False Imprisonment
It’s startling to realize that many of us are living under false imprisonment without even knowing it. Not behind bars, but behind the walls of a false self—the ego. This captor dictates how we think, what we feel, and how we respond. When we feel slighted, we hold resentments. When we are anxious, we live in fear. When we are weary, we search in vain for rest. The jailer Ego whispers, “This is who you are. This is how life must be.” And we believe it.
Like a jailer, the false self controls our inner prison. It locks us in cells of emotion, frustration, and fatigue. Sometimes that prison feels solitary, other times like a crowded yard where survival depends on fighting for scraps of validation. Either way, the captor decides the terms, and we obey.
Even when freedom is within reach, the mind resists. Like Pavlov’s dogs, conditioned to stay even when the door was opened, we remain in captivity. Our chains are invisible, yet heavy—made of fear, anger, pride, and self-will.
But the truth is this: the door has always been open.
The key is not found outwardly in circumstances, possessions, or the opinions of others. It is found inwardly—in the eternal gift God has placed within us: our soul.
Our being is not our flesh, our racing thoughts, or our anxious emotions. Our true essence is the life-giving Spirit of God, timeless and eternal. To be free, we must look past the noise of ego and return to the Presence within.
Jesus Himself said, “So if the Son sets you free, you will be free indeed” (John 8:36). True freedom is not found in escaping circumstances, but in surrendering to the One who holds the keys to every prison.
Today, my brothers and sisters, may we turn inward, not outward. May we refuse to listen to the captor’s voice and instead hear the still, small voice of God. May we cast off the shackles of ego and step into true freedom—the freedom of being who God created us to be.
For in Him there is no confinement, no time, no fear—only eternal life.
Now and forever. Amen.
Closing Prayer
Heavenly Father,
We confess that too often we have lived under the rule of our false selves—chained by pride, fear, and anxiety. But You, Lord, are the One who sets captives free. Teach us to turn inward, where Your Spirit dwells, and to listen for Your voice above all others. Break the shackles of ego and open our eyes to the freedom we already have in Christ. May we walk today not as prisoners, but as children of God, living in the fullness of Your eternal life.
In Jesus’ name, Amen
When Blessings Feel Like Struggles
Today my heart feels both heavy and full. Our oldest daughter left to begin her life in Huntsville, Alabama. She goes with a good job, a wonderful man who adores her, with a bright career ahead of him, serving our country, deeply devoted to her and family. All the signs point to blessing; all the lights are green. Yet the truth is, her leaving is crushing.
This tension revealed something important: sometimes our blessings feel like struggles. The very things we hope for, pray for, and long to see in our children—or in our own lives—can become the things that cause us tears when they come to pass.
If I’m honest, the alternative would be heartbreaking. What if she had no motivation, stayed home without direction, picked up destructive habits, or chosen a partner who dragged her down? That would not ease my burden—it would deepen it. No, the tears I shed today are born out of love, pride, and gratitude, not despair.
It’s a reminder of the truth: “God gives you what you need, not what you want.”
What I want is for my daughter to stay close, safe in my arms, within reach of home. What God knows she needs is a future, a calling, and a love of her own. And in giving her that, He is also teaching me something: to release, to trust, and to find peace in the very struggle of letting go.
Scripture tells us: “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)
Even when blessings sting, they are working for good.
Prayer
Lord, thank You for knowing what I need, even when I don’t. Thank You for blessing my daughter with a good path, a faithful partner, and a hopeful future. Though my heart aches as she leaves, help me to see that this ache is rooted in love, not in loss. Teach me to trust that the struggles I feel are often the very blessings You’ve placed before me. Let me hold to faith, knowing that Your plans are always for good. Amen.
Be where you are
Prayer of Presence
Today, Lord, let me be where I am—nowhere else but in Your loving grace.
Do not let me lean forward into fear of the future, nor backward into the shadows of regret.
Keep me present, rooted in the consciousness of my soul and in the love You freely give.
Your Word reminds me: “Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.” (Matthew 6:34)
So I will not fret over the future for myself or my loved ones. I will hand over what is Yours into Your hands, and I will hold fast to faith. Nothing else matters more than my connection to You.
Help me to see that my so-called problems are often hidden blessings, for You alone know my journey—what I need, not what I think I want.
When I am tempted to escape into the past with its regrets, or the future with its fears, remind me that You are here with me now. “Be still, and know that I am God.” (Psalm 46:10)
Let me carry Your Spirit wherever I go. When I meet others, let me not just speak to their minds but to their souls—soul to soul, eternal to eternal. May my life reflect not what this world has orchestrated, but what You have authored.
Keep me in Your arms, Lord.
Keep me present in Your love, resting in Your grace, and walking as Your faithful servant.
