Christ - My Journey - How Full Is Your Spirit?

Tuesday, 24 June 2025

Gentle Parenting Reflection

Gentle Parenting Reflection

Have you ever heard of this newer method of parenting called "gentle parenting"? I hadn’t really heard much about it until recently, when my daughter began teaching me about it. Funny how life does that—how we think we are here to teach our kids, but often they end up teaching us. Gentle parenting, as my daughter described it, is about allowing space for the child to process emotions and learn through those experiences, rather than being hurried along or disciplined harshly. It’s about patience, about connection, about truly seeing the child and letting them work through their feelings.

When she first told me about it, I genuinely thought it sounded beautiful. I also realized that I had not parented this way when I was raising my children. I was a single dad, trying to manage two young kids with the help of my parents, balancing the demands of corporate life, and all the other pressures that life throws at a single parent. Patience? Well, I had some, but probably not enough. There were always tasks to complete, deadlines to meet, food to get on the table, bills to pay, laundry to fold, and somewhere in the middle of all that, I had to figure out how to love well.

In kindness, my daughter pointed out that, in my rush to handle everything, I didn’t always give her the time she needed to process her emotions. For the record, she never received a spanking (although I’ll admit there were moments when I’m sure she could have driven even Christ Himself to drink a little extra wine). But still, she’s right. I was often in a hurry—trying to make ends meet, trying to juggle everything—and that meant I sometimes missed those crucial moments of connection where I could have simply paused, listened, and allowed her to feel.

Looking back now, I realize that some of my choices and parenting style were more about survival than about flourishing. I have acknowledged this to her, apologized, and to her credit, she responded with so much grace. She told me she knew I was doing the best I could at the time. That meant the world to me. But if I’m honest, I still carry the wish that I could get a do-over. I wish I could have parented with the wisdom I have now. I know we all do our best with what we have, but I would have loved to have given my kids more space to be, to process, to grow without the rush.

But life doesn’t hand out do-overs. What it does offer is opportunities to grow, to love better today, and to reflect on how we can become more Christ-like in the future. Fast forward many years later, and now I sometimes find myself in situations where my daughter offers her feedback about my current personal life—whether I ask for it or not. She is quick to use her words to broadcast her opinions to others within our small family circle. And as I thought about it, something struck me: wouldn’t it be nice if she used those same gentle parenting skills on me? It feels a little ironic that the thing she longed for as a child—to be given time to process, to be heard without immediate correction—is something she now seems to offer me with very little patience.

Don’t get me wrong. I know her heart is in the right place. Like me, I believe she isn’t intending to hurt or overstep. She likely wants what she believes is best for me. But the irony is thick: she is doing the very thing she felt I did to her—offering opinions without an invitation, sharing thoughts with others before I had the chance to process for myself. The beautiful, humbling lesson here is that life has a way of turning the tables, giving us a chance to walk in the shoes we once put on our children.

As I sat with this realization, I recognized that boundaries were probably crossed in both directions over the years. Perhaps I wasn’t always clear about the space I needed back then. Perhaps I haven’t always been clear now. Maybe, in both experiences, the communication wasn’t as open or as direct as it needed to be. And maybe that’s the quiet thread that runs through all of this—a reminder that what we leave unsaid can sometimes echo the loudest.

I wrestled with whether or not I should bring this up to her—to gently explain how I feel, to ask for the same grace she teaches, to request that sometimes, it would be nice to process without unsolicited advice. But the more I prayed and reflected, the more I came to a different conclusion: some things are better left unsaid.

Not because they don’t matter, but because sometimes, saying them would cause more harm than good. Sometimes, real growth comes not from defending ourselves but from letting things go for the sake of the relationship. I’ve written before that, in our attempts to heal ourselves, we can sometimes cause pain to others. And I think that’s what I was about to do—to try to heal an old wound by opening one in someone else.

So this time, I choose silence. I choose love. I choose to turn the other cheek.

Jesus taught us this very thing in Matthew 5:39: "But I tell you, do not resist an evil person. If anyone slaps you on the right cheek, turn to them the other cheek also." While this scripture is often misapplied, it is fundamentally about choosing love over retaliation, grace over ego.

