Grant

Some days, you don’t need more explanation. You need a name. Not a new strategy. Not a clever quote. Not a theological unpacking of why God’s allowing what He’s allowing. Just a name you can hold onto when your grip is slipping. Isaiah 9 gives us four.

I need Psalm 88 in my Bible. It tells me I’m not alone in the dark. Because lately, I feel like I’ve been praying from that same pit. Trying to be the strong one for my wife. For my daughter. For myself. But floundering. And failing miserably…

A few days ago, I wrote about sitting on the exam table with Sophia while she sobbed through a trifecta diagnosis—sinus infection, conjunctivitis, and an abscess. I knew I’d probably catch something by holding her that close. But I didn’t care. My 13-year-old daughter needed her dad. Well, I caught it. Forty-eight hours later, my…

In seven short days, I’ll ship my laptop back to headquarters. And just like that—I’ll be officially unemployed. For the first time in my 25-year career. No more paychecks. No more stability. No more illusion of security.

We had just finished dinner last night with a few college students—laughs, tri-tip, prayer, and talk about fall semester plans. One of them, Emma, rode with us. And as we pulled onto the main road, I saw a police car waiting at the stop sign across from us. He turned behind me. Lights and sirens…

It started with a few sniffles. But by the time we got to the doctor, Sophia had a full-blown sinus infection, an abscess behind her tonsil, and conjunctivitis caused by the pressure and fluid. The perfect trifecta.

I never did drugs. Never slept around. I was the one who stayed after youth group to help stack chairs. The kid who gave the right answers in Sunday school while the rest of the room passed notes. And for a long time, I wore that like a badge…

I’m an encourager. It’s how God made me. My study Bible says the Greek word for it is “paraklesis”—comfort, exhortation, counsel. I don’t just enjoy building others up. I need to. It grounds me. Gives me purpose. Reminds me who I am and what matters. And there’s nothing like putting it in writing. I’ve used…

A couple nights ago, Sophia and her best friend Alyse—Jason and Monica’s daughter, who’s basically part of our family—made a pizookie. For the uninitiated: imagine a warm, gooey, pizza-sized cookie with ice cream melting down into every crack. Glory in a skillet…

This post is late. Not because I forgot. But because I wrote three different drafts last night—and none of them landed. They all felt forced. Nothing felt finished. So I walked into church this morning still unsure about what I was going to write—until Andrei stood up to preach.