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.
Do Nothing
The idea of doing nothing to receive grace runs contrary to everything we’re taught. Our minds resist it. We believe we must move, achieve, earn, or strive to be worthy—even of peace. But the truth is, you don’t need to take a single step in any direction to be exactly as God intended: loved, whole, and enough.
"Free and easy" isn't so easy for the mind to accept. It feels almost unnatural not to do something to gain peace. We say, once I accomplish this, then I can rest. But that rest, that peace, is already within us.
I think we, ourselves, often stand in the way of that peace. Sometimes I wish I were my dog—seriously. He’s never disturbed unless there’s something actually disturbing him. Otherwise, he’s just pure presence. Bliss in a fur coat. We humans, on the other hand, complicate everything, even the simple, beautiful gift of grace.
Expectations are another thief of peace. We expect perfect to look perfect. We raise the bar endlessly. We rarely just receive the moment or enjoy the presence of God. I go to a lot of Dodger games, and I’ll catch myself complaining about traffic, the crowd, the heat. It’s like a kid getting a pony for their birthday and complaining about the color.
My brothers and sisters, stop the madness of constant doing, striving, judging, and expecting. Be still. God has already given you His presence. You are a miracle in every sense. He doesn't want your suffering—and He especially doesn't want you to be the source of it.
You lack nothing. You are here. You are held.
Do nothing… and awaken.
“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.”
— Matthew 11:28
Without Sight
It is often what we cannot see that matters most. Faith, by its very nature, asks us to believe in the unseen and the untouchable. Over time, I’ve come to realize how closely faith and love are intertwined.
I love my daughters beyond measure—but if I tried to describe that love in words, it would likely sound ordinary. The truth is, love—like faith—moves through us in ways that logic cannot capture. It springs from a place deeper than thought, deeper than flesh, from something eternal.
There’s something within each of us—an inner compass—that quietly leads the way. We make choices based on instinct, emotion, and a sense of something greater, wiser, and divine guiding us.
Take medicine, for example. Science tells us to trust our doctors, and yet:
Only about 70% of people fill their prescriptions.
Of those, only 50% actually take the medication.
And of that group, only half finish the full course.
What does that tell us? If we truly trusted only in science, we would follow it unquestioningly. But something else is at play—something deeper. I believe it's God and the voice of the soul gently guiding our discernment.
We have been predestined to strive upward toward God, to seek truth beyond logic and formulas. Our soul knows where we belong and whom we should trust. That’s why I firmly believe that trusting in science alone cannot compare to trusting in God.
No pandemic, no illness, no treatment can ever prevail over the power of the Almighty.
So trust your soul. Trust your heart. Trust in God. Be still—and listen to what you cannot see.
There are no human-made absolutes—only the divine hand of the One who oversees all.
"Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding."
— Proverbs 3:5
We See the Pain, But Often Miss the Glory
When my father passed, I was deep in grief. As I mourned, my wife’s grandmother said something that initially struck me as harsh—maybe even offensive. With tears in her eyes, she looked at me and said, “Do you know what’s worse than losing your father?”
I must’ve looked stunned. My heart was already broken, and in that moment, I couldn’t imagine anything worse. I didn’t respond.
Then she said, “Worse would be not hurting. If he’d been absent, or a bad father, there would be no pain. But it hurts because it was so good.”
I sat with her words in silence—and they sank in deeply.
It hurts because it was so good.
God gives us many things to be grateful for, and the truth is, most of my life has been blessed. Yes, there have been painful moments—losing my father, my mother, and my brother—but in every loss, the pain only proves the depth of love that existed.
Our human existence is fragile. Our bodies will fail, and despair will visit us at times. But in between, we get to live, to love, and to witness the miracle of life. Someone chose to create us. And though we are imperfect, the experience we’re given is nothing short of divine.
And it doesn’t end here.
The perfection continues beyond this world, because God sent His Son—not just to suffer, but to show us the way back to Him. To redeem us. To remind us that the pain of loss is not the end, but the evidence of love, and the beginning of Glory.
So my friends, while we often see the pain, let’s not miss the Glory.
Let’s count our blessings. Let’s see the victory—through both joy and sorrow. Because the race isn’t over. In Christ, we live forever.
“For I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory that is to be revealed to us.”
— Romans 8:18 (ESV)
Praise be to God.
Sunflower Seeds, Lotto Tickets, and a Receipt
Sunflower Seeds, Lotto Tickets, and No Receipt
The apparent randomness of encountering people is often God’s way of fully revealing Himself. Yesterday, I stopped for gas and had a strange craving for sunflower seeds. So I filled up, walked into the store, made my purchase, and — of course — I couldn’t resist putting down a few dollars on a lottery ticket.
In doing so, I struck up a conversation with the cashier, Lupe, who was covering a shift on Father’s Day from another location. She explained she’d fallen victim to racism that morning — a customer demanded a refund and said it was because of the color of her skin.
I listened, acknowledged her hurt, and then I spoke to her from a place I felt God would want me to. “Lupe, that man’s suffering and actions reflect him, not you. His torment isn’t yours to carry. We should pray for him.”