Closing Prayer
Father, thank You for this moment, for this breath, and for Your presence that never leaves me. Teach me to rest in today and to find peace in Your eternal care. May I walk forward with faith, rooted not in worry, but in trust. In Jesus’ name, Amen.
Soul Speak
Oh Lord, let my soul seep through my exterior. Strip away the ego, the masks, the false shine, and let the eternal light You placed within me radiate to those around me.
Let me not speak from selfish façades or from the noise of my own mind, but let Your Spirit within be the true author of my story. May others see me, not merely with their eyes, but with the eyes of the heart—tuned to the frequency of love, grace, and care.
Father, I long to walk this path so closely with You that my steps become an invitation for others. May my presence be more than words—a living beacon of hope for those searching, weary, or lost. Let me be transparent enough that Your light shines through, a lamp on the hill that cannot be hidden.
“You are the light of the world. A town built on a hill cannot be hidden. Neither do people light a lamp and put it under a bowl. Instead they put it on its stand, and it gives light to everyone in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your Father in heaven.” — Matthew 5:14–16
I want to carry a message beyond language, soul to soul, heart to heart. Not that I may be exalted, but that You may be glorified. Like the shepherd who seeks out the one wandering sheep, I want to guide others toward Your embrace, to be a vessel of comfort, peace, and direction for those seeking You.
“For God, who said, ‘Let light shine out of darkness,’ made His light shine in our hearts to give us the light of the knowledge of God’s glory displayed in the face of Christ.” — 2 Corinthians 4:6
Prayer:
Lord, let the shine beneath me never be dimmed by fear, pride, or distraction. Let me live not for applause, but for Your approval. Fill me so deeply with Your presence that others encounter You before they encounter me. May I be a lantern carrying Your flame, a reflection of the eternal Light that never fades. Use my life as a signal fire, drawing souls home to You. In Jesus’ name, Amen.
To Whom Is a Stranger?
When I meet someone new, I often pause and wonder—why am I speaking to this person? Who brought this encounter into existence? I believe no meeting is an accident, for God knows each of us intimately. In His eyes, we are never strangers; we are connected as His children.
Recently, at a music festival surrounded by thousands, I met people who felt strangely familiar—souls radiating warmth and a longing for connection. I believe God hears the language of our souls and sends out a beacon, drawing others into our path. In those moments, we hear what we need to hear, and we’re touched by a message only God could have arranged.
We must remember: no one we meet is truly a stranger. Every face we see is a vision delivered by God. Nothing is by chance. Regardless of appearance, status, or circumstance, each person is our brother or sister. Life unfolds on two levels—the fragile, fleeting human experience and the eternal, divine reality of our souls. When we see through God’s eyes, we recognize the truth: we are not strangers; we are one.
"Do not forget to show hospitality to strangers, for by so doing some people have shown hospitality to angels without knowing it." — Hebrews 13:2
Closing Prayer
Father, thank You for the divine appointments You place in my path. Help me to see every person I encounter as You see them—not as a stranger, but as a beloved soul created in Your image. Open my heart to be a vessel of kindness, grace, and connection. Let my words and actions reflect Your love, and may I never miss the opportunity to embrace the sacredness in every meeting. In Jesus’ name, Amen.
One Thought: All we see and all we encounter must be viewed through the lens of God’s intention.
I can also rework this so the One Thought is styled like a powerful closing line in bold italics, so it hits harder for readers. Would you like me to do that?
Heaven’s Return on Investment
“Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moths and vermin destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven… For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”
— Matthew 6:19–21
Reflection:
We pour decades of our lives into careers, savings accounts, and retirement plans. We track every investment, thinking of the day when we can finally rest from our labor. And yet, even the best earthly pension is fleeting — a few years of comfort before the inevitable call of eternity.
In his spiritual classic Autobiography of a Yogi, Paramahansa Yogananda offers a striking analogy that bridges the practical and the eternal. He wrote:
Yogananda put it plainly:
“Men work a lifetime for a pension that will last a few years; how few work for the eternal pension of God’s peace, which will accompany the soul beyond death. The wise devote themselves to earning both — supplying the needs of the body, and, above all, securing the imperishable wealth of divine realization.”
God knew our time here would be short — a single tick on eternity’s clock. Our life is but a vapor (James 4:14), yet in this vapor, we are given the chance to prepare for a future without end. The same diligence we apply to building a 401(k), a business, or a savings account should pale in comparison to the diligence we give toward building our eternal inheritance.
The true pension plan of the soul is built through faith, prayer, acts of love, and a deepening relationship with Christ. These investments never lose value, cannot be stolen, and will follow you beyond the grave.
Here’s my challenge to myself and you. Take an honest look at your daily energy and priorities. How much is going toward the “temporary account” — the needs and comforts of this short life — versus the “eternal account” that will carry into the life to come?
