Christ - My Journey - How Full Is Your Spirit?

Friday, 13 June 2025

From One in 60,000 to One More Step Forward: The Miracle of Not Giving Up

From One in 60,000 to One More Step Forward: The Miracle of Not Giving Up

Today, I share something with genuine excitement—a milestone that might look small to some but feels monumental to me. This has been in the works for about six months. Half a year of trying, tweaking, wondering, praying, editing, applying, and hearing "no" more than a few times. But today, I didn't give up. Today, I took another step forward in becoming the man I believe God is still shaping me into. The milestone? I finally got my blog qualified for monetization. My writing—a craft I’ve spent years building, a voice I’ve leaned into when life felt quiet—is now part of my business. Not a side project, not a maybe-one-day, but a real part of my future.

For those of you who’ve followed my writing journey, you know how much I love it. Writing isn’t a task for me; it’s how I breathe life back into my soul when the world tries to wear it down. It’s how I make sense of the good, the hard, and the holy. My dream has never just been to write—it’s been to write something that matters. To help at least one person. To feel less alone, to find hope, to laugh when the world feels heavy. And one day, to reach enough hearts that my words make a living. Not for the money itself, but because when your calling meets your provision, that’s God at work. That’s the goal.

But today isn’t just about income or algorithms or ad approval.

It’s about not quitting.

It’s about a seed that stayed underground for a long time but finally broke through the soil.

It’s about remembering the moment when I realized just how much impact one person could have on 60,000 souls in one night.

Let me tell you a story.

The Garth Brooks Effect

Now, if you know me, you know I grew up in the country. But ironically, I’m not really a country music fan. Never really was. I’ve always been more into lyrics that strike a chord with the soul than fiddles and steel guitars. But a few years ago, someone asked if I’d like to go to a Garth Brooks concert. I figured, why not? I wasn’t expecting much. But that night in Houston, Texas, changed something in me.

It was a warm summer night, probably around 60,000 people in that arena. You could feel the buzz—like static electricity in the air—before the show even started. You know the feeling. A crowd full of strangers becoming a single heartbeat, unified in anticipation. Then Garth came on stage.

Somewhere around halfway through the show, he did something I’ll never forget. He took off his cowboy hat, leaned back, and then forward again. That doesn’t sound like much written down. But in that moment, I swear to you, it felt like the entire energy of the crowd surged toward him when he leaned back—and when he leaned forward, he sent it straight back out. Right into me.

I’m telling you—I felt it in my chest. I felt like I was the only person there.

He did it again. And again—I felt it.

Now I’m not saying it was mystical or magical, but it was definitely miraculous. In a sea of 60,000, I felt like I mattered. Like I was seen. And I’ve never forgotten that. Later, I watched his Netflix documentary, and his brother talked about this very thing. About how Garth has this gift—this ability to make every single person in the crowd feel like they’re the only one in the room.

That stuck with me. Deeply. Because I think that’s what we all want—to be seen. To be heard. To know we matter.

And I realized then that this is my goal too. Not to be Garth Brooks. But to make someone—just one person—feel like they matter. Like they’re the only one in the crowd. Whether through words I write, conversations I have, or prayers I whisper when no one else is looking.

The Calling to Continue

Today reminded me that progress often looks like persistence. I was rejected many times trying to get my blog approved for monetization. The first few times, it stung. But every “no” sharpened my commitment. Every closed door made me get better—at writing, at structuring content, at understanding what it really means to serve people through words.

Rejection, I’ve come to learn, is often God’s refining fire.

It’s not punishment—it’s preparation.

Psalm 66:10 says, “For you, God, tested us; you refined us like silver.” That’s what this felt like. Not a failure, but a furnace. And today, the silver glints a little more brightly because I didn’t step out of the heat too soon.

Now, no, I’m not standing in front of 60,000 people. Not yet. But I’ve taken a step in that direction. The bigger dream is still alive: to stand in front of a crowd and share truth, hope, and encouragement—to speak in a way that makes people feel known and reminded that God sees them too.

That crowd might look like a blog post today, a speaking event next year, and a stadium someday. But every step matters. Every soul touched counts.

What Makes a Disciple in a Digital World

Jesus never had a blog.

But He knew about crowds.

He knew what it meant to feed thousands and still see the one.

He knew how to speak to the masses and yet change the life of the woman at the well.

That’s who I want to be like—not just Garth—but Jesus.

I want to be someone who sees the one in the crowd. Who offers truth, compassion, and presence in a world that often offers filters, fame, and noise.

And so today, I reflect not just on what I accomplished—but on how I can become a better disciple through it.

