FOR HE ALONE IS WORTHY

You might be tired because you keep bleeding beauty into hands that only know how to break it. You keep offering pearls, but they’re trampled in the mud by feet too calloused to recognize worth. You’re not crazy. You’re not too sensitive. You’re sacred. And the sacred should be treasured—not tolerated, not twisted, not tossed aside. Jesus said it clearly: “Give not that which is holy unto the dogs, neither cast ye your pearls before swine…” (Matthew 7:6) And still—your heart

I don’t say most of it out loud. Not because it isn’t real, but because it feels too fragile to survive the air. The words live behind my ribs, pressed into the quiet places where tears gather before they fall. Thoughts without language. Aches without shape. Prayers that never make it past a sigh. And still—He sees them. Every sentence I don’t finish. Every question I swallow. Every grief I tidy up so no one else feels uncomfortable. Nothing is missed. Not one tremor of my he

I used to think obedience looked like movement…like wild steps into the unknown, like Abraham leaving, like Peter walking on water, like the rush of faith catching wind in your sails as you follow the voice that beckons, “Come.” But today… obedience looks a lot like stillness. A lot like staying. A lot like waking up in the same place with the same pain with the same unanswered prayers and the same four walls that echo with questions no one has answered yet. And I’m starting

I don’t know when the voice first crept in. The one that whispers, “You’re tired. You’ve tried long enough. Just lay it down.” It didn’t arrive loud. It arrived gentle, wearing exhaustion like wisdom, wearing grief like permission. And some days, I almost believed it. Because grief has a way of hollowing you out. It makes quitting feel right. Like rest. Like mercy. But here’s what shook me awake today, the enemy does not plague what he doubts. He does not fight what he thinks

May this year be gentle with you. Not loud. Not demanding. Not insisting you be more hopeful than your heart can manage right now. This new year arrives quietly, unfolding without explanation, full of shadows you can’t name and unknowns that already make your chest tighten. I won’t call it happy. Because happiness feels like a dare when you’ve buried parts of yourself in last year’s soil. Because hope, some days, feels dangerous, like reaching for something that might disappe

I keep telling myself my life is made of moments too small to matter. The quiet ones. The unseen ones. The ordinary Tuesdays where nothing breaks open and nothing miraculous announces itself. The moments where I fold laundry with a heavy chest, sip coffee that’s gone cold, whisper prayers that feel unfinished. I’ve learned how to measure worth by noise. By milestones. By moments that photograph well and preach easy. And when my days don’t rise to that standard, I quietly file

There has not been a chapter of my life—no valley too low, no mountaintop too high—that hasn’t whispered this truth back to me: God is exactly as good as the Bible says He is. Not just on the days when the sun warmed my skin and everything bloomed in color. But in the nights when everything fell apart and I felt like I was crumbling too. When prayers came out in groans, when silence stretched so long it began to echo, when I thought surely I had been forgotten…even then, I fo

I’ve heard it my whole life. Jesus always wins. It’s stitched into memory like an old Sunday school banner. Echoed in sermons. Sung in songs. But today? Today I don’t feel like I’m on the winning side. Today, it feels like everything is slipping through my fingers, and I can’t even name all that I’ve lost. I’m not just losing. I’m being crushed. Like the weight of the world has collapsed on my chest and no one noticed. Like the prayers I whispered never made it past the ceili

I used to believe that walking with God meant having some sort of map, if not the full route, at least the next step, the next door, the next green light. But now? I am standing in the fog. Everything feels blurry, uncertain, hidden behind veils I cannot lift. I reach out for direction and feel nothing but empty air. And yet, He is here. This season of unknowing is not a punishment. It’s a purification. He is not withholding my next step to be cruel. He is slowing me down to

We whisper it at funerals. “He was such a good preacher.” “He affected my life so much.” “He was so good to my family.” “He was always there when I needed him.” “He walked with the Lord.” “What an example he set.” But how tragic that we wait until the casket is closed to say what should have been spoken while they were still alive to hear it. We choke back our gratitude while they walk among us, afraid that our honor might look “bad.” We silence our praise lest someone accuse

I clapped for them again today. Loud, joyful, sincere. Even as my own dreams gathered more dust on the shelf of “someday.” Even as I felt the familiar ache, that quiet, hollow echo in the soul that wonders if heaven has forgotten my name. But later, alone, I whispered: “God… what about me?” It wasn’t bitterness. It was longing. Not jealousy. Just that ache of someone who’s been planting faithfully in a field no one visits. The kind of ache that doesn’t scream. It just lingers

Jesus didn’t heal everyone. I’ve wrestled with that truth in the quiet places no one sees, in the hospital hallways where prayers echoed unanswered, in the graveside silences where I begged Him to come late like He did for Lazarus… and still believed He could. He didn’t always stop. He didn’t always speak. Sometimes… He just walked by. Sometimes the thorn wasn’t removed…. And that truth used to ache in me like a wound I couldn’t name. I had this idea that if He could, He shou