Prayer:
Lord, teach me to number my days and invest them wisely. Help me to balance my earthly responsibilities with my heavenly calling. May my heart’s greatest wealth be found in You, and may I never forget that this life is only the foyer to the eternity You have prepared. Amen.
Scars That Set Others Free
It’s hard to imagine that some of the toughest moments in our lives—those seasons of deep pain, loss, tragedy, or shame—could ever serve a purpose. Yet these are the very experiences that equip us to reach others in a way nothing else can.
When we’ve faced uncertainty, wrestled with our own failures, endured heartbreak, or stood in the shadow of death, we walk through a refining fire. And on the other side, we carry something the world desperately needs: a living testimony that God brings beauty from ashes.
I once heard someone say, “You can’t have the glory without the story.” The path back to God is often littered with brokenness.
And yet, somehow, those shattered pieces become the very thing He uses to build bridges for others to cross.
I can hardly believe that my misfortune, my mistakes, my darkest nights could serve a divine purpose—but they do. Because when I share how God met me there, it tells someone else, “You are not alone. This isn’t the end. There is a tomorrow—and God is already in it.”
Your misery isn’t wasted. In God’s hands, it becomes ministry. What once broke you can now set someone else free.
“Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive from God.”
— 2 Corinthians 1:3–4
Prayer:
Father, thank You for turning my pain into a purpose I couldn’t have imagined. Help me to see my scars not as shame, but as stories of Your faithfulness. Give me courage to share my journey so others may see Your light in their darkness. Use my past to bring someone hope for their future. In Jesus’ name, Amen.
God Shots
Divine Reminders in Disguise
"Do not forget to show hospitality to strangers, for by so doing some people have shown hospitality to angels without knowing it." — Hebrews 13:2
We all have them—
moments so perfectly timed, so unexpected, that they make you stop and think, That had to be God.
In recovery circles, we call them God Shots—those encounters or events that carry His unmistakable fingerprints. The world calls them coincidences, but we know better.
I’ll never forget my first God Shot.
I was barely one day sober in treatment. I couldn’t sleep, and my mind was spinning with dread. I worried about my family, who had left me until I sought help. I worried about my job, my life, my mental state. The darkness felt like it was closing in, and I was coming apart inside.
In desperation, I prayed one of those “foxhole prayers” soldiers talk about—what Catholics might call a Hail Mary. I promised God I would listen. I would surrender. I would let Him lead. I begged Him for a sign—any sign—that I could make it through this.
It was 2 a.m. when a treatment center tech came in to check on my new roommate. He glanced at me, saw the wreck I was in, and simply said, “John, I think you’re gonna make it. I really do.”
At first, I thought he was just saying it to give me false hope. But then it hit me—I had just prayed for a sign. I had just asked God to open my ears. And here was this man, at the exact moment I needed it most, delivering words I didn’t know I was desperate to hear: You’re gonna make it.
Who else could have orchestrated that?
Later, at about a month sober, I heard a woman in a meeting say, “Coincidence is God’s way of remaining anonymous.” When I thought back to that night, I knew it wasn’t random. It was God—quiet, present, and loving—stepping into my mess to remind me He was listening.
God’s Word is full of these moments. Balaam’s donkey speaking (Numbers 22). Moses hearing from God through a burning bush (Exodus 3). Jesus meeting the Samaritan woman at the well (John 4). Each was a turning point—God showing up in a way that couldn’t be ignored.
The beauty of a God Shot is that it doesn’t have to be dramatic. Sometimes it’s just the right word at the right time. Sometimes it’s the reminder that He’s closer than your own breath.
The key? Stay awake to the small things. God Shots don’t always shout—they often whisper.
Prayer:
Lord, open my eyes to see You at work in my life. Help me to notice the people, the moments, and the blessings You send as reminders that I’m never alone. Let me not dismiss them as coincidence, but receive them as Your personal touch. Thank You for showing up in ways I can see, hear, and feel. Amen.
Reflection Questions:
Can you recall a recent moment you’d call a “God Shot”?
What made it stand out to you as more than coincidence?
How can you keep your heart open to noticing these moments in your daily life?
Just the Next Step
A Devotional on Trusting God's Light, Not the Whole Map
“Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light to my path.”
— Psalm 119:105 (ESV)
We often want the whole picture—the roadmap, the timelines, the assurance that it’s all going to work out. We pray for clarity, strategy, and certainty.
But instead, God offers something far more profound: Himself.
He says,
“Your word is a lamp to my feet.”
A lamp doesn’t illuminate the whole road. It lights the next step or two. And sometimes that feels like a cruel tease—especially when we’re anxious for answers.
But it’s not a tease.