Here are three ways I believe we can help others and become stronger disciples in the process:

1. Speak Life into the One Right in Front of You

We don’t need a stage to make an impact. Sometimes the greatest discipleship happens in the hallway, over coffee, or through a late-night text. Jesus didn’t chase crowds—He responded to the needs right in front of Him. He didn’t heal everyone, but He healed someone every time He showed up.

“Death and life are in the power of the tongue…” — Proverbs 18:21

Your words matter. Even if they’re written. Even if you’re not sure if anyone is reading. Speak life anyway.

2. Don’t Despise Small Beginnings

Zechariah 4:10 says, “Do not despise these small beginnings, for the Lord rejoices to see the work begin.”

This blog? It’s a small beginning. But I believe God is rejoicing because I didn’t give up. Because I started. Because I stayed faithful when the results were hidden.

Maybe your dream isn’t public yet. Maybe the thing you’re working on is still underground. But God sees the seed. He waters what we nurture in faith.

Every stadium moment starts with a whisper in private.

3. Let Your Miracle Become Someone Else’s Momentum

That moment in the stadium changed me—but it wasn’t about the music. It was about feeling chosen in a crowd. Today, I want to take that same gift and multiply it. That’s what discipleship is—replication. Passing on the miracle.

As Paul told Timothy in 2 Timothy 2:2, “The things you have heard me say… entrust to reliable people who will also be qualified to teach others.”

Miracles are meant to be shared. They’re not trophies—they’re torches.

The more we help others feel seen, the more we help them believe in a God who sees them too.

Closing Thoughts: The Long Game of Obedience

If today’s milestone taught me anything, it’s that the dream is never just about the outcome—it’s about the obedience.

Writing is my offering.

Encouragement is my mission.

And persistence is my praise.

There’s still a long road ahead. But today was a step. A confirmation. A reminder that God honours what we keep placing in His hands. That every “no” was setting up today’s “yes.”

So if you’re reading this and you’re still in the middle of your own version of waiting, trying, and being rejected—don’t give up. The seed is still good. The ground is still holy. And your obedience is still worth it.

And if you’ve ever wondered what your purpose is—maybe it’s not about the size of your audience. Maybe it’s about the size of your heart.

If you can make just one person feel like they’re not invisible—that they matter—then you’re already doing Kingdom work.

Today, I did something that matters to me. I hope it matters to you too.

And if it does, then that’s all the confirmation I need to keep writing.

To God be the glory, in every blog post, in every email, in every silent prayer typed into a screen hoping someone, somewhere, will read it and say:

“I felt like I was the only one in the crowd. And I felt seen.”

Saturday, 7 June 2025

Reflection: The Gift, the Trap, and the Turning Point

Reflection: The Gift, the Trap, and the Turning Point

Reflection is a powerful tool. One I use often—perhaps too often. There’s something about sitting still with my thoughts, sifting through moments, conversations, and the expressions not spoken, that draws me in. I believe in the importance of learning, of taking stock, of humbling myself before the throne and asking, “Lord, what did I miss? What do You want me to see here?”

But lately, I’ve started wondering: is it possible to spend too much time there? In the quiet? In the replays?

The answer, I believe, is yes.

Because while reflection can be the spark of transformation, it can also become a still, stagnant pool if not followed by movement. And movement, after all, is life. Stillness, if not God-ordained, is a slow decay.

I’ve noticed something about myself lately. I reflect so much that I sometimes forget to move. I wait for signs, for clarity, for peace—but sometimes I wait so long I miss the next step. I convince myself I'm being discerning, but what I'm really doing is fearing what forward might feel like.

And sometimes, while reflecting, I realize I've made the same mistake again: giving my trust away too quickly, believing too strongly in the words people say without waiting long enough to see if those words have a backbone called action. Whether it’s a new friend, a colleague, or the hopeful spark of a long-term intimate relationship—I too often rush to fill the empty spot, to complete the picture before God even finishes drawing it.

Seeing Red, Feeling Blue

What’s hardest to admit is that the red flags were often there. Waving—not subtly, but clearly. Yet I looked past them. Not because I’m blind, but because I choose to see the best in people. I focus on the potential, on the hope, on the spark of possibility.

In the moment, I let myself believe that maybe—just maybe—this time will be different. Maybe this will be the relationship that is rooted in words and blossoms in follow-through. Maybe this friend will be the one who shows up when the crowd fades. Maybe this woman will mean it when she says, “I see you, I value you, I choose you.”

But “maybe” is not a foundation. It’s not a covenant. It’s not a God-ordained commitment. It’s a hope. And hope is beautiful—but when it is placed in something God never promised, it can break you.

