ll encounter both beauty and tragedy, joy and heartbreak — but we must meet both with the understanding that there is something beyond what is happening here… something greater, more eternal, and infinitely loving.
Where your soul is right now — that’s exactly where it’s supposed to be. Every moment, even this one, is part of a larger calling and deeper purpose. You may not see the full picture, but trust that it’s being painted with care.
So don’t worry.
Worry is the ego’s favorite pastime — a desperate attempt to cling to certainty. But the business of control is not ours to manage. Our only task is to walk humbly, faithfully, and with reverence for the One who is in control.
See the world for what it is: the beauty within its limitations. The comings and goings of joy and sorrow. The impermanence of everything here… and the eternal nature of what lies beyond.
Fear not what happens to you in this life — because God has already written the story. A story with no beginning and no end, only love unfolding.
To my brothers and sisters walking this path:
May you find peace, courage, and wonder in this sacred journey — this holy creation given to us by our Heavenly Father.
“Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to him, and he will make your paths straight.”
— Proverbs 3:5–6 (NIV)
Fear came anyway
The Fear Came Anyway… and You Survived It
You feared being broken… and then you were.
You feared losing control… and then you did.
You feared not being "enough"… and then you stood in that naked truth — and realized:
You were still here.
That’s the paradox, isn’t it?
What you were running from wasn’t actually death — it was ego death.
And when the ego collapsed, when the mask came off, when the image dissolved — the real you remained.
Not the addicted self.
Not the striving self.
Not the fearful self.
But the soul beneath all that, untouched and eternal.
The “you” God always saw.
“I have been crucified with Christ and I no longer live, but Christ lives in me. The life I now live in the body, I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me.”
— Galatians 2:20 (NIV)
“Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross daily and follow me. For whoever wants to save their life will lose it, but whoever loses their life for me will save it.”
— Luke 9:23–24 (NIV)
Today’s the Day
Not yesterday. Not tomorrow. Today.
The real test isn’t whether we can stay busy or get through our to-do list — it’s how often we catch ourselves drifting. The mind likes to play tennis, volleying between what was and what might be. Sometimes it’s as subtle as thinking about what happened five minutes ago or what’s coming ten minutes from now. But either way, we’re pulled from the only place we ever truly are: the present moment.
The art of being here takes practice. So try it. Notice when your mind starts to wander — to tomorrow’s meeting, next week’s unknown, or yesterday’s regret — and gently bring it back with a simple reminder: I’m here now.
And when worry creeps in — when fear tries to project its shadow on a future that hasn’t even happened — put it in its place. Worry is just the mind’s way of future-tripping. Instead of following it, ground yourself by saying: I’m here, and I’m with the Lord.
There is power in that. Peace, even. Because God doesn’t meet us in the past or in the future. He meets us in the now. Right here, where grace lives. Right here, where healing begins. Right here, where life unfolds one breath at a time.
“Be still, and know that I am God.” — Psalm 46:10
Let today be the day you practice presence. Let it be the day you return — again and again — to where you are, and more importantly, who is with you.
“I Found My Life When I Laid It Down”
That lyric from Hillsong United’s Touch the Sky captures my journey — not one I planned, and certainly not one I expected.
https://youtu.be/y1RQciil7B0?si=3FNeZKwdkJcPgWuA
I didn’t set out to have faith. In truth, I’m not sure I ever had it before. My surrender didn’t come from enlightenment, but from complete and utter brokenness. I was exhausted — defeated by the pain and chaos I had created. My life was unmanageable, and every attempt to control it had failed.
“The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart, O God, you will not despise.”
— Psalm 51:17
Drugs and alcohol weren’t the problem — they were my only solution to a pain I couldn’t face. But that solution nearly killed me. I was drowning in darkness so thick, I didn’t know which way was up. I hated the man I had become. The mirror wasn’t unbearable because of vanity, but because of shame. It wasn’t just self-loathing — it was an existential crisis cloaked in apathy. The crushing realization that all my striving, all my pride, had led me to despair.
“For whoever would save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for my sake will find it.”
— Matthew 16:25
And yet, in that suffering, I met God.