It’s an invitation: “Walk with Me. Trust Me.”
We Want the Plan. God Gives Us Presence.
God never promised we’d have it all mapped out. But He did promise we’d never walk alone.
He’s saying,
“I may not give you the whole plan. But I will give you Me. And I will walk with you, one step at a time.”
This is where real faith lives—not in having control, but in choosing to move forward with God, even when we don’t know what’s around the bend.
One Step at a Time Is Enough
We don’t need to know the outcome.
We don’t need to have the 5-year vision.
We just need to stay close to the Source of Light.
It’s not about the clarity of the path—it’s about the trust in the Guide.
So if you're tired… lost… unsure of the next move—pause.
Open the Word. Pray. Breathe.
And look for just one small light.
That’s where He is.
And that’s where your next step begins.
🙏 Prayer
Lord, I want to see the whole picture, but You’re only giving me a step. Help me to trust You anyway. Remind me that Your presence is enough. I don’t need the full plan if I have You beside me. Light my way today—not the whole path, just the next step. I will follow You. One step. One moment. One day at a time. Amen.
False Blame
Blaming others, making excuses, or accusing the world of being unfair is often a sign of unconsciousness. It's a refusal to look inward.
We tend to give ourselves too much credit—believing we’re the main character in someone else’s attempt to hold us back or cause us harm. But the truth is, most people are too consumed with their own lives to think about us that much. I’ve always loved the quote:
“I used to worry about what people thought of me, until I realized they don’t.”
It’s sobering—and freeing.
Yet, how often do we chalk up our own shortcomings to someone else’s fault? We tell ourselves our misfortunes are the result of bad luck, bad people, or forces outside our control. But this mindset—this refusal to own our choices—keeps us stuck.
In the Bible, we see examples of what I call “pit parties.” Take the Israelites: freed from slavery by God’s hand, led out of Egypt by Moses—and yet, not long after, they’re grumbling and complaining. “We had it better in Egypt,” they say. The cycle of blame and bitterness is endless for those unwilling to do the hard work of self-discovery.
This is why people often shun God—and avoid personal responsibility—because deep down, we know the uncomfortable truth: the real problem isn’t Him. It’s us.
I love when people say, “I was dealt a bad hand in life.”
Here’s a thought: don’t play that hand. Don’t double down on stupid. Or better yet—play another game. Choose the one where you align your actions with God’s will instead of blaming the world and ducking accountability.
You see it clearly in criminal thinking: “The cops are out to get me.” “The system is rigged.” “I’m just misunderstood.” These defenses say, “I’m not the problem. The world is.”
It’s ego. It’s protection. But it’s also deception.
I catch glimpses of this same thinking in the scroll of social media—people justifying behavior, shifting blame, mocking accountability. But spiritual growth begins when we stop pointing fingers and start looking in the mirror.
True freedom isn’t found in blaming the world.
It’s found in owning our part, surrendering our pride, and stepping into the light of truth.
“Search me, O God, and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts.
See if there is any offensive way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting.”
— Psalm 139:23–24 (NIV)
God,
Strip away the lies I’ve told myself.
Tear down the walls of blame and pride that keep me from the truth.
Shine Your light into the corners of my heart that I’ve refused to examine.
I don’t want to be a victim of my own excuses.
I don’t want to live in the comfort of blame while forfeiting the power of change.
Help me see that freedom doesn’t come from control—it comes from surrender.
Search me, Lord.
Expose what needs to go.
And give me the courage to own it.
Let me stop pointing fingers outward, and instead, lift my hands upward—to You.
You are not the problem.
You are the solution.
Align my spirit to Your will, and may my life reflect the humility, strength, and accountability that comes from walking with You.
In Jesus’ name,
Amen.
A Swaying Tree
It’s hard to imagine now, but there was a time when I felt utterly helpless—trapped in darkness with no way out.
My life slowly spiraled out of control. For years, I wore a mask—playing the clown, making light of everything, pretending I had it all together. But beneath the surface, I was unraveling.
Eventually, I found an escape: substance. What began as a way to unwind became a way to survive—a daily ritual that morphed into a full-blown nightmare.
There were sleepless nights… quiet 2 a.m. trips to the liquor cabinet. Sometimes I’d look down at my dog and feel like even he saw through me. But it wasn’t him—it was my soul, trying to break through the denial, whispering: You’re lost.
I didn’t seek treatment willingly. My ego’s façade had shattered, leaving my family in the rubble of destruction. The illusion of control was gone. I was a broken man with nothing left but desperation. That’s when I cried out—to a God I wasn’t even sure was still listening.