Looking back, I can now clearly see the patterns. The excitement at the beginning—texts that come quickly, laughter that feels like sunshine, energy that flows like a river. But like a new car smell, it fades. Slowly at first. Then all at once.

And being the sensitive soul I am, I feel it. The magnetism that once drew them in begins to repel. The texts get shorter, the gaps between them longer. The warmth gets replaced with indifference. And that leaves me wondering, not about them—but about me.

Did I say too much? Care too deeply? Give too soon?

The Transition That Tells the Truth

There is a sacred moment in every relationship—friendship, romantic or otherwise—when the sparkle of the new gives way to the mundane of the everyday. That is the test. That’s when you find out if this thing, this connection, is meant to glorify God—or if it’s a temporary detour allowed by Him to refine you.

The Bible is full of these transitions.

Take Peter, for example. At the Last Supper, he told Jesus he would never deny Him. Words. Promises. Conviction. But within hours, Peter denied Christ three times. In Luke 22:61, it says, “The Lord turned and looked straight at Peter.” Can you imagine that moment? The weight of reflection hitting Peter like a tidal wave.

But it didn’t end there. Peter wept bitterly, yes—but later, in John 21, Jesus reinstated him. “Do you love me?” He asked Peter three times—one for each denial. And in that restoration, Peter found movement again. He didn’t stay in reflection. He moved forward to build the church.

Reflection was his turning point, not his resting place.

Then there’s Jonah. God told him to go to Nineveh. Instead, he ran. We all know the story—he ends up in the belly of a great fish. Talk about stillness. Talk about reflection. For three days, Jonah had nothing but himself and God. And when he finally prayed and surrendered, God caused the fish to vomit him out. Jonah then obeyed. The reflection wasn’t the end—it was the preparation.

Even Elijah, after his mighty victory against the prophets of Baal, ran in fear when Jezebel threatened him. He hid in a cave. God didn’t shame him—He met him there. “What are you doing here, Elijah?” (1 Kings 19:9). The whisper of God came in the stillness, but so did the instruction: “Go back the way you came.” Move. Don’t stay stuck in the cave.

The Recent Reflection

A recent experience in my life echoed these stories. For a brief season, I found myself captivated by a connection. This woman couldn’t get enough of me—at least in the beginning. The conversations were rich, the laughter easy, and I thought, “Could this be it?”

She soaked up my words like morning sunshine, and I felt seen, valued, energized. But within a few weeks, something shifted. I sensed the distance, the change. And as I often do, I tried to hold on, tried to hope that maybe it was just a phase.

But I’ve walked this road enough times to know what fading interest feels like. And while the disappointment stung, it didn’t shatter me like it might have years ago.

I reflected. I prayed. I asked God, “Was this a pruning season?”

And I believe the answer is yes.

Pruning hurts. But Jesus said in John 15:2, “Every branch that does bear fruit He prunes so that it will be even more fruitful.” Maybe that connection was fruitful in the sense that it showed me something—about my capacity to love, about the growth I’ve had, about what I now need.

But it wasn’t meant to be planted in the soil of forever.

So now, here I am again—in reflection. But this time, I don’t want to stay here too long. Because I know that stillness, without purpose, is decay. Movement is life. And God is still writing my story.

Three Seeds to Plant in the Soil of Reflection

Discernment Over Emotion

One of the greatest lessons I've learned is to seek discernment over emotional connection. It's easy to get swept up in the "wow" of a moment. But emotions can lie—discernment doesn’t. James 1:5 reminds us, “If any of you lacks wisdom, you should ask God, who gives generously... and it will be given to you.”

Before rushing to fill the emotional gaps, I’ve started asking God to fill me first. That way, I approach new relationships already full—not looking for someone else to complete what only God can.

Discernment lets you hear beyond the words. It lets you pause when everything screams "go." It gives you peace even when emotions beg you to act.

Next time I feel that magnetic pull, I’ll take a moment and ask: “Is this of God—or just good marketing?”

Intentional Boundaries to Test Consistency

We often think of boundaries as walls, but in healthy relationships, they’re more like filters. In Proverbs 4:23, it says, “Above all else, guard your heart, for everything you do flows from it.” I’ve failed to guard my heart enough times to know that even good people can wound you when they’re inconsistent.

Now, I’m learning to build intentional boundaries—not to keep people out, but to observe who’s willing to meet me where I’m at, consistently. It’s not about testing people—it’s about protecting the sacred. You don't give the keys to the kingdom to someone still unsure if they even want to enter the gate.

This kind of boundary says, “I will give you access when your actions prove you’re staying.”

It’s about slowing down the rush, letting the roots grow before bearing fruit.