In this moment, I realized that by choosing not to address this with my daughter, I am practicing the very grace I wish I had offered more of when she was young. I am giving her the space to process, even if her processing sometimes spills into my life in a way that feels uncomfortable. I am learning to love without needing to be right.

And so I share this with you, because maybe you are facing something similar. Maybe someone in your life is offering you advice or correction that feels unfair, or maybe you are tempted to reopen old conversations that may not bring healing but only more division. It’s a delicate balance, but I hope this helps you to pause and consider whether silence, in some cases, can be the louder, more loving answer.

Here are three ways we can become better at turning the other cheek, with the goal of increasing the love of the Kingdom:

1. Pray for Perspective (Matthew 5:44)

"But I tell you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you."

Prayer changes everything. When someone frustrates or hurts us, our natural instinct is to push back, to correct, to defend. But when we pray for them—really pray for their heart, their journey, their healing—our perspective shifts. We stop seeing them as adversaries and start seeing them as fellow children of God, as people who, like us, are doing the best they can.

In my story, praying for my daughter didn’t just soften my heart toward her—it gave me the patience to recognize that she was likely acting out of love, even if it didn’t land perfectly. It gave me the ability to see that perhaps God is using her to continue teaching me even now.

2. Choose Silence Over Self (Proverbs 17:28)

"Even fools are thought wise if they keep silent, and discerning if they hold their tongues."

There is a holy wisdom in knowing when to speak and when to remain silent. Turning the other cheek is not about becoming a doormat—it is about discerning when words will build and when they will break. In my situation, sharing my frustration would have served me, but potentially at the cost of our closeness. Choosing silence here was not passive—it was active love.

There is power in trusting that God sees what is unspoken, that He understands our hearts even when we don’t verbalize them. Sometimes silence is not avoidance; sometimes silence is sacred.

3. Anchor to Love, Not Ego (1 Corinthians 13:5)

"[Love] is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs."

Love is not about keeping score. Love is about laying down our ego, about choosing connection over correction. It’s about recognizing that not every opinion needs to be addressed, not every slight needs to be defended, not every moment needs to be seized.

When we are anchored in love, we can absorb those moments that rub us the wrong way because our security is not in being right—our security is in Christ. And Christ’s love never falters, never keeps a tally of our mistakes, never waits to pounce when we misstep.

I think about how God parents us—not with a constant need to correct every misstep immediately, but with patience, with time, with opportunities to come back to Him again and again. And that is how I want to love my daughter. That is how I want to love everyone.

So maybe I didn’t always parent gently. Maybe I missed moments along the way. But today, I can choose gentleness. Today, I can turn the other cheek. Today, I can love better.

And maybe that’s enough.

I hope this reflection helps you in your own walk. May you choose Christ-like decisions, may you lean into love, and may your silence sometimes speak volumes in the Kingdom.

And as I sat with all of this — the memories of those fast, frantic single dad years, the gentle parenting conversations with my daughter, and now this present season where the roles have shifted ever so slightly — I realized something I probably should have seen all along. Life, at its very core, is a constant exchange of lessons. Sometimes we’re the teacher, sometimes the student, and more often than not, we’re both, stumbling around the same messy classroom, trying to figure out love, grace, and how to not lose each other in the process.

I won’t lie to you — there’s a part of me that still wrestles with pride when unsolicited opinions get offered up about my life. Especially from someone I raised. The little voice inside that says, “You wouldn’t even be here if I hadn’t sacrificed what I did” — yeah, that voice shows up sometimes. But here’s where God’s been working on me: that voice is pride talking, not love. And pride, if we let it, builds walls where God intended bridges.

It hit me the other day — maybe turning the other cheek isn’t just about letting offenses slide. Maybe it’s an invitation to see beyond them. To lean into humility so deeply that we stop tallying the wrongs altogether. Isn’t that what 1 Corinthians 13 promises? Love keeps no record of wrongs. Zero. Zilch. It doesn’t say love keeps a running tab, but only brings it up on special occasions. It says love lets it go completely.

Easier said than done, right? Especially when the words feel sharp, the assumptions sting, or you’re left standing there thinking, “I didn’t even ask for your advice.” But here’s what the Holy Spirit keeps whispering to me in these moments — love looks past the offense and sees the heart.