Reluctantly, I entered rehab a shell of myself—a walking corpse, just looking for a hole to disappear into. Every conversation was strained. Every meeting felt like a blur of hollow words. I showed up physically, but I wasn’t truly there. One day, they took us bowling—something that should’ve been lighthearted, maybe even fun. But even that felt miserable. That’s when it hit me: if I couldn’t feel joy doing something as simple as bowling, I was far more lost than I realized.
It was the beginning of COVID when I walked into Bridges to Life rehab. As the world outside fell apart, I was confronting my own collapse within.
A few weeks later, I returned home. On my way to outpatient IOP, my brother called to check in. I told him I was scared—scared I might never feel joy again. I couldn’t even remember the last time I laughed. He told me to give it time. That I’d been through a lot. And that healing has its own pace.
Maybe it was pandemic boredom. Maybe it was restlessness. But I started taking long walks—silent walks, just me and the sound of my own thoughts. So many walks, even the dog started hiding from me.
Then one day, a walk turned into a kind of pilgrimage—a pathway to surrender. Something felt different. The more I let go, the more I began to notice.
I stopped mid-walk. My dog looked back at me, confused. But something had caught my attention. The wind had picked up. The trees around me began to sway—not wildly, but with rhythm and grace. I felt the breeze on my face. I could hear the leaves rustling in a strange, haunting harmony.
And suddenly—I was aware of something bigger.
A presence.
It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet.
It was holy.
And it scared me.
Not like a movie scare—but like standing at the edge of a cliff, or under the weight of a thunderstorm rolling in. I felt exposed. Small. Known. There was shame… and yet something else—adoration. A trembling awe. I stood there, completely undone.
In that moment, I felt God.
And though it shook me, it also set something free inside me. Because in that strange, sacred stillness, I heard something—not out loud, but deep within:
"I see you. I’ve never left. And I still love you."
I don’t tell this story often. It feels too sacred, too personal. Who would believe someone like me—wrecked by addiction, burned by my own choices—could encounter the divine in the middle of a quiet sidewalk beneath a swaying tree?
But I did.
And I believe now that awe was the beginning of healing. That being undone in the presence of God is where true wholeness begins.
So keep walking. Even if it’s quiet. Even if it’s terrifying.
Because the wind still moves through the trees.
And God still meets us there.
“You will seek Me and find Me when you seek Me with all your heart.”
— Jeremiah 29:13
God,
Thank You for never leaving me—even when I walked away.
Thank You for showing up in the silence,
In the stillness,
In the swaying trees.
Help me to surrender daily.
Open my eyes to Your presence,
My heart to Your mercy,
And my soul to Your love.
Amen.
Mad at God
When the Unthinkable Happens
“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”
— Psalm 34:18 (NIV)
Some people admit it. Others bury it deep.
But many of us — at some point — have been mad at God.
It usually comes from pain. Tragedy. Loss.
The death of someone we love.
The illness of a child.
The kind of heartbreak that makes no sense in this life.
And we ask:
"If God loves us, how could He let this happen?"
We wrestle.
We doubt.
We rage — outwardly or in silence.
And yet... we still long for answers.
But here’s the truth I’ve come to see:
This life — this fragile, human form we occupy — is just a moment in eternity. A breath. A blink. A shadow of what is yet to come.
God sees the big picture we cannot.
Just like a child doesn’t understand the discipline or trials allowed by a parent, we can’t comprehend the purpose behind much of what we endure. But we are loved. We are held. We are being led — not forsaken.
God never promised this world would be easy.
He promised He’d be with us in it.
If everything here was perfect, there’d be no need for faith.
No need to search. No hunger for heaven.
Maybe no relationship with God at all.
But it’s in the struggle that we awaken.
It’s in the grief that we lean in.
It’s in the suffering that eternity begins to whisper to our soul.
We don’t know all the answers.
But we do know the One who holds them.
We are not abandoned.
Our suffering is not meaningless.
Our pain is not the end of the story.
We are on a journey — back to the One who made us.
Back to alignment with the Creator.
Back to our truest home.
Prayer:
God, I don’t always understand.
Sometimes I am angry, confused, even bitter.
But I don’t want to stay there.
Help me trust You beyond what I can see.
Give me the grace to hold on through the darkness,
And the courage to believe that my pain is not the end —
But a doorway to something greater, something eternal.
Amen.
Discipline of Grace
Scripture:
“For the Spirit God gave us does not make us timid, but gives us power, love and self-discipline.”
— 2 Timothy 1:7 (NIV)
We often think of discipline as restriction — a limit placed on what we can do or how we live. But the Bible reveals a deeper truth: discipline is actually the path to true freedom.
When we discipline ourselves—whether in our thoughts, habits, or spiritual walk—we are choosing to live in alignment with God’s design rather than in the chaos of fleeting desires and distractions. This intentional choice frees us from the bondage of impulsiveness, fear, and sin.