Redirecting Reflection Into Service

Finally, I’ve learned that reflection, when left to stew, turns into rumination. But when redirected into service, it becomes resurrection.

The enemy wants us to sit in our self-analysis until we forget our mission. But Jesus didn’t save us to sit on the bench. Ephesians 2:10 says, “For we are God’s handiwork, created in Christ Jesus to do good works…”

Good works. Not perfect thoughts. Not endless processing. Good. Works.

Every time I catch myself replaying a moment, a conversation, a silence—I now ask, “How can I use this experience to bless someone else?”

Maybe it’s writing this. Maybe it’s listening to a friend who's hurting. Maybe it’s volunteering, mentoring, or just showing up when I’d rather be alone.

When we serve, we shift the focus from inward paralysis to outward purpose. And that movement breathes life again.

Closing Thoughts: From Reflection to Resurrection

There’s something poetic about reflection. It lets us relive, reimagine, and sometimes redeem. But it’s not the destination.

It’s the pit stop. The rest before the next climb. The quiet before the next battle.

I've learned that I reflect because I care. Because I want to be better. Because I want to honour God with my thoughts and actions. But I also know that growth requires movement. Faith without works is dead (James 2:17). So reflection without movement is stagnation.

As I look forward now, I thank God for every red flag I once ignored—because it taught me to trust His voice more than my longing. I thank Him for every short-lived connection—because it reminded me of what I truly value. And I thank Him for the gift of reflection, not as a mirror to trap me, but as a window to see the next path.

And so, with one more deep breath, I say: Let’s move forward. Let’s plant the seeds. Let’s trust the Master Gardener.

Because the next season might just bear fruit we never imagined.

Sunday, 1 June 2025

The Elusive Intimate Relationship We All Long For

The Elusive Intimate Relationship We All Long For

There’s something we all quietly long for, even if we’ve buried it under years of hurt, disappointment, or false starts. It’s the kind of relationship that shows up for you—not just in the highlight reel moments, but in the quiet in-between, and especially on the days when you’re not at your best. It’s the kind of love that says, “I see you fully—and I’m not going anywhere.” Not in words alone, but in action. A promise made is a promise lived out.

I’ve often thought that the truest form of intimacy isn’t about the fireworks or even the daily routines. It’s about the sacred weight of follow-through. The way someone still makes dinner when they said they would, even though they had a long day. The way they keep showing up when you feel like a mess. The way their “I love you” isn’t conditional on your mood, your performance, or whether or not the dishwasher got unloaded.

At fifty years old, you’d think I’d have it all figured out. But I don’t. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe relationships—true, soul-bound, Christ-rooted relationships—aren’t meant to be fully figured out. Maybe they’re meant to be stewarded. Nurtured. Grown. And if I’m honest, maybe they’re meant to refine us too.

I’ve worn rose-colored glasses for most of my life. Not because I’m naive, but because I choose to believe the best in people. I choose hope. And most of the time, that outlook has served me well. It’s helped me stay positive, keep moving forward, and create meaningful relationships. But sometimes, when it comes to starting something new, those same glasses blind me to the small cracks—the missed calls, the unkept promises, the red flags I paint white with good intentions.

I want to believe people mean what they say. I want to believe their actions will match their words. But hope without discernment can be exhausting. Especially when you keep pouring into something that never quite pours back.

I know I’m not the only one who feels this way. In a world more connected than ever, why do so many of us feel more alone? Why do we struggle to find the kind of love that holds us accountable, lifts us up, and stays consistent through life’s mountaintops and valleys?

Maybe it’s because we’ve traded covenant for convenience. Maybe we’ve lost the blueprint. So I turn, as I often do, back to Jesus. The one who never fails. The one who was never afraid to follow through—who showed love not only in sermons but in sweat, sacrifice, and the cross.

Jesus didn’t just say “I love you.” He proved it.

And in that example, I find three foundational ways to build, strengthen, and steward intimate relationships:

1. Build on Truth, Not Trends

“Let your ‘Yes’ be ‘Yes,’ and your ‘No,’ ‘No’; anything beyond this comes from the evil one.” – Matthew 5:37

We live in a time where words are cheap. Promises are thrown around like confetti. We say things to fill space, to avoid conflict, or to feel important. But Jesus was clear—mean what you say and say what you mean. Anything less invites confusion, instability, and ultimately, pain.

When it comes to intimate relationships, truth must be the foundation. Not the trendy Instagram version of truth where we speak our “truth” regardless of how it lands on someone else. No—I’m talking about biblical truth. Truth that loves. Truth that corrects. Truth that commits.

