Grant
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Plenty of people claim faith. We wear the label. We call ourselves Christians. We check the right boxes. But Jesus makes it clear: It’s not about what we say—it’s about who we follow. Because who you follow determines who you truly belong to. And who you belong to determines how you lead.
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Light does two things. It reveals—exposing what’s hidden, making things unmistakably clear. And it restores—leading us out of darkness into healing, hope, and truth. But the problem? We don’t always want the light.
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The Question That Changes Everything The saw bit deep. Blood splattered. My world narrowed to the jarring pain and the awful realization—this wasn’t a minor injury. My buddy, J, was there, his training as a sheriff’s deputy kicking in as he wrapped makeshift bandages around my now-mangled hand. I gritted my teeth, my mind reeling…
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She had been caught. Not suspected. Not accused. Caught. Dragged from wherever she was, through the streets, thrown into the dirt before a crowd—and before Jesus. The law was clear. The penalty was death. And the religious leaders were ready to make an example of her. But this wasn’t about justice. It wasn’t about righteousness.…
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Just yesterday, I helped a buddy unload a truckload of bark and another truckload of river rock. Or at least, I tried to help. I couldn’t lift the wheelbarrow on my own. I struggled, embarrassed, having to ask him for help when I was supposed to be there helping him. And I hated that.
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It’s not lost on me that I tend to be… reactive. We always joke with our friends J and Monica because Talacey and J are the stoic, level-headed, slow-to-speak ones. But Monica and me? Not so much. My default is to speak before I think, to let emotions get the best of me. It spills…
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Following Jesus is easy when He’s handing out miracles. But what about when He’s leading us through something harder?
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It’s 3 a.m. as I sit down to write this. In a few minutes, I’ll step into the shower and get ready for what will be the final general session of the last conference my company will ever execute. The final main-stage event for which I am responsible. And while the uncertainty remains—while I still…
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I’ve never wished for Egypt. But I have wished the injury had been cleaner. Maybe if the saw had taken my fingers completely, the pain wouldn’t have lasted this long. The therapy wouldn’t be this difficult. The recovery wouldn’t feel never-ending. The two surgeries to come wouldn’t have to come at all.
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It was New Year’s Eve. J and Monica came over to ring in the New Year with us. Their daughters ran off to play with Sophia, and the four of us settled in—a charcuterie board on the counter, drinks poured, laughter filling the house as we waited for the ball to drop. Then Monica said…