Not in a church pew. Not through a sermon. But in the silence of collapse. When I had nothing left to offer — when the masks fell, when death seemed more livable than life — that’s when He showed up. I didn’t know what surrender looked like. I just knew I couldn’t go on. So I laid my life down, with no idea what He would do with it.
And slowly, God began to rebuild me.
“He lifted me out of the slimy pit, out of the mud and mire; he set my feet on a rock and gave me a firm place to stand.”
— Psalm 40:2
He didn’t leave me to figure it out alone. He sent people — broken like me, healed like me.
They carried His grace. They offered direction, mercy, and something I had never truly known: hope.
And all they asked was this — pass it on.
Go back into the darkness. Help pull someone else out.
Offer what was freely given.
Through that, I found purpose. I found light. I found God. And I thank Him for the suffering — because it was only in the breaking that I began to see.
My faith is not perfect. But God is. And in every surrender, He shows mercy again.
“But we have this treasure in jars of clay, to show that the surpassing power belongs to God and not to us.
We are afflicted in every way, but not crushed; perplexed, but not driven to despair…
always carrying in the body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be manifested in our bodies.”
— 2 Corinthians 4:7–10
We Believe the House Was Built
No one questions whether a house was built. Or a bridge. Or a road.
We believe in the origin of manmade structures because we’ve seen the process. We’ve watched blueprints turn into reality. The proof is visible, tangible. It’s logical — and so we accept it without hesitation.
Yet when it comes to our own creation, we doubt.
Why? Because we haven’t seen the Creator.
We demand more proof, more certainty — as if the absence of sight means the absence of design. And above all, our belief must not contradict the limits of our mortal reasoning.
The sun rises and sets without our command, and we barely acknowledge it.
Our bodies perform billions of involuntary actions every second — cells divide, hearts beat, lungs breathe — and yet we give no credit to the One who sustains it all.
It never ceases to amaze me that people aren’t amazed.
As I sit here writing this, I pause in reverence. I thank God for the mind to think, the soul to create these words, and the device through which I share them.
He deserves all the credit. He gets all the glory — not only in this life, but in the one to come.
Let us not wait until the silence of eternity to recognize the voice of the Creator. May our eyes be open now to the miracle of simply being — and may our hearts return to the One who made it so. For we dwell in the house God built.
“For since the creation of the world God’s invisible qualities—His eternal power and divine nature—have been clearly seen, being understood from what has been made, so that people are without excuse.”
— Romans 1:20 (NIV)
Where Are You, God?
When we look out into the world—at war, injustice, illness, and loss—it’s easy for our minds and egos to fixate on the pain. There’s no denying that this world can be cruel and deeply unjust. Even in the most natural realities of life—sickness, aging, and death—we wrestle with fear and powerlessness.We try so hard to stay safe, to hold on to time, to protect ourselves from the inevitable. And yet, no matter how hard we try, we cannot stop what is coming.
On this earth, we will suffer. We will grieve. We will lose people we love, and we may suffer ourselves. But in all of it—God will never forsake us.
God sent His only Son, Jesus, to suffer and die—not to escape pain but to enter fully into it. To align Himself with the human experience in its most tragic form. And He allowed it to happen. Not because He abandoned His Son or us—but because it was the only way to redeem it all.
The Cry on the Cross
At the peak of His suffering on the cross, Jesus cried out:
“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”
— Matthew 27:46
This wasn’t a random cry. Jesus was quoting Psalm 22:1, a passage deeply familiar to His people:
“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? Why are you so far from saving me, so far from my cries of anguish?”
— Psalm 22:1 (NIV)
In that moment, Jesus reminded us of two powerful truths:
Even the Son of God felt the ache of absence.
And yet, even in that agony, God’s promises remained.
Psalm 22 does not end in despair. It moves toward hope, victory, and restoration. Jesus wasn’t just crying out in pain—He was pointing us to something greater.
Faith in the Face of Suffering
Jesus, perfect and sinless, took on all our sin, pain, and shame. At that moment of suffering, He became our Savior. And through that suffering, He opened the door to eternal life.