I’ve learned the hard way that when the words at the beginning of a relationship don’t match the follow-through, it causes a crack in the foundation. A simple “I promise to call you back” or “I’ll be there for that dinner” doesn’t seem like much. But when left unchecked, those little breaks build resentment. Doubt creeps in. Insecurity festers.

To improve our intimate relationships, we must start with truth. We must be honest with ourselves and our partner—not only about our past and our dreams, but also about what we can realistically give.

And when we speak those words, we must back them up. Even when we’re tired. Even when it’s inconvenient. Even when we’d rather not. That’s the cost of real love.

2. Serve When It’s Hard

“Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.” – John 15:13

There’s no romance movie about scrubbing the floors, showing up for an emotional conversation after a long day, or waking up at 3 a.m. because your partner had a nightmare. But that’s where the gold is. That’s where real intimacy lives.

To me, a relationship is still giving—even when I don’t feel like it. It’s follow-through not out of guilt, but out of honor. It’s staying in the room when everything in you wants to storm out. It’s being faithful in the mundane.

Jesus modeled this perfectly. He washed feet. He fed the hungry. He healed the broken. Not just when it was convenient—but especially when it wasn’t. And then, he laid down his life.

That’s what love looks like.

In our intimate relationships, we’re not called to be martyrs—but we are called to serve. We’re called to choose love daily, not based on how we feel in the moment, but on the covenant we’ve chosen.

This doesn’t mean being a doormat. Boundaries are godly. But it does mean being willing to inconvenience ourselves for the sake of the other. That’s not weakness—that’s strength.

3. Build with Intentional Words

“The tongue has the power of life and death, and those who love it will eat its fruit.” – Proverbs 18:21

Words matter.

I’m not just talking about poetic love notes or romantic texts—though those are great. I’m talking about the everyday, simple, intentional words that either build a relationship or chip away at it.

Words like:
“I’m proud of you.”
“I’ve got your back.”
“I’ll pick up dinner tonight.”
“You’re not alone.”
“I’ll be there.”

Those are the bricks. And when they’re backed up by actions, they become cement.

In my own life, I’ve realized how powerful it is when someone simply affirms me on a tough day. Not with a solution—but with presence. With reassurance. With steady, rooted love. That’s the kind of relationship I want to be in—and the kind I want to offer.

Jesus used words to heal, to instruct, and to uplift. And He also backed those words up with action. When He said, “I am the way, the truth, and the life,” He didn’t just leave it there. He walked the road to Calvary and proved it.

That’s the kind of love I’m after.

And Still, I Hope

Despite the cracks, the false starts, the missed signals, and the heavy sighs—I still believe in love. I still believe in the kind of relationship where you're seen, known, and safe. I still believe there’s someone out there who will hold space for both your wins and your wounds.

I don’t believe God gives us a longing He doesn’t intend to fulfill. And if the desire to be loved well and to love well still stirs in your heart, then keep hoping. Not blindly, but wisely. Let discernment refine you—not harden you. Let past experiences teach you—not define you.

And when you start again, as you will, start with eyes wide open. Not just for chemistry, but for character. Not just for butterflies, but for follow-through. And remember: the best relationships aren’t found. They’re built.

With intention.
With truth.
With service.
With Christ.

A Final Thought

We live in the best of human history—connected, resourced, equipped. And yet, intimacy still feels out of reach for so many. Why?

Maybe because we’re searching in the wrong places. Or maybe because we’ve confused being known online with being known in person. But Jesus offers us a different model. One rooted in presence, promise, and peace.

So if you’re longing for that elusive intimate relationship, don’t give up. But do look up. Let the one who never fails be your compass. And when He shows you someone who echoes His love—hold on, follow through, and build something worthy of the longing.

After all, He’s already shown us how.

Sunday, 25 May 2025

What Is the Focus of Your Decision?

What Is the Focus of Your Decision?

Recently, someone very close to me shared they are thinking about making a significant life decision. The kind of choice that isn't just about a job change or a new hobby—but a decision that will alter the shape of their life and ripple across those who love them. You know the kind I’m talking about. The kind of choice that doesn’t come with a simple yes or no answer.

We’ve all been there, haven’t we? I’ve talked before about the “should haves” and “could haves” of life. About the 20/20 hindsight we all seem to gain—but only after the moment has passed. There’s a funny irony to that, isn’t there? Hindsight is this superpower that shows up late to the party. But what stuck with me from this recent conversation wasn’t just the decision itself—it was the focus behind the decision.

Where is your focus when you’re standing at the crossroads?

This friend of mine has walked through the fire. A failed marriage. Two kids born from that union. And now, in this tiny village they call home, they’re surrounded by multiple generations—parents, kids, grandchildren, great-grandchildren. This isn’t just a place on the map. It’s a web of relationships. It’s a living, breathing network of spontaneous backyard visits, emergency babysitting, last-minute support talks over coffee, and birthday parties where everyone knows everyone. This isn’t just a location—it’s a life.