Think about it this way: an athlete who trains daily with strict discipline gains the freedom to perform at their best, to run fast, and to achieve their goals. Similarly, when we practice spiritual discipline—prayer, reading Scripture, meditation, and self-control—we gain freedom over destructive patterns that limit our joy and peace.
God’s discipline is not punishment; it is love guiding us to freedom. Hebrews 12:11 tells us,
“No discipline seems pleasant at the time, but painful. Later on, however, it produces a harvest of righteousness and peace for those who have been trained by it.”
When we embrace discipline, we open the door to God’s power working in us. This power leads to freedom — freedom from anxiety, from sin’s grip, and from the chaos of life’s uncertainties.
Prayer:
Lord, help me to see discipline not as a burden, but as a gift that leads me closer to You and to the freedom You promise. Teach me to embrace the habits and practices that shape me into Your likeness. Give me strength when discipline feels hard and remind me that through it, I find true liberty in Your Spirit. Amen.
Discipline of Grace
Scripture:
“For the Spirit God gave us does not make us timid, but gives us power, love and self-discipline.”
— 2 Timothy 1:7 (NIV)
We often think of discipline as restriction — a limit placed on what we can do or how we live. But the Bible reveals a deeper truth: discipline is actually the path to true freedom.
When we discipline ourselves—whether in our thoughts, habits, or spiritual walk—we are choosing to live in alignment with God’s design rather than in the chaos of fleeting desires and distractions. This intentional choice frees us from the bondage of impulsiveness, fear, and sin.
Think about it this way: an athlete who trains daily with strict discipline gains the freedom to perform at their best, to run fast, and to achieve their goals. Similarly, when we practice spiritual discipline—prayer, reading Scripture, meditation, and self-control—we gain freedom over destructive patterns that limit our joy and peace.
God’s discipline is not punishment; it is love guiding us to freedom. Hebrews 12:11 tells us,
“No discipline seems pleasant at the time, but painful. Later on, however, it produces a harvest of righteousness and peace for those who have been trained by it.”
When we embrace discipline, we open the door to God’s power working in us. This power leads to freedom — freedom from anxiety, from sin’s grip, and from the chaos of life’s uncertainties.
Prayer:
Lord, help me to see discipline not as a burden, but as a gift that leads me closer to You and to the freedom You promise. Teach me to embrace the habits and practices that shape me into Your likeness. Give me strength when discipline feels hard and remind me that through it, I find true liberty in Your Spirit. Amen.
Future Tripping
"Future tripping" is a phrase that perfectly describes itself—mentally taking a trip into the future. In everyday slang, to be “tripping” often means being in a state of unease or disconnection from reality. And when we "take a trip," we leave the familiar behind and enter unfamiliar territory. The future is just that—unfamiliar. It's a place we’ve never actually been, except in our imagination.
So why do our minds resist staying in the present? Why do we struggle to rest where our feet are? Is it boredom? Discontent? A craving for something different? More often than not, future tripping is simply worry—good old-fashioned anxiety about “what if.”
Lately, I’ve been doing my best to shift from what if to what is. As spiritual teacher Mooji puts it: “The ‘what is’ is you—the true being, the observer of thoughts, the existence that remains still.” In contrast, the “what if” is imaginary. It's unstable. It's the restless current that pulls us away from the ground of now.
I’ll admit—future tripping has long been a familiar form of self-torture for me. There’s a strange illusion of control in imagining the future, as if by forecasting it, I can manage the outcome. But more often, I find myself rehearsing disasters that never happen or exhausting myself over outcomes I can't influence.
But here’s the truth: God is not in the “what if.” He is in the “what is.”
He meets us in the present. He walks with us in real time. And He promises grace not for our imagined tomorrows, but for the moment we’re in.
"Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own."
— Matthew 6:34 (NIV)
There is real freedom in letting go of imagined futures and returning to where God already is—right here, right now. The present is where peace lives, because it's where He lives.
Prayer
Lord,
I confess that my mind often runs ahead of my faith. I worry about things that haven't happened and might never come. I play out scenarios trying to protect myself from pain, when all You ask me to do is trust You. Help me let go of the “what ifs” and rest in the “what is.” Teach me to live fully in the moment, where Your grace meets me. Anchor me in today. Walk with me here. And remind me—again and again—that You are enough for this moment, and You’ll be enough for the next.
In Jesus’ name,
Amen.
The Obstacle Is the Way
The Obstacle Is the Way is a powerful book by Ryan Holiday that draws on the timeless wisdom of Marcus Aurelius and other Stoic philosophers. At its core, it reminds us that what stands in our way often is the way. The very things we resist—our ego, our emotions, our fear, our made-up persona designed to battle the world—are often the exact things we must confront to grow.