As I reflect on this, I know that I too will have moments of sorrow—seasons of confusion, despair, and loss. But in those moments, I will call on Jesus. I will remember His cry and hold on to the promise of what is yet to come.
God never promised us a life without pain. He never said the road would be easy. But He did promise we would never be alone. That is faith: to live in a broken world, to continue forward through imperfection, and to still trust in something greater.
We May Suffer, But Not Without Hope
I don’t have all the answers. I don’t know why some people suffer deeply or why some lives end too soon. But I do know this:
God will never forsake us.
“And after you have suffered a little while, the God of all grace, who has called you to his eternal glory in Christ, will himself restore, confirm, strengthen, and establish you.”
— 1 Peter 5:10 (ESV)
Closing Prayer
Lord Jesus, in your moment of greatest agony, you did not hide your sorrow. You cried out honestly, showing us that even in doubt, we can turn to God. Help us remember that you have walked through suffering and come out the other side victorious. When we feel alone, remind us that you are near. When we feel forsaken, remind us of the cross—and the hope that followed. Amen.
32 Pairs of Shoes
32 Pairs of Shoes
Yesterday, I was scrolling through Amazon, looking at shoes. My mother-in-law had sent me a gift card for Father’s Day—an incredibly thoughtful gesture. But as I sifted through page after page of options, nothing stood out. Either my size was out of stock or the style didn’t speak to me. That’s when the question hit me: Do I really need another pair of shoes?
That simple question dropped me down a rabbit hole of reflection—and gratitude.
I was getting frustrated. Thousands of options, and all I could think about was how the $50 gift card wouldn’t even cover my usual $150 sneakers. I’d have to spend more. That inner complaint started to build—until I stopped and asked myself: How many pairs do I already own?
32!
Thirty-two pairs of shoes. Most of them around $150. Some closer to $250. Some I haven’t worn in years. Others I don’t know what I was thinking when I bought them.
Then another thought: How many men even get a Father’s Day card from their mother-in-law—let alone one with a gift card attached?
That hit me. I complain about traffic—but I have a car. I complain about gas prices—but I have a full tank. I dread the commute—but it means I have a job. One that provides well for me and my family. And still, I complain.
It’s in these moments I feel small—in the best way. Stripped down. I’m reminded to get back to the basics:
Tell a loved one I love them.
Call a friend just to say hello.
See a homeless person—offer a few bucks or a warm meal, even if my mind doubts their intentions.
Jesus said to His disciples:
“Take nothing for the journey—no staff, no bag, no bread, no money, no extra shirt.”
—Luke 9:3 (NIV)
To find God’s true essence, we must remove the things that get in the way. Even our possessions. Maybe especially our possessions.
I’ve been reading ‘Man’s Search for Meaning’ by Viktor Frankl. His account of surviving Auschwitz is beyond sobering. And yet, amid the horror and hopelessness, he found glimmers of something transcendent. He would speak to his wife in his mind—longing, loving, remembering. In one moment, crammed in a train so packed that no one could sit, he describes catching a glimpse of the Bavarian Alps, snow-capped and glistening in the moonlight. Gratitude and beauty, even there.
And here I am—surrounded by 32 pairs of shoes.
A loving wife of 32 years. Two beautiful adult daughters. A life overflowing with blessings.
Lord, I want to come back to just You and me. Nothing in between. Teach me gratitude not just in thought, but in grace—grace toward others. Help me live like everything I have is a gift.
Because it is.
Heavenly Father, Strip me of my self-centeredness and clothe me instead with gratitude. Forgive me for the times I’ve grumbled in the midst of abundance. Let me see with fresh eyes the blessings I so often overlook— A roof over my head, shoes on my feet, and love that surrounds me.
Teach me to travel light, just as Jesus instructed His disciples, So that I may walk more closely with You. Help me to be generous with others, patient in hardship, and gentle in spirit. Let grace guide my steps and love be the reason I move at all.
In Jesus’ name,
Amen.
The Watcher
You are not your thoughts.
You are not the emotions that rise and fall with them.
You are the one who sees. The one who watches.
Beneath the noise of the mind, there is a presence—silent, spacious, and still. That is you.