And now this person is thinking of leaving. For healing. For space. For a new chapter. For the warmth of sun on their face that doesn’t come with snow tires and frozen eyelashes.

I get it. Truly, I do.

You’ve heard me say before that if you need to make a change in your life for your own growth, you should do it. I still believe that. But I want to offer an addition to that belief. Maybe an asterisk. Maybe a magnifying glass.

Ask yourself: What is the focus of my decision?

Because when I look back on my own life and the times I’ve stood at that intersection of stay or go, leap or wait, move or root—I now realize the most important question wasn’t whether the decision would help me grow. It was this: what is my focus when I’m choosing? What lens am I using to view this moment?

I remember once testing the waters for a possible move away from my own little village. I live up north, where snow isn’t some magical holiday miracle—it’s a long, cold, deeply embedded reality. For some, snow feels like Santa Claus and Christmas movies. For me, it feels like a burden. A cold, wet, everyday weight that chips away at the soul over time.

So I did what many dream of. I gave myself two weeks. Two weeks in a warm place to explore what it might feel like to live somewhere else—somewhere without frost warnings and slushy sidewalks.

And at first, it was amazing. Yes, let’s do this, I thought. The warmth! The change! The endless sunshine!

But then my heart turned to those I would be leaving behind. Not just in the big ceremonial ways—holidays, birthdays—but in the little moments that hold up the everyday. The random Tuesday night dinner. The spontaneous driveway conversation that turns into an hour-long heart talk. The quick hug after a hard day. Those small, steady lifelines that are impossible to recreate once you’re gone.

And I realized then—I couldn’t leave. Not because I wasn’t allowed to. But because I couldn’t shake the weight of what I’d be taking away from others. What I’d be subtracting from the lives of those who’ve added so much to mine.

Let me be clear: If you need to go, go. If growth demands it, leap. If God is calling you to a new season, step forward. But before you do, pause long enough to ask: what’s the true focus of this decision?

My friend told me they need to leave for healing. For a reset. For a better life. That makes sense. I hear it. I respect it. But the focus of that decision is different from mine. And that’s okay—but it’s important to name it.

Because no matter what choice you make, your choice will impact others. There’s no way around that. And sometimes, in the name of healing, we accidentally break others.

The daily in-person interactions are gone now. The safety net of presence has vanished. And while time will bring clarity—and yes, 20/20 hindsight will tell the full story—right now, it’s left a lot of people in pain. It’s left some people grieving something they can’t quite put into words. The absence of the small things. The invisible glue that once held the days together.

So I want to share three questions to ask yourself when you’re standing at the edge of a life-changing decision. Three questions rooted in scripture—Old and New Testament—that can help align your focus.

1. Is This Decision Rooted in Obedience to God or Escape from Pain?

This is the hardest question to ask honestly.

Am I making this decision because God is leading me, or because I’m running from something I don’t want to face?

There is a difference between a wilderness that God leads us through and a wilderness we wander into on our own.

In Exodus, God led the Israelites out of Egypt into the desert. Not to escape, but to grow. But what happened when things got hard? They wanted to go back. They missed the predictability of slavery more than the promise of freedom. Why? Because the pain of transition is real.

“And they said to Moses, ‘Is it because there are no graves in Egypt that you have taken us away to die in the wilderness?’” – Exodus 14:11

Be honest: is this new life you’re reaching for really a calling, or just a quieter place to hide your brokenness?

Sometimes what looks like a fresh start is actually a bypass.

2. Will This Decision Multiply or Isolate the Gifts God Has Given Me?

Jesus teaches in the Parable of the Talents that what we’ve been given should grow, not shrink. Our gifts—our presence, love, wisdom, experience—are meant to multiply in the lives of others.

“For to everyone who has will more be given, and he will have an abundance. But from the one who has not, even what he has will be taken away.” – Matthew 25:29

Ask yourself: Will this move multiply my impact, or shrink it?

Will I be able to bless more people, serve more deeply, reflect Christ more fully? Or am I removing my presence from a place that needs it because I’m tired?

Tired is valid. Jesus rested too. But He always returned to the people.

3. Am I Choosing Based on Temporal Comfort or Eternal Significance?

It’s easy to make choices based on what feels good now. A warmer climate. A quieter place. A new start. And none of these things are wrong—unless they become the only thing.

We must hold temporary comfort up to the mirror of eternal value.