She looked up at me and said, “Usually, every morning, I pray Oración a la Sangre de Cristo — the Prayer to the Blood of Christ — but today I rushed and forgot.”
I said, “Maybe this encounter is a reminder to say it now.”
Then Lupe recited:
Prayer to the Blood of Christ
Lord Jesus,
by the power of Your Precious Blood,
seal all people, places, or situations
that may harm me at this moment.
Cover me with Your Blood,
protect me from all evil,
from all the schemes of the enemy,
from all envy, hatred, or lack of love.
Blood of Christ, who triumphed on the Cross,
defend me, heal me, deliver me,
and make me an instrument of light, faith, and salvation.
Amen.
I left the store and walked back toward my car, only to realize I hadn’t gotten a receipt. So I turned around and went back in. There Lupe stood again, and we exchanged a knowing look. “I think God wanted me to see you once more today.” She nodded quietly. “I think so.”
This moment reminded me that there are no coincidences — there are only divine appointments. God orchestrates these encounters to help us navigate this world, to lift each other up, and to bring peace, healing, and understanding. His hand is always at work, even in the small, ordinary exchanges we might normally rush past. It’s in these moments we realize we’re not alone — we’re all connected by a loving God who guides us, whether we realize it or not.
“And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.” — Romans 8:28
Grace from the Unlikeliest Messenger
The first time I truly heard God speak was when His voice came from a drug addict — someone just like me, someone who had walked through the valley of the shadow of death and somehow emerged a revenant — a soul who had come back from the grave, back from the ashes, alive by the grace of God.
I heard God speak directly to my soul through the most improbable of messengers — a person whose choices had been ravaged by addiction in a way only the devil could orchestrate. But it was from his own deep suffering, from a place I recognized because I had been there myself, that the message struck me in a way nothing else could.
He spoke a language only the defeated can appreciate — a voice that resonates with those battling their own shame, their own doubts, their own feeling of having let everyone down. He understood exactly what it felt like to destroy friendships, undermine family, disappoint the people you love most — because he had lived it. His words cut through my defenses and struck directly at my soul in a way I hadn’t believed was possible.
My sponsor — this tough, life-worn man — turned out to be an angel in disguise. From the outside, many would see a wayward soul. But within him flowed compassion, love, and pure grace — a testament to the way God can illuminate someone the world dismisses. It’s a powerful reminder that God often speaks through the most improbable people — the ones we’d least expect — to show us His greatest messages of hope.
It’s a testament to the principle that we shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, but by the content of its soul — a soul that God chose to redeem and use for His glory. There’s no human explanation for the people God picks or the order in which He brings them into our lives. It’s a divine orchestration we may never fully appreciate.
The least expected become His greatest messengers. The ones stranded in the blackest depths can find their way back into the light — back into the loving hands of their Creator.
God led my sponsor, and in turn, he walked with me on my journey from spiritual death to awakening — from ashes back to life — alive in grace. His willingness to share his struggles, his doubts, and his recovery opened a path for me to find healing and peace.
My brothers and sisters, God is always speaking — we need only to be willing to listen with an open heart, regardless of the voice through which His message comes. God created all, and He can use anyone — even someone battling their own demons — to bring us back home.
“ God chose the foolish things of the world to shame the wise; God chose the weak things of the world to shame the strong.” — 1 Corinthians 1:27 (NIV)
Decide
Today, let’s make decisions rooted in faith, not in our insatiable ego. Better to give God the attention He truly deserves, instead of that part of us that constantly craves recognition.
In how we look, what we say, and how we act, let’s be authentic in God’s grace. We don’t need to perform or prove ourselves to earn His love — it’s already there, without condition.
Let our words be for His glory, living each moment as a gift. Whatever we think matters most, in the grand view, much of it isn’t worth our concern.
Therefore, my brothers and sisters, let’s choose God each and every time — whether we feel in control or powerless. Let’s decide with conviction, trusting that God is the only true certainty.
“But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well.” — Matthew 6:33 (NIV)
Today is enough
Beloved God,
I awoke today, and that in itself is enough. As far as I can tell, all is well and exactly as it should be. If anything feels missing, it’s likely my own mind and emotions grasping for something more. Let me not chase what I do not have, but rest in your grace — here and now — just as I am.
For what is there to want in the stillness of this moment? What more is required to complete the miracle of our existence? We have, and we always will have, a loving God who made it all possible.
Our journey in human form is temporary — filled with thoughts and emotions that come and go. But the soul, and the God who gave us life, remain constant across this life and the next. I may not have all the answers, I may not possess the knowledge to explain it, but I know it’s true — just as I know I love my children, my wife, and my dog — a love that transcends all understanding.
Today, my brothers and sisters, I ask you to be still enough to realize it’s all a part of a divine journey. We are being led forward, from this human form into the next realm of soul’s path. So much — everything — is happening according to a greater plan. So enjoy the ride. God loves you.
“Be still, and know that I am God.” — Psalm 46:10 (NIV)