The mind speaks in stories. It replays the past and projects the future. It labels, judges, plans, and worries. And so often, we become entangled in this web of thinking, believing that what we think is who we are.
But then something shifts. A moment of clarity.
A pause.
And in that pause, the truth emerges like light breaking through clouds:
You are not the mind.
You are the awareness behind it.
You are the witness to all things—unchanging, eternal, and free.
You are timeless.
There was no beginning to you, just as there will be no end.
Only this moment is ever truly born, and in this moment, you are fully alive.
When I came to this realization—not as a thought, but as a deep knowing—I awoke to the presence of God.
Not a God outside me, but within.
The divine spark that was always there, hidden beneath the clutter of thought and ego.
To awaken is not to become something new, but to remember what has always been.
To die to the false self—the one made of fear, ambition, and identity—and return to the truth:
That we are spirit.
That we are presence.
That we are loved by the One who is love itself.
“It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me.”
— Galatians 2:20 (ESV)
To Whom Love Is Due
Much of our ego decides who deserves love—and, unsurprisingly, we often put ourselves at the top of the list. I know I need grace when I fall short of the glory of God. But what about those we find difficult to love? The unlovable, the unfavorable, or simply those we don't like?
Jesus challenges us with radical love.
“But I say to you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.”
— Matthew 5:44 (ESV)
This isn’t a suggestion. It’s a command that turns our natural instincts upside down. God loved us so much that He sent His only Son to save the broken—from sin, from shame, and even from ourselves.
The truth is, many of us struggle to believe we are lovable. And when we can’t see that love in ourselves, we begin to project judgment onto others. We recognize their flaws because they reflect our own. We justify our resentment. We say they don’t deserve forgiveness. But grace isn’t about deserving—it’s about giving what was given to us, freely.
“Love your neighbor as yourself.” — Matthew 22:39
This is not a suggestion. It is the second greatest commandment, after loving God. Who in your life are you withholding love from? Who have you explained away with judgment, even hatred, convinced you’re right to feel that way?
We must release the need to be right. Release the urge to judge. Instead, pursue righteousness, which always begins with love. When we hold onto hate, it slowly corrodes our soul. But when we choose love, even when it hurts, we step closer to the heart of Christ.
I’m reminded of a story about Mother Teresa. In the slums of Calcutta, she and her missionaries were delivering food door to door. They arrived at a home where a Christian mother lived with her five children. They gave her six portions of food. Without hesitation, she took one portion and walked it next door to her Muslim neighbor. That is the love of God—freely given, with no conditions.
Let’s not wait for people to earn our grace. Let’s be the ones who reflect heaven on earth. My brothers and sisters, may we live lives marked by radical love—not because others deserve it, but because God gave it to us first.
Bozo on the Bus
In my sober network, there’s a phrase that often comes up: “I just want to be a Bozo on the bus.” It may sound humorous, but its meaning runs deep—especially for those of us who have begun to accumulate some long-term sobriety.
Simply put, it’s a surrender of self-importance. It’s letting go of the need to be seen as special, to maintain a persona, or to project an image of significance to the world. It’s an invitation to live simply, humbly, and gratefully—where peace becomes the greatest gift.
When we speak of “self” in recovery, the word ego often follows—and not in a flattering way. Ego represents the false self: the one obsessed with image, status, and recognition. It’s the part of us that strives to be noticed, to accumulate, to matter in the eyes of the world. In our old lives, before recovery, these things felt like everything. But now we see them for what they are—distractions from our true identity.
I love how Jesus addresses this in Matthew 6:28–29:
“And why do you worry about clothes? See how the flowers of the field grow. They do not labor or spin. Yet I tell you that not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these.”
This is Jesus telling us: Come as you are. God isn’t impressed by appearances—He loves us as we are.
And again in Matthew 22:21, when the Pharisees try to trap Jesus with a question about taxes, He replies:
“Give back to Caesar what is Caesar’s, and to God what is God’s.”
It’s a powerful reminder that we belong to God—not the world—and our value is defined by Him alone.