And when I quiet my pride long enough, I do see her heart. I see a young woman trying to navigate adulthood, relationships, and life with her own set of uncertainties and fears. I see her trying to use the tools she’s gathered — including gentle parenting — to make sense of a world that feels unstable at times. And in that, I see a reflection of myself — that young dad, tired, overwhelmed, doing the best he could with the tools he had, fumbling along the way but never lacking love.

Funny how it comes full circle, isn’t it?

There’s another layer God’s been peeling back for me, too. Boundaries. Healthy, biblical, grace-filled boundaries. For the longest time, I thought turning the other cheek meant becoming a doormat. Smile. Nod. Let people walk all over you. But that’s not what Jesus modelled. Turning the other cheek wasn’t about surrendering self-respect — it was about surrendering retaliation. It was choosing peace over pride. But even Jesus had boundaries. He walked away from crowds when needed. He retreated to quiet places. He didn’t feel the need to explain Himself to everyone who misunderstood Him. That’s been freeing for me to remember.

And so, in my situation with my daughter — and maybe this applies to your life too — I’ve realized I can turn the other cheek and still set a boundary. I can quietly decide not to engage in certain conversations that aren’t invited or helpful, while still loving her unconditionally. I can guard my peace without wounding hers. It’s a delicate dance, but with the Holy Spirit’s help, it’s possible.

And here’s the thing I want to say, especially to the men reading this — dads, grandpas, uncles, spiritual fathers — this whole idea of gentleness, patience, and humility? It’s not weakness. Don’t let the world convince you otherwise. It takes far more strength to hold your tongue, to pray instead of react, to let love lead when your pride wants to drive. Gentle parenting, gentle relationships, gentle living — these are acts of bold, Spirit-filled courage.

Proverbs 15:1 says, “A gentle answer turns away wrath, but a harsh word stirs up anger.” That applies whether you’re talking to a toddler, a teenager, or your grown adult child who suddenly has opinions about your personal life. Gentleness de-escalates. Gentleness opens doors pride keeps locked. Gentleness reflects Jesus.

I’ve often thought about how Jesus handled His most difficult relationships — with His family, with His disciples, with those who misunderstood Him. He had every right to correct, to defend, to set the record straight. And sometimes He did, but so often, He chose silence, grace, or a question that revealed more than a lecture ever could. His power wasn’t diminished by His gentleness — it was magnified.

So, what does all this mean for you and me as we walk through complicated family moments, unsolicited advice, and the echoes of past parenting decisions? For me, it means three more practical things I’m committing to, maybe they’ll help you too:

1. I will lead with curiosity, not assumption.
When feedback comes — even when it stings — I’ll ask, “What’s behind this?” rather than assume the worst. Maybe there’s fear. Maybe there’s love. Maybe there’s misunderstanding. But I can’t know unless I’m curious.

2. I will protect my peace, not my pride.
That means setting boundaries where needed. Walking away from unhelpful conversations. Choosing silence over sarcasm. Guarding my heart — not out of anger, but out of wisdom.

3. I will remember my identity isn’t found in anyone’s opinion but God’s.
Whether praised or criticized, my worth is unshaken. Ephesians 2:10 reminds me I am God’s workmanship, created in Christ Jesus to do good works. That truth anchors me when emotions rise.

And maybe, just maybe, the greatest legacy I leave for my daughter, and for others watching my life, isn’t about how perfectly I parented — spoiler alert, I didn’t — but about how I’ve let God reshape me as I grow. It’s about showing that even old dogs, or tired single dads, can learn new ways to love, forgive, and live with grace.

I’m not perfect at this. I still wrestle. I still catch myself wanting to fire back when words feel sharp or unfair. But I’m learning. And as I often remind myself — and maybe you need this reminder today too — spiritual maturity isn’t measured by how quickly we get it right, but by how consistently we let God make it right within us.

To anyone walking a similar road — maybe your kids are young, maybe they’re grown, maybe the dynamics feel complicated or strained — I want to encourage you: it’s not too late. It’s never too late to parent with gentleness. It’s never too late to respond with grace. It’s never too late to model Christ in your family, no matter how tangled the history.