In Colossians, Paul reminds us:

“Set your minds on things above, not on earthly things.” – Colossians 3:2

What you choose today—does it ripple into eternity?

Does it leave a legacy for your children, your community, your church? Or is it only satisfying a hunger for ease?

Jesus didn’t come for comfort. He came to fulfill a mission. And sometimes, comfort comes as a side effect of obedience. But often, it doesn’t come at all.

There are times when leaving is the most God-honoring thing you can do. Abraham left everything he knew because God told him to. Ruth left her homeland to walk beside Naomi. Even Jesus left the comfort of heaven to walk among us.

But in each of those stories, the focus was obedience, not avoidance. Faith, not frustration. Purpose, not pain relief.

So if you're standing at the edge of a decision like my friend was—pause. Take a breath. Look past your own needs, your own comfort. And ask: What is the real focus?

Your healing matters. Your growth matters. But so does your impact. Your presence. Your legacy.

If you need to go, may it be because you’re being led. Not just because you’re tired of staying.

And if you stay, may it be because your roots run deep in purpose—not fear.

One of the most underrated stories in the Bible is in Acts 16, when Paul and his companions were planning to go into Asia—but the Holy Spirit stopped them.

“Paul and his companions traveled throughout the region… having been kept by the Holy Spirit from preaching the word in the province of Asia.” – Acts 16:6

That line has always fascinated me. Paul wanted to do something good. To preach the gospel! But the Spirit said no.

It wasn’t about the goodness of the action—it was about the focus. The Spirit had a different plan.

And that’s what I hope for you, and for my friend. Not just good decisions. But God decisions. Not just change for the sake of escape. But shifts born of calling.

Because one day, 20/20 hindsight will arrive. And when it does, may it find you focused. Rooted. Obedient. And walking not just in warmth, but in purpose.

Let’s never forget: our choices write stories. Not just our own—but the stories of those we love.

So choose well. Choose focused. Choose faithfully.

Could Have Syndrome: Walking by Faith, Not by 20/20 Hindsight

Could Have Syndrome: Walking by Faith, Not by 20/20 Hindsight

We’ve talked about “Should Have Syndrome” before. The weight of regret that comes when we look back at what we didn’t do, didn’t say, didn’t become — and somehow, all of it still lingers. But lately, something else has come up in my spirit. Another kind of reflection. Not necessarily regret… not yet anyway. It's the idea of what we could have done.

“Could Have Syndrome” is more subtle than its louder cousin, “Should Have.” It’s not fueled by guilt — not at first. It starts with possibilities. Opportunities. Doors half-open that we walked past because we didn’t trust ourselves or God enough to go through them. It's the quiet haunting of what might have been — not because we did something wrong, but because we didn’t do anything at all.

And then comes that superpower we all have — the power of 20/20 hindsight. That sneaky gift of perfect vision, after the moment has passed. Wouldn’t it be something if we had that kind of vision before we needed it? Before the decision, before the step, before the pruning?

Now, I understand the theology of pruning. We need it. Jesus taught it plainly:

“I am the true vine, and my Father is the gardener. He cuts off every branch in me that bears no fruit... while every branch that does bear fruit he prunes so that it will be even more fruitful.” (John 15:1-2)

Pruning is growth. Pruning is preparation. Pruning is God’s way of saying: "I love you enough to take from you what you would never give up on your own."

But even so — can I be honest? Sometimes, it would be nice to avoid the pain. Sometimes, I don’t want to learn through loss. I want to learn through peace, through still waters and green pastures, not just valleys and broken limbs.

I find myself in one of those moments now. Maybe you’re here too.

A New Thing (Isaiah 43:19)

Right now, there’s a possibility — one that I didn’t expect to come knocking again. It’s still too early to say anything for certain, and I don’t want to get ahead of myself. But after over two years of being single, of assuming that kind of intimacy just wasn’t in the cards for me anymore, something… or someone… has entered the story.

And it’s good. Not perfect. Not fully formed. But good.
Refreshing, even.

But do you know what else it is?

Terrifying.

I didn’t realize how comfortable I had become in solitude. In my routine. In knowing the edges of my life and staying safely inside them. I know how to function alone. I know how to pour into my work, into ministry, into helping others. But to open myself again? To risk again? That’s something else entirely.

Because if I let my guard down — if I walk into this possibility — I’m inviting the full force of “Could Have Syndrome” to whisper in my ear every step of the way. “You could have just stayed safe. You could have avoided this. You could have protected your peace.”

Or maybe… just maybe… I’m being invited into something sacred.

The Wrestling Place

You see, I’m not just a romantic. I’m a data analyst in my own mind — especially when it comes to discerning if something is of God or not. I’ll weigh it. Measure it. Cross-reference it with Scripture. I’ll find affirmations and warnings. And if I’m honest, I can find enough data to support either narrative.