God doesn’t need us to be impressive. He wants us to understand that we are already precious in His sight. His heart is moved not by status, but by surrender, humility, and faith.
Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn shares a moving story in The Gulag Archipelago about an elderly woman in a Soviet concentration camp who radiated such joy that the guards thought she was mad and left her alone. But her joy came from God. She needed no earthly affirmation to feel peace—because she knew who she belonged to.
So back to “Bozo on the bus.” I continue to remind myself to stay grateful, to reflect on what God has already given me. Jesus gave us salvation and eternal life—not through striving, but through belief.
My friends, we don’t need to impress the world. The truth is, the world is rarely impressed by anything for long. It takes courage to simply be enough. To live quietly, to be content, to not call attention to our importance—that’s true reverence to God. We are already enough, just as He made us.
The Exhaustion of Being Right
The age-old temptation is the need to be right—not just in arguments, but in our beliefs, preferences, and how we want others to see the world. It’s not always loud or combative; often it hides in the subtle desire for agreement, validation, or control. Over time, I’ve gradually stepped away from this pursuit, unless the outcome is critical—like the time my daughter wanted to shave her head in high school. (Yes, I stepped in.)
I've also realized that the need to be right shows up in how we judge others. A passing thought when we see someone and think, they’re out of line, or that’s just weird. As if we aren’t odd in our own ways. I mean really—what is normal anyway? We like to think we’re above it all, but deep down, we all carry quirks, struggles, and unseen wounds.
I know God knows we’re different—in every way imaginable. Personalities, backgrounds, opinions, beliefs, and lifestyles. The only true congruency is that we all have souls beneath it all. I believe it’s a divine challenge of compassion and humility to allow people to be as they are. Sure, certain lifestyles or cultures may not resonate with us, but that doesn’t make them wrong. I've met atheists and agnostics throughout my life—people who think and believe differently than I do. I don’t judge them. I simply pray for them—quietly, on my own.
Through experience and grace, I’ve discovered something freeing: being right is exhausting. Whether it’s arguing online, debating at home, or trying to correct someone in public, it’s a hollow victory. Rarely do people say, “You’re right, I’m wrong,” and even more rarely, “Thanks for showing me how foolish I’ve been.” And in those moments when I dig in and try to force the issue, I usually end up angrier than before—and more disconnected.
Ultimately, the obsession with being right is acting in self. It’s ego. It’s thinking. And it quietly pulls us away from God’s grace. God gave us a mind, yes—even opinions—but He never intended for those things to divide us or dominate others. When we insist on being right, we miss the invitation to be kind, to listen, and to love.
Sometimes the most powerful truth we can live out isn’t proving a point—it’s choosing peace.
“Judge not, that you be not judged. For with the judgment you pronounce you will be judged, and with the measure you use it will be measured to you.”
— Matthew 7:1–2 (ESV)
Let Go of Time-Bound Anxiety
Journey Through Eternity
It’s time to release our fears tied to time—deadlines, aging, regrets, or the gnawing sense that we’re “running out.” But eternity has no ticking clock. God works in seasons, not stopwatches.
Conceptually, I believe in life after this one—an existence that continues from this world into the next. But if I’m honest, I’m not always brimming with faith about that reality. I find myself caught in time, and I don’t mean the present. My mind wanders and worries in the future, filled with “what-ifs” and worst-case scenarios. And I spend just as much time digging through the past—sifting through regrets, replaying old wounds, and wishing for do-overs.
Still, I gather what faith I can to be still long enough to remember: God is not bound by time. He doesn’t rush or delay. His view is eternal. Our existence is and will be forever. It’s only our human experience that keeps score, clinging to clocks and calendars as if they define reality.
And yet I live as though I’m constantly running late. I speed in traffic—even when I’m early. I check my watch during events I’m genuinely enjoying. Why? Because I’m infatuated with time. Obsessed with where I could be instead of where I am. My anxiety whispers that I should be somewhere else, doing something more, becoming someone I’m not yet.
“Do I live more in fear of the end, or awe of the eternal?”
That question hangs in the air. It reveals something deeper: I may be measuring life by my own imagined deadlines—not God’s. If God has no concept of time, then I must be the one keeping score. I am the anxious timekeeper, tormenting myself with arbitrary limits.