The Kingdom of God advances not just through big sermons or grand missions, but through small, ordinary moments of choosing love over offense, peace over pride, humility over control. It happens when a dad listens instead of defends. When a daughter speaks, and her father sees her heart, not just her words. When both choose to lay down their assumptions and pick up the cross — together.

So today, I won’t share my quiet frustrations with my daughter. Not because I’m suppressing them, but because I’m surrendering them. To the One who sees both our hearts. To the God who’s still writing redemption stories in families like mine — and yours. And I take comfort in that.

I hope this share encourages you to do the same. To process gently. To love fiercely. And to remember that with every decision to turn the other cheek, you’re not just avoiding conflict — you’re building the kind of love the Kingdom is made of.

And that, my friend, is worth every quiet surrender along the way.

Sunday, 22 June 2025

Reading the Room and Feeling the Energy

First, let’s take a moment and pray.

Lord, we come before You heavy-hearted yet full of hope. We lift up all those impacted this weekend by man’s relentless thirst for conflict, the pride that fuels division, and the wounds of a world not yet healed. We ask for Your peace to fall like rain on the battlefields of this earth—both physical and spiritual. May the suffering of so many find its end in Your mercy. We pray for healing, for restoration, and for the speedy return of You, our Lord and God. Come quickly, Jesus. We are ready. In Your name, Amen.

Reading the Room and Feeling the Energy

Today I want to talk about something I know many of you feel, but maybe haven’t named before. It’s the ability to read energy—not just the physical presence of people, but the atmosphere of the room, the tension in the air, the unspoken truth hanging like fog. If you have this gift, you know exactly what I mean.

It’s not something you learn. It’s something you live with. Like breathing. Like blinking. You just walk into a space—whether it’s a living room full of family or a corporate boardroom full of masks—and you know. You know if they were just talking about you. You know what the topic was. You know the truth without a word being spoken.

I used to think it was just me. I thought maybe I was being paranoid or overly sensitive, or worse—prideful. But it wasn’t any of those things. It was a spiritual gift I hadn’t yet understood how to use. The problem wasn’t the gift itself; the problem was how I internalized it. I took that energy and made it about me. Every vibe, every whisper, every cold shoulder—I owned it. And it dug straight into the wounds of my insecurity.

But over time, especially after I surrendered my life to Jesus, I started to see it differently.

From Insecurity to Discernment

Scripture tells us in 1 Corinthians 12:7-10 that the Holy Spirit gives different gifts to different people—some wisdom, others knowledge, faith, healing, prophecy, and yes, discernment of spirits. That’s what we’re talking about here.

Discernment is not paranoia. It’s not overthinking. It’s a Holy Spirit–given gift to sense what’s going on beyond the surface.

Now, instead of making it about me, I pause and ask, “Lord, what are You trying to show me? Is this my battle, or am I just here to notice and pray?” That shift—from insecurity to discernment—has made all the difference.

And let me be clear: if you don’t have this gift, that’s okay. But be aware—others do. And if you’re trying to hide something, manipulate, or posture… they will see right through it. You might not feel the shift in the room, but they do. You can’t lie to the Spirit of God.

A Season of Awakening

I remember just after I became separated—a season that almost undid me—it was also the beginning of one of the most profound awakenings I’ve ever experienced. I was broken, raw, and wide open. And when you’re cracked wide open, that’s often when the Holy Spirit breathes fresh wind into the space.

That’s when I began to explore the depths of my gift. I realized I wasn’t just reading energy—I was reading people’s thoughts. I could sense the inner dialogue of others, like reading the pages of their private journals. No words spoken, no visible cues—just a knowing that settled in my spirit.

And to be honest, it scared me.

Because it felt like a breach of privacy, and in a way, it was. I wasn’t asking for permission. I wasn’t trying to be nosy. It was just… there. And right then, I realized that even a gift from God can become something dangerous if it’s not submitted back to Him.

The Line Between Light and Darkness

Even before I became a Christian, I had this awareness that certain abilities—spiritual sensitivities, intuitive insights—could be used for good or evil. There’s a real thin line between discernment and manipulation. And if you’re not grounded in truth, it’s easy to slide into using these gifts for self-gain.