Jordan B. Peterson has expressed similar ideas, especially in 12 Rules for Life and his lectures, where he emphasizes that facing what we fear, confronting our shadow, and entering into the chaos of our suffering is necessary for transformation and meaning. As he puts it:
“The purpose of life is finding the largest burden that you can bear and bearing it.”
— Jordan B. Peterson, 12 Rules for Life
Many of us, myself included, shy away from the problem, the fear, the tension—anything that threatens our comfort or illusion of control. In recovery, particularly in the 4th Step of AA, we’re asked to look inward and examine our resentments and fears to see our part in them. That’s where we begin to uncover our character defects and recognize the unconscious, false self we’ve been living through.
So the question becomes: What are we not facing? What are we clinging to that serves no purpose except to create more anxiety? For me, it’s a false sense of control—the belief that I know better than God. That illusion brings momentary certainty but lasting unrest. The truth is, I control very little. And that realization itself becomes an obstacle: not to be defeated, but to be surrendered to. It’s either have faith, or suffer unnecessarily.
Surrender isn’t weakness—it’s wisdom. It’s laying down the illusion so we can finally walk in truth.
“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)
Prayer:
Lord, help me face what I’ve been avoiding. Give me the strength to stop clinging to control and the courage to walk through the obstacles You’ve placed in my path—not around them. Show me where I’ve been resisting Your will, and teach me to trust in You more deeply. Strip away the false self I’ve built and replace it with the peace that only surrender can bring. Thank You for using my struggles as a gateway to grace. Amen.
He Who Fears Suffering…
He Who Fears Suffering…
“He who fears suffering is already suffering from his fears.”
—Michel de Montaigne
This quote hits me deeply because it reflects how I lived for so long—making decisions not just out of fear, but out of the fear of fear itself. I was terrified of pain, rejection, and loss, so I tried to control everything. In doing so, I was already suffering. Even before anything bad happened, my mind was consumed with anxiety, my heart racing ahead to worst-case scenarios.
In addiction, fear ran my life. Fear of facing reality. Fear of being without the crutch of substances. Fear of not being enough. And here’s the irony: in trying to avoid suffering, I created a deeper suffering. My life became a constant cycle of trying to dodge the future while destroying the present.
AA teaches us a simple but profound truth: “Half measures availed us nothing.” Living in fear is the ultimate half measure—we never fully live, because we’re always bracing for impact. The antidote to this isn’t more control. It’s surrender.
That’s why Let Go and Let God is so powerful. It’s a choice to stop running from fear and hand it over to the One who holds all things. It’s choosing to trust that even if suffering comes, God’s grace will meet us there. Jesus said,
“Do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.”
(Matthew 6:34)
When I stop fearing fear, I step into the freedom of the present moment. I realize that most of my pain was never from the event itself, but from my endless anticipation of it. When I let go, I discover that God is already here, in the now, carrying me through what I thought I couldn’t handle.
Today, I don’t have to fear suffering. I don’t have to live trapped by the “what ifs.” I can take the next right step, trust God with the outcome, and rest in the truth that His grace is enough.
Reflection
How has fear shaped your decisions in the past?
Are you still holding onto the “fear of fear” itself?
What would it look like to Let Go and Let God with the worries you’re holding right now?
Prayer
God, I admit that fear has often ruled my life. I’ve suffered more in my imagination than in reality, and I’ve tried to control what only You can hold. Today I choose to let go of fear and trust You with what’s ahead. Give me peace in this moment, and help me to rest in Your care. Amen.
Burn the Boats
In 1519, Hernán Cortés landed on the shores of the New World with just over 600 men. Their mission? Conquer the vast and powerful Aztec Empire. His men were afraid. They were outnumbered, in an unfamiliar land, and whispers of turning back spread through the ranks.
But Cortés made a decision that sealed their fate. He ordered the ships they arrived on to be destroyed. Some were burned, others scuttled, but the message was clear: there is no way back. The only way was forward. Victory or death. Success or nothing.
This wasn’t recklessness—it was commitment. Cortés knew that as long as the ships were there, there would always be the temptation of retreat. By burning them, he forced his men to fight with every ounce of resolve, and ultimately, they achieved what seemed impossible.
In Alcoholics Anonymous, we say something strikingly similar: “Half measures availed us nothing.” Recovery is not a halfway effort. It’s an all-in surrender. If we leave just one ship floating in the harbor—one hidden resentment, one secret escape, one unspoken justification—we’ve already paved the way back to our old destruction.
We ask in AA, “What had to change?” The answer is everything. Not just the drinking. Not just the obvious behaviors. But the entire way we think, live, and respond to life. Like Cortés, we must come to the point where we say: I’m willing to risk it all. There is no going back.
