Acts
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Some people steady you just by showing up. They don’t fix everything. They don’t quote clichés. They don’t offer platitudes. They simply stand near. Speak truth. And remind you that you’re not as alone—or undone—as you feel. They’ve known darker storms than yours. They’ve seen loss that rearranged their entire world. And still… they show…
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A few nights ago, over coffee with Jason, I was naming storms again—listing everything that’s gone wrong since the saw, since the surgery, since the news of the job loss. And then he said something he’s said many times before but landed harder than I expected this time…
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My daughter Sophia turns 13 this week, and her vision was clear: A masquerade dinner party. With elegance. With sparkle. With cheese fondue and sequined shoes. And thanks to her mom and Jason and Monica, that vision came to life.
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Every crown that isn’t surrendered to God will eventually fall. That’s the sobering takeaway from 1 Chronicles 10.
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Sometimes, the battle isn’t visible. It’s not with armies or accusers—it’s with doubt. Discouragement. The slow suffocation of unanswered questions and unseen progress. And sometimes, God sends someone closer than a brother to remind you: this is just a test. Not of strength—but of trust. A refining fire, not a punishment. A chance to believe,…
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I know what it feels like to be marked by failure. To be the one who said what I shouldn’t have to the ones I love most. To see the ache and anger and anguish in a brother’s eyes and know I put it there. And still—grace meets me. Not because I’m persuasive. Not because…
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There are days when it all feels like regression. You’re not where you were—but you’re not where you want to be either. You’ve made progress, but you can’t quite see it. And what’s ahead feels more like a return to pain than a step toward healing. That’s where I am today. Talacey and I are…
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There are moments when you break. When the news is too much. The grief too deep. The silence too loud. The loss too sudden. The disappointment too sharp. And you feel it in your chest—that heavy ache of being completely undone. That’s where David is in 1 Samuel 30.
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I know the ache because I’ve been there lately. Not with the occult. But with the ache of silence. I hurt a brother I love so much—and I hurt him deeply. I see it now. I’ve confessed it. I’ve apologized. I’ve wept over it. And still… he leaves me in silence. No anger. No explosion.…
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I’ve felt a craving in my own story—when the narrative about me gets twisted, or my contribution goes unseen. I’ve stood in moments where I held the proverbial spear—knowing I could say something, text something, post something, prove something. And everything in me wanted to.