Isn’t that just like the enemy too?

The enemy doesn’t always shout lies. Sometimes he just suggests a few alternative truths, and then lets us stew in our confusion.

And confusion is fertile soil for “Could Have Syndrome.”
Because the enemy knows that hesitation can destroy more than action ever will.

So where does that leave me? Where does that leave you, if you’re also standing at a threshold and wondering if the thing in front of you is holy or harmful, sacred or a setup?

Sometimes, I think the answer isn’t found in the clarity of outcomes, but in the courage of obedience. Sometimes God isn’t asking us to be certain — He’s just asking us to walk.

“Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light to my path.” (Psalm 119:105)

It doesn’t say floodlight. It doesn’t say GPS. Just a lamp — for the next step.

Three Ways to Move Through Transitions With Godly Discernment

Here are three ways that have helped me, and may help you too, when you're facing transitions and don’t know if you're dealing with a God-opportunity or a counterfeit comfort:

1. Submit the Decision Daily, Not Just Once

Most of us were taught to ask God once and wait for a green or red light. But God is relational, not transactional. He wants a walk, not just a yes/no moment.

“In all your ways acknowledge Him, and He shall direct your paths.” (Proverbs 3:6)

That word all means… all. The early days of possibility. The quiet moments of insecurity. The nights where you feel more confused than comforted.

I’ve learned that when I continually submit something to God — when I bring it back to Him day after day — something begins to shift. Not always in the situation, but in me. Either my peace grows, or my discomfort does. Either way, clarity begins to rise from the conversation.

The key is to keep submitting. Not once. Not twice. Every day.

2. Seek Confirmation Through Community, Not Just Circumstance

When you’re walking through transition — especially the kind where your heart is involved — don’t isolate. Don't try to spiritualize every sign or feeling. Invite godly voices into the conversation.

“Plans fail for lack of counsel, but with many advisers they succeed.” (Proverbs 15:22)

There’s a humility required to open up your vulnerable thoughts to someone who knows Scripture and knows you. But when you do, something beautiful happens — the burden gets lighter. The perspective gets broader. And often, you’ll receive wisdom that you couldn’t see on your own because of the emotional fog.

Your heart will deceive you. But your wise and Spirit-filled community? That’s God's gift of course correction and confirmation.

3. Trust God With The Outcome, Not Just The Process

We often say “trust the process.” But with God, it's more than that. You have to trust the person behind the process. And you have to trust the outcome — especially when you don’t know what it is.

“For we live by faith, not by sight.” (2 Corinthians 5:7)

Faith isn’t about knowing how the story ends. It’s about believing that the One writing the story is good, even when you can’t see the ending.

I don’t know how this relationship will unfold. I don’t know if it’s the one. I don’t know if it’s from God or just a good thing I’m meant to learn from. But what I do know is that God hasn’t changed. His character is consistent. His love is constant. His promises are still true.

So whether this relationship grows into something lasting or ends with another pruning, I will trust the Gardener more than I fear the shears.

Final Thoughts: Walking Forward One Day at a Time

Maybe you're here, reading this, and you're in the middle of your own “could have” moment. Maybe it’s a relationship. A career move. A ministry call. Maybe you’re wondering if that door that opened is really God or just your desire playing dress-up.

Friend, let me say this: it’s okay to not know right now. It’s okay to be unsure. What matters most is not whether you make the perfect decision, but whether you walk closely with the One who perfects your path.

Don’t let “Could Have Syndrome” keep you paralyzed.
Don’t give the enemy the power to twist possibility into fear.

Take one step. Then another. Let your lamp light the way. Let God’s voice be louder than your doubts. Let peace — not pressure — be your compass.

And if it turns out that this wasn’t the right path? God will still be there. He redeems every “could have” and turns it into a testimony of grace. He wastes nothing.

As I walk into this next season — uncertain but hopeful — I’m choosing to believe that even if I don’t have 20/20 foresight, I serve a God who sees the end from the beginning (Isaiah 46:10). And that’s enough for me to say yes to today.

Scriptures for Continued Reflection:

Isaiah 43:18-19 — “See, I am doing a new thing…”
Romans 12:2 — “Do not conform… be transformed by the renewing of your mind…”
Ecclesiastes 3:1 — “There is a time for everything…”
Psalm 37:23-24 — “The Lord makes firm the steps of the one who delights in Him…”
1 John 4:18 — “Perfect love casts out fear…”

Whether this is your season of planting, pruning, or possibility — walk gently, walk wisely, and walk with Him. One day at a time.

Let that be enough.