The same is true in following Jesus. He said,
“Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross daily and follow me.” (Luke 9:23)
Denying ourselves means destroying the escape routes that lead back to the old life. It means we stop bargaining with God and finally surrender fully. It’s an all-or-nothing choice: the comfort of the past—or the promise of new life.
Cortés was driven by the hope of gold and conquest. Our motivation is far greater—freedom, peace, and the love of God. But like him, we must be willing to say, “I will not go back. There is no other way.”
Today, God is inviting you to burn the boats. To let go of the backup plans, the secret sins, the pride, the fear. To step fully into the new life He has for you.
Because the truth is this: when you finally burn the boats, you step into the only place where real freedom lives.
Reflection
What “boats” are still sitting in the harbor of your heart?
Are you still holding onto a secret plan of retreat?
What does full surrender look like for you today?
Prayer
Father, I confess there are places in my life I’ve kept hidden, boats I’ve refused to burn. Give me the courage to surrender fully. Take away my desire for retreat and help me trust You completely. I choose to move forward with no turning back. Amen.
Run to God
Rumi’s quote, “Your heart knows the way. Run in that direction,” resonates deeply with me.
First, I think about how my heart—or more truly, my soul—often knows where I need to be long before my mind catches up. When I allow God to lead, the path becomes clearer. Yet, in worldly terms, His direction doesn’t always align with what looks logical, convenient, or even safe.
So often, I want to chart my own course, guided by fear, ambition, or the approval of others. But when I quiet the noise and truly listen, I can sense the gentle pull of the Spirit. My heart whispers reminders that God’s way may not be the easiest, but it is always the truest.
Running toward God means trusting that He has already placed within me a compass that points to His love and His will. It means letting go of my limited understanding and stepping into the unknown with faith.
Today, I choose to run in His direction, even when it defies the world’s wisdom. I choose to let my soul lead me home.
Bible Verse
“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
Reflection Question
Where in your life do you feel God calling you to trust Him more deeply, even if it doesn’t make sense to the world?
Prayer:
Lord, help me silence the distractions that keep me from hearing You. Give me the courage to run where You are calling, even when the way is unclear. Teach me to trust the wisdom You have planted in my heart.
U-Turn
In my youth, I had a complicated relationship with the Catholic Church. It wasn’t the teachings of the Church itself that troubled me, but rather the actions and attitudes of some parishioners—those who seemed self-appointed gatekeepers of faith. By the time I was 17, I wanted no part of what I saw as hypocrisy masquerading as true Christianity. In truth, my judgments came from pride. Turning away from the Church became an easy excuse to turn away from God.
Years passed. Life began to unfold in ways that felt fortunate—my marriage, my career, and other blessings seemed to align. And somewhere deep inside, I felt a pull to return. At 29, I made the decision to begin attending adult confirmation classes.
I’ll be honest—Wednesday nights filled me with trepidation. I felt like a fraud, like I was only doing this to appear as a “good man.” My parents’ quiet hope that I would remain a Catholic weighed on me in a strange, unspoken way. Their acceptance—or my fear of their disappointment—lingered heavily in my mind.
One evening, as part of our instruction, we were required to attend a Reconciliation Mass. For those unfamiliar, it’s a service where multiple priests are stationed throughout the church, ready to hear confessions and guide the faithful toward reconciliation with God. The name says it all—it’s about returning, repairing, and being restored.
After the Mass, lines began to form at each priest. My palms were sweating as I inched closer, my mind racing with shame and regret. Finally, it was my turn.
As I came face-to-face with the priest, a wave of shame washed over my entire being. My chest felt heavy, my throat tight, and I was on the verge of tears. I looked into his eyes and, with a trembling voice, confessed, “I am a fraud. I have lived a life of sin, of blasphemous rhetoric, and I have been an opponent of the Church. I believe it’s too late. It’s too late for me to come back. It’s too late for me to be a good man. It’s too late for my salvation. My efforts to be confirmed in the Church are in vain.”
The young priest looked at me with a calm and gentle gaze. Then, in a soft but steady voice, he said, “It’s never too late. In your last breath, in the final moment of your life, if you ask for forgiveness and invite Jesus into your heart, you will have a place in Heaven.”
I can’t fully describe what those words meant to me in that moment. A warmth unlike anything I had ever felt came over me—a peace that seemed to flow from somewhere beyond myself. In that instant, I truly believed I had a chance. God was welcoming me back.
I continued my Wednesday night classes with the other adults, and when it came time for our Confirmation, we were asked to choose a saint’s name as our own. I knew exactly who I wanted to honor—Saint Dismas, the thief on the cross who, in his dying breath, turned to Jesus and said, “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.”
Jesus answered him,
“Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in paradise.”
(Luke 23:42–43)