“And this is the testimony: God has given us eternal life, and this life is in his Son.” — 1 John 5:11
Eternity is not just a concept—it’s a promise. A destination already secured in Christ. And that promise changes everything: how we live, how we suffer, how we hope, how we love.
We are invited to live here, now. Not in the shadows of what could have been or the illusions of what might come. This moment, this breath, this presence—this is the gift.
“Before the mountains were born or you brought forth the whole world, from everlasting to everlasting you are God.” — Psalm 90:2
From everlasting to everlasting—God is. And so are we, in Him. Let us live as eternal souls, grounded in today, free from the tyranny of time.
What We are Not
Our resentments often shine a light on the hidden wounds within us. When we feel anger or frustration toward someone or something, it’s worth pausing to ask: Why? What is it within me that’s being stirred?
To examine the root of our reactions is the beginning of true healing. Why does this bother me? Why am I angry? Why am I afraid? And more deeply still—which version of myself feels threatened or exposed?
Understanding this brings more than just clarity. It leads us back to ourselves—and ultimately, to wholeness.
The Two Selves
As I continue to question my resentments, I find myself drawn deeper, asking: Are there two versions of me?
Am I just my personality—my thoughts, emotions, ego? Am I only the story I’ve crafted to explain who I am? I don’t believe so. I’ve come to see that there are two selves: one formed by pain, experience, and the need to protect; and another that has always been—unshaken, silent, and eternal.
Our personality is like the surface of the ocean—restless and reactive. But beneath it lies our true nature: vast, calm, and untouched. That deeper presence is the soul—the divine essence within us. It has no beginning, no end. It was never born—it simply is.
Our thinking, our ego, is not who we truly are. It is a mask—useful, but limited. In order to truly live, we must allow that false self to die. We must surrender the identity built on fear, pride, and performance to uncover the one rooted in love, stillness, and God’s truth.
God is not asking us to remember who we’ve imagined ourselves to be. He is gently calling us to let go of what we are not—so we can awaken to what we’ve always been in Him.
"Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross daily and follow me. For whoever wants to save their life will lose it, but whoever loses their life for me will save it."
— Luke 9:23–24
Death to Self
There’s a moment of truth—a point where the sheer disgust with who we’ve become drives us to God, to consciousness. For me, it wasn’t a gentle nudge but a full collapse—failure, depression, a blackness so heavy it left me paralyzed. The illusion of control crumbled, and with it came a physical wretching, as though the pain itself was clawing its way out of my body.
I remember sobbing in the shower of a psych ward, convinced I was about to explode from the inside out. And then—something shifted. A release. A crack in the suffering. For just a moment, I believe God eased the pain, enough for me to surrender. Not because I was strong, but because I was completely broken.
“The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit.” —Psalm 34:18
I stood in silence—not in peace, but in sheer exhaustion. Yet even there, surrounded by others battling their own demons, I felt something new: I knew I was going to be okay. Somehow, God had cracked open the door, just enough to let in a sliver of light.
That’s when I began to truly listen—to others, to direction, to voices outside of my own willful blindness. As if those around me were spiritual guides sent to lead me home.
In some strange way, I believe God allowed my ego, my self-will, to destroy itself. Or perhaps He simply watched me burn it all down—patiently waiting to help me rebuild. Either way, I had died a death of self. And it was exactly what I needed.
From that place of total ruin, I didn’t pray the desperate foxhole prayer. I prayed from a place of surrender, of servanthood. I wasn’t begging to be saved—I was asking to be used. That, I believe, was my salvation. Not the rescue from pain, but the rebirth into purpose.
The greatest gift I’ve ever received from God was to be crushed—to be a living corpse, discarded by the world. And in that mercy, He raised me from the ashes and awakened a consciousness I never imagined was there.
It was then that I finally stepped away from my thoughts, from my identity, and found something deeper. I discovered the soul that had always been there—buried beneath layers of illusion and fear.
This life, with all its triumphs and heartaches, is the soul’s journey back to God—whether in this life or the next.