The world calls it “reading the room,” “empath energy,” or “psychic vibes.” But I knew I didn’t want anything to do with black magic or spiritual darkness. I didn’t want to open a door that Jesus hadn’t invited me through. So I stopped trying to develop the gift in that way. Instead, I started asking God to purify it.

Like David prayed in Psalm 139:23–24:
“Search me, 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.”

And that’s exactly what He did.

Truth Feels Like Peace

Here’s something I’ve come to learn and trust: when someone is speaking truth—real truth from a place of love and alignment with God—it feels like peace.

You don’t have to scramble to fact-check it. You don’t have to perform or explain or prove it. It just settles in your soul, like warm oil poured over a wound. That’s how the Holy Spirit speaks—through peace.

Colossians 3:15 says, “Let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts.”
That word rule means to act as an umpire, deciding what’s in and what’s out. Truth is in. Chaos is out. Peace is the signal.

So if you're trying to navigate a relationship, a decision, or a storm—ask yourself: does this feel like peace? If not, back up and pray.

Honouring the Transition

This morning at church, our senior pastor Dan shared a message as he prepares to transition into semi-retirement. He’s been such a pillar—strong, wise, steady. He talked about becoming more like Christ and the importance of making church attendance a priority.

And as he said it, I felt that same peace. No hype. No manipulation. Just truth. And in that truth, strength. That’s when you know the Holy Spirit is present—when the words don’t need decoration. They land, and you feel it in your bones.

I don’t know what the future of my local church looks like without Dan at the helm, but I do know this: the Church belongs to Jesus. And He’s not going anywhere.

From Energy to Ministry

One of the most healing realizations I’ve had in the past few years is that this gift—the ability to feel, to sense, to discern—is not a burden. It’s a ministry. When I walk into a room and feel the heaviness, I no longer panic. I no longer shrink. I breathe, I pray, and I ask God, “How do You want to use me right now?”

Some days it’s to encourage someone who’s barely holding on. Other days it’s to intercede quietly, say nothing, and just be present.

But here’s the thing: it’s not about me. It’s about the Kingdom.

Three Ways to Use Your Gifts to Expand the Kingdom

Use Discernment to Speak Life, Not Criticism
Proverbs 18:21 reminds us, “The tongue has the power of life and death.” If you have the gift of discernment or intuition, you already know what people are wrestling with. Use that knowledge to build them up, not tear them down. Speak prophetically, not pathetically. Speak to the truth of who they are, not the shame of where they’ve been. That’s Kingdom work.
Create Safe Spaces for Others to Be Seen and Heard
Romans 12:15 calls us to “Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn.” When you can read energy, you can tell when someone needs a hug instead of a lecture. When someone needs silence instead of solutions. Use your sensitivity to tune into what people need, not what they say. That’s how Jesus ministered—He saw the unseen. We can too.
Surrender the Gift Back to God, Daily
James 1:17 says, “Every good and perfect gift is from above.” Your gift—whatever it is—is not yours to possess. It’s yours to steward. That means praying daily, “Lord, keep me from using this for selfish gain. Use it for Your glory alone.” Whether your gift is discernment, encouragement, wisdom, or leadership—keep it surrendered. That’s how it multiplies.

Final Thoughts

We are living in a world that’s full of noise, chaos, and confusion. People don’t need more polished speeches. They don’t need more hype. They need truth. They need peace. They need to know someone sees them, feels them, and still chooses love.

That’s what Jesus did. That’s what we get to do.

So if you feel everything deeply, if the weight of the room sometimes exhausts you, if you sense things others don’t—don’t run from it. Don’t numb it. Don’t hide it. Surrender it.

And if you’re someone who doesn’t feel those things, be aware: others do. Lead with gentleness. You never know what spiritual war someone else is discerning while they smile at you in silence.

May we all—whatever our gifts—grow more into the likeness of Christ.
May we discern with love, speak with truth, and serve with peace.
And may we live every moment expecting the return of our Lord, and yes Lord… make it snappy.
We’re ready.

Come, Lord Jesus.

Amen.

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.